Chapter Eleven

D+14

Elizabeth

The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor to reveal Jay. That couldn't be good. He stepped forward and placed his arm across the doors to stop them from closing. "Good morning, ma'am."

"Good morning, Jay." Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at him. "Are you going to let me out?"

"Actually, Russell Jackson's office called," Jay said. And Elizabeth let out an inward groan. "We've been asked to go to the White House immediately."

"What for?" Elizabeth hit the button for the ground floor, and Jay joined her.

"They didn't say."

Elizabeth gritted her teeth. "Great."

When they arrived, Elizabeth and Jay were taken straight to the Oval Office. Conrad, Russell and Mike B were sat on the sofas, and a laptop had been set up on the coffee table next to three drained cups. The three men looked up as Elizabeth and Jay entered the room.

"Bess, good to see you." Conrad stood up, and Russell and Mike mirrored him. Their faces were grave, and the blood vessel at Russell's temple was pulsing. Never a promising sign.

"Sir." Elizabeth nodded to him. She shrugged off her coat and folded it over the back of one of the brown leather armchairs. Then she rolled up the sleeves of her blouse. The air had been cool outside, but in there she was already beginning to sweat. "What's this about? Jay said—"

"Why don't you take a seat?" Conrad motioned to the seat on the couch opposite him, next to Mike.

Elizabeth's brow furrowed, but she lowered herself onto the couch. The thud, thud, thud of her heart reverberated through her body. She glanced at Mike—why, exactly, was he there?

Mike leant in towards her. "There's no easy way to say this, Bess." Oh God, what now? "But the media are planning to release the full footage of what happened after you were shot."

Her heart sank, and black dots with haloes of scorching white pricked her eyes. She blinked hard, then pressed her eyes shut. Thirty-one, thirty-seven, forty-one, forty-three.

"Surely you can stop them." Jay's voice came from behind her, and the cushion at her back shifted. She opened her eyes again and found Conrad watching her, his face torn. She fought the heat that threatened to rise up through her cheeks. She was stronger than this.

Mike swivelled round. "We can try, but legally speaking, there's not much—"

"Show me," Elizabeth said, and she pointed towards the laptop screen.

A silence hung over the room. Conrad shifted from his seat and knelt before her. He placed his hand over hers where it rested against her knee. He looked up at her with such kindness and compassion that it made her chest clench. "Are you sure, Bess? You don't have to."

"I want to see." She had to see, she had to know exactly what everyone else would see. It was a kind of control, perhaps the only control she could have in this situation.

Conrad retreated, and he gave Russell the nod. The screen flashed into life, but Mike, Conrad and Russell all watched her instead. Of course; they had already seen. They had seen and judged and pitied, just as the world would do when it was released.

[There was a gunshot and then screams. Elizabeth looked down at the rosebud of blood that unfurled across her blouse. Conrad caught her, and she half-stumbled, half-sank to the stage. She lay with her head against Conrad's knees as he shouted for help, shouted for an ambulance. Her face was twisted with pain, and spittles of blood broke through her lips.

Will appeared. "It's okay, Lizzie. Just breathe."]

Her breath hitched, and she sank into the cushions of the couch. Just breathe, Lizzie, just breathe. But every lungful was empty.

[The agents of the White House Secret Service urged Conrad to leave the stage, but he refused. Will leant over her and tore open her blouse, exposing her blood-stained flesh. When she coughed, a red mist sprayed from her lips.]

Elizabeth flinched. Her eyes threatened to squeeze shut, but she forced them wide and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

["I need a medical kit. Now." There was an undercurrent of panic in Will's voice, as he pressed down on the wounds.

"Will." She gasped. And as she coughed this time, crimson bubbles burst from her mouth.

Will stroked her hair back from her face. "Don't talk. Just focus on your breathing. Nice and slow. Okay?"

"Stevie…" Her face twisted with pain.]

Though Stevie didn't appear on screen, hidden from the camera's gaze, her face, pale and panic-stricken flashed, through Elizabeth's mind. The urge to protect her daughter burned through every nerve and every vein, more vital than her need for air.

[Will turned around, paused, then nodded his head to the nearest agent. "Get her out of here. Now."

Another agent appeared on the stage. He unzipped the medical kit and laid out the supplies. "What do you need?"

"Two squares of plastic and some tape." Will's hands slipped over Elizabeth's skin. The agent passed him the first piece of plastic, and he placed it on top of one of the wounds. Elizabeth groaned. "I'm sorry, Lizzie, but this is going to hurt. I need you to breathe out as hard as you can."

