Ripple Effect

Chapter Ten: ...no news is good news.

Conrad

10:59 PM

The door shut with a thud, and the cream and pearl stripes that contoured the Oval Office slotted back into place. Conrad braced himself against the arms of his chair, the leather warm and dented from where his elbows had rested against it, and he eased up from the seat.

He studied Russell for a long moment—the way his hold slipped from the door handle, the way his shoulders sagged, the way the seconds dragged as he turned to face him, the unbuttoned cuffs, the shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the charcoal tie that had long since been slackened—and when he could delay no longer, he dared himself to ask the question.

"Any news?"

Russell held Conrad's gaze for a second that spun to at least four times its length, and then he shook his head, just slightly, just enough to prise open a crack in the numbness that had enveloped Conrad ever since Elizabeth's DS agents had first called.

Collapsed, poisoned, critical condition.

Each word smarted like a piece of shrapnel twisting in a wound.

Russell slumped down onto the armrest of one of the cobalt couches, and he folded his arms across his chest. When he spoke, he spoke slowly, and more gravel than usual clung to his tone. "They say the next few hours are vital. Someone'll call as soon as there's an update."

Conrad arched his eyebrows at him. "So, no news is good news?"

"That's one way to look at it."

Conrad sank back into his seat. His hand opened and closed in a fist where it hung over the edge of the armrest, and he stared at the carvings of the desk, as though the ridges and grooves of the stained oak held more than just history—held the future, held the answers, held...absolution.

His gaze darted up to Russell. "How's Henry holding up?"

Russell scratched the back of his head, and then he let his hand fall back to his side and gave a stilted shrug. "About as well as you might expect."

"And the kids?"

"Secret Service took them to the hospital. Henry wanted them there, just in case."

Conrad huffed. "You mean just in case they have to say goodbye?"

Russell stared at him for a moment, his eyes wide, and then conceded that with a small nod.

Conrad clenched his jaw, and he let his gaze wander—from the cut crystal of the decanter that sat on the coffee table, a quarter filled with the amber warmth of Scotch; to the shadows of the Secret Service agents that lurked beyond the doors to the walkway; to the chair at the edge of his desk, empty at a glance, but the longer he stared at it, not empty but straining beneath the weight of memories—and as he did, the tension deepened and it spread throughout him until he could contain it no more.

"Why her?" The question snapped through the hush. "Why Bess?"

Russell threw his arms wide. "Why anyone? Who knows what compels these people? Maybe they have a grudge, maybe they resent the fact that she polls higher than everybody else put together, maybe they just don't like what she wears. They're not rational."

"Well, it's not good enough. I want answers. Whoever did this is going to pay."

"The FBI are getting into it."

"I mean, how does someone poison the secretary of state on our own soil?" Conrad pinched his lips and shook his head to himself. "The press are going to have a field day."