Washington, DC – October 2014

Lydia Dalton, with the proof of her abuse clutched to her chest, steps into the Hoover building. The plan is uncertain, a risk to her freedom and Harrison's safety. The thought of Conrad discovering her actions sends shivers down her spine. Yet, she has no other choice. She can no longer bear the weight of her guilt. She's claimed self-preservation, and she's claimed fear of the man, but the real reason is far more intricate. She's endured too long in this life in the shadows of his crimes and the fear of her husband. Elizabeth's strength has ignited a spark in Lydia, a determination to break free from the chains of fear and silence.

"Mrs. Dalton," FBI Director Doherty greets her when she steps into his office. He stands up and holds out his hand to her. She takes it, giving it a firm shake. She smiles at him.

"Thank you for seeing me, sir," she says.

"Of course," he smiles back at her. "Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?"

"No, thank you," she says.

"Mrs. Dalton," Director Doherty begins, his tone nervous but professional," to be very blunt, there is nothing I can do to help the President. Impeachment and removal from office are the complete purview of Congress, ma'am." Lydia empathizes with him, understanding the difficult position Conrad has put him in.

"I understand," Lydia replies, "and I agree."

Director Doherty looks confused.

"Ma'am?"

"Keith, I'd like to turn myself in. I knew about Elizabeth McCord's whereabouts, and I aided and abetted my husband." Lydia tells him as she shifts nervously.

Director Doherty remains silent. His face rests in a contemplative stare. He's watching her, his eyes squinting ever so slightly. She knows he doesn't trust her. That makes sense. The federal government is in chaos; sooner or later, foreign powers will start to take advantage of that chaos. There are so many things at stake here.

"Mrs. Dalton," he says carefully, "I'd think it'd be wise for you to have an attorney present before we talk any further. You might want to consider—"

"Director," Lydia cuts him off, her voice rising, "I know what I'm doing. I know what I've done—"

"Mrs. Dalton," Keith says firmly, "You need to have an attorney present. We need to ensure this is done by the book in the interest of justice, ma'am. So please, do you have an attorney, or do I need to call the public defender's office?"

"I can find someone," Lydia says quietly.

"Very well," he replies, "we'll resume this conversation after you meet with the attorney. In the meantime, I'm afraid that you are being detained."

…x…x…x…

Elizabeth assesses the Instagram account. It was created three hours ago. There are fifty-none photos, all posted within minutes of each other, all captioned with nothing more than a date and a single succinct sentence. The account is not verified, and the profile picture is merely a black square, though the handle is clear: _Lydia_M_Dalton_.

Elizabeth slowly scrolls through the photos one by one. Each photo is a clinical-looking selfie of black eyes or split lips. She reads each caption on 10/24/2010. His dinner was late. 10/29/2011 I said no. 11/10/2012 The polls were not in his favor. She shakes he head and her brow furrows. Her immediate question is the validity. Did the abuse really happen, or is this manipulation tactic by Dalton? Is it merely a trick to get her to sympathize and fight for Lydia, only for the rug to be pulled out from under her?

"Stevie, how'd you find this Instagram?" Elizabeth asks her daughter, handing Stevie's phone to Henry. "You said the First Lady did this?"

Stevie's eyes land on the floor as a deep frown pulls her features downward. "Yeah, Harrison told me. That—"

"You've been talking to Harrison?" Henry asks with his voice low and protective. Elizabeth can feel the anger that's purely fueled by paternal fear. "Why would you be talking to Harrison? Your mother and I and hell, Jess too, are going through hell trying to protect you and your siblings from Conrad Dalton, and you're talking to his son!"

"Easy, Henry," Elizabeth breathes, feeling as if dissolving into yelling at Stevie is going to be unhelpful and hinder the flow of necessary information.

Henry looks at her with a flash of anger, "Elizabeth, stay out of it. You don't get to tell me how to parent my child."

Elizabeth looks at him. Her brow furrows; perhaps he isn't wrong, but his words cut at her nonetheless. She did give birth to the young woman standing with them. She raised her for the first half of her life. She's the mother of her children, and it's painful to hear him disregard that. She wants so badly to respect his boundaries and slowly integrate back into parenting, though Stevie is twenty. She's an adult. But Henry's words sting her, and she swallows a lump in her throat.

