Chapter Two

Elizabeth

"Ma'am?"

Elizabeth's eyes jolted open at Blake's voice, and her heart jumped. "I'm awake. I'm awake." She propped herself up on the couch, squinting in the glare of the office lights. Files and loose paperwork were strewn over the coffee table, interrupted only by the occasional coffee mug. In the doorway, next to where Blake hovered, stood Will, a paper bag in hand.

"Good thing I stopped by the cafeteria," Will said, and he chucked the bag at her. She caught it, and peered at it with a frown. "Looks like someone forgot we're meant to be having lunch today."

Elizabeth's head swam. "Wait. That's today?" Though what day 'today' was eluded her.

"I would be offended," Will said, and he pushed her feet aside to make space for himself on the end of the couch, "but you look like crap, so I'll give you a free pass."

"How generous of you." Elizabeth set the bag down between them and peered at the mugs of coffee. Which one of them was freshest? She picked one up and took a swig. Cold, with a slight tang of rancid milk. She grimaced. Definitely not that one. "I've been up all night, so please keep the sniping to a minimum."

"I don't snipe; we bicker." Will flashed her an easy smile, the one that incited a kind of inherent annoyance reserved only for her brother.

"Well can we please not do that either." Elizabeth took a deep breath and then sighed it out, but the tension clung to her body. "I just want to have a relaxing afternoon and get home on time this evening. For once." But before she could even settle into the thought, there was a knock at the door. "Come in," she called out, and her voice croaked. She lifted her hand to her throat, as if she could massage away the lack of sleep.

Daisy entered. She closed the door behind her and then strode across the carpet with her gaze lowered, an envelope clutched in both hands. She was wearing her anxious face. Never a good sign. Her fingertips fluttered against the envelope, agitated butterflies.

"What is it, Daisy?" Elizabeth said, and when Daisy failed to reply, she extended her hand for the envelope, her fingers snatching at the air.

Daisy's own fingers stilled. Her gaze met Elizabeth's, eyes wide. "I…um…" Her gaze fell back to the floor, and she thrust the envelope towards Elizabeth. "I think it's best that you see for yourself."

Elizabeth's pulse quickened. See what? She lifted the flap of the envelope and slid out the contents. Then she dropped the envelope to the couch and studied the sheets of glossy paper. Her stomach lurched, and the swig of coffee surged back up her throat. Inside were three photographs, black and white and grainy, yet as stark as an arrow to the heart. Henry at a bar, cosied up to a magnetic blonde; Henry in a hotel corridor, his arm around said blonde; Henry stumbling into a hotel room, the blonde close behind. The time stamp was from the previous evening. The kids are out tonight, so we've got the house to ourselves.

"I didn't want to say anything," Daisy said, wringing her hands in front of her—Lady Macbeth—as if just touching the images had somehow tainted her, "given what happened last time—" last time, when he had met his handler and Stevie had seen and Daisy had accused him of…of…what these photographs showed "—but you needed to know, in case they get leaked."

Elizabeth's mouth was dry. She couldn't have spoken if she wanted to, but there were no words, only the images branded across her mind. Henry. Her Henry…I, Henry Patrick McCord, take you, Elizabeth Adams, to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life.

"Lizzie?" Will leant in closer and rested a hand against her shoulder, just like he had done on that day. Five minutes until you tie yourself down forever. You sure you don't want to run away? Only now, that tongue-in-cheek humour had gone. "Lizzie, what is it?"

Elizabeth passed the photographs to him, her hands shaking as she did. He stared down at them, his frown deepening, his jaw tightening by the second. He looked about ready to tear the pages apart, tear Henry apart. Remember, first and foremost, you'll always be an Adams.

Elizabeth gripped her forehead. She leant forward as her memories and the images whirled like waltzers in her mind. "I…I don't understand."

Will chucked the photographs down on the coffee table. The paperwork caught in the downdraft and fluttered beneath. "He's having an affair."

"He can't be." Elizabeth shook her head, but the waltzers spun faster until everything was reduced to a blur. She pinched her eyes and drew in a shuddering breath. "He was at home last night."

"Well, he obviously wasn't." Will gestured to the photos. There was an anger in his voice that she hadn't heard before, not even when they had fought about their parents.

"Daisy—" Elizabeth looked up, but Daisy avoided her gaze. Eyes downcast, lips slightly parted, she looked as though she had stumbled upon the final taboo "—please will you get Blake for me?"

