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  a special investigator for the IRS. Charlotte had met her a few

  times, but knew her better by reputation in the lesbian community. When it came to women, Elena Diaz bounced around like

  a pinball. She was certainly lust-worthy, but it wasn’t worth it to

  Charlotte to take a chance on screwing up her working relationship with Brandon by becoming a notch on his sister’s bedpost. “She’s got a new girlfriend, some woman from the FBI.

  They’ve been seeing each other for three or four months.” “Good. That means the rest of us are safe.” Elena wasn’t the

  sort one took home to Warwick, Rhode Island, to meet the folks.

  Julie Exner, on the other hand, might be.

  Brandon seemed to be reading her mind. “How are things

  with Julie?”

  “Not bad, if you don’t count the fact that I stood her up two

  nights in a row for dinner.”

  “Uh-oh, that was my fault, wasn’t it?”

  “Everything is your fault. Don’t you know that by now?”

  They reached the parking lot, where she tossed her gym bag into

  the passenger seat of her Saab. “I was going to head over there

  today, but she’s got some reading to do to get ready for more

  meetings next week.”

  “You should come with Cindy and me to Elena’s. Seriously.” “Nah, I need to spend some more time looking at this kid’s file.

  I haven’t decided yet what to recommend for the next step.” “Is he a candidate for meds?”

  “Maybe for the short term, but it won’t get at the source of

  what’s bugging him.”

  “Sometimes the short term is all we can fix, Charlotte.” “I know, but this kid’s sixteen. He’s got his whole life in front

  of him. I’d hate to see him fucked up over this for a long time.”

  She shivered as the wind cooled her sweat. “I’m thinking about

  recommending a short-term residential placement.” “How short term?”

  “Four weeks.”

  “That sounds fine. What’s your reservation?”

  “The usual. Once you get that stigma of being institutionalized, you don’t ever shake it.”

  “Yeah, but the same goes for trying to kill yourself.” “True, and it turns out, this is his second attempt.” “Then I don’t see that you have any choice.”

  Charlotte saw it the same way, but getting Brandon’s agreement put the stamp on it as the right thing to do. She rarely made

  a tough decision without talking it over with him first. “What do

  you know about the Rawlings Center?”

  “In Hyattsville?”

  “Yeah, they’ve got that adolescent program.”

  “Right, that’s Mark McKee. We interned together. He does

  good work.”

  “Is he discreet?”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “You know what I mean. If he gets a famous patient, is he going to want to blow his own horn?”

  Brandon leaned against his car and folded his arms, his interest piqued. “A famous patient?”

  “The kid’s mother’s a congresswoman, Glynn Wright.” “Wright . . . I know that name. Where’s she from?” “Indiana. Her husband was a congressman when he died.” “Yes, Bas Wright. She took over his seat. Does his death have

  anything to do with what’s going on with this kid?”

  “I’m not sure. He may be blocking some of it, but there’s also

  the possibility he’s deliberately hiding something about it.” “Either way, it sounds like he needs some intensive therapy.” “That’s what I think. I’ll give McKee a call tomorrow.” “You should ride up there and check it out. I can call Mark

  and let him know you’re coming.”

  “I don’t have time. I’ve got rotation this week. I know it’s

  going to be a tough sell, though. His mother wants him back at

  home.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Gives us something to aim

  for.”

  Definitely, Charlotte thought. Sebastian was lucky to have his

  mother on his side.

  Glynn took off her glasses and dropped the memo on the coffee table. “I don’t think this is anybody’s business, and I fail to see why I have to issue a statement.”

  Tina picked up the memo and made a couple of notes in the margin. “You have to say something, Glynn. I doubt more than six people you know saw that clip on the news, but it’s bound to be in the Post tomorrow.”

  “I’d like to get hold of the little twerp that tipped them off.” Tina had called a strategy meeting of Glynn’s top aides at the brownstone, a rarity in a nonelection year, and especially on a Sunday afternoon. Her aides were seated around her in the living room.

