Chapter Eight

Elizabeth

A few days later, and the dining room was silent, except for the clink of the cutlery against the plates and the occasional clunk as someone set down their glass on the table. The kids kept their gazes fixed on their dishes, as if spaghetti were the most fascinating thing in the world—anything to avoid looking at their father who sat at the opposite end of the table. Elizabeth smiled across at Henry, but he only managed the faintest twinge in response.

The phone rang, and Stevie jumped up from her chair. She strode through to the kitchen, and Jason and Alison watched her with a certain envy, as though wishing that they had an excuse to leave too. Henry stopped eating and rested his cutlery against the edge of his plate. He took a swig from his glass of red wine, then raised his eyebrows at Elizabeth, gesturing behind her.

"It's the Director of the FBI," Stevie said. Elizabeth dabbed the tomato sauce from the corners of her mouth as she turned around in her chair. She extended her hand for the phone, but Stevie's gaze darted to the front door. "No. He's outside."

Elizabeth hauled open the front door, and fixed her face with a smile so fake it would make a clown look sincere. "Good evening, Jon." She directed him towards their study. Henry joined them, and the air bristled.

Elizabeth perched against the edge of the desk, whilst Henry took a seat in the chair behind. Jon reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a phone. He handed it to Elizabeth. She stared down at it, then back to Jon, her pulse quickening. Henry's phone.

"It came back clean," Jon said. And there was the trace of that smug smile again, as if he was taking some kind of delight in their situation. "The tech team have taken a thorough look at it, but there's no evidence of tampering."

Henry leant forward in his seat, and Elizabeth edged a little closer along the desk, just in case she had to intervene again. "But there must be something," Henry said. "Someone interfered with the cellular data and managed to fake the GPS."

"What can I say?" Jon said with a shrug. Then he pushed his wiry glasses back into place as they slipped down.

Elizabeth rubbed her forehead as a kind of nausea swirled at the pit of her stomach. There had to be an answer, some kind of lead, something to prove Henry was innocent. "What about self-deleting malware? There's been a spate of attacks across Europe—"

"Madam Secretary—" Jon took a sharp inhalation of breath, then sighed it out. God, he was relishing this. "—I know that you want to believe that something untoward is going on, but the only solid evidence we have is the photos and the GPS placing your husband at the hotel, and that's a scenario that you're just plain unwilling to accept."

Elizabeth's jaw clenched. And it might be Henry having to stop her from hitting the director in a minute. "Because it's not the truth."

"You're clutching at straws," Jon said. "Look, the FBI have indulged you enough already. Perhaps it's time you start looking for an explanation a little closer to home." His gaze darted to Henry and then back again. "Good night, Madam Secretary." He turned and left.

"What do we do now?" Henry's voice broke the silence long after the front door had closed.

Elizabeth stared at the floor. She swallowed. "I don't know." The photographs, the phone placing Henry at the hotel, no alibi, no evidence of any foul play…the facts as they stood whirled through her mind. If only she had come home that evening, if only…

"Hey." Henry found her hand where it rested against the desk, and he tugged her towards him, but she shook herself free. He looked up at her, his face ridged with concern. "Elizabeth?"

"I need some space," she said, and she pushed herself away from the desk and retreated to the window seat. "I need to think." A draught cut through the windows, and the net curtains billowed. She drew her cardigan tighter around herself, but the chill still shivered over her skin.

"Okay," Henry said, but he sounded anything other than okay. And a few moments later, the steady pad of his footsteps disappeared up the stairs.

Trust no one, Bess; the minute you do, you're flying blind. But she had trusted Henry. He was the exception to the rule, to every rule she had followed before she met him. Don't fall in love. Don't get too close. Don't depend on anyone but yourself. Wise words for an empty life. There had to be a solution. Or maybe she had already found the solution, but love had left her blind.

Stevie

The bedside clock ticked over from 23:59 to 00:00. A new day, same problems. Stevie threw back the covers and tiptoed across the room to the door. The corridor outside was silent, but faint laughter like a bell chiming in the distance drifted up the stairs. She crept down. The lamp was still lit in her parents' study. The television was on in the den, and Alison and Jason were curled up on either end of the sofa. The last step of the stairs creaked, and Alison and Jason twisted round.

"Can't sleep either?" Alison asked. She hugged a cushion to her chest.

Stevie shook her head. Alison lifted up the blanket—woollen and musty and warm—and Stevie climbed underneath, nestling in the middle between her siblings. "What are we watching?"

"Some old sitcom," Alison said. Her gaze drifted back to the screen. In the shadows, the circles beneath her eyes hung darker, as stark as any bruise. "I have no idea what's going on, I just can't stand the silence."

Silence meant thoughts. Thoughts meant doubts. Doubts meant fears.

"Is Mom still awake?" Jason asked. He was hugging a cushion too.

"The light's on in their study," Stevie said. "Didn't she go up?"

Jason shook his head, and his lips bunched to one side. "She's been in there since the FBI guy left. Didn't even bother to finish dinner." Though none of them had, not after they had overheard the news.

"I can't get my head around it," Alison said. Her voice was soft, and in the light from the screen, a sheen of tears glistened in her eyes. "I never thought that Dad would cheat."

"Nor did I," Jason said.

Stevie pursed her lips and stopped the lie: Nor did I. Because she had. She had believed it, back when she saw her father in that coffee shop, back when she had phoned up the archives. But her mother had insisted then that it was a misunderstanding, and she had believed her, because she so desperately didn't want it to be true.

"But would he keep up the lie for this long?" Alison asked.

"Maybe." Stevie shrugged. "If he thought he could get away with it."

"The problem is," Jason said, "when they lie for their jobs, it's hard to know when they're telling the truth." And that was the rub—in their family, there had always been two versions of the truth. How were they meant to know which one to believe?

"Do you think Mom still believes him?" Alison asked, and she clung tighter to the cushion, resting her chin on top. She looked like a little girl again, asking if their mother would ever come home.

"She was looking up self-deleting malware earlier," Jason said. And he gave a soft snort. "Either she does believe him, or she's trying her best to convince herself."

"Do either of you believe him?" Stevie asked.

The question expanded into the darkness, adding depth to the chill in the air. It shivered through them, and their gazes fell away from one another. Then the three of them turned back to the screen, turned back to their thoughts, their doubts, their fears, and they let the room fill with the jarring sound of canned laughter.