Page 79 of Keep

He made himself get up. Made himself eat something—leftover takeout that tasted like cardboard. Made himself not check his phone for a full hour, which felt like a victory even though it shouldn’t have.

He went to bed early. The city hummed outside his window. Somewhere across that sprawl of lights, Chad was painting, or sleeping, or staring at his own phone.

Give him time.

Let him come to you.

Hank lay in the dark, not sleeping, not checking his phone.

And hating every second of it.

CHAPTER 14

Nine days.

Hank had stopped counting the hours somewhere around day six, when the arithmetic became unbearable. But the days themselves kept accumulating, each one heavier than the last. Nine days since the photograph. Nine days since Chad had whispered Oh God, and the warmth had drained from the room. Nine days of voicemails unanswered, and texts shown as delivered and never returned.

The morning routine continued. Google Home played Brahms—he’d switched from Chopin, unable to bear the association. NPR reported on trade negotiations. Coffee dripped into the pot. He moved through each step like a man following stage directions in a foreign language.

First Kiss hung on the wall across from the couch. Hank made his coffee with his back to it.

He took the same route to work. Past the coffee shop, across the park, up Constitution Avenue. October had sharpened into something colder, the trees along the Mall blazing red and gold against a sky the color of slate. Beautiful, probably. He barely registered it.

He’d become skilled at reading the temperature of a room by how people looked at him. Or didn’t. Senator Martinez from New Mexico, who used to joke about baseball and complain about the cafeteria coffee, now couldn’t meet his eyes. Senator Williams from Rhode Island had stopped him in the hallway last Thursday to say, quietly, that she thought he was handling things with dignity. A junior staffer he barely knew had left a coffee on his desk with a Post-it that read Hang in there.

The world was sorting itself into columns. He was trying not to keep score.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t check it. He already knew it wouldn’t be Chad.

The hallway outside the Russell Building was quieter than usual for a Monday morning. Most of his colleagues were in meetings or hiding from reporters. The building was holding its breath, the way it did when scandal hung in the air. Hank walked with his shoulders back and his head up, the posture drilled into him by years of public life. Fake it long enough and maybe it becomes real. That was the theory, anyway.

He had a subcommittee meeting at ten. A working lunch at noon. Three hours of votes in the afternoon. A normal Monday, or what passed for normal now. He was learning to function on autopilot—nod in the right places, say the right things, let the political machinery carry him forward while his mind circled the same questions it had been circling for nine days.

Why won’t he call?

What am I supposed to do?

How do I fix this when he won’t even⁠—

“Well, well. Senator Fortner.”

Hank’s stomach dropped.

He knew that voice. The oily charm, the undertone of something spoiled. He turned slowly, composing his face into the neutral mask he’d perfected over years of politics.

Clancy Howard stood near the wall, hands in his pockets, a smile playing around his lips. Navy suit, burgundy tie, silver cufflinks catching the light. The picture of respectability, unless you looked at his eyes.

“Senator Howard.” Hank kept his voice even. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting.”

“Of course, of course. I won’t keep you.” But Clancy didn’t move, positioning himself so Hank would have to brush past him to continue. “I’ve been meaning to offer my condolences. Such an unfortunate situation.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“Now, now. No need for hostility.” Clancy stepped closer, lowering his voice to the conspiratorial whisper Hank had always despised. “We’re on the same team, you and I. I only want to help.”

“Is that what you call it?”

Clancy’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m simply saying—a man in your position needs friends. Allies who understand discretion.” His eyes glittered. “It’s a shame about the boy, though. That pretty little bartender of yours.”