Something Evil's Lurking in the Dark

Tom closed his laptop with a sigh. Although he had grown accustomed to staying in touch with world events, the good, the bad, and the ugly, part of being in charge of the country, he had to admit that educating himself about the Joe Carroll murders was a lot to grapple with. Fourteen young women who had trusted Caroll, loved him even, all dead. He remembered hearing about the murders, but he had never looked through the files until now. His heart felt heavy, aching for the families of the victims. 

But today he was also met with a sense of unnerve because he hadn't just opened those files out of curiosity: a young woman in Baltimore had been murdered in a very Carroll-like fashion. Copycat killings had happened before. Every famous serial killer always had someone who so desperately wanted to live up to their fame. However, the FBI was not dismissing this as a crazed fan. No, the level of detail here was so great that they had concluded that Carroll must have taught the killer. Carroll had had many visitors in prison over the years. Any of them could have been given guidance on how to honour their idol.

When things like this happened, as president, it was his duty to keep a sense of calm amongst the public and assure them that the authorities were doing everything they could. He had already sent a letter to the victim's family. It hadn't even felt forced or like a mere act of political goodwill: he had penned the letter with great empathy, too easily able to imagine how he would feel if, God forbid, someone murdered Alex, Penny, Emily, or any of the other women in his life so senselessly. At least, that was the assumption they were working with, that women were the targets here. That wasn't an unlikely conclusion to draw based on Carroll's initial victims, but even then… this wasn't Carroll. This was someone who had been so inspired by Carroll that they wanted to continue his legacy.

As if on cue, there was a knock on the Oval Office door. Just in time. He rose from his seat and went to open it.

"Ryan, it's good to see you."

Ryan shook his hand, revealing a hint of a smile that Tom knew from experience was a rare occurrence. "It's good to see you, too. I just wish it was under more pleasant circumstances."

Tom thanked Mike for escorting Ryan, before closing the door and inviting him to sit on the couch. He sat across from Ryan, observing the haggardness of his expression. 

Ryan Hardy was the FBI agent who had originally investigated and caught Carroll. He and Tom had met in high school. People had been a little hesitant to befriend Ryan, feeling like he carried some horrible omen or curse, since death seemed to follow him wherever he went, but Tom had never let that bother him. They had only managed to catch up on occasion once they had each gone to college, Tom pursuing public policy, Ryan enrolling in Quantico. Then, the Carroll murders had put even more space between visits, but the first time they had met after the case was closed, Tom had noticed Ryan had changed. Ryan had developed a strong sense of hatred, not just towards Carroll, but towards himself. Ryan had seen the murders as a personal failure, believing that he could have, should have, caught Carroll before it was too late. Ryan had also developed a drinking problem, only going to rehab after the investigation was over, no longer having it to hide behind as an excuse. Tom hoped this apparent resurgence of Carroll wouldn't undo his sobriety.

"How have you been, Ryan?"

Ryan seemed surprised that he was even bothering to ask when this was a professional visit, not a cordial one. He shrugged vaguely. "It's funny. I hate to say it, but I wasn't even that surprised. I guess I had never really let the case go."

Tom hummed in understanding. "I'm sorry this is happening."

He shook his head. "Don't be sorry for me: be sorry for Marissa Cameron."

That was the Ryan he remembered, so focused on the greater good, on trying to save people, that his own feelings didn't matter.

"What has the FBI found so far?"

Ryan hadn't even been an active agent for some time. He had written a book about his experience solving the murders and slipped into something of a quiet life. Tom had practically put Ryan's hand up and given him a provisional contract with the FBI as soon as the police had concluded the case was an imitation of the Carroll murders. He knew Ryan had a deeper insight into the case, and Carroll himself, more than any other agent. Despite having presidential approval, the FBI was breathing down Ryan's neck, waiting for him to do something controversial so they could get rid of him. Tom wouldn't let that happen. He would remind the FBI that their personal relationship was irrelevant: Ryan was the best possible agent to be leading this case, and they all knew it.

"Not much. We're still reviewing a decade's worth of visitation logs. He's had a lot of them," Ryan explained. "We're grasping at straws. If someone was really trying to follow in Joe's footsteps, then they would have been planning for a long time. They would have known to use aliases when they signed in at the prison, worn disguises so facial recognition might miss them. And, the biggest thing…" he lowered his voice, "is that some of the footage from the prison has been erased or looped. Someone at the prison or the FBI has been tampering with evidence, which, to me, means that Cameron is just the start." There was a very worrying look in his eyes. "I don't think we have just one killer at play. My gut's telling me there will be multiple, and that they'll have a lot of help in making sure we don't find them."

Although Tom had sort of come to a similar conclusion, to hear Ryan say it with total earnest and dread, with the additional possibility of inside help, made his stomach churn. He wished there was more he could do. His best strategies at the moment were to fund local councils to install surveillance cameras and better street lighting in dingy areas. But one thing from the first series of murders that had stood out was that Carroll had known his victims personally. He had charmed his way into their lives before taking them. It was one thing to try to prevent random muggings. This was a whole new challenge. This wasn't about getting rid of a monster under the bed: the monster had an open invitation to come and go as they pleased.

"What can I do? If the FBI needs more funding or resources, they'll get it."

"We just have to wait, as sick as that sounds, and keep looking for suspicious visits to the prison. This killer, or a new one, will strike again, and we'll be ready."

