She clicked the END button on her phone and slipped it into her bag. Meg was her best friend. They’d both been the child in their families—and they’d wanting siblings. They’d decided once that they’d be like sisters. And they were.
She wished that she had reached Meg. That she could have heard her voice.
She walked briskly on the dark and empty sidewalk and yet she was certain she heard all kinds of noises around her. Furtive noises.
Try to get a grip, she warned herself. She wasn’t prone to being afraid—not without very good reason.
Yet the night…scared her. And for no real reason.
Maybe because what she suspected was bone-chilling?
She toyed with the idea of calling 9-1-1. And say what? She didn’t have an emergency. She was stupidly walking around on dark and silent city streets and she was just suddenly afraid of trying to reach home in the late night/early morning hour.
She told herself she was going to be fine; reminding herself that she was near the White House, for God’s sake, the Capitol, the Smithsonian buildings—and the Washington Monument. Despite the darkness and the shadows, she was fine.
She’d just never been in the area so late. Then again, there had never been a night quite like this one. She’d been so upset about what she suspected that she hadn’t thought about time—in making her indignant retreat, she hadn’t had the sense to be afraid when leaving.
She hadn’t thought to call a cab—since they wouldn’t be plentiful on the streets at this time.
She mulled over her feelings about what was going on, the situation that had caused her to spend so many hours talking and talking. Of course, she and Congressman Walker had often stayed together late. Not this late. Well, maybe this late, but usually, he saw that she got home safely. And most of the time, she had left feeling exhilarated.
She had adored him; she worked on media and spin—but, she was also an advisor, a problem solver.
She remembered about a month ago when she’d first begun to feel uneasy. She’d wanted to call Meg then, but she hadn’t. She hadn’t because Meg had been in the middle of her training. So she had done the next best thing; she’d headed home to Aunt Nancy’s for a day and then done a quick whirl of the things that she and Meg had done as children and when they had breaks at college—their trail. All things that were cheap and historic and wonderful. And she’d left a message in the hollow of the broken gravestone, as they done when they were children. One day, who knew—she might go pick the message back up—if her suspicions proved to be grounded.
She was suddenly angry with herself. She wasn’t na?ve. She had just so whole-heartedly believed in what she was doing. Then she had begun to realize that there were little erosions in her beliefs—that became big erosions.
And maybe worse.
She thought about her friend again—wishing Meg had answered her phone.
They had been such dreamers. Meg, for law enforcement, she for order. Her love for history and the story of America had made her understand government—to the degree any government could be understood—and she still believed in the passion for justice and freedom that had forged her country. There had been painful lessons along the way; among them, a bloody Civil War, which had taught them some of those lessons.
Longing to work in D.C.—to fight for justice and equality herself—she had found Congressman Walker, a man who was a dreamer, too.
And an idealist. One who did, however, recognize, that in a country where different people had different ideals, compromise was often necessary.
What to do, oh, lord, what to do….
Today, she’d been shocked, absolutely shocked. Of course, before, she had thought she had simply been imagining things. And then today, with all the talk about Walker’s Gettysburg speech, what would be said…now that Congressman Hubbard was dead.
She should have been more careful. She shouldn’t have suggested that she was worried about the fact that such a decent man had so conveniently died.
Leave. Go home. That made the most sense. Get the hell out—as in first thing in the morning. Go home, lick her wounds, and think about the proper thing to do here—think about what she really wanted in her future.
It was ridiculous, she told herself angrily, that she should give up her passion because of this—good was still out there.
She hadn’t given up. She just needed change for a while; there was more in the world, and she needed to sample some of it. Then, one day, perhaps, she’d come back, using words to champion the right man or woman again.
How did she find safety herself—and tell the world her suspicions? She had no proof. She’d be laughed out of court; no lawyer would take her on.
There was always the media. The hint of suspicion out there could change everything.
There was also the possibility of being sued for slander—since she had no proof.
There was Meg, but she had to reach Meg first.
And the faster she walked, the more she was afraid.
Get out of Washington—it is a nest of vipers!
She still believed in the dream. In men and women who couldn’t be bought.