Chapter 16 Carter
"Two minutes, Mr. Crane."
I'm standing backstage at a community centre in Fairfax County, reviewing my talking points while a volunteer adjusts my microphone. The crowd beyond the curtain is maybe two hundred people—teachers, local business owners, parents who care about school funding.
I nod and take a breath. This is what I'm good at. This is what I love.
It’s small potatoes compared to the national stage my father usually commands, but this is where campaigns are really won.
I can have a thousand slick campaign commercials, but there is no better publicity than someone telling their friends, “I actually met Carter Crane and he really listened to what I said.”
It’s about people and making them know who I am.
I can’t please everyone but I can listen.
If I know what people care about, then that’s the first step to fixing their problems. That’s what the Crane legacy is really about.
We’re in service to the people. It sounds like such a cliché, but I really believe it.
The investigation into my family is still grinding forward.
It’s been eight months since Jamie dropped his smear piece and the initial frenzy has died down.
The news cycle has moved on to fresher scandals.
When interviewers ask about the exposé now, I've perfected my response: a rueful smile and a shake of the head, then a pivot to the future.
I’m looking forward to the investigation being concluded so we can put this behind us and focus on what really matters—serving the people of this state.
"You're on."
The curtain parts and I walk out into the lights.
The applause is warm but not rapturous. These aren't fans—they're persuadables. They’re people who came to take my measure. I like that. I've never trusted rooms full of people who already agree with me.
"Thank you for having me," I say, and I mean it. "I know you've got better things to do on a Tuesday evening than listen to another politician make promises. So I'm going to skip the promises and just talk to you."
A ripple of surprised laughter. Good. They expected the polished speech. They weren't expecting candour.
I talk about education funding using real numbers, real impacts, the specific schools in this district that are struggling. I talk about healthcare, about the clinic closures in rural areas, about the mother I met last week who drives ninety minutes each way for her son's dialysis.
This is the real work. Photo ops and fundraising dinners have their place, but they’re a necessary evil to get the job done. This is what Jamie didn’t see. He just saw photo shoots and thought there was nothing real underneath.
The thought of Jamie brings its usual pang. I’d like to say that I’ve put him behind me, but it’s not true.
For months, I’ve dreamed of him every night, waking up hard and wanting. I think that I’m going to spend the rest of my life dreaming of him and there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s not the person that I want him to be.
Prime matches are a bitch. At least, he never registered and I suspect that now he never will. I can’t imagine the circus that will roll in if the Bureau ever managed to officially match us.
When I open the floor for questions, a woman in the third row raises her hand.
"Mr. Crane, your family's been in the news a lot lately. How do we know you're not just more of the same?"
It's the question I've been asked a thousand times. I've got my answer memorized. But tonight, something makes me pause.
"You don't," I say. "Not yet. You can't know that based on my last name or my father's reputation or anything I say in this room. Politicians talk big, deliver little. You all already know that. So I'm asking you to hold me accountable. And if I don't deliver, vote me out."
The room is quiet for a moment. Then someone in the back starts clapping, and it spreads.
Afterwards, I shake hands until my arm aches and take selfies, smiling until my cheeks ache.
In the car, I let my head fall back against the seat and close my eyes.
Eight months since the expose. Six months since I last saw Jamie.
I've thrown myself into the campaign with everything I have. Fourteen-hour days. Town halls and policy briefings and endless rounds of meetings. I've given interview after interview, projecting confidence and defending the family name.
It almost works. During the day, when I'm busy enough, I can go hours without thinking about him.
Jamie Dean has vanished completely from public life. No interviews. No bylines about my family. His column still appears occasionally—I check, though I hate myself for it—but it's all local corruption now, city council scandals, zoning disputes. Nothing about us.
I don't know what that means. I don't know if he's realized I was right or just decided it wasn’t worth the fight. Maybe he’s simply found better things to do than think about me. Someone better to do than me.
The thought of Jamie with someone else sends something hot and fierce racing through my chest. I’ve never been a particularly aggressive alpha but imagining Jamie with someone else makes me want to hunt down that alpha and tear him limb from limb.
