Chapter 16
Abigail's suitcase, which Tom picked up from the hotel, arrives, and they take a break so she can change. That makes Eleanor more nervous than it should, because in that light-colored suit, Abigail looks incredibly attractive.
The morning passes in a blur of documents and coffee that goes cold when they're too focused to remember to drink it.
Abigail has spent three hours going through Cooper's emails, reading carefully, breaking them down, and mentally building the timeline she needs to understand exactly what Eleanor knew, when she knew it, and what she couldn't have known.
Eleanor sits across the table with her own laptop, pulling up files, tracking down meeting minutes, and answering Abigail's questions without looking up from her notebook.
"The March seventeenth meeting — was Cooper there?"
Eleanor opens her email calendar, where she used to jot down important notes from each meeting — not about the agenda itself, Erin handled that — but about things that caught her attention.
"Yeah, but he showed up late," she says, scanning the three notes she wrote that day. "Missed half of it."
Abigail nods and writes down what Eleanor tells her.
"Is there a record?"
"Erin's looking for it. I already asked her to send me all the records."
"Tell her I need it today," Abigail murmurs, still not lifting her eyes from the notebook.
Eleanor sends Erin another message. She doesn't want to push, but she explains that her lawyer — and how strange it still sounds to call Abigail that — needs it urgently.
That's how the hours go. Question, answer, note, next point.
A rhythm that leaves no room for anything but the case, and they both keep it up with discipline — another one of those unspoken agreements that live between them, because they both know that staying locked on the work is exactly what's needed right now, even if there are moments when that's not so easy.
Like when Abigail tilts her neck to one side and Eleanor hears the crack, and she glances up without meaning to, and they hold each other's gaze for a beat before Eleanor turns back to her screen.
Or when Eleanor gets up for more coffee and asks if Abigail wants some, and Abigail says yes without looking up, and their fingers brush when Eleanor hands her the mug.
Or when a long quiet settles while Abigail reads something, and Eleanor, who should be going through the January files, loses herself staring at Abigail's profile.
They don't sleep together — not because what has always existed between them isn't hanging in the air, but because neither of them feels like now is the time.
Eleanor is in the middle of the worst stretch of her professional life, with a scandal bearing down on her, a marriage falling apart, and years of work questioned in every morning headline.
Abigail has walked away from her firm and told her husband she'd send him the divorce papers when she got around to it.
They both have too many broken things to add another, so they focus on the work.
Around midday, Eleanor's phone buzzes on the table. She checks the screen and realizes it's someone from the party on the line. She picks up without thinking, and Abigail's eyes come up automatically.
The call is short. Eleanor says just enough, listens, asks two specific questions, and before hanging up, tells them she'll confirm in ten minutes. When she sets the phone back down, Abigail is still watching her.
"Patricia Webb needs a meeting," she explains. "She's proposed six o'clock. She wants to sharpen the party's talking points for the press conferences where they'll be asked about me. They want to make sure that whatever they say about my possible involvement doesn't make things worse."
Abigail closes her notebook.
"Or make things worse for the party," she adds, and they both nod.
They know that for the party, the party always comes first. "Either way, it works in our favor — this way we can control what comes out of that room.
" She pauses and checks the time. "I need to swing by the hotel.
My makeup bag is still in the bathroom."
"I'll call Tom," Eleanor says, already picking up her phone and unlocking it.
"Don't bother. I can grab a cab."
Eleanor looks at her — not coldly, but with a firmness that makes Abigail's chest tighten — and Abigail starts to open her mouth, but Eleanor has already looked away and is bringing the phone to her ear. She speaks for a few seconds, and when she hangs up, she sets the phone down calmly.
"Tom's waiting for you," she says. "And when you're ready, you come back. You're not staying in a hotel when you've got this whole house."
Abigail opens her mouth to argue. The truth is, working side by side with Eleanor means her defense comes together faster.
She has her right there to consult at any hour of the day — but she's also aware that they've spent their entire adult lives never being under the same roof for longer than a few hours at a stretch, usually at family gatherings, and she's not entirely sure how this is going to end up.
"Abigail."
That's all Eleanor says, and Abigail closes her mouth.
While Abigail is out, Eleanor eats something Amelia left in the fridge and answers emails. She doesn't let herself think about anything except the wreck her life has become, the six o'clock meeting, and the documents she still needs to track down.
She almost pulls it off — she could have been proud of herself — but when she hears the key in the door two hours later, the spare set she made a point of handing Abigail before she left, her mind short-circuits.
There's something too familiar about Abigail walking into her house like she belongs there, and Eleanor realizes how much she likes it. And how much it scares her.
Tom has the car out front at five-thirty, and the moment they open the door, three reporters on the sidewalk across the street immediately lift their microphones.
Eleanor spots them before she steps outside, does the math in under a second, and walks to the car with her back straight and her chin up.
One of the reporters shouts a question, and Eleanor pulls her lips into a practiced smile.
"My lawyer is handling all communications," she says without slowing down, and slides into the car, Abigail right behind her.
They ride up to the first floor at the party's headquarters.
Abigail is the one who pushes open the right door, and inside, Patricia Webb sits at the head of the table with the communications team filling the seats down the right side.
Erin is standing near the entrance, and she moves toward Eleanor before anyone else can.