Elizabeth nodded. But a moment later: "I can't—"

Conrad took hold of her hand. "Breathe out, Bess. Just squeeze my hand."]

And sitting on the sofa across from her, Conrad had lowered his gaze. His fist clenched as though he could feel the ghost of her touch.

[Elizabeth tried again, and Will pressed the plastic down over the wound. "Tape. Three strips. One at the top, two on the sides." Will stared down at her. "Good job, Lizzie. Just one more."

Will took the second patch and applied it to the other wound. "Breath out again."

Elizabeth clutched Conrad's hand, and Will pressed the plastic in place whilst the agent stuck it down.

Two paramedics joined Will on stage. He spoke to them. "Gunshot wound to the chest, penetrating the apex of the right lung. Through and through. Suspected haemopneumothorax. I'm going to perform a needle decompression and then straight into the ambulance. I need a large bore needle, and let's get her on oxygen and see if we can get a line in before her veins collapse. I want painkillers and fluids." He looked up at Conrad. "Ease her onto her back."]

The words came so quick that they blurred together, as did the beats of her heart.

[Will took the swab from the paramedic and wiped her skin. He took the needle, allowed one quick glance up to Elizabeth's face—"I'm sorry"—and then he pushed the needle in between her ribs. There was a pop. Blood squirted out and spattered everywhere.]

Bile burned up through her throat. She ripped her glasses from her face and pressed her finger and thumb against her eyes. Forty-seven, fifty-three, fifty-nine. She let out a sharp breath, then opened her eyes again, her fingers tingling as she lowered them back to her lap.

[Elizabeth bit down on her lip, cheeks sucked in. There was the barest cry of pain. Will removed the needle, leaving the catheter in place. "Right. Let's get her onto the stretcher and get going."

"Will?" Elizabeth pulled off her oxygen mask. Her voice was weak. "Henry…Tell him…"]

And Elizabeth's heart stopped. I like you okay too; that's what she had said. She would never get to tell him that she loved him, would never find a way to articulate just what he meant to her.

[Will shook his head. "None of that, thank you." He pushed the mask back in place.

Elizabeth's gaze flickered up towards Conrad. Conrad clutched her hand between his own. "Henry's on his way, Bess. You can tell him yourself."

The paramedics lifted her from the stage.]

The video cut out. Elizabeth smoothed her hands down against her knees. Her palms were slick with sweat and her fingers were still tingling. In the background, the clock tolled. Tock, tock, tock, tock. Until it was no longer a clock, but the rhythmic peal of gunfire.

"Bess?" Conrad's voice drifted through from a distance.

She swallowed. She shook her head. She shouldn't be there. She shouldn't have survived.

"Are you okay, Bess?"

All eyes were on her, watching, waiting for her to crumble. She cleared her throat and forced herself to meet Conrad's eye. "We should release it."

"Bess—"

She stood up from the sofa and paced the floor in front of the desk. "If we don't release it today, someone will leak it tomorrow." Better it came out now, under her control. Maybe then the press would get their fill and everything would go back to normal.

"We can't seriously be considering this," Russell said. He gestured towards the screen. "We can't have the Secretary of State topless on international television."

Elizabeth stopped. She spun to Russell, her hands on her hips. Her body felt like the moment when water hits a pan of burning oil. Whoomph. "I'm sorry…what the hell did you just say?" But even Russell wasn't belligerent enough to repeat it. "So, your main issue with…with this—" she stabbed a finger at the screen "—is that I'm a woman?"

Russell shook his head, but at least he had the decency or common sense to lower his gaze. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what, exactly, are you saying?" She took a step closer, so that she towered over Russell. "Are you trying to protect my honour, or are my breasts offensive to you?"

Silence hit the room like a wrecking ball. Conrad, Russell and Jay all stared down at their feet. Elizabeth couldn't be sure if the heat that burned through her cheeks came from anger, or some kind of instinctive mortification. But if there was shame in her mind, it was masked by that livid mist, as red as the spray of blood.

Only Mike dared to meet her gaze. He shrugged. "I for one have always had a profound appreciation for your breasts. And you have impeccable taste in underwear."

Elizabeth glared at him. "So not in the mood, Mike." And it felt like she would never be in the mood to tolerate him ever again.

Russell shook his head. His gaze flitted up to her for the briefest of seconds. "We're not discussing this."

"Yet here we are," Elizabeth said, and she motioned to the room around them, "discussing it." She dragged one hand through her hair. "Christ, Russell. They're not some sleazy pics of me in bed." And now everyone blushed. At least her cheeks were so flushed that she was immune. "I think people can tell the difference between soft porn and life-saving medical treatment."