He hated how hopeless the situation was. It wasn't right, not at all.

"Do you think Carroll knew about the murder?"

"I've questioned him myself. He had no idea it had even happened."

Tom noted Ryan seemed quite relieved about that. Perhaps if Carroll had had intel, he could have tried to cut a deal, and what little semblance of peace that Ryan had by knowing Carroll was on death row would be shattered.

They continued going through details of the investigation. Tom wanted to familiarise himself with all of it. It mattered to him, even if he couldn't do much about it. He wanted to be able to tell the people they had no reason to worry. That couldn't happen so long as this killer was out there. Ryan's lack of confidence and frank sense of foreboding didn't help him feel any better. No matter how much faith he had in Ryan, he had to accept the real possibility that this was not just going to go away.

As Tom showed Ryan out, he stopped Ryan with a hand on his shoulder.

"You're going to find them, Ryan," he assured. "You know Carroll better than anybody. You can do this."

"But so does the killer," Ryan pointed out before sighing. "I know you have faith, Tom, you always do, but if I were you… I'd start preparing letters for the families of the next victims."

Whatever small hope Tom had had that the FBI would find the killer and all of this would blow over was destroyed in the span of a month. There was a string of murders not just in the state, but nationwide. CTU was even involved, trying to see if this was some kind of terrorist sleeper cell. But this was unlike any other group they had investigated before. There was no religious or political motivation, unless you counted honouring Carroll's murders like he was an almighty deity as worship. Although with more murders, the FBI had more evidence to go on, and even a few suspects, it also meant more traps to lay, more people who could be disciples, followers of Carroll. None of their suspects had ever been on any watchlists. They had nothing to go on other than the knowledge that Carroll was the inspiration for it all.

However, if Tom had already been upset by this, what made even more frightening was White House aides starting to drop like flies.

They were mostly junior or entry-level staff, murdered in their homes or on the streets. But the bodies were being found closer and closer to the White House. Understandably, this was concerning for everyone in the administration. Some people had turned in their resignations immediately. Requests for Secret Service escorts to people's cars or public transport interchanges were at a record high. The free self defence classes offered for anyone on the government's payroll had never had so many attendants. It couldn't just be a coincidence. This was some kind of display of power by Carroll's followers. The FBI didn't have any evidence to suggest there was a political vendetta here. They doubted it was to do with Tom specifically, but it had him nervous that this was going to get more personal for him, especially since the murders getting closer and closer had to mean there was someone on the inside, someone in the White House who was enabling this. Nobody wanted to say it, too afraid to tempt this mole to act with vengeance. But productivity was at an all-time low. People were scared. They were afraid to pass on any sensitive information, no longer believing that their colleagues were aligned with their beliefs. Those who had been at the White House long enough practically travelled in packs, too afraid to be alone and vulnerable. Tom had tried to assure people, even leaving his office more often than usual, to show that this was a safe place to work. But he didn't want to seem too insincere when, frankly, he was scared, too.

Mike shut the door behind him as he came in. Tom had thought long and hard about who he could trust, something that didn't come naturally to him, even after seeing corruption in the government through becoming the president. Longevity was a key deciding factor. If he had known someone for long enough, then he would know about their past, have talked with them enough times to have an understanding of who they were. It also helped that these people were closest to him as far as the White House hierarchy went; they needed to have the top security clearance to be in their positions and that had to count for something. He had spoken long and hard about this with Ryan, too. Ryan had already arrested one of his own agents for suspicious activity, and he feared that there was more where that came from. He urged Tom to never, never let his guard down. When he had said it, he had sounded borderline paranoid. It had made Tom aware of the mindset that Ryan had carried with him for so long. It was a miserable life to lead, to never trust anybody, never let anybody in, in fear that they were working for the enemy. But at a time like this, it was unfortunately necessary, although Tom still wasn't quite ready to accept it.

"What's this about, sir?" Aaron asked, now that the five of them, Tom, Aaron, Emily, Seth, and Mike, were alone. He hadn't explained why he had brought them in, although they probably had a feeling.

He invited them to take a seat before clasping his hands together and saying, "I know these murders have been pretty terrifying, especially when it's our job to run this country and keep it safe. It's asking the impossible for you to try to act like everything is fine when it's not. So, we have to cling to whatever networks we have. And, as of right now, the four of you are the only ones who have been with me long enough and have high enough authority for me to feel like trusting you is okay."

They looked at each other, both flattered and somewhat hesitant by his suggestion. Maybe they were only mostly convinced it was true, just like he was.

"Sir, I think you should set a good example and treat everyone with equal levels of reservation," Aaron said. "Even if you do trust us, you should act like you don't."

"But the people in the White House should feel it's appropriate to come to you if they have any concerns. Catching someone in the act is the only way we'll know who is and isn't trustworthy."

"It does also make us higher-risk targets," Emily pointed out. "And I'm not saying that doesn't come with the job, but if you make it known that we're your only confidants, the followers will want to use that." He could see she was particularly scared, and he couldn't blame her. Although the recent victims had only been predominantly women, she was the only woman in his little inner circle, not counting Alex and his daughter.

"I agree with Aaron as well," Mike added. "Even then, you shouldn't have blind faith in the Secret Service, not anymore. You have to be vigilant, sir. Hell, you shouldn't even trust me."

