it look like an accident.”
Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was the day I’d had, but I started laughing. And then Ana started laughing. And we both laughed and laughed and laughed until the bartender gave us a funny look. Oops.
At precisely nine thirty, James appeared on-screen. He always had been a stickler for timekeeping. Every date we ever went on, he’d been five minutes early and I’d been five minutes late. It had become a standing joke between us. And it wasn’t as if I deliberately dithered either. Shit just always went wrong. One time, I stopped at the pharmacy to buy condoms on the way to dinner because we’d gone through his entire supply, and a dump truck broke down and blocked my car in. When the vehicles either side of me eventually moved and I was able to do an eleventy-million-point turn, you’ve guessed it… James was already at the restaurant.
That incident was basically a metaphor for our entire relationship: always doomed to fail.
But tonight, James spoke about the holiday spirit and wished everyone a Happy Christmas and/or Happy Kwanzaa, then moved on to the part he wanted me to watch. The part I’d hoped for when I planted the seed.
“Law and order is an area of focus for every president. If Americans can’t sleep soundly at night, knowing that I’m looking out for them and their families, then I’ve failed. Two years into my presidency, I like to think I’ve made a difference. Murder rates have dropped, the number of burglaries has decreased in forty-seven states, and the new fraud task force has prevented the theft of over three billion dollars and is well on its way to stamping out corruption in public office. But the punishment has to fit the crime.
“Several weeks ago, a long-standing injustice was brought to my attention. The federal three-strikes law is intended to be a deterrent, and while I believe this works in many cases, there are occasions when good people who have made mistakes end up in prison for life. My team has begun reviewing all cases where the average sentences for the individual crimes would have totalled two years or less, and that process will continue over the coming months. But in the meantime, we’ve identified eleven individuals who should be home with their families this Christmas.”
James read out a list of names. Luis Montero’s was the fifth.
“James is a good man,” Ana murmured.
“Yes, he is.”
Black had always told me that. Despite their bust-up, he’d insisted that James was the president America needed at this point in time and done everything in his power to put his old friend in the White House. Once again, my husband had been proven right.
I pulled out my phone and sent James a message: Thank you x
Five and a half hours later, my phone pinged with a reply. By that point, I’d given up all hope of getting back to Richmond by ten a.m. and resigned myself to having a really awkward conversation with Kiara’s dad in the morning. I’d offer to reschedule the flight for Boxing Day, but dammit, I hated breaking promises.
What was James doing up? It was three a.m. in DC. Certainly he wasn’t doing his wife because they slept in separate bedrooms.
James: You’re welcome. And change your flight plan. You’re going to Spokane.
Me: WTF?
James: Land at Spokane International.
I hit dial.
“James, what are you doing?”
“Abusing my presidential authority.”
“Uh…”
“Please, Emmy, I’m too tired to argue. If anybody asks questions, just cite national security.”
“But—”
“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
I was left staring at a blank screen. Sometimes, like tonight, I got a reminder that James and Black really were quite similar. The no-nonsense attitude, the ability to get things done, the way they went above and beyond even though they pretended it was nothing. Oh, and the ability to evoke utter frustration and leave me shaking my head in disbelief.
I really hoped that one day, they’d find their way back to the friendship they’d once shared. That would be the greatest Christmas gift of all.
CHAPTER 18
SO WHAT HAD James done?
He’d given me the gift of time. Two hours, to be precise.
Although even that had nearly been eaten up by yet another bloody disaster.
When we got to Spokane, I found an airman waiting outside the terminal in a jeep. So far, so good.
“Where are we going?”
“To Fairchild, ma’am.”
No, no we weren’t. Because as soon as my chauffeur put the jeep into gear, an airport truck stopped right in front of