I was eight years old the first time my mother left for her clinical trials. She was gone for three days, and my dad and I had no idea where she went. Since she was a nurse, it was easy to check the hospital, but they didn’t know where she was either. Or at least they weren’t saying. The leftovers lasted for two days, but we eventually reached the point where we needed some food. Because of my mom’s job, we weren’t poor, but my dad was in no shape to go shopping. When I volunteered to go for us, he stuffed a fistful of bills in my hand and told me to buy whatever I wanted. Beaming with the pride of newfound wealth, I marched down to the supermarket and stocked up the cart. Skippy instead of the generic peanut butter; Coca-Cola instead of the drab store brand; for once, we were going to live in style. It took me close to two hours to make my selections, filling the cart almost to the top.
One by one, the cashier rang up each item while I flipped through a
Two hours later, I’m sitting in front of the TV, mentally walking through every reason that Simon would want Caroline dead. To be honest, it’s not that difficult. In her position, Caroline knew the dirt on everyone-that’s how she found out about my dad-so the most obvious answer is that she found something on Simon. Maybe it was something he wanted kept quiet. Maybe that’s why he was dropping the money. Maybe he was being blackmailed by her. That’d certainly explain how it wound up in Caroline’s safe. I mean, why else would it be there? If that’s the case, though, it should be pretty obvious that Caroline didn’t die of a simple heart attack. The problem is, if it looks like foul play, my life is over.
Panicking, I pick up the phone and start dialing. I need to know what’s going on, but neither Trey nor Pam is there. There are others I can call, but I’m not going to risk looking suspicious. If they find out Simon sent me home, there’ll be a new rumor buzzing through the halls. I hang up the phone and stare at the TV. It’s been three hours since I left the office, and I’m already locked out.
Flipping through every news program I can find, I’m searching for what is arguably the most important reaction to the crisis: the official White House press conference. I look down at my watch, and notice it’s almost five-thirty. It’s got to happen soon. The press office is focused around the six o’clock news cycle, and they’re too smart to let the evening news run with this on their own.
True to form, the announcement comes at exactly five-thirty. I hold my breath as Press Secretary Emmy Goldfarb does a quick rundown of the facts: Early this morning, Caroline Penzler was found dead in her office of a heart attack caused by coronary artery disease. As she says the words, I once again start breathing. Keeping the explanation short and sweet, Goldfarb turns it over to Dr. Leon Welp, a heart specialist from Georgetown Medical Center, who explains that Caroline had a hysterectomy a few years ago, which made her prematurely experience menopause. Combine the drop in estrogen with heavy smoking, and you’ve got a quick recipe for a heart attack.
Before anyone can ask a question, the President himself comes out to do the regrets. Its a masterstroke by the Press Office. Forget the hows and whys, let’s get to the emotion. I can practically taste the subtext: Our leader. A man who takes care of his own.
I hate election years.
As the President grasps the podium in two tight fists, I can’t help but see the resemblance to Nora. The black hair. The piercing eyes. The reckless jaw. Always in control. Before he opens his mouth, we all know what’s going to come out: “It’s a dark day; she’ll be sorely missed; our prayers go out to her family.” Nothing suspicious; nothing to worry about. He tops it all off with a quick brush of his eye-he’s not crying, but it’s just enough to make us think that if he had a moment to himself, he might.
From Goldfarb, to the doctor, to the President, they all do their specialty. All I notice is that there’s no mention of an investigation. Of course, the family has requested an autopsy, but Goldfarb spins it as a hope to help others with similar ailments. Brilliant touch. Just to be safe, though, the autopsy’s set for Sunday, which means it won’t be the topic of the weekend talk shows, and if the results show it’s a murder, it’ll be too late for the major magazines to make it a cover story. For at least two days, I’m safe. I try to tell myself that it may be over-that it’ll all go away-but like Nora said, I’m a terrible liar.
