GOT THE NEXT CHAPTER IN THE WORKS - LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF THIS ONE - TOOK ME A BIT TO WRITE, BUT I THINK I'VE GOT AN IDEA WHERE I'M GOING WITH THIS! REVIEW!

She slipped off her muddy shoes, tossing them without thought somewhere around the public bathroom they'd closed for her to change. As she removed her jeans, she carefully studied them, looking past the mud stains, and the few coffee stains, looking for blood.

She'd been right there. He had been right by her. Had his blood gotten on her clothes and she hadn't noticed?

Finding nothing, Elizabeth set her jeans on the ground by her shoes. She pulled the navy skirt from the hanger, thankful that Blake had brought her a change of clothes.

It hadn't been since the campaign that she'd had to use a public bathroom to change in, at one crazy stop that she'd spilled chocolate sauce all over herself. She knew an agent, and Blake, stood outside of the door, but that didn't change how very high-school it felt, standing there in her bra, skirt, and white ankle socks. Quickly pulling the silk shirt over her head, she looked into the mirror that extended over three sinks, pulling her hair out of the back of her collar, watching the blond locks gently drape over her shoulders, flyaways not hiding the fact that she'd been up all night in the hospital.

As she ran her fingers through her hair, she skillfully used the toes on one foot to pull the sock from the other, and set her bare feet on the cold, tile floor. Doing the same with the other sock, she grabbed the toothbrush from her cosmetic bag, and turned the water on in the sink.

With only the sound of the water running, Elizabeth tried to focus on anything material in the room. Because if she stared too hard at the mirror, looked at the circles under her eyes, looked into her own eyes, she was afraid she'd see what Stevie had accused her of being. Instead, she focused on the way the hard bristles of the toothbrush felt against her gums, the way her toes could feel the lines in the patterned tile floor.

She finished brushing, slid her feet into the heels Blake had set on the tile floor for her, and checked herself over in the mirror. She looked… professional. As professional as a public bathroom and five minutes could possibly make her look. Once her blazer was in place, she thought she'd done it.

She'd pushed the woman next to the hospital bed out, the woman who could think of nothing but her dying husband, the woman who had feelings and needs and fears.

Elizabeth couldn't be that person right now.

Nor could she be the person that her children wanted her to be. She couldn't be the loving, doting mother, swooping in and saving her child from the horrors of their actions. She couldn't nestle her wayward child into her arms and plead with her to stop crying, and that everything would be fine.

Because Elizabeth didn't know if that woman existed anymore. Didn't know if there would ever be enough grace to extend to the person who just might be guilty of killing her husband. Didn't know if the mother who stood in front of bullets for her daughter would ever live past the possibility of her husband never waking up.

And as she walked out of the bathroom into the white washed hall what seemed like miles underground, as her heels clicked against the cold floor, with agents following behind her, Elizabeth wondered even if there was a small bit of her that could act the part of the mother, would the monster she felt feeding off of her rage devour the little good that was left inside of her.

Her entire body shook, whether from the cold or pain, she couldn't be sure. She didn't know how long she'd been there. Apparently, he hadn't been angry enough to finally kill her. Just let her pass out to wake up on the cold, hard ground. Her hands, now bound in front of her, ached around the metal where she could see red streaks forming from the struggle. She laid there, on the ground, each breath exacerbating the dull pain in her chest. She tried to be quiet. Tried not to move. If they didn't see her moving, maybe they'd forget about her for a moment.

She heard movement, and she closed her eyes, hoping whoever it was would decide she was too much work to wake up.

The steps stopped when the boots were next to her, boots Emma knew from experience were steel-toed.

Steady her breathing. Don't change patterns. She tried to tell her hands to stop shaking. Tried to tell her entire body to calm down. Pretend to be asleep.

She didn't know why she tried to pretend anymore. Because nothing ever changed. They never forgot about her.

The rough hands grabbed her arms, dragging her across the room. Towards the board.

There was nothing left inside of her to fight. She'd tried fighting, kicking her legs and tying to wrest out of their grasp. She'd tried biting, once she'd even knocked one of them with the shackles around her wrists, delaying but intensifying the torture.

Instead, all she could do was shake her head, pitifully crying. Begging. "Please, no more. I can't do it anymore. Please…"

But it never mattered how hard she fought. Never mattered how much she begged and pleaded. And just like each time before, she was thrown up on the hard, wooden board, hard enough to knock the air out of her for a second as her head collided with the surface. Straps secured around her torso and legs. Her arms were stretched above her head, the shackles secured to the metal clip at the top. "Please…"

Then his face came into view as he stood above her. Emma knew that if the devil existed, she must be staring up at him. She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to keep the evil from terrorizing her any longer.

She should be used to it. Should be less terrified, she'd told herself when she realized nothing was going to stop this. She'd counted on the fact that eventually she would not feel what she felt each time she was strapped to the board. But every time, the panic tore at her throat, and she could feel her chest rising and falling with each breath, like she was trying to stock up on oxygen before she didn't have any more.

His fingers against her jaw, turning her head up towards him. "Look at me." He said plainly, When she didn't open her eyes fast enough, she could feel his fingers digging into her face, his anger against her tearing into her skin.

Opening her eyes only turned her stomach, as he looked down at her like a conqueror taking in his spoils. A vile smile came to his face, as he said, "Do you know you look just like her?" No need to ask who he was talking about. He leaned closer, and she tried to turn her head away, but he held her in place. "I wish she'd look at me like you just did. But I guess, you'll have to do."

He let go of her face, and she turned away, burying her head against her arm that was stretched above her. "Please…" she whimpered, "Please don't…"

But they never stopped. He never listened.