Daisy nodded, and as she strode away, Elizabeth stuffed the photographs back into the envelope. The images appeared across the screens of her eyes every time that she blinked; she didn't need them staring up at her to remind her that they were there. When Blake appeared a moment later, she said, "I need you to check the security log for my house last night. I want to know exactly what times people arrived and left."

If Blake thought the request strange, he didn't say so. He just gave a half-bow and disappeared again. Five tortuous minutes later, he returned. Elizabeth bit the hangnail of her thumb as she waited for his report. "There are no entries for last night, ma'am."

Elizabeth peered up at him. Her hand fell to her lap. "What do you mean?"

"According to the record, the house was empty."

But how could that be? Henry had said…Henry wouldn't have…he couldn't have…There had to be an explanation.

"Do you believe it now?" Will asked once Blake had gone. His tone had softened, and it jarred; anger she could take, but pity?

Elizabeth got up from the couch and strode over to the phone. She wedged the handset between her ear and her shoulder as she punched in the number. Two dial tones later, Stevie's voice crackled through from the other end. "Russell Jackson's office, how can I help you?"

"Hey, baby," Elizabeth said. She pinched the bridge of her nose and shut her eyes as the image of Stevie as a newborn, nestled in Henry's arms, swept across her mind. "I need to speak to Russell."

"Hey, mom," Stevie said. She sounded a little off guard. "Um…Russell's busy right now—" Her voice faded, and Elizabeth imagined her daughter leaning away from the phone to peer into Russell's office.

"Just put me through."

"Um…okay…" Stevie's voice came closer to the phone now, her breath buzzing. "Is something wrong?"

"No, sweetie—" Elizabeth forced a smile; perhaps it would infuse her voice "—I just need to talk to him."

There was a pause as the call went on hold. Then Russell said, "Bess, this had better be important."

More important than he would ever know. Elizabeth let out a long breath that she didn't even realise she had been holding. "Is Henry involved in any on-going intelligence work?" The words came out as one.

The clock in the corner of her office measured his silence: tick, tick, tick. "No."

"Is that a 'no' no, or a 'I can't tell you' no?" Elizabeth switched the phone to the other ear, her face sweltering against the plastic. She had clutched the handset so tight that it had probably left a mark, a permanent imprint to remind her of that day, as if she would need a memento.

"It's a no," Russell said. He lowered his voice, a harsh whisper into the phone. In her mind, he cast a surreptitious glance over his office. "We can't have him involved in intelligence ops if you're planing to run." Oh, so it really was a 'no'. Elizabeth's stomach dropped and she clutched the edge of her desk for support. "What's going on?"

"It's nothing." The words escaped in a breath, and she put down the phone.

"So, do you believe the photos now?" She turned to find Will stood in front of the sofa, hands on his hips, fingers digging in.

She leant back against the desk, her hands curling over the side. The envelope watched her from the coffee table, taunting her. Her throat stuck as she swallowed. There had to be an explanation. Anything other than the obvious.

Will grabbed his jacket from the sofa and pulled it on.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth said as he strode towards the door.

"Going to confront him." Will flipped up the collar of his jacket, then grabbed hold of the door handle.

"You can't." She pushed herself off the desk and hurried after him.

He stopped and turned to her. When she was seventeen, Will had punched a boy in her class for feeling her up at a school dance. All good, until her date decked Will and left him with a busted lip and black eye. I was trying to defend your honour. The ghost of that boy, her protector, lurked in his expression now. "Why not?"

Because Henry wasn't just some boy at the school dance. Because Will had never won a fight in his life and Henry was an ex-marine. Because confrontations had no winners, only bruises that ached and rivalry that festered. "Because…what if it's true?"

Will's face softened. The rage eased like a hurricane to a breeze, but its currents still stirred beneath the surface. He placed one hand against Elizabeth's upper arm. "Then we'll deal with it. Whatever happens, we can deal with it." He squeezed. "You can't just hide from this, Lizzie. You need to know the truth."

The truth. Claws of dread gripped the pit of her stomach and a clammy sweat crawled over her skin. Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth. Buddha. Henry had told her that quote when the press were casting aspersions on her over the death of the assistant vice minister of Timor-Leste. At the time it had brought her comfort, a sense that things would be right in the world. But now…What if the truth meant her whole world falling apart? Wouldn't it be better to shelter in a well-constructed lie?

Stevie

Stevie sifted through the pile of letters on her desk, but stopped when she came to the large brown envelope midway down. She frowned at it. There was no address and no postage, only 'For the attention of Russell Jackson' in black lettering across the front. She glanced to the open door that looked out onto the hallway. The chatter of voices and the clatter of footsteps rose and fell like the tide as staff and visitors walked past. People had come and gone all day, but she hadn't noticed anyone stop by to deliver the envelope.