Seth seemed quite spooked by it all, or at least he was showing it more than the others, then saying, "I don't know. On one hand, I want to make sure that we're all on alert. On the other, I want to be someone who is trusted, and who the other staff can feel safe around. I want them to be able to come to me." His voice hardened. One thing that had come up was that Seth had known one of the recent victims. Not very well, not to the degree of going to the funeral — Tom suspected he had wanted to, but just hadn't wanted to leave work — but enough that he clearly felt a sense of responsibility and duty in this.

"Sir, how far has the FBI gotten?" Emily folded her arms. "In either looking for the followers or fishing out the moles?"

Tom shook his head. "Not far in either. The task force is becoming smaller and smaller every day to keep things need-to-know."

"So, what, we're going to sit here scared shitless that we're working with a psychotic murderer or murderers?"

The frustration and disbelief were palpable. It felt so wrong to have a crisis that they weren't doing much about and no agency was, either.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know it doesn't seem right that we're letting it affect all parts of our lives. But these killers are not amateurs, and if they're already starting to penetrate the White House, we cannot be naive enough to assume that they won't come after us."

Aaron exhaled, putting his hands on his hips. Seth still looked conflicted. Even Mike, who was normally stoic during the worst of times, looked worried.

"All I'm saying is protect yourselves and look out for each other," Tom advised. "And maybe, just maybe, we'll figure this out before it's too late."

Seth closed his eyes as he took another drag from his cigarette. He hadn't smoked since his early years of college, but with everything going on, he had decided that he needed to deal with his stress somehow. Usually, even in a crisis or scandal, the adrenaline and sense of duty got him through it, as did the camaraderie with his colleagues. But this was different. For one, he couldn't really do anything about a cult of serial killers. And two, since these serial killers apparently had the means to infiltrate the White House, everyone had become incredibly paranoid. It felt ludicrous that they were just being told to get on with their work when everything was falling apart. He checked the hourlies from the FBI on the dot. He contacted his own friends in varying agencies, asking for anything and everything, but it was no use. All he could do was keep the press well-informed and shut down any rumours that were circulating. However, on Kirkman's orders, he was also to dismiss any questions about moles in the FBI or the White House or any other government branch. Until they made formal arrests and assured that the issue was resolved, it would just make the public panic and lose their faith. It could start riots if people knew that agents in the government couldn't trust each other.

He checked his watch. Time to go. He put out and discarded the cigarette before coming inside and taking the familiar path to the press room. Even just being inside kicked his anxiety into overdrive. He had become hyperaware of the less monitored spots of the White House. He kept checking over his shoulder, ensuring that he wasn't alone. And, when he entered the press room, the loud chatter from the reporters and flashes of cameras just felt even worse. He had gotten so used to the borderline sensory overload that came with speaking to so many people at once, who also interrupted him and changed topic without warning, but right now, he was reminding himself to breathe, and gripping the sides of the podium so hard his knuckles were turning white.

"Seth! What is the president doing to find Joe Carroll's followers?"

"He is backing the FBI and giving them the necessary resources. He is also talking with local councils about improving security in underprivileged suburbs."

"What about citizens who are concerned about their right to privacy and don't consent to being recorded?"

He huffed. "The cameras are only being used for security reasons. These followers have been trained by one of the country's most elusive and dangerous serial killers. We have to do everything we can to hunt them down."

There were a few more questions about the nuances of heightened surveillance and whether the FBI had any leads — as if they hadn't already asked those questions at the FBI's press conference an hour ago. Things were staying relatively civil. With his articulation, he knew how to avoid answering questions in a way that a reporter could pounce on like an animal of prey. There really wasn't much to go on, anyway.

"Seth!" an irritatingly familiar voice called out.

Carrie Cooke. Of course she was here. Seth was convinced that if you took a sample of her DNA and compared it with a leech, it would be a perfect match.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he looked at her.

"What is the president's response to the allegation that his Chief of Staff, Aaron Shore, was one of the people who visited Joe Carroll in prison eight years ago?"

All fell quiet. Carrie Cooke was equally notorious for having information she shouldn't and sparking rumours that spread like wildfire, forcing him and other press secretaries — mostly him — to do damage control.

"Can you repeat that, please?" His gut had processed the shock of her statement, but his brain still hadn't gotten there.

"Aaron Shore came up as a match for the facial recognition search of people who had visited Joe Carroll in prison over the last decade." 

"Where the hell did you get that from?" he asked, coming across more hostile than he should.

She smiled, looking down at her phone. Within a few seconds, his vibrated in his pocket, as did seemingly every other reporter's. He took it out and opened the photo she had sent him. He felt the blood drain from his face. The photo was a little blurry from the lower quality of older CCTV cameras. His hair was different, too, curlier and longer, not the neat, clean cut he was used to seeing. He had glasses, too, quite large, and under any other circumstances, he might have cracked a joke and called him four-eyes, the almost nerdy style so unfitting of his character. But he was far too distracted by the malicious sneer on his face, the look of devotion in his eyes as he looked at Carroll, who looked back at him like a father looks at his son. Nobody could deny it was Aaron.

The more he stared at the photo, the more his pounding heartbeat drowned out everything else.

"I can't make any comments at this time until the President discusses this with the FBI," he concluded without stuttering too much. "We need to see the parameters of the facial recognition algorithm before we can make any claims about its veracity."

