Chapter 28 Cal
CAL
Jordan sends the files an hour after she and Sam leave.
They were just as extensive as she said they were, but no one had the energy to go through them after everything we’d learned.
Beck and I cleaned up the aftermath of Selene’s emotional destruction, Monique took her into the living room, holding her on the couch while her wails filled every crevice of the vast space.
She cried for hours. Monique cried with her, sobbing the way someone only can when they’ve lost what you’ve lost, when they hurt how you hurt, when their heart knows how to read the map of your pain.
I’ve shed tears for Beck that way, wrapped him in my arms the way Monique did for Selene, cradled him like a baby and rocked him like one too.
I wanted to be able to do that for her as well, and the same desire rolled off Beck as the minutes ticked by.
I was proud of the way we held it together.
The way we sat and watched and waited, witnessing pain we couldn’t be a part of soothing until we carried her to bed and crushed her sadness with our love.
Slashed her doubts with our reassurances.
Ripped the blame she was trying to carry out of her hands and replaced it with acceptance.
Hopefully, it was enough.
“When do you think they’ll be up?” Beck asks, sitting a cup of freshly brewed coffee beside me.
We’ve been up since six, going through the files Jordan sent and taking notes because neither one of us could sleep.
Selene left the bed when we did, but she headed straight to Monique’s room.
It’s almost two in the afternoon, and I haven’t heard so much as a peep from either of them.
No footsteps overhead.
No soft murmurs.
No sobs either, which is a good thing.
I take a long sip of the steaming liquid. “I don’t know.”
“Should we wake them? I mean, they’ve got to eat.”
“They’ll eat when they get up, Beck.”
His leg bounces, the scent of his anxiety curling in the air. “Selene threw up her dinner. She’s probably starving.”
“Beckham.”
It’s a gentle warning accompanied by the presence of my hand on his thigh. Onyx eyes fly to mine, glazed with regretful tears. “I hate that we were right,” he whispers.
Months have passed since we first floated the idea of Aubrey’s involvement with Selene’s kidnapping and AJ’s death.
She refused to consider it, even going so far as storming out of the room to avoid having the conversation.
We didn’t bring it up again, but every time we uncovered a new piece of information, I braced myself for it to lead back to that theory.
When so much time went by without it happening, I started to hope we were wrong, even though I knew we weren’t.
“Me too.”
Beck covers my hand with his, fingertips kissing the inside of my palm when he turns it into something of an embrace. “I can’t believe she thinks this is somehow her fault.”
“That’s just the guilt talking. You, better than anyone, should understand that.”
“I do, it’s just hard to…” he trails off, searching for words to convey a thought that’s echoed in my mind at least once a day for years.
For as long as I’ve known him, I’ve watched Beck carry the same weight Selene started to shoulder last night, loving him through that pain makes me feel more equipped to care for her as she navigates it.
It’s still scary, though. Knowing that there’s hurt inside of someone your love might not be able to touch.
I have to keep reminding myself that it touched Beck’s.
That it broke down walls and watered gardens left for dead long ago.
And if it did it before, it can certainly do it again.
This time the process will move faster because I’m not the only one working toward the goal. Beck is right beside me, pushing love and understanding, dismantling harmful beliefs, meeting every what if with the gentle reminders of what was and what will be.
“See someone you love blame themselves for something that was completely out of their control?” I ask, finishing the sentence he abandoned with an arch of my brow that says ‘welcome to my world’.
He balks, pushing my hand off his leg. “Shut up, Drake.”
“You only resort to telling me to shut up when you know I’m right.”
“I only resort to telling you to shut up when you’re being an obnoxious ass,” he retorts, slamming a finger down on the space bar to resume the recording he was listening to.
There are hundreds, maybe even thousands, of them, and we’ve split them up.
Beck is responsible for the later years, taking notes on everything pertinent to our investigation while the recordings play on the air-gapped laptop Selene insisted we keep copies of everything on.
I’ve got the early years, and so far, I’ve learned a lot.
