“Being an adulterer? That one get lost off your little checklist somehow?”
“And how about being a rapist?” said Michelle.
Jane rose. “You have no proof of anything. So I strongly suggest that you keep such ludicrous accusations to yourself unless you want to find yourselves in very serious trouble. He is the president of the United States. Show some damn respect.”
“Respect for what?”
“I don’t care what lies you might have seen on those walls in that house, you have no right—”
Sean cut her off. “What we saw on those walls was the truth. You knew it too, and that’s why you burned the place down. And we have every right, lady.”
“First Lady,” she said.
Sean rose too. “When did you stop caring about the truth, Jane? When did it stop mattering to you? After the first cover-up? The second? Did you just convince yourself that it was always somebody else’s fault? Or that he’d come around one day, take some pills, and it would all be better? The past, the hurt, just wiped clean? That a guy like Sam Quarry would just walk away, let it go? Like everybody else had? Because your husband was such a rising star? Because he’d make such a great president?”
“You can’t know what it’s like to be here, in this house. To always having to be on. To never once letting your gu
ard down. Knowing that the smallest mistake you make will be broadcast all over the world.”
“Hey, nobody twisted his arm. Or yours.”
“I’ve worked too damn hard—” She broke off and dabbed her eyes with a cloth.
Sean stared at her. “I really thought I knew you. I thought I respected you. I thought you were real. It was all bullshit, wasn’t it? All smoke and mirrors. Just like this town. Nothing behind the curtain.”
“I think it’s time for you to leave my house.”
Michelle stood next to Sean.
He said, “Fine. But just remember one thing, Jane. It’s not your house. It belongs to the American people. You and the hubby are just renting.”
CHAPTER 87
THE NEWSPAPER BUSINESS sucks, doesn’t it, Marty?” said Sean loudly. “Nobody wants to wait for the paper anymore. They can get it all online all the time. Even if it’s all made up.”
It was midnight. He and Michelle were standing next to a support column in an underground parking garage in downtown Washington. The man walking toward them stopped and then chuckled as Sean and Michelle stepped out into the wash of light from the overheads.
Sean shook hands with Martin Determann and introduced Michelle to him.
“What business doesn’t suck right now?” said Determann, who was short, with thick, graying black hair and a loud voice. Sharp eyes danced behind slender glasses. “And asking people to take the time to read and actually think about stuff? Heaven forbid.”
Sean grinned. “Nobody likes a whiner, Marty.”
“So why all the clandestine stuff?” He looked around at the empty garage. “I feel like I’m in a scene from All the President’s Men.”
“Think your own Deep Throat will help you sell a few more papers?”
Determann laughed. “I’d prefer a Pulitzer but I also keep an open mind. Hey, maybe I can ghostwrite your autobiography. What with all the ink you two have gotten lately, we could probably sell it to some publisher for seven figures, easy.”
“I’m not kidding about the Deep Throat thing.”
Determann turned serious. “I was actually hoping you weren’t. What do you got?”
“Come on. This is going to take a while.”
Sean had rented a motel room a little north of Old Town Alexandria. They headed there.
“So how do you two know each other?” asked Michelle as they drove on the George Washington Parkway alongside the Potomac.