Chapter 8 Carter
I'm pining. The realization hits me somewhere between my third serve and Kate's triumphant whoop as she returns it into the corner I wasn't covering. I'm standing on a tennis court at the family estate, racket in hand, and instead of focusing on the game, I'm thinking about Jamie Dean.
Again.
I'm pining like a lovesick teenager, and it's pathetic.
"Serve's a little rusty."
"Your serve is fine. Your head's somewhere else." She tosses the ball in the air and catches it. "Want to tell me where?"
"No."
"Suit yourself." She serves—a decent one, nothing I couldn't return if I were actually trying—and I let it go wide. "5-2. You're really not even going to make me work for this?"
The thing about Kate is that she's viciously competitive.
She hates losing more than anyone I've ever met.
But she also hates winning when she knows she hasn't earned it.
It's a delicate balance. I need to let her think she's fighting for every point while making sure she comes out on top. I've been doing it since we were kids.
Today, though, I'm not even managing that. Today I'm just losing.
"One more game," I say. "Then we're done."
"Fine by me. I was going to crush you anyway."
She serves again, and I make a show of lunging for it. The ball clips the edge of my racket and sails into the net.
"Game, set, match." Kate raises her arms in victory. "The streak continues."
"Congratulations."
She jogs around the net to meet me, racket tucked under her arm.
Up close, she looks tired. There are dark circles under her eyes that her makeup doesn't quite hide.
Kate's always been a night owl, but lately she seems more worn than usual.
The fallout from the exposé has been hard on all of us, even the ones who aren't in the direct line of fire.
"So," she says, falling into step beside me as we walk toward the clubhouse. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to guess?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Liar." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "You've been distracted for weeks. Dad thinks you're still moping about Georgia, but I know better."
"I'm not moping."
"No, you're not. That's my point." She stops walking, and I'm forced to stop too. "You liked Georgia fine, but you didn't love her. You wouldn't be this twisted up over losing her."
"I'm not twisted up."
"Carter." She says my name the way she's been saying it since we were children: half exasperation, half affection. "I've known you my entire life. I can tell when something's eating at you. Just tell me what it is."
I should tell her. Kate is the one person in this family I can actually talk to.
She's never bought into the dynasty mythology the way I have, never cared about legacy or political capital or any of the things our father considers sacred.
She sees through bullshit with an ease that I've always envied.
But I can't tell her this.
I can't tell anyone this.
"It's nothing," I say. "Just stress. The investigation, the press, all of it."
Kate studies me for a long moment. Then her eyes narrow.
"It's Jamie Dean, isn't it?"
My heart lurches. "What?"
"The journalist. The scent match on national television." She's watching my face too closely. "That's what's got you all twisted up."
"Don't be ridiculous."
"I saw the clip, Carter. Everyone saw the clip. You looked at him like you wanted to eat him alive." A pause. "Or let him eat you. I couldn't quite tell."
"It was a scent match. It happens sometimes. It doesn't mean anything."
"Right." She draws the word out, dripping with skepticism. "That's why you've been walking around like a ghost."
"Kate—"
"I'm not judging." She holds up her hands. "Honestly, if you'd picked anyone other than the man who just torpedoed our family, I'd be thrilled. You could use someone who actually gets your blood pumping."
"He doesn't—"
"But the timing is..." She searches for the word. "Complicated."
"There's nothing to time. There's nothing happening. I haven't even spoken to him since the interview."
It's technically true. We haven't spoken. We just fucked in complete silence, and then I walked out and blocked his number.
Unblocked it.
Blocked it again.
Unblocked it at 2am when I couldn't sleep.
Blocked it the next morning when the wanting got too sharp.
The cycle has been going on for days. I keep telling myself I'm done, that it was a one-time mistake, that I'm never going to contact him again. And then I find myself staring at my phone, thumb hovering over his name, wondering what he's doing. Wondering if he's thinking about me.
Wondering if he'd answer if I texted again.
"Whatever you say." Kate starts walking again. "But for what it's worth? You're allowed to want things, Carter."
"I don't want—"
"Sure you don't."
We reach the clubhouse, and she pushes through the door into the cool interior. The staff have laid out water and towels, and Kate grabs both, draping the towel around her neck and taking a long drink.
"I talked to Warren this morning," she says, changing the subject with a casualness that feels deliberate. "He's very pleased with himself."
"About what?"
"He thinks he's close to finding Dad's leak." She says it lightly, but I catch a tightness in her tone. "The mysterious source who gave Dean all those documents. Warren's convinced he's narrowed it down to a handful of suspects."
"Good. The sooner we find them, the better."
Kate makes a noncommittal sound. "If you say so."
"You don't think we should find them?"
"I think Warren sees conspiracies everywhere.
" She sets down the water bottle and meets my eyes.
"It could have been anyone, Carter. A staffer.
A contractor with access to the wrong files.
Someone who got drunk at a party and ran their mouth to the wrong person.
Not everything is a grand betrayal orchestrated by enemies within. "
I shake my head. "No. The leak was comprehensive. Whoever it was had deep access."