She doesn't say anything for a moment — just rests her hand on Eleanor's arm with quiet warmth.
"I know you're going to get through this," Erin says softly. "There's no one cleaner than you in this party, and everyone who knows you knows that."
The words hit Eleanor like a flash of heat, something that fills her with more warmth than all the political messages of support she's gotten this week — maybe because Erin has no strategic reason to say it, or because she's stood by Eleanor's side for eight years and knows exactly who Eleanor is.
"Thank you," Eleanor murmurs.
Patricia Webb is fifty-two, with a solid career and the sharp intelligence of someone who got where she is without anyone making it easy.
Eleanor respects her — something she extends to very few people, because politics is a dirty business — and that makes the meeting run efficiently, with no wasted time.
Abigail sits to Eleanor's left and speaks only when she needs to clarify something, exactly what the communications team was hoping for.
"When they ask about Congresswoman Montgomery's involvement in the Oxxien contracts, the answer needs to be clean," Abigail says, reading from her notebook without raising her voice.
"Eleanor Montgomery had no knowledge of Cooper's irregular activities.
The party's internal investigation, which she herself initiated before stepping aside, will confirm that.
" She lays the notebook on the table and turns to Patricia.
"Any suggestion of direct involvement is speculation without documentary basis, and the party doesn't need to validate it by responding to it.
When the press pushes back, you repeat exactly that — nothing added.
Every time you add something trying to clarify, you hand them new material for the next headline. "
Patricia studies Abigail with something close to approval.
"What about Daniel Carter?" one of the communications staff asks. "He'll inevitably come up in some of the press conferences."
"Daniel Carter is a private matter with no bearing on the Cooper investigation," Abigail replies, and her mouth tastes like salt. "The party doesn't comment on the personal lives of its members or former members. Period."
"Temporarily former," Patricia clarifies, glancing at Eleanor.
Eleanor nods, and Abigail makes a note.
By the time they leave, night has fully settled in, and the cold has the kind of bite that works its way into your bones if you're not careful.
The reporters are still there — five or so — cameras rising the second they spot Eleanor at the door, where she repeats the same performance she gave outside her house before getting in the car.
On the drive back, the quiet is different from the quiet on the way there — less tense, more like the shared exhaustion of two people who've spent the day working toward the same thing.
Abigail looks out the window. Eleanor stares straight ahead, at some invisible point on the road.
"It went well," Abigail says.
"Yeah," Eleanor answers, nothing more.
Back at the house, Eleanor tells her she's going to call Carol and that she'll be in the library if Abigail needs anything. Abigail nods as she heads toward the living room — she wants to keep going through some documents.
Eleanor sinks into the armchair with a long exhale.
The library is her private space, the room where she can breathe when something is suffocating her, but with Abigail in the house, every corner seems to have the same effect.
She dials the number she knows by heart and waits. Carol picks up on the second ring.
"Sweetheart."
There's so much love in that one word that Eleanor has to close her eyes for a moment before she can speak.
"Hi, Mom."
"I've been waiting for you to call for days," her mother says gently.
"I know. I'm sorry." Eleanor bites her lip. "It's been a complicated week."
"I can tell," Carol replies. "How are you?"
If her mother knew the full picture, she'd be on the first flight to Chicago.
"Tired," she chooses to say, "but I'm okay. Abigail's here — we've been working on the strategy all day."
A very brief pause.
"I know. I talked to her," Carol says. "I'm glad you're together."
Together.
"We seem to work well as a team," Eleanor offers, weighing every word.
"Eleanor," Carol murmurs.
"What?"
"Can you stop talking like this is a work meeting and tell me how you actually are?"
Eleanor laughs, and her eyes sting. Just for a second — because she hasn't cried since her world fell apart, and she's not going to start now.
"I'm a mess, Mom," she admits, "but I'll survive."
"Of course you will," Carol says firmly. "And you'll come out of this better than you went in. You'll see."
Richard says something in the background that Eleanor can't quite catch.
"Richard says he loves you and sends a hug," Carol tells her.
"Tell him I love him too."
Another quiet, shorter this time, and then Carol says something that stops Eleanor cold.
"I always knew you two would have each other when it really mattered. Abigail wasn't going to leave you alone in this." Carol pauses, then goes on. "She never would have."
The words won't come. Eleanor looks down at her own hands, then lifts her eyes toward the library door, which is slightly ajar.
"No," she confirms. "She hasn't."
"Take care of her too," Carol says.
Eleanor's brow furrows slightly.
"Mom..."
"Good night, sweetheart. We love you so much." Carol hangs up before Eleanor can say anything else.
Eleanor sits there with the phone in her hand, staring at the dark screen. Then she sets it on the arm of the chair and goes very still.
I always knew you two would have each other.
She's on her feet before she realizes it, a sudden sense that the walls have started closing in, and she goes downstairs to the living room. Abigail is exactly where she left her, head bent over her notebook, pen moving. She looks up when Eleanor walks in.
"Everything okay?"
"Yeah," Eleanor breathes, and sits down on the other side of the table and opens her laptop.
She doesn't say anything else. Neither does Abigail. And the living room becomes what it's been all day: two women working at the same table, with too many unsaid things floating in the air between them.