Russell's eyes bugged. "Who knows what they'll look like once the tabloids have mutilated them." And he wasn't wrong; a few stills from the footage treated with Photoshop. Hey, some people probably wouldn't even need that to find the images alluring. "Your approval ratings are sky high. People are getting uncomfortable. Soon they'll get desperate, and things will get dirty."

How many people out there would do anything to scupper her plans for the presidency? Certainly more than zero, and that's all it would take. "Well then, do you have an idea how to suppress this?"

Mike leant forward and rested his elbows against his knees, his palms coming together in front of him. "Without you doing the media circuit—" God, what was it with these people and their insistence that she talk about it? As if she had nothing more worthwhile to say.

"I've already said: No interviews."

Mike shrugged and pulled a face that seemed to sum up the inevitability of the situation. "Then this is bound to leak sooner or later. People want to know what happened, and this won't blow over until they do."

"Then release it."

"Bess," Conrad began. He looked up at her, and something in his eyes said that, out of all the men present, this conversation had unsettled him the most. It reminded her of the look on Henry's face when she had broken it to him that Stevie was having sex. "Do you want to take time to talk to your family first?"

And say what? She shook her head. "I just want this done and gone. Release it."

Henry

Henry was in the kitchen. He had just put the chicken in the oven when the front door banged. He glanced to the clock. Jason and Alison were watching television in the den, and it was too early for Stevie to be home. God knew when Elizabeth would show up.

There was the clatter of a bag being dumped at the foot of the stairs and shoes being thrown to the floor. Moments later, Stevie traipsed in. Her face was pinched, her eyes rimmed red.

Henry frowned. "Hey, honey. What's wrong?" He pulled his daughter into a hug, and though she pushed back a little at first, she soon relaxed against his chest. "Why are you back so early?"

"Russell sent me home," she whispered into his shoulder.

He looked down at her. "Everything okay?" Russell wouldn't fire her, surely.

Stevie shook her head. Tears brimmed around her eyes, and Henry's stomach clenched. He stroked her hair. Her breath wobbled. "They're…they're—"

"Dad!" Alison's cry cut through them. Her panicked face looked at him over the back of the sofa. His eyes darted from his youngest daughter to the screen. Elizabeth.

"They've released the footage." Stevie gulped. "All of it."

Henry let go of her and strode towards the television. He grabbed the remote, ready to turn it off, but then froze. The footage zipped through the images that had already been burned on his mind. Alison and Jason stared up from the couch, and Stevie joined him at his side. And together, they saw.

A wave of nausea rolled through Henry, and his pulse thudded in his head. He had thought that nothing could be worse than the scene he had imagined. How could he have been so wrong?

"Henry…Tell him…"

Henry closed his eyes, scalded with tears. She had wanted to tell him—more than she had wanted oxygen—she had wanted to tell him the words she would no longer say.

"Henry's on his way, Bess. You can tell him yourself."

Jason buried his mouth against his fist and glared at the screen as the image lingered on the last still of Elizabeth, everyone and everything—including the camera lens itself—covered with her blood. Alison twisted round. Her face was crumpled and tears stained her cheeks. But her gaze sailed past Henry, and her eyes widened. "Mom?"

Henry spun round. And there was Elizabeth, stood at the bottom of the stairs, her arms hanging loose by her sides, her face a mask. "Elizabeth?" his voice cracked.

Elizabeth shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it." Then she turned and trudged up the steps, the belt of her coat trailed after her.

Henry was stuck. He had to follow, had to talk to her. But their children. They were hurting, scared, in need of comfort. Stevie wiped her eyes and nodded towards the stairs. "Go," she said, her voice thick from tears.

When he reached their room, Elizabeth was lying back on the end of the bed, her legs hanging over the side. She stared vacantly up at the ceiling, her gaze so distant that it was as though she could see beyond the ceiling, and the sky, and even the stars.

Henry shut the door behind him. He stood in front of her. It was like that moment when you greet an old friend, only to realise that you've approached a stranger. Without moving, Elizabeth repeated, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Did you know?" She must have known. Russell had known, Stevie had known.

"I said—" Elizabeth dragged out her words, and God how that made his nerves burn.

"And I don't want to hear it." Something inside of him snapped. He gripped his head in both hands. "I'm tired of you telling me over and over that you don't want to talk. I'm tired of saying nothing and pretending like it's okay. Our children are hurt and you can't spend one minute consoling them because you're too afraid to open up."