Still, his words were worth nothing; the reporters now had this image to plaster wherever they wanted to. These days, one upload to social media was all it took. A blessing and a curse, but more often than not, a curse. Seth narrowed his eyes at Carrie, who just smiled, like she knew exactly what she had done and simply didn't care.

He walked out of the press room, declining to answer any more questions. He noticed that everybody he walked past seemed to have their phone out and was more than a little shocked. He got to the Oval Office in record time, but it appeared he was too late, because the door was wide open as two FBI agents dragged a handcuffed, protesting and frankly terrified, Aaron through the doors, accompanied by Ryan Hardy, the president's old friend and agent in charge of the Carroll case.

"This is a mistake!" Aaron yelled. "I can explain everything!"

Seth stood there, stunned, as Aaron was escorted towards a seldom-used stairwell. He supposed that was for his privacy and dignity, but at this rate, his name would be a headline before he got to a holding cell.

Kirkman had a troubled look on his face, like this had all happened with little warning or authority on his part. What concerned Seth more than anything, though, was that he could tell Kirkman wasn't just concerned about his Chief of Staff being arrested: no, he was concerned about whether maybe, just maybe, he could actually be guilty.

Under no other circumstances would anyone permit the President of the United States to witness the interrogation of a high-profile suspect, but Tom had insisted. When Tom had said he wanted to observe the interrogation, Ryan had warned that he would not go easy on Aaron, that the risk of him being a follower of Carroll meant he could be dangerous and difficult to break. Tom still insisted that he was innocent and that there was an explanation, as Aaron had claimed, but Ryan wouldn't take that at face value. 

Tom looked through the one-way glass as Ryan paced with his arms folded. Aaron was handcuffed to a chair, electrodes attached to his chest to monitor his heart rate. There was also a camera tracking his pupils. This was not just a simple polygraph. The level of sophistication here was only used for the toughest, coldest, most psychopathic suspects, people like Carroll. 

Nonetheless, Tom felt sorry for Aaron. Aaron had been manhandled and humiliated. The press recovery would be a nightmare once he was released, but Tom would gladly take that over the alternative of Aaron indeed being this follower Paul Torres. Admittedly, the resemblance was there. But doppelgangers existed, right? Photos could be fabricated, too. Who knew if this was some elaborate red herring to deter the press and the FBI from the real follower in the picture?

"You said you had an explanation?" Ryan started, his voice sterner than Tom had ever heard from him. "Then spill," he spat. "Otherwise, this is about to get very ugly. Because if you are who I think you are, and you're one of his followers, I will find your weak spot and I will make you wish you had come clean earlier."

Aaron sighed, keeping his head down. Tom tried to interpret all the vitals on the screen or read the expression of the FBI agent monitoring it, but couldn't really get anything.

"Oh, you're tired?" Ryan said, without a shred of sympathy. "You think anyone's going to buy that? Talk to me, you son of a bitch."

"Fine," Aaron grumbled. "But I need your word that what I'm about to tell you won't leave this room. Not just because I want to cover my ass but the president's, too, which I know you care about because he's the only reason you're even on this case."

Ryan's cheek twitched a little before he agreed, "Alright, if you give us intel, I can promise not to include it in any press conferences and keep it as need-to-know as possible but if it's a lead, I will need to act on it."

Aaron nodded, still unable to meet Ryan's eye. Tom had never seen him look so shameful. Even though he had sounded outraged, daring to negotiate with the man who had arrested him, his body language was a whole other story.

"The man in that photo, Paul Torres, is my twin brother."

Tom's eyebrows rose. Aaron had always been somewhat private about his past, despite seeming to be someone who valued family. Perhaps he was about to explain why.

"Brother?" Ryan sputtered. "You're really pulling the twin brother bullshit? Why didn't it come up as a second facial recognition match then?"

"Because he's not registered. He was taken from my family at a young age, smuggled across the border, and adopted." 

Despite trying to sound matter-of-fact, the weakness of his voice betrayed his underlying emotions. Ryan tilted his head.

"From the day he was born… everybody knew there was something wrong with him. He never wanted to play with me or the other kids. His drawings were dark and disturbing. Once he was old enough to be running around, he'd kill small animals for fun, bashing them with bricks. He'd trap bugs in jars and watch them die slowly. My parents didn't know what to do. They took him to whatever doctors they could find. They asked the priest to exorcise him." He sniffled. "The final straw was when he grabbed a kitchen knife and tried to kill me in my sleep. We were five years old. They knew he was dangerous and beyond help. At the time, a few relatives were trying to get across the US border. My uncle promised to find him a family who had the means to care for him. They found a couple looking to adopt, a psychologist and an ex-soldier, and nobody ever spoke about him again."

There was a pause as Ryan took in the information, looking up through the glass, waiting for the monitoring FBI agent to conclude whether he was telling the truth. Of course, psychopaths could make their vitals look normal even while lying; Tom knew it wouldn't be completely accurate. But his gut told him it was true, and the FBI agent seemed to agree, relaying the information to Ryan.

"So, hypothetically, I should be able to find records of his adoption, his residence, his social security number, all of that?"

"Yes, but not easily. When I knew I was serious about going into politics, I paid someone to erase every trace of him from the government system. He exists where necessary to not raise eyebrows. But I wanted him as far away from me as possible, because I knew no matter what kind of people took him in, that darkness inside of him would never go away. It was only a matter of time before he did something big, so I took precautions."