She slid her finger beneath the gummy seal and lifted the flap, then she peered inside. There was a slip of paper fastened with a white paperclip to one of the glossy sheets. She pulled it free. The slip read: Will President Dalton endorse such behaviour?

What on earth did that mean? She tugged the sheets out, their edges catching on the sides of the envelope. Her heart stopped. They were pictures. Pictures of her father. Pictures of her father with a woman who wasn't her mother. Her stomach clenched and bile burned through her throat. All around her, the sounds of the office dulled, hidden beneath the blare of her blood as it rushed through her ears. Her eyes prickled with black dots, and the images dissolved to a blur beneath.

"Stevie," Russell shouted from his office.

Stevie jumped. She shoved the photos back into the envelope and then stuffed the envelope into her bag. Her heart thudded against her chest—hooves, just like riding the horses over the dry summer earth back home. She hurried to the door, almost colliding with Russell as he strode through.

"Where—" but he stopped and scrutinised her face. "Are you okay? You've gone pale."

Stevie pressed the backs of her hands to her cheeks. But whether it was her face that was clammy or her fingers, she couldn't tell. "It's nothing," she said. Though her whole world was spinning and her mind was screaming at her to get out of there, to get home.

Russell didn't look convinced, but he shook his head to himself. "You're too much like your mother." Her breath caught in her throat. Her mother. Did she already know? "Now, where are those reports I asked for?"

Elizabeth

Elizabeth shrugged off her coat and tossed it over the bottom of the bannister, then led Will through to the kitchen. The smell of burnt garlic clung to the air. Jason and Alison were sat on the sofa in the den, the television blasting in the background whilst the images lit up the room with bursts of garish colour. They twisted around as Elizabeth chucked her keys down on the side with a clatter.

"Hey, Mom, hey, Uncle Will." Alison gave them a smile so broad and light that Elizabeth's heart ached. Even in his darkest moments, Henry had always been a loving father. Had anything ever happened to her, she felt sure that their children would be okay, so long as he was with them. That man, the man that she loved, wouldn't do this to her, wouldn't do this to their children. Surely?

"Hey, guys," Elizabeth said. There was a slight tremor to her voice, but the kids didn't acknowledge it. "Is your dad home?" She slid the bag from her shoulder, the envelope peeking from the top, and dumped it by her feet.

Alison glanced down at her phone. "He should be back any minute." Her gaze turned to Will, her dark eyes—Henry's eyes—shining. "Are you staying for dinner? We were going to order pizza."

"We'll see," Will said. He pulled his lips into a smile, but it was grim.

Alison returned to the television, and when Jason laughed at something on the screen, she gave him a shove. God, they were so innocent. They had no idea what was about to unfold. Elizabeth found the edge of the counter and steadied herself against it. Will took a step closer to her from where he hovered near the refrigerator, but stopped as the front door clunked.

"Babe?" Henry called. His voice echoed down the hall and expanded into the space between Elizabeth and Will. Her skin bristled, whilst Will's jaw clenched, his whole expression hardening.

Her gaze darted to the den, as the kids laughed once more—together this time, a kind of melody. "Please don't make a scene," she said to Will. "Not in front of them."

"They're going to find out sooner or later."

Of course they would, but—"Not like this."

"Hey, babe. You made it home." Elizabeth spun back to the door as Henry came into the kitchen, one hand loosening his tie. He gave Elizabeth a warm smile and nodded to Will. "Hey, Will." But as he stepped towards Elizabeth, she shrank back against the counter, gripping the edge so tight that her knuckles blanched. His expression fell. "What's wrong?"

The mood in the kitchen dropped, like the plummet in air pressure that heralded the storm. The den had gone silent. Elizabeth glanced over. Alison and Jason were peering over the back of the couch, Jason's lips drawn into a pout whilst Alison frowned. Elizabeth caught Will's eye, and he nodded and headed over to the den with a breezy smile. "So, what are we watching?"

With a silent thank you, Elizabeth turned back to Henry. Her chest tightened, and the thud, thud, thud of her pulse surged through her ears. His face was ridged with concern, his lips a mirror of Jason's. "What's going on?"

Elizabeth nodded towards the doorway and the dining room beyond. "Let's go to the office." She fought to keep her voice low and smooth, but it cracked, and a rush of fear flooded Henry's expression. He reached for her hand where it rested against the counter, but she jerked her arm away, pulling it tight to her chest before he had the chance to touch her.

"Elizabeth? What's happened?"

