Chapter 14 Carter
The first week back, I don't contact Jamie at all.
I have better things to do than chase after an omega who stormed out of my cabin in a sulk. If he wants to be dramatic about a conversation that he escalated, that's his problem. I said what I said. I'm not going to apologise for telling him the truth about how politics works.
I’m not the one throwing public accusations at his family.
Instead, I throw myself back into damage control for the mess he has created. The days blur together in a haze of talking points and media management.
I don't think about Jamie. At least, not as a lover.
Except I do. He comes to mind at night, mostly, when I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling. My body hasn't forgotten the week at the cabin. I wake up hard and aching, and no amount of cold showers or self-discipline seems to fix the problem.
By the end of the second week, I'm irritable and short-tempered.
Warren asks if I'm feeling alright. My mother comments that I seem tense.
Kate texts me a string of question marks after I snap at her when she sends me a particularly stupid meme about me and then I have to apologize for being an asshole.
On Friday night, I break. It’s not my fault. We established a pattern, Jamie and I.
There's no reason to disrupt it just because we had an argument. Arguments happen. They don't have to mean anything. It’s not like we were ever a couple.
I text him a hotel name, a room number and a time. It’s the same format as always. No greeting. Just the information.
I wait.
Nothing.
I stare at my phone for longer than I'd like to admit. There’s only one tick. He might have blocked me or maybe he’s turned read receipts off. Blocking is more likely. I bet he’s done that. It’s not like I haven’t blocked and unblocked him a dozen times.
Maybe he's making me wait on purpose. Jamie has a petty streak. I've seen it on his interviews, the way he twists the knife when he’s talking about us. This is probably his version of punishing me. What a child.
I send the message again, a couple of times throughout the day in case he unblocks me so it can go through.
I’ve not heard anything by early evening but I go to the hotel anyway and sit on the bed and wait.
He doesn't come.
By midnight, I'm furious. At him, for being childish and at myself, for being here at all. I leave the room unused and drive home, jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel harder than necessary.
The next morning, I try calling.
"The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again."
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. Try again. Same message.
He changed his number.
For a long moment, I just sit there, processing. Jamie didn't just ignore my text. Jamie made it impossible for me to reach him at all. Deliberately. Permanently.
Dick. What did he have to go and do that for? Did he think I was going to try start another argument with him? I’m not a masochist.
Anger flares hot and immediate. Who does he think he is? After everything, he just cuts me off?
I throw my phone onto the couch and pace my apartment, too wound up to sit still.
Fine. If that's how he wants to play it, fine. I don't need him. I don't need anyone who can't handle a difficult conversation without running away. So much for the big investigative journalist being able to handle tough questions. Jamie Dean is a coward and a hypocrite.
Over the following days, I find myself checking Jamie's public presence more than I should.
His social media has gone dark. It was usually quiet anyway but there are no new posts, no engagement.
I search for upcoming media appearances and find nothing scheduled.
No interviews, no panel discussions, no spots on the evening news.
He's still writing. His column appears in the paper twice that week, but neither piece mentions me or my family.
One is about zoning corruption in some district I've never heard of. The other is a deep dive into mismanagement of a corporation based three states away.
I don't know what to make of it. Jamie Dean doesn't back down from stories. He doesn't walk away from fights he's picked. So now he’s suddenly lost interest in the biggest story of his career?
Part of me is relieved. Every day without new Crane coverage is a day the story fades. Part of me is unsettled. And part of me is still angry that he's out there, living his life, writing his columns, while I'm stuck checking his bylines like some lovesick teenager.
No, I'm not lovesick. I'm horny and frustrated and irritated that my body won't cooperate with my brain. That's all.
The federal investigator is scheduled for Thursday. My father calls a family meeting for Tuesday evening, to "coordinate our approach" and "ensure we're all on the same page."
My father stands by the fireplace, whiskey in hand. My mother sits in her usual armchair, expression composed. Warren hovers near the door, tablet ready. Kate’s not there. She’s announced that she’s tired of the ‘Crane Show’ and has disappeared off to Aspen.
"Right," my father begins. "Thursday's interview. We need to be smart about this."
The investigator's name is Reeves. She's thorough but not unreasonable. I listen to my father outline which questions to deflect, which phrases to use, which topics to avoid. He's not telling us to lie, exactly.
A few months ago, I wouldn't have questioned any of this. It makes sense to be prepared for something this serious.
Now I'm sitting here wondering when "coordination" became "scripting."
"Carter." My father's voice cuts through. "Are you listening?"
"Yes. Just thinking through the timeline."
"You're the one she'll push hardest. You're the public face of the next generation. If she can get you to contradict the family line, she will."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He studies me. "You've seemed distracted lately."
"I'm fine."
The conversation shifts to press releases and talking points. I participate when required, but my mind keeps drifting.
I'm thinking about Jamie at the cabin, saying you defend yourself by proving I'm wrong, not by character assassination. I'm thinking about Congressman Hartley.
The meeting wraps up around nine. My mother leaves first. Warren heads out with his phone already at his ear.
I'm gathering my jacket when my father stops me.
"Carter. A moment."
I turn. His posture has changed. Less commanding, more deliberate.
"Close the door."