Like the fact that Phineas Gambit recommended Jordan to Aubrey, instructing him to hire her after he was elected for his third term as a U.S.
Senator because he liked her ruthlessness.
I also learned that capitalizing off the sympathy and national attention he’d gained from AJ’s death was always a part of the plan to get him to the Oval.
Jordan loved the idea.
Even over audio, it’s easy to tell how thrilled she was by the prospect.
As soon as Aubrey said he had no qualms about discussing his son’s murder or his wife’s devastation, she started spouting off ideas, never stopping to consider why a father who’d just lost his child would be okay with any of that.
The other thing that’s become abundantly clear as we’ve listened is how much and for how long Aubrey has harbored a deep hatred for Selene.
Not once is he heard speaking of or about her in anything other than a disparaging manner.
And what’s worse, is when she’s in the room, when her soft voice is heard over the recordings and her genuine questions and concerns are caught on audio, and that version of him is nowhere to be found.
It’s like he transforms into a loving husband.
I mean, he’s still an entitled son of a bitch who talks out of the side of his neck sometimes, but it’s nothing like when she’s not around.
Hearing the switch up, witnessing her being subjected to such manipulation, fills me with the kind of rage that’s useless to me right now because it craves action and violence and at the moment all I can do is be still and listen to a woman who only ever says what she means—and believes the same to be true of others—be lied to by the man she trusted with every piece of herself.
Last night she asked us how she didn’t see it, how she missed the signs, and now I know I was right when I told her there probably weren’t any.
Aubrey played the role of the dutiful husband and grieving father so well when Selene was around, it wouldn’t have made any logical sense for her to do anything other than believe him.
The illusion fell apart when the affair with Sutton became public.
His mask slipped, and he never bothered to put it back on, completing his transformation into bitch ass motherfucker on the TV screen right now.
As Jordan promised, the news of Marsh’s death broke this morning.
All day, we’ve listened to segments about the assassination attempt that landed him in prison, his son’s death and the grudge against Selene that led to his escape and eventual death on White House grounds.
Psychologists have been interviewed to speak to his state of mind, the warden from his prison has made a statement addressing the death and refusing to speak on the escape, old clips from his days leading the Brothers have been aired to give context to his hateful existence, political pundits have speculated about whether his death means Selene will return to the public eye and discussed whether the President feels safe in the White House after the breach.
Lots of conversation, speculation and endless mentions of his name, but not once today, have I seen Aubrey live and in color.
It’s an odd sensation, seeing his face, watching him smile and wave like he’s innocent when I know what he’s done, and I catch myself glaring at the TV as if he can feel my hate through the screen.
“Where is he?” Beck asks, forcing me to look away from the man and at his surroundings.
He’s fielding questions from a small press corps in front of a motorcade that’s blocking black, wrought iron gates that feel far too familiar.
I pause the recording on the laptop, disbelief curling into a ball in my chest.
“Is that—”
Beck holds up a hand to stop me, grabbing the remote to turn the volume up.
“President Taylor, you’re supposed to be hosting a Cabinet meeting at the White House today. What are we doing here in Bethesda?”
My heart sinks. “No.”
“How the fuck did he find us?”
On the television, Aubrey is spouting off some bullshit about being eager to reunite with his wife now that the danger has passed. His voice is annoying, grating on my nerves, but it doesn’t even compare to the sensation of hearing it pass through the speakers of the intercom near the front door.
“You’ve got two seconds to open this gate,” he growls into the box, which makes no sense because on the TV he’s still taking questions while Woodard and Garrison stand behind him.
Beck looks between the front door and the TV, processing the same information as me and coming to a conclusion quickly. “There must be a delay.”
He’s right because TV Aubrey is only now approaching the box while the real life one presses the button again. “Tick tock, motherfuckers.”
“What do we do?”
There’s only one option. I know it just as well as Beck does even though his question suggests he’s hoping for some alternative outcome.
“Get Selene and Monique. I’ll open the door.”
“Fuck that, Drake. I’m not leaving you down here alone.”
“What are they going to do, Beckham? Execute me on national television?”