"Or they were patient." Kate shrugs. "Either way, I doubt Warren's going to find them. People who are smart enough to pull off something like that are smart enough to cover their tracks."
"You almost sound like you admire them," I say.
"Maybe I do." She meets my gaze squarely. "Maybe I think it takes guts to tell the truth about powerful people. Even when those people are your own family."
The words land harder than she probably intends.
"Dean’s article was full of exaggerations," I say. "He took ambiguous documents and spun them into something sensational because that's what sells papers."
"Is that what you really think?"
"Yes."
"All of it?"
I open my mouth to say yes again, but something stops me.
Kate has a watchful expression on her face, like she's giving me space to say something I haven't been able to say out loud.
"I think some of it was exaggerated," I say carefully. "I know as much as anyone that there can be a fine line between tax avoidance and tax evasion. We listen to the tax lawyers. It only makes sense, but the bad stuff. That’s not true. It’s not who we are."
"Isn't it?" There’s an intense look in her eyes now. I glance around. There are staff standing at the other side of the room, waiting for us to give them any instructions. I don’t think they can hear us. Kate has always been like this, so distrustful of Dad and the whole Crane Machine as she calls it. But she’s always kept her criticism within the family.
For a crazy moment, I wonder if it was her.
If she was the one who spilled everything to Jamie Dean.
But then I know it can’t have been. It wouldn’t surprise me if she betrayed Dad if she caught him doing something bad, but she wouldn’t betray me. There is no way in a thousand years that Kate would have done this to me.
I shrug by way of response. "Dad makes deals. Everyone in politics makes deals. That's not corruption. That's just how the game is played."
"Right." Kate picks up her water bottle again, takes another drink. "The game. Everyone loves the game until they end up as a piece on someone else's board."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you should pay attention, Carter.
" Her voice is gentler now, almost sad. "You've spent your whole life believing the version of our family that Dad wanted you to believe.
The noble dynasty. The public servants. The Cranes who built this country.
" She pauses. "But that's not the only version of the story. "
"And what's your version?"
"Dad is as dirty as the rest of them.” She tosses her towel into the hamper by the door. "But you know that, just as I know that. The only difference is that I’m the only one who isn’t denying it.”
She walks out before I can respond, leaving me alone in the clubhouse with my thoughts.
I shower and change, but I can't shake what Kate said about paying attention.
I have been paying attention. I've read the exposé over and over, front to back, looking for the gaps in Dean's logic. And I found them. It’s full of circumstantial evidence treated as proof. The story isn't airtight. People like Kate and Jamie want to believe the worst, so that’s what they see.
I’m not like that. I genuinely do believe I can make a difference and I think my father is pragmatic, not corrupt.
But there's one thing I can't explain away.
As I shower, I think about Congressman Hartley.
It was two years ago. My father needed Hartley's vote on a transportation bill. I don't remember the details of what it entailed. What I remember is the meeting.
Hartley came to the estate. He sat in my father's study and drank the good whiskey and listened politely while my father explained why the bill was in everyone's best interest.
And then he said no.
He didn’t say it aggressively or with any particular animosity. Just a calm, firm no. "I appreciate the consideration, Senator, but I've made commitments to my constituents. I can't support this bill."
My father took it well. He shook Hartley's hand, thanked him for his time, showed him to the door, but I could see the tension in his jaw. Dad doesn't like hearing no.
Two days later, Hartley changed his mind.
I remember being surprised. I'd been there for the conversation; Hartley had seemed immovable. But apparently he'd "reconsidered his position" and would be voting yes after all.
"How'd you manage that?" I asked my father over dinner.
He just shrugged. "I dealt with it."
At the time, I took it as evidence of his skill. My father, the dealmaker. The man who could change minds and move mountains. I was proud of him.
But now I'm thinking about the timeline.
Hartley said no on a Tuesday. In Jamie Dean’s documents, a payment went from one of our family's holding companies to a real estate LLC owned by Hartley's wife.
Supposedly it was a property deal: some commercial building downtown that the company had been eyeing for months.
On the surface, it is completely above board.
The payment was made on a Wednesday. On Thursday, Hartley changed his vote.
I can’t stop thinking of my father's face when I asked how he'd changed Hartley's mind.
I dealt with it.
He uses that phrase a lot. "I dealt with it." "It's handled." "Don't worry about the details."
I step out of the shower, toweling off and think about all the times my father has "dealt with" things.
Warren handles the details. That's what Dad always says. Warren takes care of the things that need taking care of.
I know that what we are doing to Jamie Dean is a little underhand. We’re going after the messenger, not the message.
That’s because he came for us first. He decided to target us.
He shouldn’t expect us not to fight back. He’s the one who has made all these tenuous connections for his own benefit. He fucking started it.
But still. Congressman Hartley.
Maybe I need to talk to Dean again. Actually talk this time. Assuming he even answers me. After what happened last time, he might not.
I unblock his number and send a message.
Tomorrow night. 9pm.
It’s only seconds before I get a reply.
Yes.
It’s followed immediately after by: Where?
I book a hotel room.