Elizabeth looks between Henry and Stevie and takes a deep breath. She needs to know about Stevie and Harrison's correspondence for everyone's safety. She can't let Henry's outburst get in the way of that. Her eyes move back to her daughter, "How often have you been speaking with him, Stevie?"

Stevie's face is red, "Just a little."

"Jesus, Stephanie," Henry mutters, his anger palpable. "How much is 'a little?' God, have you told him where we are? Do we have to leave?" The potential danger of Stevie's communication with Harrison hangs in the air, a threat that cannot be ignored.

"No!" Stevie's voice cracks, "I didn't tell him where we are. I promise."

"Baby, I need to see your texts or chats. I need to know which apps you've used." Elizabeth's voice is gentle yet firm.

Stevie's cheeks redden her eyes flick to Henry and then to the floor, "Just iMessage. We're friends, you know. Always have been."

"It's different now, Stephanie." Henry's voice is hard, and he is unmoving. "Now you need to show your mother the messages."

Stevie looks at Elizabeth with pleading eyes, "Please, mom. I won't do it again."

Elizabeth sighs, her eyes flickering between Stevie and Henry, "Stevie, honey, I just need to make sure everything's okay. I need to know what was said and that no information that was shared compromises our safety. Okay?"

"Okay," Stevie whispers, her eyes flicking back and forth between her parents. "Look, the only ones that pertain to the Instagram account are from this morning. The rest of them are... They're private. Personal."

Elizabeth looks at her, "Oh. Um, are there pictures? And in any of those pictures, are there windows or any landmarks that could give away the location of this safe house?"

Stevie shakes her head, "No, just some silly selfies. There aren't any windows or anything. Just the bathroom... I'm sorry. I really don't think Harrison said anything to his dad. He hates his dad. He always has. Why do you think he struggles with drugs?"

Elizabeth can feel Henry vibrating next to her with anger, and she reaches her hand out for him, "I think it's better if I look through the messages on my own. Can I see your phone, please, Stevie?"

The girl's blue eyes are brimming with tears, but she nods and hands her phone over. Elizabeth squeezes her shoulder and walks to the far corner of the room to begin reviewing the conversation. She focuses on the conversation from this morning. She tries to gloss over the other parts of the chat. She can feel her face burn with embarrassment, and she reminds herself that her daughter is a grown woman and has a right to privacy.

She opens the conversation with Harrison and quickly reads the most recent texts. The flurry of typos in Harrison's urgent rambles does lead her to believe Stevie has has been speaking to Harrison and not one of Conrad's lackeys. She knows personally how hard it would be to fake the tempo of someone high as a kite, and she doubts they would put much effort into making their texts appear authentic.

"It's okay, Stevie," Elizabeth tells her. "You didn't say anything to compromise us, and there are no pictures of the safe house. I'm going to give this back to you. You need to block him. Contact with Harrison is a risk to our lives until this is over. We'll discuss your communication with him later, all right?"

"Thanks, Mom." Stevie's eyes are filled with shame, and she takes the phone from her and walks away.

Henry and Elizabeth are alone in the kitchen. Neither of them speaks for long moments. They avoid eye contact and the elephant in the room. The tension is palpable. Elizabeth feels a familiar anger rise inside her. She knows it isn't fair. He's not the one who abandoned their children and caused all of this, but the hurt of his words lingers. They had such a beautiful, intimate moment this morning, and now it's gone, replaced with bitter resentment.

"Why would she do that, Elizabeth?" Henry asks, his voice still low and angry. "Why would she go behind our backs and talk to Harrison? What does she think she's doing?"

"Henry, we are going through a lot," Elizabeth starts gently, though her voice is still shaky. "I'm sure Stevie is stressed out. She's been through a trauma. You all have. I don't know. Maybe she didn't think it was a big deal."

"Well, it is." Henry's jaw clenches.

"Of course it is," Elizabeth sighs, "but this is a lot for all of us. Getting to know each other again. Poor little Bobby and Drew miss their mom. The older three miss Jess, too. We're all pent up in this house together. Maybe it's just a coping mechanism."

"A coping mechanism," Henry repeats, his brow furrowing. "That's your excuse?"

