"Elizabeth…"

Nothing inside of her cared anymore. She didn't care about the look Henry was giving her as she pulled her heavy jacket on. She felt nothing as she just ignored it, turning to check her face in the mirror in front of the front door. She tucked her scarf into her jacket and pulled her sunglasses over her blood-shot eyes. She ignored the stares from her children on the stairs.

"Elizabeth, I don't think now is the time…"

She just turned to her husband, vacantly staring at him until he was silent. She noticed his own weariness… the way his hands nervously twitched at his sides, the sweatpants and t-shirt she'd seen him in maybe three or four days ago. It wasn't until his lips stopped moving after warning her that it might be too soon – that she needed some more time away… begging her to just stay home… that her work wasn't that important.

Even Bess was startled with how flat and emotionless her voice sounded. "I'm fine, Henry. I'll be back later."

She stiffened as he stepped forward, with resignation on his face – and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. "I love you, Elizabeth."

She smiled, kissed his cheek methodically, and walked outside to the open vehicle.

But not before she was confronted with the flashing lights of cameras and clamoring of reporters.

"Madam Secretary!"

"Madam Secretary, over here!"

The security guards sheltered her from anyone crossing over the line in front of the house. But she heard them. Heard the questions.

"How long were you and the president intimate?"

"Did your husband know about the affair?"

"Is your husband leaving you?"

But one question stood out to her. One question that hadn't been asked every time she'd left the house.

"Do you blame yourself?"

She knew she should keep going. She knew she should get in the car and go to work. Leave the clawing vermin to freeze to death outside her house.

But she could see the woman's face – the young woman. Maybe a year or two older than Stevie. She was holding out a recording device. And Bess stared at her. Bess waved her security detail off just for a second.

"What did you ask me?" Bess snapped. All her focus centered on the journalist.

"Do you blame yourself?" And the journalist looked down at the notepad in her hand before asking, "If you hadn't taken the job as Secretary of State, your daughter would still be alive. Do you think that you're to blame at all for putting her in a dangerous position?"

Bess' fists clenched in her gloves – and she felt shivers run up her spine – she bit her lip – and was thankful for her glasses that covered her eyes.

And with no emotion in her voice she said, "Go to hell." Then, to the new man on her detail, she said, "Get her out of here."

The detail shut her door. They drove her.

It had been a week since she'd been back to the Georgetown home. She'd spent a few weeks at the farmhouse. She remembered Henry being there – vacantly. There had been a warm body next to her in bed those nights. And someone made her breakfast and brought her coffee outside in the barn. But she remembered so very little other than the cold biting at her cheeks, the deep snow crunching under her boots, and the overwhelmingly empty feeling.

Everything felt empty. Like, she knew she'd drank a cup of coffee that morning – but all she could remember was the bottom of the cup. She knew she'd eaten, but even now, she felt her stomach so empty.

Her soul felt like there was a never-ending chasm, and she was waiting for her grief to shatter at the bottom that never came.

She knew she should feel loved – the dead flower carcasses from every high name in Washington littered the bottom of the trashcan outside the back door. She'd gotten the messages from her staff.

Daisy: Ma'am, I just want you to know that my thoughts and prayers are with you. Please let me know if there's anything I can do for you.

Nadine: The loss of a child is never something a parent is prepared for. Take all the time you need.

Matt: I could say something about the definition of loss or pain, but I'm sure that nothing you're experiencing can ever be defined.

Blake: Emma's smile always brightened my day. I still remember her sitting here, scuffed knee – and how she was so polite and kind. The world will never be the same without her.

The flowers at the bottom of the trashcan had been dumped there immediately after they'd arrived. Bess didn't know how long they'd been sitting in the entry-way to the house, but when she'd stumbled down from her bedroom for the first time, the minute she saw they were from Conrad, she'd ran out the door, bare-feet pounding against the patio floor as she threw the flowers into the trashcan before hurling the glass vase hard against the garden wall. She'd wished that the violent sound would soothe something inside of her.

Nothing would do that. She wondered if she'd ever again feel anything.

She'd left the house right after the funeral. She'd said goodbye to her brother and his wife. She'd kissed the kids. And had gone to the farmhouse. To get away from everything.

Thankfully, she'd been sheltered from the media when the news had broken – not the news of the funeral. But the news about Conrad. And her.

She'd seen enough when she'd returned.

The headlines: "Madam Sexcretary: The President's Kept Women." "Dalton's Love Child Tortured and Killed." "Dalton and McCord: The Untold Story." "White House and State Department Getting Too Close." "Death of McCord's Secret."

But today was the first time she was going out. Going back to work.

Russell had called, asking her to come to the – that there was a matter of National Security that the President needed her present for.

And she was tired of hiding. Tired of lying in bed. Tired of feeling empty. At least at work, there was something to keep her mind from the never-ending memories that every turn in her house brought her back to Emma.

Today she'd face him. And do her job. And go home. And maybe, just maybe, she'd sleep a little tonight.