January 6, 2019
He shifts his neck uncomfortably, his eyes scanning the printout of the list from the side. Seven names, strangers, stare back at him. He tries to recall any connection, any thread that could help her. But the names remain foreign, distant. He feels a pang of helplessness, a stark reminder of their current reality.
"Okay," He sighs. He's not sure what to do next, either. He knows there is some irony in that-two people, both experienced investigators, both with top clearances, both highly educated, and they can't seem to solve their problem.
"What are you thinking, babe?" He asks.
"I'm thinking," she sighs, "That it was a long time ago, and I was twenty-two, so I probably placed him as older than he was at the time. But I think he was about thirty-something. Seeing him last night, he's probably sixty-ish... Narrow it down by birthdays?"
"Sure, but I'm assuming you've already googled them," Henry says, his brows knitting together.
"True," she says, staring at the list. She's exhausted, "And asking Russell for the un-redacted list to get birthdays and social security numbers probably gets into violating the Fourth Amendment as technically you and I are the agents of the US government..." Elizabeth's voice trails off, her determination flickering but not extinguished. She wants to find him, to face him, to show him that he didn't break her. She has a man who loves her unconditionally and three incredible children. Her life is full, and his actions that day didn't shatter her. And for a reason she can't quite explain, she needs him to know that.
"Do you remember anything else? What did he smell like? How did he sound?" Henry asks, "Did he have an accent or a tattoo?"
"No," Elizabeth says, shaking her head, "I was so scared, I couldn't think straight...Last night, I recognized him first by his laugh, and then I saw his face. And I knew. But his voice... I don't remember an accent... so neutral American... or possibly Virginia southern. And he didn't take off his clothes, so I guess I can't know for sure, but he didn't have any tattoos on his face, neck, or hands..."
Henry nods, trying to absorb every bit of information she offers. He is grateful that she's willing to share—that she's trusting him.
"That doesn't help much, does it?" She asks, near defeat in her voice.
"It does," he assures her, "We both know details are important. And even though we didn't realize it at the time, the smallest things matter."
She looks at him, a flash of a memory filling her mind, "He smoked. He smelled like an ashtray. And his breath... it was disgusting. I was so disgusted. He was so close, and I just felt this wave of absolute disgust."
"You're doing great, Elizabeth," he tells her, trying not to imagine his wife in pain. It goes through his mind, the subtle gag she does every time she walks by a lit cigarette and how she had decried cigarette smoke in bars and restaurants when it was still common—the one night she had freaked out and became fuming mad when a Marine buddy of his smoked on their patio during a poker game he was hosting, how she had gone inside and slammed their bedroom door. How when she came back outside, she had a new attitude, and her smile was a little tighter. It makes sense now.
"Anything else you can think of?" He asks gently.
"I can't do anymore tonight. I can't," she says, her voice on the edge of tears.
"You don't have to. Let's put it away for the night," he agrees. He takes a moment to jot down some notes—his neat scrawl filling the page with the extra information she has provided.
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Of course," she says.
"What can I do for you?" He asks, his eyes full of concern.
"Tonight? Feed me and watch the Great British Baking Show," she smiles, trying to lighten the mood.
He nods, "That I can do."
January 7, 2019
She's been awake for an hour when her alarm goes off at six a.m. She sighs as she reaches to turn it off. It feels wrong that she had a decent few hours of sleep, considering everything. She rolls over and looks at her husband, who is sleeping soundly. They had spent the evening on the couch, cuddled under a blanket, eating mocha fudge ice cream, and watching the Great British Baking Show.
She snuggles into Henry, trying to capture a little bit of calm bliss to carry with her through the workday. She doesn't want to move, to get up, to deal with what lies ahead. But the truth is, she doesn't have a choice.
"Good morning, babe," His sleep-filled voice fills her ears.
"Good morning," She sighs.
"How're you doing today?" He asks.
"Okay, I guess," She admits.
"Just okay?" He asks, propping himself up on an elbow.
"I feel like I'm dragging a weight behind me," She admits, "My mind is a little cloudy, and I'm exhausted. As unhealthy as I know this is, I'm glad I can bury it in work today,"
He nods in understanding. He wishes she didn't have to deal with this at all, but he understands that this is how his wife copes. He only hopes she's not pushing too hard.
She pecks his lips before rolling out of bed to start their workday morning ritual. She showers and gets ready. He goes for a run. By the time he's home, she has coffee ready, and they have a few minutes to sit together and eat something- nowadays, something quick and easy- before she's out the door and he's off to the shower.