"Who did you pay off?"

"I won't betray his identity, but he told me how to access his records should I need to. Give me a computer and I'll be set to go."

Tom felt his shoulders relax. True to his belief, there was a logical, albeit upsetting, explanation for everything. He thought about his own brother, who had been something of a black sheep in the family, but this was very different. Tom empathised dearly, understanding why Aaron would want to distance himself from his brother so much. It was probably for his own emotional sake, too, avoiding anything and everything that reminded him of the trauma of nearly being killed by your own flesh and blood. Still, these had not exactly been ideal circumstances to be vulnerable about. He had had to say this to enforce that he was a trustworthy and innocent man.

Another agent came in with a laptop, and she and Ryan watched closely as Aaron navigated the records. It didn't take long before Ryan confirmed everything looked to be in order. He wasn't apologetic about what he had done, but he clearly believed him. 

As Aaron's release was processed, Ryan came up to him.

"I did mean it when I said I would keep this as private as possible. I wasn't just saying that to make him talk," Ryan explained. "If we manage to hunt Torres down, I will personally consult with Aaron to make sure nobody connects the two of them. As far as the media will know, he's a doppelganger. No relation."

That meant a lot to him, and he was sure it would to Aaron, too. "Thank you, Ryan."

He laughed derisively. "I just made your chief of staff confess to a terrible, dark secret only to validate that you were right about him. Why thank me?"

"You know what I mean," Tom smiled a little. "For trying to protect me and this country."

They rode back in the same limo together. Aaron was silent the whole time, unable to even look at him. Tom wasn't quite sure if that was out of shame or out of a building resentment that would surely reveal itself when they were alone in the Oval Office. When they got back, Aaron wordlessly followed him up the same stairwell. Thankfully, Tom didn't find anybody lurking, desperate to know what had happened. That would come in due time, in whatever way Aaron believed was right.

Aaron sat on the couch, putting his head between his hands as Mike shut the door to give them privacy.

"I'm sorry, Aaron. I should have fought harder when they arrested you–"

To Tom's surprise, Aaron shook his head. "You did the right thing. The photo was pretty damning evidence. I always knew this would come back to bite me, and today it did."

"Ryan gave me his word he would keep this private," Tom reminded him. "As for how you want to address the media, we can go through that together. Nobody would blame you for wanting to go with the doppelganger cover story."

He lifted a shoulder. "I feel like such a coward. I never wanted to be a politician who kept a closet full of skeletons. I wanted to be upfront and honest, but I just– I couldn't. Not only for my sake, but for yours, too."

Tom smiled a little in understanding. "I appreciate you trying to protect me."

Aaron lifted his head, finally meeting his eye. "If you want to demote me or suspend me or ask me to step down, I won't blame you, sir."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"You have every reason not to trust me. I concealed a huge part of my past from you, and I should have been transparent. Especially at a time like this, when we're meant to be telling people to keep their guard up."

"Aaron, I have every reason to trust you. You and I are some of the busiest people in the country. How often do we have the time to sit and talk like this?" he pointed out. "We're handling this, and the fact that you came clean with something so big is what affirmed to me that this was all a misunderstanding. I never doubted you for a second."

He let out a pathetic laugh. "You don't have to lie, sir."

"I mean it," he insisted. "I… I know we're meant to be doing this 'no-trust' thing, but it's not worth it if it means forcing the people close to me to bring up parts of their past that shouldn't be anybody's business. What I said to the four of you the other day, I meant it. I trust you all, unconditionally. Nothing can change that."

Aaron took a moment to process that before the corners of his lips upturned a little. "Thank you, sir. That… that means a lot."

"You're welcome."

As Tom finished up the meeting, leading Kendra and her new aide, Jacob, out of the Oval Office, his phone rang. It was quite late. The review of DOJ policies had taken longer than expected, but Alex calling now meant that the event had to have gone well. She had decided to host a charity event for the victims and their families of the Carroll murders. With paranoia and fear at an all-time high, to have the First Lady create a safe and welcoming space for people meant a lot. She was also doing some ribbon-cutting ceremonies for new shelters for domestic violence victims. While many tabloids accused it all of being some elaborate publicity stunt to ensure votes for the next election, anybody who knew him or Alex knew they were doing this out of the goodness of their hearts. It was really the least they could do when all these killers were still out there and able to hurt people.

Tom sat in his chair as he answered.

"Hey," Alex greeted.

"Hey, how'd it go?"

"It went really well," she said, and he could practically picture the proud smile on her face. It wasn't that this had been a happy event by any means, but he recognised the way she was speaking was the way she used to sound when she won a case, got justice for someone. "I think people really connected with each other, and I managed to visit every table at least once. It was exactly as I'd pictured it."

The corners of his lips upturned. "I'm so proud of you, you know that?"

"Well, you can show me how proud you are when I get back," she teased. Despite her coy tone, he could hear that she was sniffling, understandably. While both of them had had to learn to shield themselves emotionally from the tragedies they heard about day in and day out, it was understandable that to have spent a whole evening talking to grieving people had to have taken its toll on her.

"You alright?" he asked softly.

"Yeah, I just-" Alex cleared her throat. "I'm just processing it all. My God, Tom, if you heard about what these people have gone through, to not have someone to blame, someone to punish… it's so awful."

He hummed in understanding. "I know."