The front door slammed. "Mom?" Stevie shouted. "Mom?" Footsteps pounded towards the kitchen, and Elizabeth's stomach sank. Something—maternal instinct, CIA skills—told her that their daughter already knew.

Stevie froze in the doorway. Her eyes were rimmed red and her lips were pursed, but as she looked at her father, all that hurt turned into a torrent anger. "How could you?" she screamed. "How could you?" And she launched herself at Henry.

Elizabeth jumped in between. She wrapped one arm around her daughter's waist, the other pinning her fists to her sides, and she hauled her away. With Stevie's back resting against her chest, both of them facing a horror-stricken Henry, Elizabeth nuzzled Stevie's hair and whispered, "Breathe, baby, just breathe."

And as Stevie stilled, sobs wracked through her chest. Elizabeth clung to her and absorbed them all, just as she had done was Stevie was a child, just as Henry did for her, when she was in pain.

In the den, Will, Jason and Alison all stared at them over the back of the couch. Then Alison and Jason eased to their feet, like foals testing their legs for the first time, and they came to stand behind their father in the kitchen. There would be no way of keeping it from them now.

Henry's mouth hung open. And—barring her trips to warring countries—Elizabeth had never seen him look so afraid in her life. "What on earth is going on?"

"Alison, Jason, please will you go up to your rooms," Elizabeth said, and when they didn't move, she added, "Now."

"Don't," Stevie shouted, and she wrestled free of her mother's grip. She glanced over her shoulder. "They have the right to know."

"Stevie," Elizabeth said, "I'm asking you, please don't do this." And she would have got down on her knees and begged if she thought it would help. But Stevie had that stubborn look in her eye, the one that dared anyone to defy her.

She pulled an envelope from her bag, and Elizabeth pinched her brow. So this was how it was going to happen. Stevie tugged out the photographs, and as she did, a scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. "You're a liar—" she threw the first picture at Henry "—and a cheat—" she threw the second one "—and I hate you." She threw the third.

Henry caught hold of the photos. He turned them over so that the images were facing up, and he stared at them like they held lines and lines of foreign text, not pictures showing in black and white what he had done.

Henry looked up. He stared past their daughter, his eyes locked on Elizabeth's. His expression held nothing but shock and horror and utter disbelief. "Elizabeth, I didn't…that's not me…" And either he was telling the truth, or he could beat a polygraph with more ease than she ever had.

Elizabeth swallowed. All eyes were on her. "You have five seconds to explain," she said, "and I know this isn't work—" that other work, the work they weren't meant to talk about "—and I know from security that you weren't here last night."

"But I was," Henry said, and his frown deepened. If she had a good read on him, she would say he was baffled now. But maybe her read on him had never been that good at all, not if she hadn't noticed something like this. "I was here all night, hoping that you would ditch work and come home."

"Maybe you got tired of waiting, decided to—" Will began. He was stood behind Alison and Jason towards the other end of the island.

Elizabeth held up one hand and cut him off. Her gaze never left Henry; her eyes trained on every flinch, every flicker, every micro-expression. "My security doesn't fail to record when a curtain blows in the wind, you really expect me to believe that they'd forget to log who when in and out of the house?"

"They were changing shift," Henry said, and there was a hitch in his voice. "There was only that new guy on the door. I didn't stop to…" But he shook his head. He held up the photographs and waved them at her. The paper warbled in the air. "This isn't me."

Will let out a snort. "Don't gaslight her."

Henry's jaw clenched, but he ignored her brother. "Elizabeth, you can't believe that I would do this. I love you. I would never cheat on you, ever."

"Or maybe you just thought you'd never be caught," Stevie said. She swiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "At least have the decency to admit what you've done."

"But I didn't do anything." Henry's voice rose sharply.

Will stepped forward, pushing past Alison and Jason. He gripped Henry's shoulder, and the image of her brother, just fifteen years old with an ice pack pressed to his lip flooded Elizabeth's mind. "I think you should leave," Will said.

But Henry shrugged him off, like a horse flinching at a fly, and Elizabeth thanked whatever forces were out there that in that moment Henry's sole focus was on her. "You have to believe me," he said, and he stared into her eyes. "You have to." It was imperative in all its forms.

"I want to believe you, Henry," Elizabeth said. How she wanted to! She closed her eyes, and it was Conrad's voice that came to her this time. Trust no one, Bess; the minute you do, you're flying blind. "But you're not giving me anything to work with." She shook her head to herself. Occam's razor: the simplest explanation is often the right one. She met his eye. Her throat bobbed. "Maybe Will's right. Maybe you should leave."