She feels better and a little lighter after the shower. She thinks that today is going to be an okay day. Her mind keeps drifting to the list. She knows those last fifteen names include her rapist. She wonders how long she can live with the not knowing.
"Babe," Henry says, interrupting her thoughts.
"Hmm," She replies, not looking up from her mug.
"There's no milk in that coffee you're stirring," he tells her.
"Oh," she sighs, removing her hand from the spoon.
"Wanna talk about it?" He asks, pouring her preferred amount of milk into her cup.
"I was thinking about the names remaining on the list," she starts, taking a deep breath.
"And?" He prompts as she stirs her coffee once more before taking a sip.
"And I think we could talk to Conrad about the fourteen POIs," she starts, " I've just been thinking. Conrad was the director of the CIA. There were a ton of current and former spies at that party, which makes sense. It was his birthday party. The remaining people on the list have no discernable internet presence... The guy being a spy makes sense. Conrad, knowing him, makes sense."
Henry nods as he processes her words, "You know that in order to deliver him the profile for his input. You are going to have to tell him why."
"I know," she replies, her heart racing a little. She had hoped she could avoid that conversation.
"He's gonna know something is wrong if we give him that, and he'll see right through it,"
"Yeah, I know,"
"Are you ready for that? It's been an emotional weekend for you. You've carried this secret for nearly thirty years. You didn't even tell me until Saturday night. And I want you to make sure you're ready for this."
"I'm as ready as I can be," she says, "And you're right. I did keep it to myself for a very long time. But I'm tired, Henry. And I want to know who he is. It's like I've given him all this power over me for so long and haven't even known it. That's got to end. I've got to move past it."
He studies her. He can tell she is trying to convince herself as well as him.
"Okay," He sighs, "You don't have to talk to him alone. I can go with you before the PDB."
"I would love that," she smiles.
"Then it's settled. We'll talk to him before the PDB."
"Thank you," she says, leaning into him, her head falling to his shoulder. She savors the few moments of this quiet intimacy before she has to leave for Truman.
He watches her walk away, feeling helpless. He's never felt this helpless, and he's not sure how to get past it.
…X…X…X…
She's stunned into petrified silence when she steps her first foot inside the Oval. Her hand subconsciously reaches for Henry's, squeezing his hand, not daring to breathe.
He looks from the man laughing with Russell and The President to his wife with confusion written on his face. Elizabeth does not grab his hand like this while they're working. They've learned to separate the personal from the professional.
"Elizabeth?" He whispers.
Her eyes stay fixed on the man.
"Bess, Henry! I'd like you to meet an old buddy of mine from the Corps. Tom Kincaid." Conrad's tone is jovial, the way he always is with old friends.
Elizabeth's lungs still won't fill with air, but she can smell the cigarettes anyway. She can feel the weight of him pinning her against the ground, his disgusting breath in her ear. She can hear his laughter—a peal of laughter so loud and menacing that it made her heart race.
This wasn't supposed to happen this way. She was supposed to have time to prepare herself. She wanted to know exactly what she wanted to say. This isn't fair—for the second time in her life, this man is taking a choice away from her.
"Madam Secretary," Kincaid says, smiling at her. He extends his hand for her to shake, and a wave of nausea comes over her. The thought of him touching her repulses her. She steps ever so slightly behind Henry- nearly using him for a human shield.
The second Henry feels her shift backward, his hackles go up. His eyes dart to the man, taking him in. The man has a wide smile plastered on his face and a firm, steady hand extended toward Elizabeth. He's a bit taller than Henry, with dark eyes. And most notably he smells like an ashtray.
"Don't touch my wife," Henry says in a warning, venomous tone as he realizes who the man standing in front of him is. His use of the tone throws the room off its axis- the usual passive nerdy professor is gone. The marine has replaced him, and no one in the room misses the change.
"What's wrong?" Conrad asks, a note of worry in his voice. He looks at his protégé, trying to determine what is happening. He observes her body language—her knuckles are white from squeezing Henry's hand, her breathing is shallow, and her shoulders are slumped as she cowers behind her husband.
"Bess?" Conrad prompts, his brow raising as he asks to be enlightened on the situation he is clearly ignorant of.
Elizabeth can't answer him. Her eyes are glued to the man standing in front of her. She wants to scream, but she can't. All of her muscles are frozen like they were that frigid January morning. He took so much from her that morning as she yelled at herself to move, to get away, to fight. He doesn't get to do that again.
"He raped me." Her words are soft, but they carry throughout the room, creating a vacuum of silence.