It took her a moment to speak again. Something in his gut told him it wasn't Alex just trying to find her words. He could hear her breathing heavily over the phone.

"Alex, is something wrong?"

"I-I'm not sure. I swore Mike and Jason were near me, and now I'm at the car, and… they're gone."

He wasn't normally quick to panic — at least, he had gotten a lot better at doing that since becoming the president — but that feeling in his gut intensified.

"Just… just stay where you are. Call them and then call me right back. Stay where it's well-lit–"

But before she could chide him for overreacting, he suddenly heard a horrifying scream that made him freeze. It wasn't brief, like she had just seen something that frightened her — and even then, Alex wasn't one for being dramatic. No, it was prolonged, and guttural, and accompanied by what he would later learn was the sound of metal piercing her flesh. Tom babbled her name before there was a clang as her phone fell to the ground. A dial tone had never sounded so ominous.

"Alex? Alex!" he yelled, somehow still believing that he could get through to her.

Although he didn't know what had happened, it was incredible what intuition could do, because he already felt dread slowly consuming his body from his heart outwards. He called Mike, every ring feeling like forever. He became hyperaware of every passing second, time never having felt so slow yet so fast all at once. When he got Mike's voicemail, he cursed under his breath. He knew it was likely because he was in the middle of dealing with whatever had just happened, but it didn't make him feel any better. Upon trying to call again, he almost got a second voicemail but thankfully, Mike answered, this time. The uncharacteristic worry to his voice as he greeted him only made him panic more.

"What happened?"

"Alex was stabbed. She's… she's dead, sir."

"What?" he rasped.

"I'm so sorry," Mike lamented.

The room started to spin, his fingers trembling. He felt almost paralysed with shock. This couldn't be right. She had just been walking to the car. She should have had people there to protect her. There was no reason for them to have been otherwise occupied. 

"Why weren't you with her?" Tom demanded. "Why weren't you with her?"

"I-It was a split second-"

"That's not good enough!" he insisted, his voice breaking. "Mike, please… tell me you saw who did this."

The part of his mind that had already accepted what had happened, the rational part tucked behind the rest of him that desperately wanted to believe she would be okay, knew that this was the work of a follower of Carroll. The FBI had already hypothesised that the followers were going after people in the White House as a demonstration of power. It wasn't just aides who had been murdered now, but higher-ups, in their own offices, and now the First Lady. Someone in the White House was working for Carroll, and he would not rest until he found out who.

"I didn't see them in time, but there are cameras in the area. We'll figure it out, sir, I promise."

If it was one thing he had faith in, it was that Ryan would not rest until he found the killer. He was grateful to have him, now more than ever.

"Which hospital are you taking her to?" Tom asked.

"Sir, I… I'm not sure if that's a good idea right now. There was an attempt on her life, which means the killer could be waiting for you to-"

"I don't give a damn! Take me to her now. That's an order."

Mike sighed. "Alright. I'll double the protection and get Limbrey and Thornton to escort you."

As Tom hung up, the phone fell from his hand. He stared blankly ahead, knowing that if his gaze dropped to the photo of his family on his desk, he would surely break down. Alex was dead. He had barely had the chance to ask her about her night. He hadn't even said I love you. He looked at the wall clock. It had only been five minutes. Five God-damned minutes and she was gone. He realised Carroll's followers must have been watching her, a thought that made him feel sick and angry. This was their way of stating that they were not to be underestimated. That they had power in numbers. That their people were everywhere and no amount of investigation would ever help to find them all until it was too late.

And as he recognised the goals of these people, a realisation hit him like a truck.

If these killers could circumvent Secret Service and get to the First Lady, who was to say they couldn't get to his children, or… him?

Tom was almost certain he was setting some kind of record by being the first president to visit a serial killer in prison. However, it was less likely that they were permitting him to do this on account of being the president and more likely that they just didn't want to deny a widower, not when he had been snapping at everyone, barely keeping it together, then apologising profusely when his head cleared.

Still, they were taking excessive precautions, and for good reason. He would not be alone with Carroll. Guards from the prison, who were used to his behaviour, and the Secret Service, would be on the outside and inside of the room. Although Tom wished this could be a private conversation, so full of anger and pain that he wanted to express, deep down, he was pretty terrified at the thought of being alone with him, too. He realised this wasn't just about Alex, although she was driving most of his emotions here. No, it was about the sheer injustice for every innocent life taken by Carroll and his followers. It was about feeling so powerless and hopeless, despite giving the FBI everything they could need. It was also about the knowledge that people in the government were actively aiding and working for him, that nothing was sacred or safe anymore, that even in the most highly controlled and secure environments, one could never let their guard down. The exhaustion of being anxious all the time had taken its toll on him, and many others. This was not the way things were supposed to be, but the paranoia and fear only seemed to worsen with each passing day.

As Tom caught a glimpse through the glass of the man sitting there nonchalantly, his fists clenched. He wondered if this was how Ryan felt every time he went to talk to him to get information. When Tom glanced at Ryan beside him, he seemed stoic, but gave him an empathetic nod. He was the only one who had truly understood him, the only one who had validated his desire to see Carroll, rather than given him some bullshit about being the bigger man or desperately trying to protect him. He had been strongly advised to see a therapist, and had done so reluctantly, but he never could quite pour his heart out to Doctor Louden the same way he could to Ryan.