I do.
"Sit down."
I sit.
He doesn't speak immediately. He swirls his whiskey, stares into it.
"I need to tell you something," he says finally. "And I need you to keep it completely confidential. Not your mother. Not Kate. Not Warren. No one."
"Okay."
"I mean it, Carter. No one."
"I understand."
He sets down his glass. "I think I've identified the source. The person who gave Dean his documents."
My pulse quickens. "Who?"
"I'm not ready to say. Not until I'm certain." He holds up a hand. "I know that's frustrating. But I've been wrong before, and I won't make accusations without proof. I'm close, though. Very close."
"And when you're certain?"
"I'll deal with it and I’ll need your support."
“Of course.”
He nods slowly, watching me. "Get some rest. Thursday's important."
"I know."
At the door, he speaks again.
"Carter. Whatever's been distracting you, set it aside. This family has survived worse than this. We'll survive this too. But only if we stick together."
"I understand."
"Do you?"
I meet his eyes. "Yes, sir."
He nods, and I leave.
On Thursday, I put on my best suit and most charming smile, and drive to our lawyers' office. We’ve agreed to a formal interview, recorded and accompanied by the family lawyer.
Reeves is younger than I expected. She’s mid-thirties, sharp eyes, no-nonsense demeanor. She shakes my hand firmly.
"Mr. Crane. Thank you for making time."
"Happy to help clarify any misunderstandings."
We sit across from each other at the conference table. Reeves has a thick folder. My father's lawyer sits to my right.
The questions are what my father predicted. I give the rehearsed answers.
"Let's talk about Congressman Hartley," Reeves says.
My stomach tightens. Face neutral.
"My family had no direct involvement in whatever choices Congressman Hartley made."
"No direct involvement. What about indirect?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Your father and Hartley were close. Served on committees together. Your family donated substantially to his campaigns." She flips a page and names a date. "Your father hosted a private dinner with Hartley as guest of honour. Shortly after, Hartley changed his vote on key legislation."
"Is that a question?”
"Can you tell me what was discussed at that dinner?"
"There was small talk, of course. I do recall we discussed the bill but this was some years ago. I don’t recall the specifics. Hartley was opposed but we made our argument. I assume he was swayed as he changed his stance shortly after."
That’s true.
“After the Crane corporation sold his wife a building at a considerable loss to the Cranes.”
“I’m not involved with the real estate side of our business. Neither is my father, as far as I am aware.”
“Are you aware that there is a $200,000 difference between the valuation of that building and the price to which it was sold to Mrs Hartley?”
“I am now. I read through the Jamie Dean documents after they were leaked, but no, I was not aware of it until then.”
“Would you say it is normal to make that kind of loss on the sale of a building?”
“I would hope not. It sounds like a poor business decision on the surface but I do not know what other factors might have been involved. I would suggest you speak to our head of real estate.”
She nods and makes a note.
"Moving on, you were present at other dinners and other private meetings between your father and members of Congress. What was typically discussed?"
The lawyer tenses beside me.
"Policy," I say instead. "Political strategy. The usual."
"The usual being?"
"Discussions about upcoming votes. How to build coalitions."
"Did those discussions ever include offers of support—financial or otherwise—in exchange for particular votes?"
"My client can't speak to conversations he wasn't party to," the lawyer interjects.
"I'm asking about conversations he was party to."
They both look at me.
I should deflect.
"I never witnessed anything I'd characterize as bribery," I say carefully. "But I wasn't privy to every conversation my father had."
Pause. The lawyer looks annoyed. Reeves looks interested.
"So you can't rule out the possibility?"
"I can only speak to what I personally witnessed."
"And what did you witness?"
"My father being very good at politics. Building relationships. I have never seen him cross any legal lines."
Reeves makes a note.
We continue for another hour. I answer some questions honestly, some with the prepared deflections. I'm not sure which category ends up larger.
When it's over, Reeves shakes my hand. "We may have follow-up questions."
"Anything to help."
The lawyer walks her out. I stay seated, staring at the table.
That night, I sit alone in my apartment with the television on and the volume low. Whiskey sits untouched on the coffee table. I keep thinking about Hartley.
The exposé alleged my father bought his vote multiple times. Coincidence, I'd told myself.
I open my laptop. The family records are on a private server. I've had access since twenty-one, though I rarely use it. I’ve never needed to. I trusted my father had everything under control.
I log in.
I navigate through folders for financial records, legal documents, correspondence and search for ‘Hartley’.
I find hundreds of results. I click through. Most are scheduling and generic email chains. He’s cc’d in a few thank you notes for donations. There are a lot of golf invitations.
This is Jamie Dean’s fault. There is zero evidence here of anything that damned omega is saying. That damned scent match has had me questioning my own flesh and blood. It’s had me questioning my own mind.
You defend yourself by proving I'm wrong, not by character assassination.
That’s the line that has been haunting me, but it’s impossible to prove a negative and I realize that isn’t on us to defend. It’s on Jamie to prove.
And what was that damned expose if it wasn’t character assassination? Of me, my father and my entire damned family.
And now he’s too much of a coward to even speak to me.
This damned nightmare is all Jamie’s fault. He deserves whatever’s coming to him.