  Roy Baker, a longtime Republican policy wonk, spearheaded Glynn’s issue research and handled some of her negotiations with colleagues. An African-American built more like a bodyguard than a political advisor, Roy had played football at Indiana with Bas, and had gone on to become one of his top aides. Glynn knew she was lucky he had stayed on, especially since her legislative priorities differed markedly from her husband’s. His loyalty to Bas—and now to her—was even more special because he had taken a fatherly interest in Sebby.

  Chip Cichetti, the newest hire on her Capitol staff, was also present. Fresh out of Princeton with a gift for incorporating new media into political strategy, Chip would be a star in the party some day, and Glynn didn’t expect to keep him long before someone higher up in the food chain stole him away. His father, Don, represented the industrial part of Indiana.

  “Why don’t we just keep it simple? I’ll say that Sebby had an unfortunate mishap and he’s getting the best care possible. What’s important to both of us right now, as it would be for any family, is our privacy.”

  “I don’t think you’ll get away with glossing over a suicide attempt by calling it an unfortunate mishap, Glynn.” Roy had made some notes in a folder. “If you don’t use the words, they will.”

  That much was already true, as evidenced on the short clip from the hospital that had run on the local television station last night.

  “Roy, with all due respect, I’m not going to stand out there in front of everybody and announce that my son tried to kill himself.”

  “Maybe you should,” Tina said tentatively. “This is a very tragic issue for many families, and it needs a voice. You can be that voice by meeting it head-on.”

  That wasn’t how Glynn operated at all. “I’m not going to use my son for political posturing. Chip, is there anything on the blogs?”

  “A few letters to the station, mostly ragging on the reporter for the way she ambushed you.”

  “Good. At least some people know the difference between sensationalism and journalism.”

  “There was one note talking about all your work in children’s issues. The writer wondered what kind of mother you were.”

  “What the hell?”

  Chip held up his hands. “I’m just the messenger, Glynn. But this letter writer was making the point that some people do a lot for other people’s children, but don’t pay enough attention to their own.”

  “That’s just not true.”

  “No, but you should listen to what he’s saying and fight that, Glynn,” Roy said. “You have to get out in front of this. Make sure people don’t think your primary concern is pushing it under the rug. Let them know where your priority is.”

  She slumped into the chair and buried her face in her hands.

  “Here, Glynn. Try this.” Tina handed her a revised script.

  She put her glasses back on and gazed at the words. “Hello and thank you all for your concern. I have a short statement to read regarding my son, Sebastian. I will not be taking questions. Last Friday, I received word that my son attempted to harm himself at his school. As a mother, I can tell you there is no greater nightmare. Thanks
to the quick-thinking staff and emergency medical response team, tragedy was averted. I am happy to report that Sebastian is doing well, and we are eager to begin treatment that will address the issues that led him to take such a dangerous step. Finally, I’d like say to all of those who have expressed their support, thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “That’s perfect,” Tina said.

  “You want to see the playback?” Chip asked, holding up his multifunction cell phone, which he had used to film her reading the statement.

  “Once is more than enough. I need to run this by Sebby. If it’s okay with him, let’s just put it out there on the wire. I don’t really want to have to stand up in front of microphones and say all this.”

  “You’re bound to get a few calls,” Roy added. “Just bounce them back to the press release and tell them you have no further comment at this time.”

  “Are we done? You guys want a pizza or something?” Glynn wasn’t looking forward to being alone.

  Tina seemed to sense her need for company. “Pizza sounds good to me.”

  Chip pocketed his cell phone and stood. “Sorry. I have some friends in town this weekend.”

  “Aw, Chip. I apologize for dragging you away from your friends. Thanks for coming.” Glynn gave him a light hug at the door as he shrugged into his parka.

  She turned back just in time to see Tina whisper something to Roy, who gathered his papers and stood as well.

  “I need to go too,” he said, pulling on his overcoat.