One of the prison guards came into the vestibule, confirming to Ryan that Carroll had been searched. Ryan thanked the guard before turning to face him. "I've made sure that nobody knows about this. Even if Carroll himself tries to brag to the other inmates, there won't be any proof for the media to use."

Tom nodded. "Thanks."

The door opened, and the white, sterile environment made him blink a few times. It wasn't quite the warm lighting of the White House that he had grown so accustomed to. Frankly, it reminded him of seeing Alex's body in the morgue. Blood had reeked from her body so much that it had overpowered the smell of bleach and metal. It had soaked her clothes and splattered into her hair and onto her face. Her eyes had been closed, lest he see the two gaping, oozing abysses beneath the skin. She had been so cold. He had sat in the morgue and held her hand for a very long time before finally deciding to say goodbye. The funeral had been a joke, more for public relations than for his or his children's closure. Tom shook his head. He couldn't look weak here. Not when he was about to look his wife's killer — or, at least, the closest thing to his wife's killer — in the eye.

"Well, well, well… it must be my lucky day. The president has made time in his busy schedule to come see me."

Tom reminded himself to breathe as he sat across from the man, noticing that he was chained at the wrist and at the ankle. The heavily armed prison guards were close, but not so close that Carroll could take advantage of them. Tom clasped his hands together, daring to meet the prisoner's gaze. Had this meeting transpired before becoming president, he never would have had the courage to do so.

"My wife was killed by one of your followers," Tom stated.

"Oh, deary me, how awful! I didn't even get to see it."

His cheek twitched.

"I knew that she had been killed, but I didn't know it had been one of mine," Carroll elaborated. "Although, really, as much as I love my followers, I can't quite keep track of them anymore. The quality of work has really slagged off. I wish I could endorse the killings somehow, verify them like a… like a blue tick on a Twitter account. Anyways…" He waved his hand dismissively. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Do you have any information on where your followers are or could be?" 

Tom knew it was a waste of time. The FBI had questioned Carroll countlessly, and he clearly didn't feel the need to show extra respect or appreciation for him.

Carroll rolled his eyes. "I already told Ryan I don't know anything." He held up his hands defensively. "These people are making their own choices! I'm admittedly flattered by their choice to honour me, but that doesn't mean I know the dirty details."

He sighed.

"I'll be honest, I can't quite understand why you're here. You would have known that dear Ryan has spent lots," Carroll looked up through the glass where Ryan was likely standing and waggled his eyebrows, "of time trying to analyse me. The FBI will never cut me a deal, so even if I had information, there's nothing they could offer in return. Well, actually, if there was one thing I would like, it would be to be executed in a more stylish way. The lethal injection has no poeticism to it. Sure, it's more humane and has a better success rate, but for a country that prides itself on its freedom and police, I really am disappointed that nobody would consider giving me a… a guillotine or even the good old electric chair."

Something about his absolute blase tone, his disregard for speaking to the president and a widow, really made his blood boil. He had never been a vengeful man. He had never been one to lose his temper or even raise his voice when unnecessary. The only thing that had changed that was becoming the president and being in charge of so many crises all the time. But it always came down to injustice, not a power trip. Even when things were tense and fast-paced, he cared about deliberation. But now this was different. He was angry in a way unrecognisable to himself.

He slammed his hand down on the desk, startling Carroll a little and pausing his ramble about the history of capital punishment. "Is that all this is to you? A game? Something you do for fun?"

"Well, even if I derive pleasure from it, that doesn't mean I don't care! For all I know, these followers could just be cheaply imitating me. The ones who visited me, learned from me, yes, I believe they're worthy enough to call themselves followers, but I know damn well that the numbers of murderers and suspects being reported is far larger than the number of people who took the time to come to me."

Carroll had a point. The breadth of the locations of killings had become so pervasive that a simple list of people who had visited him over the years could no longer explain it. No, these people had spread Carroll's word like gospel. 

"Really, if I had been the one to kill your wife, I would have at least sent her off properly."

And that was it for him. Tom might not have gotten closure from this, but he now had a better understanding of why Ryan had changed so irrevocably. To talk to someone like Carroll day in and day out, to listen to him talk about how he derived joy from killing innocent people, he would have to learn to detach, too. Tom had seen videos of interrogations of terrorists and at least recognised that those people came from a place of anger and trauma, even if they expressed it unjustifiably. But someone like Carroll, an educated, eloquent man with no real motivation other than boredom, who simply saw killings as an act of love rather than hatred, downright infuriated and terrified him. It made him aware that anyone could be like Carroll. Anyone could pick up a knife and kill someone just for kicks or some perverted pleasure. 

Before he knew it, he had lunged across the table, shoving Carroll against the chair. He wasn't sure what he was planning to do. He had never been one to instigate a fight. But there were people grabbing him, and he knew he wouldn't get very far. God, what was wrong with him? He prayed that nobody outside this room would ever know what he did because he was deeply mortified.

Everything happened so fast as he was dragged back to the vestibule. Clearly, letting him in the room had been enough of a stretch; he couldn't have his cake and eat it, too.

"Just give him a minute," Ryan said, telling the guards to let go of him.

Tom couldn't look him in the eye, feeling so vulnerable and shameful.

"It's alright, Tom. Nobody in their right mind could blame you for that."

"How… how do you do it?" He sniffled, lifting his head. "How do you look at him without thinking about how angry you are that he's still hurting people, even behind bars?"

