The Inner Circle

the rest… you could’ve taken advantage and asked for something for yourself. But you never did.”

I stare at the President, who knits his fingers together and gently lowers them in prayer style on the desk. He’s not holding the blood pressure bulb anymore.

“Can I ask you a question, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Is that the same speech you gave to Dallas?”

“What’re you talking about?” the President asks.

“The polite flattery… the moral back-pat… even the subtle hint you dropped about the advantages you can offer and how much you can do for me, without ever directly saying it. Is that the way you made Dallas feel special when you invited him into the Plumbers, and he thought he was joining the Culper Ring?”

The President shifts his weight, his eyes still locked on me. “Be very careful of what you’re accusing me of.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, sir. But it is a fair calculation, isn’t it? Why risk a head-on collision when you can bring me inside? I mean, now that I think about it-is that the real reason you brought me here? To keep me quiet by inviting me to be the newest member of your Plumbers?”

The President’s hands stay frozen in prayer style on the desk. If his voice was any colder, I’d be able to see it in the air. “No. That isn’t why I brought you here. At all.”

He takes another breath, all set to hide his emotions just like he does on every other day of his life. But I see his tongue as it rolls inside his mouth. As good as Wallace is, his friend is still dead. You don’t just bury that away.

“I brought you to say thank you,” he insists for the second time. “Without you, we wouldn’t know who killed that security guard.”

“His name’s Orlando,” I interrupt.

Wallace nods with a nearly invisible grin, letting me know he’s well aware of Orlando’s name. He’s anxious to be back in control-and I just gave it back to him. “Though you’ll be happy to hear, Beecher-from what I understand, the D.C. police already have Clementine’s picture up on their website. They were able to link her chemotherapy prescription to the drugs they found in Orlando’s bloodwork.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what’s online. And when you think about it, that young archivist-Beecher whatshisname-who tracked her down, and looped in the President’s doctor, and even followed her all the way out to those caves-that guy’s a hero,” he adds, his eyes growing darker as they tighten on me. “Of course, some say Beecher had a hand in it-that he violated every security protocol and was the one who let Clementine inside that SCIF-and that together they planned all this, and were after the President, and they even went to visit her father, who-can you believe it? — is Nico Hadrian, who may be trying to kill again.”

He pauses a moment, looking over at the office’s only window. It has a perfect view of the South Lawn- except for the iron bars that cover it. I get the point. All he has to do is say the words and that’s my permanent view. His voice is back to the exact strength he started with. “But I don’t want to believe that about him. Beecher’s a good guy. I don’t want to see him lose everything like that.”

It’s an overdramatic speech-especially with the glance at the iron bars-and exactly the one I thought he’d give. “I still know about the two Culper Rings,” I say. “I know about your Plumbers. And for you especially… I know your personal stake in this.”

He knows I mean Minnie.

“Beecher, I think we all have a personal stake in this. Right, son?” he asks, putting all the emphasis on the word son.

I know he means my father.

It’s an empty threat. If he wanted to trade, he would’ve already offered it. But he’s done debating.

“Go tell the world, Beecher. And you find me one person who wouldn’t protect their sister in the exact same way if they saw her in trouble. If you think my poll numbers are good now, just wait until you turn me into a hero.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Not maybe,” he says as if he’s already seen the future. He leans into the desk, his fingers still crossed in prayer. This man takes on entire countries. And wins. “The press’ll dig for a little while into what the doctor was up to, but they’ll move on to the next well-especially when they don’t strike oil. The President’s doctor is very different than the President.”

“But we all know this isn’t about the President. Even for you, it’s never been about you. It’s about her, isn’t it, sir? Forget the press… the public… forget everyone. We wouldn’t still be talking if you weren’t worried about something. And to me, that only thing you’re worried about is-if I start doing the cable show rounds and say your sister’s accident was actually an attempted suicide out of guilt for what she did to Eightball-”

“Beecher, I will only say this once. Don’t threaten me. You have no idea what happened that night.”

“The barber told me. He told me about the vacuum hose-and the tailpipe of the Honda Civic.”

“You have no idea what happened that night.”

“I know it took you four hours before you found her. I know how it still haunts you that you couldn’t stop it.”

“You’re not hearing me, Beecher,” he says, lowering his voice so that I listen to every syllable. “I was there- I’m the one who found her. You. Have. No. Idea. What. Happened. That. Night.”

His burning intensity knocks me back in my seat. I look at the President.

He doesn’t look away. His baggy eyes narrow.

I replay the events… The barber… Laurent said it took four hours before they found Minnie that night. That Palmiotti was the one who pulled her from the car. But now… if Wallace says he’s the one who found her first…

You have no idea what happened that night.

My skin goes cold. I replay it again. Wallace was there first… he was the first one to see her unconscious in the car… But if Palmiotti is the one who eventually pulled her out… Both things can be true. Unless…

Unless Wallace got there first, saw Minnie unconscious, and decided that the best action…

… was not to take any action at all.

You have no idea what happened that night.

“When you saw her lying there… you didn’t pull her out of the car, did you…?” I blurt.

The President doesn’t answer.

The bitter taste of bile bursts in my throat as I glance back at the silver picture frame. The family photo.

The one with two kids in the family.

Not three.

“You tried to leave her in that smoke-filled car. You tried to let your own sister die,” I say.

“Everyone knows I love my sister.”

“But in that moment, after all the heartache she caused… If Palmiotti hadn’t come in, you would’ve stood there and watched her suffocate.”

Wallace juts out his lower lip and huffs a puff of air up his own nose. But he doesn’t answer. He’ll never answer. Not for what they did to Eightball. Not for hiding him all these years. Not for any of this.

I was wrong before.

All this time, I thought I was fighting men.

I’m fighting monsters.

“That’s how you knew you could trust Palmiotti with anything, including the Plumbers. He was there for your lowest moment-and the truly sick part is, he decided to stay even though he knew you would’ve let your sister die,” I say. “You belong together. You ditched your souls for each other.”

There’s a flash on the digital screen that lists the First Family’s location. In a blink, Minnie’s status goes from:

MINNIE: Traveling