  She followed him out to the front porch of her brownstone and closed the door behind her, immediately crossing her arms against the cold. “I got a courtesy call from Guy Preston a couple of days ago.”

  His stone-faced reaction looked practiced, as though he had expected her to bring this up. “What’s on the senator’s mind?” he asked, feigning nonchalance.

  “I think you know.” Preston, a handsome, progressive Republican who reminded her in many ways of Bas, had his eye on the White House. A prominently-positioned AfricanAmerican staffer like Roy could help him garner minority support. “He wants you on his team.”

  “Why? He has Marcella.”

  Marcella Stroupe, a talented political strategist, had been Bas’s chief of staff. With Glynn’s blessing, she had bolted after Bas’s death to take a post in Preston’s office. “You and Marcella made quite a team, Roy. Working together, I bet you could help Guy win the party’s nomination, and who knows, maybe even the White House.”

  If he was flattered by her praise, he didn’t show it. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Of course not. But you’re one of the best at what you do, Roy. And I hate to see you wasting your talents with someone who’s perfectly happy being just a representative from Indiana.”

  He gave her a gentle smile. “Maybe I’m perfectly happy where I am too.”

  She chucked his arm and smiled back. “At least think about it. You could be on a White House staff one of these days.”

  He nodded. “I’ll mull it over . . . but not now. I’m not going anywhere until I know you’re perfectly healthy, and that whatever is bothering Sebby gets settled once and for all.”

  She gave him a dubious look, but stretched up on her tiptoes and gave him a hug. “You know I’ll support whatever you decide, Roy.”

  “I hope that includes staying on till they kick us both out of office.”

  “If that’s what you really want.”

  She walked back inside to find Tina with her feet on the coffee table.

  “Did you tell him about Guy Preston?” Tina asked.

  “Yeah, but he didn’t seem interested. I just . . .” She shook her head as she kicked off her shoes.

  “The guy’s in love with you, Glynn. Why would he want to work for someone else?”

  She sighed, thinking back to the first time eight years ago when she realized Roy thought of her as more than a friend and colleague. It had been uncomfortable at first, especially when Tina mentioned that she noticed it too. But Glynn had never encouraged his feelings, and was thankful he hadn’t pushed anything. “Roy knows I think of him only as a friend. Besides, Guy could very well be president one of these days, and Roy could end up as his chief of staff. Why wouldn’t he jump at that?”

  Tina snorted. “The only way Roy gets to be Guy Preston’s chief of staff is if he murders Marcella and stuffs her in the closet.”

  Glynn chuckled at her aide’s assessment. “She’s a piece of work, but you have to admit she knows her stuff.”

  “That woman intimidates the crap out of me. I don’t know how you used to put up with her.”

  “Bas always said he would never have gotten elected without her. And she always had an eye ahead on the next level.”

  “Still . . . I’m glad I don’t have to work with her every day.” She patted the space next to her on the couch. “Come sit here, my friend. Tell me how you’re feeling.”

  “I’m tired.” Glynn gratefully filled the empty seat and threw her stocking feet up beside Tina’s. She rarely wore shoes in the house, even in winter.

  “Have you been able to sleep?”

  “Some. I keep waking up and thinking about that phone call. What if that stupid pipe—” She couldn’t finish her thought.

  Tina draped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her closer. “It didn’t happen, Glynn. Sebby’s okay.”

  “He’s not okay! This is the second time he’s tried to do this. Something terrible is wrong with my son, and I can’t do anything to help him.”

  “He’s in good hands at the hospital. Didn’t you say his doctor was getting him to talk?”

  Glynn nodded. Chip had e-mailed her a summary of Charlotte Blue’s credentials, which included a medical degree from Brown and a residency at Stanford. On top of that, she had gone to Macedonia during the same window Glynn had been in Bosnia. That alone made her someone Glynn automatically trusted. “I think she’s good. She left a message for me to meet her tomorrow at five thirty. She’ll tell us what’s next.”

