He pressed the phone to his ear. “Viotto.” A pause. “You’re kidding.” He looked at Cassie, then down at his half-eaten brisket. “Yeah, I’m close. Give me ten minutes.”
Cassie waited until he hung up. “Duty calls?”
“A complication.” There was longing on his face as he pulled out his wallet. “I’m sorry—”
Cassie held up her hand. “Please, this is on me. You can pay for the next one.”
“A second date?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.” She grabbed a napkin and fished a pen out of her purse. She wrote down her phone number and handed it to him. “My name is Cassie Quinn. The FBI will have a file on me.” She pointed to the napkin. “Look me up, then call me if you want to hear what I have to say.”
19
Senator Lawrence Grayson would’ve been three sheets to the wind if his mind hadn’t been preoccupied by the day’s recent events. He could feel the tingle of the alcohol in the tips of his fingers and toes, but he was as sharp as ever.
On the one day he wished he could forget everything, he had no choice but to focus on the way his life was crumbling around him. If Connor were still alive, would his son be pointing and laughing at him, or would he show the barest hint of compassion for a father who had lost everything?
Grayson took another sip of whiskey and felt the burn of the liquid as it slid down his throat. This bottle—and other ones like it—had been used to celebrate the highest of highs and mourn the lowest of lows over the years, but the senator had never felt like this before.
He couldn’t say he’d never envisioned a day like this. Connor had gotten into plenty of trouble over the years, and there had been several discreet trips to the hospital. The worst he’d had was a broken nose and a couple fractured ribs, but even through his fury, Grayson couldn’t ignore those paternal instincts that drove him to protect his one and only son.
Instincts that would serve no purpose in the future.
“Are you listening?” The effect of the alcohol warbled Anastasia’s voice. “Lawrence? Did you hear a word I said?”
“No.”
The senator tipped his glass back again and drained the liquid, never taking his eyes off the overcast sky outside his office window. He didn’t want to be here, but his wife didn’t want him at home either. He had no choice.
Anastasia uncrossed her legs and stood. She wore purple today, and though she looked as stunning as always, he hated her with every fiber of his being. She should be in black. In mourning. Drowning her sorrows like him. She knew him, knew his son, and yet all of her condolences were a mere formality. Did she care at all?
He knew she didn’t.
Anastasia approached his desk and swiped the bottle out of his hands before he could pour another glass. He rose to snatch it back, but one push against his shoulder sent him stumbling into his chair. It rolled backwards, and he had to scoot forward to regain his position. He felt like a child. Probably looked like one, too.
“You’re a mess. Get it together.” She set the bottle on the corner of his desk, just out of reach. “I understand you’re in pain, but we have work to do.”
“My son is dead.” His voice cracked, and it lost all of its power. “How can you say that?”
“Your son will keep being dead, no matter how much or how little you drink. Let’s be proactive about it instead.”
“How?”
Anastasia sat down. Crossed her legs. Adjusted her tablet. Looked him dead in the eyes. “First, you need to make a statement. Are you capable of reading it yourself?”
“I don’t want to talk to the media.” He shuddered at the thought of all those cameras picking apart every emotion. Did he cry too much? Not enough? Did he look humble or apathetic? What about his wife, would she be there, too? “You do it.”
“Fine.” She tapped twice on her tablet. “The public won’t expect to see you for quite some time. Too early, and they’ll think you don’t care. Too late, and they’ll forget about you.”
He hated that the Politician stirred at the unacceptable thought of being forgotten.
“After the funeral services, you’ll have a bereavement period. You’ll work from home to better console your wife. We’ll announce new legislation about being tougher on crime. Language will include honoring my son and ensuring no father feels this pain again. It’ll connect.”
“Great.”
She looked up at the sound of his detached sarcasm, but made no comment. “A few months down the line, we’ll get you into the public eye again. We’ll have to change your volunteer work from veterans to children. Lower predictability with kids, but it’ll play much better now. Do you think you’ll be up for that?”
Grayson picked up his glass, remembered it was empty, then thunked it back down again. “Does it matter?”
“I may be navigating, Senator Grayson, but you’re the one driving the train. I can’t force you to do anything, but you understand the consequences if you step out of line. It’s up to you to decide if you can live with them.”
Grayson couldn’t imagine losing his career on top of his son. “I’ll make it work.”
“Wonderful.” She sounded genuinely ecstatic. “That’s fantastic news.”
“Is it?” He leaned across his desk and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a double. He didn’t break eye contact with her. It was a challenge, and they both knew it. “Tell me, Ms. Bolton, do you have a heart of your own? Do you have a sympathetic bone in your body?”
When Anastasia didn’t respond, he thought maybe he’d finally crossed the line. After a moment, she stood, walked over to his mini bar, grabbed a second glass, and poured herself a drink. She slammed it back in a single gulp and didn’t even wince. When she
