“Hold on a second.” I turn off the water in the sink.
Closing the toilet lid, I sit down. Tilting my head back, I place the hot compress over my eyes, and I can’t let on how bad I’m feeling and why.
“How are you, Tron? What’s going on?” I can hear the vague murmur of Benton downstairs, possibly getting the same notification I am.
“You’re needed at the White House complex ASAP,” she says, and of all times to feel as hungover as I’ve ever been in my life.
“I’m assuming Benton is being told the same thing. I hear him downstairs, our phones rang simultaneously.” I remove the washcloth, running more hot water over it.
“That’s correct.”
“Both of us are needed?” I want to make sure, and what he mentioned a few minutes ago is exactly right.
I shouldn’t be driving anywhere for a while, and how embarrassing. Closing my eyes again, I drape the steaming cloth over them.
“That’s correct.” Tron confirms that Benton will be accompanying me, thank goodness. “We’ve got a situation and need you here as fast as you can manage.” She hopes that won’t be a problem.
The way she says it makes me suspect she somehow knows I’m under the weather, and if I felt ashamed before, now I’m mortified. I hate to think what she would say about my carelessness, both of us in Lyon at the same Doomsday symposium.
I seriously doubt she carried gifts of food or drink home from France to share with family and friends. Wouldn’t matter who gave it to her, and I’ll never make that mistake again.
“I’m getting ready now,” I let her know with enthusiasm I don’t feel, back on my feet, opening the medicine cabinet. “Are there special considerations or instructions? Other details I should be aware of?”
She doesn’t answer my question. The Secret Service cyber investigator isn’t going to tell me anything else, my paranoia spiking.
She knows the stupid thing I’ve done.
I continue reminding myself that I’m probably not entirely logical at the moment. Why would Tron know about what happened last night? I’m not sure anyone does beyond my immediate circle, and of course Rex Bonetta, the toxicologist Marino woke up at oh-dark-hundred. No one called 911.
There’s no police report, nothing to be leaked to the media, and what a field day the likes of Dana Diletti would have with the latest. Just the idea makes me inwardly cringe as I remember dodging her, watching footage of it on national TV.
Shaking four Advil into my palm, I swallow them without water, glancing in the mirror. I’m not sure it’s possible to make myself presentable, and Tron goes on to inform me that Benton and I will be on a list at each checkpoint and guard shack.
“Stay safe, and I’ll be waiting for you at the entrance of the West Executive Gate.” Tron ends the call without further explanation, and I hear Benton on his phone, his voice drifting up the staircase.
I can’t make out what he’s saying but the fact that he’s still talking tells me plenty. Information is being shared and discussed with him and him alone. Then the sound fades until I can’t hear him anymore as he likely heads to the kitchen. Peeling off my scrubs, I drop them inside the hamper.
I inhale clouds of steam, tears flooding my eyes, everything catching up with me as I shower. Overwhelmed by misgivings about returning to Virginia, I’m gripped by the fear that I’ve been unrealistic and selfish. In the process I’ve dragged everyone here with me, and not because I asked them to move or even consider it. Because I didn’t. I wouldn’t.
They showed up anyway, and what was I thinking? Maybe I don’t want to face that each day the road behind me gets longer than the one ahead, and there’s no reversing the trajectory. Possibly when I was first approached about becoming the chief again, I deluded myself into believing we can go back to what we left.
Or more likely I was running away from what I didn’t want to face after losing Janet and Desi. Worst of all is knowing what it’s done to my niece. Death is the one thing I can’t defeat no matter how much I wish otherwise, and it would seem I’ve done nobody any favors by returning to where I got started.
On the job a little more than three short weeks, and things aren’t going very well. There’s no one to blame but myself. It’s time I do something about it besides just standing here and taking what comes while fretting constantly about offending someone.
You’re too nice.
How many times has Lucy said that when she hears what’s going on at work.