Panic tore at her when the towel came over her face, still damp from before. The cold, dank material against her skin signaled to her body to try. There was never any way to get past it. But sometimes even when she didn't want to survive, her body did. She'd tried everything to make the next part less horrible.

Holding her breath.

Exhaling.

But no matter what, the water came, the material above her soon coating her face in water. The water didn't stop, Emma knew. The threads from the towel pressed against her mouth and nose, water starting to strangle her. Her body involuntarily convulsed, straining against the straps and chains. Her head moved from side to side, but hands held it in place. She couldn't breathe.

Her back arched as she tried to find air, but she could feel the water inside of her. She couldn't breathe.

Then it stopped. The water stopped coming. The towel was ripped from her face. And she turned her head to the side, coughing when she needed air. She felt the board incline, and she found her breath. Water coming out of her nose and mouth, the room still spun around her.

"I wish I could do this to her." He said. "I wish I could strap her to this board and ask her why she did it."

Emma coughed again, then sucked air in once more.

"You know this water torture is usually meant to get information out of people, right?"

Her entire torso burned with the movement as she kept breathing.

"If your mother was here, I'd make her answer me." He said, sitting back down at the stool next to the board. "I'd get her to confess to conspiring against me."

One breath in without coughing. She could still feel the water dripping from her nose and chin.

"I'd make her answer me." He said again, declining the board again, Emma's head smacking back down as she was again looking up at him. Then the towel came over her face again, and she started to move her head, the claustrophobia taking over. "But I guess I'll just do this until I'm not angry with her anymore."

"Ms. McCord, why did you try and kill the president?"

Elizabeth stood in the observation room, her arms crossed in front of her chest as she watched the scene in front of her.

Two agents in dark suits sat with their backs to the window, files on the table in front of them. Director Doherty and a few other agents stood in the room with Elizabeth, watching. And filling her in on the situation.

"Madam President, as you can see, they are simply asking questions." The Director said, and Elizabeth could hear the defensiveness in his voice. But also the hesitancy. "I want to assure you, we are handling this with…"

Elizabeth shook her head, "Keith, I'm not here to judge the job you're doing." She didn't even want to be here, she wanted to tell him. But, that would involve bringing more family drama into this room that, as she watched her daughter, had too much of her family drama here as it was.

Emma sat there in the chair, if sitting was also writhing and jerking around. Still in the same hoodie and muddy jeans from the night before, Elizabeth knew that it was her daughter. Intellectually she knew that. She also knew intellectually, she should feel… more than what she was feeling.

With the wild hair, the eyes that opened and shut in a rhythm that Elizabeth questioned was even human, the shoulders and elbows that contorted into shapes they shouldn't be able to be in - Emma looked the part of a lunatic.

She watched Emma's reaction as the agents asked her another question, "Where did you acquire the gun?"

Emma laid her head on the metal table next to her handcuffed hands, looking at her hands. Her entire body was shaking, and Emma just shook her head, and spoke in Arabic, "sa'ukhbiruk 'iidha qumt bi'iizalat hadhih al'asfad."

I'll tell you if you take these handcuffs off.

As she translated it in her head, Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and turned to the Director, "How long has the other language thing been happening?" The irritation in her voice must have surprised the man, who didn't answer her right away.

"About three hours into being detained."

Elizabeth wanted to see what this whole scene was about. She knew in her heart that something was wrong, but there was a part of her that had doubts. She'd been played by Emma in the past. She'd been lied to, manipulated, and, hell, Henry sure had. Fifteen thousand dollars worth of manipulation.

"Ms. McCord, you need to answer our questions." The tone of the agent intensified, normal volume, but more pointed. "Now, tell us, did you buy the gun from someone?"

But Emma didn't answer. Instead, Elizabeth watched as Emma's eyes glazed over, staring at her hands. And the room was quiet, as Emma just stared. Spacing out. Or ignoring.

Elizabeth reached over and grabbed the microphone that connected her to the agents in the room. And she hit the button. "Ask her how long ago she used.." She put the microphone down, and with a callousness that maybe was covering where her heart had been, she muttered, "Let's see if I can't push your buttons and see if the real Emma comes out."

When the agents asked the question, didn't move her body, only her lips moved as she sarcastically said, "limadha, hal hasalt ealaa baedi?"

Why, you got some?

Elizabeth's hands clenched into fists as the frustration started to grow.

"Emma, you speak English, right?" One of the agents asked.

Emma tilted her head, so now her chin was on the table, looking up at the agents. With a shrug of her shoulders, she said, "tahadithu, tahadathu, man yueraf baed alan. 'aetaqid 'anaha lughati al'umu, walakina," Speak, spoke, who knows anymore? I guess it's my mother tongue, but… Covering her face with her handcuffed hands, Emma finished, "nahn jamiean nuhibu 'an nansaa alqarf fi tufulitina, 'alays kadhalika?" We all like to forget the shit in our childhood, right?

"Fuck." Elizabeth whispered, angered at how Emma could respond in a way that pushed Elizabeth's buttons. Grabbing the microphone, she felt a twinge in her conscience, a small warning, but she gladly fed the last sliver to whatever inhumanity she'd given herself over to. And she said, "Ask her about the money she stole from her dying father to use for drugs."

She told herself she was just asking. Just trying to assess. Just trying to give an observation. She knew she was lying to herself.

She could see the agent hesitating, unsure of how to word the question.

And Elizabeth phrased it for him, "What drugs did you buy with the fifteen thousand dollars you stole from the father you shot last night?"

The agent spoke her words, and Emma bolted up, her back pressed to the chair behind her. The handcuffs clanged against the metal bar they were attached to. And Emma looked right past the agents, staring into the window, the window she couldn't see through.

Elizabeth's blood began to boil, as Emma said, "Well, nice of you to show up, Mom."