in the business suit who sat in her chair, riffling through a stack of papers.
As she stepped through the door, the two men pushed away from her desk—a large, solid one she’d purchased for herself to help give the small room with the visible ceiling pipes a more professional feel—and the woman going through Maryann’s files looked up.
“Maryann Knorrel?” the woman asked.
Maryann nodded, because that was all she found herself able to do as the reason for this unannounced visit became clear.
“Ms. Knorrel,” the woman said, “are you familiar with the term embezzlement?”
As the two federal agents closed in on her, Maryann began to cry—a loud bawling that could be heard out on the selling floor had there been any customers out there to hear. As it was, the only ones who heard were her employees, who had witnessed the trio from corporate show up fifteen minutes before Maryann, and who were only now consulting the paper to see who had won the pool.
Daniel had a headache the likes of which he seldom experienced. But an adrenaline rush manufactured by several cups of very strong coffee and the necessity of facing down a challenge made the pain manageable. Even so, he had a hard time remembering when a campaign he’d run had experienced as many bumps—or potential bumps—as this one.
It wasn’t enough that the candidate’s brother had done his best to sink the campaign on national television, for now Graham’s sister had become a liability. Daniel had done his best to keep this latest incident from blowing up, but at the start he knew he was fighting a losing battle. When a senate candidate’s sister was arrested for embezzlement, there was a good chance a hungry reporter would soon be picking up the story, and then running with it.
“Damage control is the key,” Daniel said, but neither Graham nor his father was inclined to listen. They’d been arguing for the better part of an hour and accomplishing nothing. Placing blame wasn’t productive now that the deed was done. All that mattered was to determine if the situation could be leveraged for the good of the campaign, or failing that, how best to deflect the damage the incident stood poised to do.
At this point Daniel had had enough. He slammed his hand down on the desk, which he regretted when stabbing pain shot from his palm to his elbow. Nevertheless, silence settled over the room and he said, “As I was saying, damage control is the key.”
“Damage control,” George snorted. “And how do you propose we do that?”
“The same way I’ve always done it,” Daniel said. “Money.”
George snorted again, and even Graham looked doubtful. “It doesn’t matter how much money we have, Daniel. The story’s out there and it’s not going away.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Daniel said, more archly than he’d intended. Truth be told, the provincial nature of the town was weighing more heavily on him with each passing day, and he found himself becoming short with people at inopportune times. He’d tried to talk Graham into moving the family to Albany for the duration, to distance himself from a town that had become, rather than a boon to his candidacy, a liability, but Graham was reluctant to do that.
“You’re right,” he said. “The story’s out there. And there’s not a thing in the world that we can do to reel it back in. But we can make sure the coverage of the story is somewhat balanced, can’t we?”
It took a few ticks for Graham to track with him but he eventually did, as did George, who was shrewder than his son.
“You’re talking about paying off reporters,” George said.
Daniel shook his head. There were some rules even he wouldn’t break. “Only an idiot offers money to a reporter,” he said. “It’s a good way to wind up the topic of an investigative report. I’m talking about displays of appreciation for the fine work of a few select columnists at a few of the larger newspapers.”
“Columnists,” Graham said.
“People whose job it is to write opinion pieces. No hard news, no conflict of interest.”
The two Baxter men considered that while Daniel pondered his nails, wondering if he could wait to get a manicure or if he should look for someone local to do it.
“Think about it,” he said when the silence lingered. “It’s not as if you’ve done anything. You can’t be held responsible for all the black sheep who just happen to carry your blood. All you have to be