  “And what about the rest of you? How are you feeling about your treatments?”

  “It’s not horrible, but it’s not fun either.”

  “I’ll go with you tomorrow if you want me to.”

  She shook her head. “That’s okay. It’s not that big a deal. It just wears me out to have to get up so early.”

  “Did you go see Sebby this morning?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good, then you can relax for the rest of the day. We’ll eat this whole damn pizza by ourselves. Then I’ll go home and tell Leslie I’m starving and to order us Chinese. You can soak in the tub and go to bed early.”

  Glynn chuckled. “That sounds like a fairy tale. I have budget hearings for the Pentagon all day tomorrow and I haven’t read the report.”

  “I’ll have Roy in your office at seven thirty for a briefing.”

  “My treatment is at seven.”

  “Then he’ll be there at eight. He knows it cold, and you’ll pick it up in no time.”

  Glynn sighed and leaned into Tina’s shoulder. Tina always seemed to know what she needed. “Who knew it would take so many people to do this job?”

  “You’re good at it, Glynn.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t count for shit if I screw up with Sebby.”

  Charlotte swiveled from side to side in her chair, staring at her computer screen. It was nice to find that the Rawlings Center had a virtual tour of its facilities and programs. That took some of the guesswork out of her recommendation. Two of the program reviewers were psychiatrists Charlotte knew personally, and their endorsements gave her the confidence to recommend this as the perfect place for Sebby, with homelike private rooms, secure grounds and family-style meals.

  Surfing the Internet wasn’t her first choice for how to spend a Sunday afternoon, but career-minded Julie was strict when it came to her work schedule. If she didn’t use Sundays to catch up on her reading, she said, she was buried in reports all week.
And weeknights were off-limits for the same reasons.

  It was hard dealing with these time restrictions, especially since their relationship was relatively new, and at what Charlotte had always considered the hungry stage. They needed to learn more about each other, share the important stories of their lives, and discuss their needs and dreams. Craving more time together was a natural step for any new couple, especially after sexual discovery. But Julie was on a different schedule, a more deliberate timetable for which she asked patience. She was an interesting woman, kind and intelligent, and Charlotte appreciated the possibility that Julie might be, as she had suggested, worth the effort. But it was too soon to tell.

  Over her thirty-nine years, Charlotte had learned a few things. Being someone’s girlfriend wasn’t a critical piece of who she was, though she liked the idea of sharing her life with someone else. She had been in real love only once, but that was enough to know how much work it took to hold up half of a relationship. She had learned the hard way from her six years with Vera Stadler that holding up half wasn’t enough when the other person held up less. At least Julie’s mistress was her job.

  Her mood dampened by thoughts of Vera, Charlotte looked back at her computer to focus again on the task at hand. She clicked through the site and sent the relevant pages to her printer, one copy for her files and another to share with Glynn. Persuading Glynn to place her son in a residential facility would be an uphill battle if this morning’s message from her answering service was any indication. Even after witnessing her son’s anxiety-filled backslide the night before, Glynn was still convinced he would be better off at home. Charlotte hated to use the word denial—especially because Glynn wasn’t the patient in this case—but it was clear the congresswoman had a built-in resistance to acknowledging the seriousness of her son’s suicide attempt. She loved her son. That much was indisputable. But this wasn’t the time for independence or a stiff upper lip. It was a time to let professionals take charge.

  Charlotte typed the congresswoman’s name into her search engine. She was stunned to find over a hundred and fifty thousand hits, with the first page showing mostly government links. One was described as the official Web site. The first thing to catch her eye was the photograph, a high-resolution shot taken before an oak bookcase. It was almost lifelike in its clarity, especially the vibrant smile, something Charlotte hadn’t seen as Glynn grappled with the seriousness of her son’s condition. She wore a dark blue suit that brought out the color of her eyes, and the studio lights highlighted the gray strands in her short brown hair.