Chapter 2: One Last Gamble

A disaster struck: my brother spoke his mind at a Senate hearing, offended the president, and was thrown into a federal holding cell—the kind reserved for the gravest crimes.

Headlines had already started popping up on the cable news crawl: "Defense Secretary’s Son Faces Espionage Allegations." My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing with texts from friends, colleagues, even old teachers who’d remembered us as kids.

When the news reached home in Maple Heights, my parents nearly collapsed.

Our old house, all clapboard siding and patriotic bunting, suddenly felt claustrophobic. My father paced holes in the rug while the family flag from Memorial Day still hung in the window.

Before she completely lost consciousness, my mom gripped my hand tightly, tears streaming down her face as she pleaded, “Natalie, you have only this one older brother. You have to find a way to save him.”

I’d never seen my mom cry like that—not even when Dad deployed overseas. That scared me more than the headlines. Her voice, usually so steady, cracked around my name. She pressed a rosary into my palm, as if I could pray away a federal indictment.

I sat alone in the den all night. In the end, gritting my teeth, I pulled some strings and sent myself straight into the White House residence.

The grandfather clock ticked its slow, judgmental beat as I made my calls, burning through every favor owed to the Quinns since before I was born.

Night deepened, table lamps glowed warmly. I sat alone in the corner of the president’s bedroom, lost in thought. Somewhere down the hall, the muffled drone of late-night cable news played—CNN or Fox, I couldn’t tell.

The White House at night was both majestic and eerie, shadows stretching across old rugs, the hush broken only by distant, muffled voices of staff on duty. The air was thick with the scent of lemon polish and history.

A familiar White House aide had said that Caleb Ford had been swamped with state affairs lately, up before dawn and working late. To save time, he almost always stayed in the residence, and hadn’t set foot in the East Wing for a long time.

It was the sort of inside detail that circulated among Beltway staffers, the kind of gossip traded over stale vending machine coffee in the West Wing.

Actually, he rarely visited the East Wing even before.

His routine was a fortress; even as a congressman’s son, Caleb had kept to himself, wary of scandal.

Three years since taking office: few romantic attachments, no children.

Reporters whispered about his private life on morning talk shows, but no one could dig up any dirt—at least, none that stuck.

Rumors outside said the president was ill and not interested in women.

Which, I knew better than most, was nothing but smoke and mirrors for the cameras.

That was a lie.

No one knew better than I how much Caleb Ford could torment someone in that regard.