"Henry, I—" Elizabeth starts, but he interrupts.

"Do you not see how reckless that was?" His eyes flash with anger, and he looks away. "She shouldn't be talking to Harrison, no matter the reason. Not only is it a risk because of Conrad, but Harrison is not fit to be dating my kid. He's a junkie,"

Elizabeth feels a new crack in her heart, and she's surprised at how painful it is. It's not even that it's a new thing. It's that they are both hurting so much. They have such a distance between them. In moments like these, it seems unbridgeable.

"He has substance use disorder because he lived with a monster his whole life. We didn't know. He was never safe, not once. Conrad beat the shit out of Lydia. Do you really think he never hit Harrison? You saw the Instagram account. Conrad is a monster. I'm sure we don't know the full extent of his abuse, but Harrison's drug use is a result of that. He needs help. Don't call him a junkie. He's just a kid."

"And you're the expert on substance use disorder, aren't you?" Henry asks, and his words are like a knife to her gut.

She feels the tears sting her eyes as she looks at the small TV, her mug shot still paused on the screen. "I know you're upset. And I'm not saying I don't deserve to take your criticisms or even your outright anger. But don't you dare throw that back at me, Henry. I'm trying my hardest to fix this. You don't have to remind me of all the terrible things I've done."

Henry looks away, and she can see him swallow the lump in his throat. "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm just..."

"I know. Me too." Elizabeth whispers, her eyes moving down to the ground. "Lydia Dalton is turning herself into the FBI."

Henry looks at her as she brings the conversation back to the matter at hand. His eyes are pained, and he lets out a deep sigh, "Is it a good idea?"

Elizabeth shakes her head, "No. I don't think so. It puts her life in danger. She left Harrison a note... I think that's why he got high. His other messages seemed sober, but the ones she sent this morning were a rambling mess. I think he's worried about her. She doesn't deserve to die for her husband's sins."

Henry shrugs, "If she's turning herself into the FBI, maybe she's got a few sins of her own to atone for."

Elizabeth shakes her head, "Or, it's a ploy by Conrad. He wants her to turn herself in so he can manipulate the narrative."

"We'll find out soon enough," he sighs.

…x…x…x…

Russell has been a master pretender. He believes his performance of support for Conrad Dalton is OSCAR-worthy. It's no easy task to be supportive of the man after everything he's learned. It's no easy task pretending like he isn't feeding information to Congress, all the while keeping the federal government running as smoothly as possible.

"Russell,"

Russell looks up at the president. His face is sullen and pale. He's slowly been losing his control as the threats push in around him, but there is something more today. Russell doesn't like the look on his face. He can't read him.

"Yes, Mr. President?" Russell asks.

"Come in here," the president says quietly.

Russell stands from his chair and walks into the president's office. The door closes behind him. The president gestures towards the couch. Russell sits.

"We have a situation," the president tells him. "Lydia called me. She needs help. The FBI is accusing her of something... she was too blubbery for me to understand. She asked me to send her to you. To help. I didn't even know the DOJ was opening an investigation against my wife... did you? Did you know about this?"

Russell's mouth goes dry. This could be a problem. The DOJ going after the First Family should be a no-go. Not now, not when they're so close to impeachment. The DOJ could be seen as committing a political attack and ruining the whole thing.

"She was arrested?" Russell asks, not knowing what else to say.

"I don't know. She just said the FBI, and she wants me to send you. Can you go? Just make sure she's safe. Please. I'm not going to have them do something stupid." the president pleads with him.

Russell swallows. He's looking at a man showing his humanity for the first time since Elizabeth McCord entered the picture. Russell nods.

"Russell, Lyd can't go away for anything. She didn't know anything. And then what would be next, Harrison?" Conrad looks to the floor.

Russell knows the man in front of him has committed unspeakable crimes. Yet, right now, he's staring at a human being—a man who, somewhere inside, is capable of at least loving two people. Russell feels a complex mix of emotions for the man, not sympathy. He is a monster, but he supposes that even monsters can love their families in their ways.

"They have her at the Hoover?" Russell asks, and he receives a nod in return. "I'll go."

The president nods his thanks. Russell watches him for a moment, taking in the defeated, broken-looking man. He turns and walks out of the Oval Office. His mind is racing.