Elizabeth propped herself up on her elbows. Her gaze hardened on him, and there was an anger there like nothing he had seen in her before. "You wanna talk?" She scrambled her way to standing. In her heels, her eyes were level with his. "Fine, let's talk."

And instantly he wished he had said nothing.

"Tell me, Henry. You're a man. Did you find that footage arousing?"

Henry frowned. What the—?

She stepped closer, and the heat that pulsed from her body washed over him. "Do all men find a woman lying topless and panting for breath arousing—" and the image of her in their bed, pinned beneath him, was superimposed on his mind "—despite the fact that a bullet has ripped through her lung and she's soaked in her own blood?"

The image contorted into a snapshot from the footage; pleasure to pain. What on earth had he walked into? Maybe Will was right; maybe he should have kept his mouth shut.

"Or did I spend my day discussing my breasts with my colleagues for nothing?"

Oh. So that's what had happened. Her eyes softened, awash with sadness and pain. And he wanted to wrap her in his arms, to hold her, to tell everything would be all right. But how could he, when she would only push him away?

"Because apparently the optics of me lying there with my blouse open aren't great." She forced a wry smile, but it turned into a grimace. "But the only way to stop people from talking about this, is to show them anyway." Her gaze turned to the floor. "And the only choice I had in this situation was to let them release it or see it leaked." She shrugged, and her whole body shrank, like a balloon losing its air. "Is that talk enough for you?"

"Elizabeth…" What could he say? "I'm sorry." Sorry that she had to go through that, sorry that he had pushed her to talk when she clearly wasn't ready.

But Elizabeth shook her head to herself, her gaze still buried at her feet. He reached out, his fingertips brushing her elbow, but she nudged him away, and within a second she had fled through the door. Henry chased after her. But by the time he stepped into the entrance hall, the front door had slammed shut and engines revved outside.

He rested his forehead against the wall. Why did it have to happen? Why did it have to be so hard? He took a deep breath and then returned to the den. The kids were huddled together on the couch, the television screen now blank. They turned to look at him.

"Mom's really struggling, isn't she?" Alison said.

"Yeah." Henry sighed. He gave them a sorry smile. "How are you guys doing?" He perched on the coffee table in front of them. His gaze flicking over each of them in turn.

Stevie sank into the cushions; she leant her head back against the top of the couch and gathered her knees to her chest. "People have already started posting memes." She held the screen of her phone towards him.

Henry's stomach clenched. And God forgive him if he ever met someone who had posted anything like that about his wife. "Maybe give social media a break for a while."

"But how could they?" Alison folded her arms across her chest.

Henry shook his head. He could ask the same question. "There are some sick people out there," he said. Sick, vile people with nothing better to do than to find humour in others' misery. "But there are a lot of good people too. People who want to see your mom get better."

"Will she get better?" Jason asked from behind his hand.

"I…" Henry began. His gaze fell away from them. "I don't know."

Henry sat in their office, his gaze fixed on the front door. It had been over three hours since Elizabeth had stormed out, and he'd heard nothing from her since. Every one of his phone calls had ended in her voicemail. Her tone was cheerful and vibrant in the message, a different person, an echo from another time.

Henry's phone rang, and he jumped. He grabbed it off the desk. Will. "Hello?"

"Hey, Henry," Will said. Henry's breath stilled. "Lizzie's here. I thought you'd want to know."

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine," Will said. Though of course she was anything but fine. If she was fine, she would be at home with him, not seeking refuge at her brother's house. "She's had a nightcap and calmed down and is now fast asleep in the spare room."

Henry stood up from the chair and reached for the car keys that lay at the edge of the desk. "I'll come and get her."

"Don't," Will said. "She needs some rest."

Henry sank back into the chair. He swapped the phone to the other ear. "This hands off approach isn't working," he said, and he rubbed his brow. "I'm trying to patient with her, to give her space to figure things out, but she's just getting worse."

The line hung in silence. Henry glanced at the screen. The call time was still ticking over.

"She just needs more time," Will said. "The more you push her, the more she'll push you away." But it was easy for him. He didn't have to watch Elizabeth sink a little deeper into this darkness each and every day. He wasn't the one that she was blocking out. He was the one that she ran to, the one she would talk to. He was the one who had been there, the only one who would have had the chance to say goodbye. "I know her, Henry. I've seen this before. She'll come to you when she's ready."

But he knew Lizzie, not Elizabeth. He wasn't watching his wife, his life, fade away.