Stop. Jamie isn’t yours and you are not his.
The ache of it has become so familiar it's almost like breathing. His number still doesn’t work, and I’ve not been able to find out his new one.
My father thinks I've been "distracted" because of the campaign stress. Warren thinks the Georgia situation still stings. Kate, who notices too much, asked me once if I was seeing someone, and I shut her down so fast she didn't ask again. My mother is the only person who isn’t haranguing me.
No one knows the truth. No one can ever know.
Six months. And I'm no closer to being over him than I was the day he left.
My mother's birthday falls on a Thursday this year, which means we're celebrating on the weekend at one of my father's favourite restaurants.
We have a private room, but we enter through the main dining area.
This is performance as much as celebration.
We are the Cranes, united and thriving despite everything.
My father works the room like the professional he is.
Three handshakes before we've passed the bar, a warm greeting for a congressman, a charming exchange with a woman I vaguely recognise from one of my mother's charity boards.
He's magnetic when he wants to be—that's what people always say about Carter Crane II. He’s the kind of man who makes you feel like you're the only person in the room.
I watch him now, laughing at something the congressman said, his hand on the man's shoulder, as if they're old friends even if they've only met twice. My father has a gift for making people feel seen. It's what makes him such an effective politician.
I follow in his wake, smiling for a selfie with a young staffer, shaking the hand of a donor who wants to tell me he's "rooting for the family."
My mother walks beside me, elegant in cream silk, pearls at her throat. Elizabeth Crane doesn't do anything by halves.
"Smile, darling," she murmurs as we navigate the last few tables. "You look like you're attending a funeral."
I adjust my expression. She's right. I need to do better.
The private room is intimate. We have a round table set for four, candles flickering in silver holders. Kate is already there, seated with her back to the door, scrolling through her phone.
She doesn't look up when we enter.
"Catherine." My father's voice carries that particular edge he reserves for her sometimes and I wonder what argument they’ve got into this time. Climate change, perhaps. Or our foreign policy. Both would be solid bets. "So glad you could join us."
Kate locks her phone and sets it face-down on the table. "Wouldn't miss Mom's birthday."
She stands to kiss our mother's cheek. "Happy birthday, Mom."
"Thank you, sweetheart." My mother cups Kate's face briefly. "You look thin. Are you eating?"
Kate rolls her eyes. "I'm fine."
"You're always fine." But my mother lets it go, turning to accept my father's kiss on her cheek as he pulls out her chair.
We settle into our seats. The waiter appears immediately with champagne and my father makes a toast.
I notice it gradually, the way you notice a draft in a room. Kate answers my mother's questions about her life—yes, Aspen was lovely, no, she's not seeing anyone, yes, she's thinking about that charity board position, but she says it in a way that we know she has no intention of taking it.
But when my father speaks, she looks at her plate and then he speaks directly to my mother or to me. He barely says a word to Kate.
I haven’t seen much of Kate this last year. She’s been busy and so have I. I must have missed a real doozy of a fight this time.
When my father finally asks her directly about her plans for the summer, she gives a three-word answer and immediately turns to me.
"How's the campaign going? Looks like you’re getting good coverage."
"It's going well. Lots of town halls, lots of handshaking. The usual."
"You looked good on that CNN segment last week. Very statesmanlike."
"Thanks." I'm thrown by the compliment. Kate usually teases me about my media appearances.
My father is watching the exchange, his jaw is tight.
"We should discuss the Klein Foundation dinner," he says, cutting across whatever Kate was about to say next. "Carter, you'll need to prepare remarks. Warren's drafted something, but I want your input."
"Of course."
"It's an important event. Lots of donors, lots of press. We need to project confidence."
"We always do."
"Especially now." He sets down his glass with more force than necessary. "The investigation is still dragging on. The longer it takes, the more it looks like they're actually finding something."
"They're not finding anything because there's nothing to find." The words come out automatically.
My father meets my eyes. "Exactly. So we project confidence. We don't give them anything to work with."
"Of course.”