Ryan gave a mirthless smile. "I don't. I'm just better at pushing it down."

He closed his eyes, feeling tears prick the back of his eyes. He was trying so hard to be strong, but God damn it, he couldn't. Not when he knew that the only way he might get closure was knowing the truth about who did this, but not just for Alex, for the families across the country who were grieving, the people afraid to leave their homes, everyone who was suffering. Ryan took him in his arms, grounding him, not shying away from his feelings, not coddling, just being the friend he needed, the person nobody else could be.

"I promise you. I swear I will find the follower who killed Alex. I will keep your family safe."

Ryan spoke with so much assurance, but all Tom could feel was a growing sense of doom, like he was truly accepting that no matter how hard he tried, the followers couldn't be stopped.

Although the killings had somewhat plateaued over the last few weeks, Tom's feeling of emptiness had only grown. It was a struggle to get out of bed and remember why he did this. Usually, his only motivation was that he didn't exactly have a choice. The country wouldn't run itself. His staff were helping him to get by, and he couldn't be more grateful for them. Emily and Seth spent a lot of time with Penny, too, where they could. 

It felt strange to him that the world could just move on when his heart still ached every time he woke up and found nobody beside him. Therapy had gotten to a stalemate, too, on account of his stubborn belief that he was never going to get over it until justice was served. Doctor Louden had insisted that moving through grief had to be unconditional, and that he would learn to live with it, but he was afraid. He was too afraid to try living life without her. It wasn't just about it being so soon after her death: it was also about his justified inability to trust anybody new, especially in the government. He wasn't even talking about dating — and, well, the president couldn't exactly use a dating app or pick up women at a bar, so logistically, it seemed about impossible — even just finding a friend, or someone to be vulnerable around was difficult. He had Ryan, but Ryan's way of expressing his care was working himself to the bone, so they didn't have much time to talk, now more than ever.

When he entered the boardroom, it looked quite scarce. This was hardly surprising, given the mass resignations and murders.

"Aaron, where's Emily?" Tom asked, noticing she wasn't in her seat. She was never late, and even if she was, she always had a lengthy, justified, professional apology ready. It immediately made him panic and assume the worst. He tried not to do that, realising it was in part a trauma response to losing Alex, but when the most recent White House-related murder had been the aide of the Secretary of Defence — in her office no less — he had every reason to. 

"She texted me," Aaron said, to his relief. "She's got the flu."

While it was a little strange that Emily hadn't texted him personally, she had probably figured that Aaron could pass on the message.

Tom nodded. "Tell her I hope she feels better."

Today's meeting was a relatively urgent one — although, really, when was a White House meeting not urgent? A space station had been hacked, causing the cooling system to malfunction, so the astronauts inside were at high risk of dying of heat exhaustion. They were bringing in Doctor Andrea Frost, the aerospace engineer who had designed the system. Her reputation preceded her. She had been on the news countless times, performing ribbon-cutting ceremonies for space innovation projects, visiting schools to empower young women in STEM, and her own entrepreneurship. Tom had known of her for some time, but when she walked through the door, he felt his heart stop. She might have looked pretty on TV, but she was breathtaking to see in person. It wasn't just her outward appearance: the way she carried herself confidently but not arrogantly, the way she spoke and regarded everyone around her so respectfully, the smile she gave as she caught his eye… everything.

Tom had to remind himself to breathe. He, admittedly, hadn't looked at anybody this way since he Alex, and recognising that made his chest pang. It had barely been three months. It was absolutely not okay for him to be feeling this way. Not just for his own heart, but for the sake of this crisis. He couldn't be gawking at her or acting unprofessionally, either. As she took her seat and started to speak, Tom noticed that mannerisms here and there reminded him of Alex a little, too. His strategy of shoving grief down as far as it could go in favour of getting on with things clearly was failing him, because he had to blink a few times to rid himself of the tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

With the help of the other agencies, they managed to find the hacker, and resolve the crisis. But Andrea's quick-thinking and vast knowledge had bought them critial time. Everybody was clearly impressed, and a little enamoured by her. Tom invited her into his office to thank her personally. He had been keeping the Oval Office more and more restricted, both out of his own desire to decompress in isolation from dealing with so much and also out of the paranoia that even he wasn't safe. So long as these killers were out there, he wouldn't take any chances. He had to keep Penny safe. He still wasn't sure if he was more relieved or worried that Leo was on the other side of the country at college. On one hand, the White House was not safe. On the other, he was guaranteed better security detail in DC since he had more people at his disposal.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" she asked, sticking her head through the door.

He smiled in a way that, for the first time in months, didn't feel forced out of politeness.

"You can close the door behind you and take a seat," he encouraged. "And just 'Tom' is fine, Doctor Frost."

She obliged willingly. "Just 'Andrea' is fine for me, too, Tom."

Tom came and sat across from her. "I wanted to thank you once again for everything you did today. Some good people are safe because of you."

Andrea smiled. "You're welcome. I'm glad I could help."

This should really be the end of this line of conversation. Actually, it could have just been a quick message he gave her as she signed out. But the truth was, bringing her in here was an excuse to get her to stay longer. And, judging by how she was making no move to get up or say goodbye, maybe she wasn't against that.

When he looked up at her again, her expression had softened. "I know you've probably heard this from a lot of people, but I am very sorry about what happened to your wife."

He nodded. "Thank you."

"I… I understand the emotions you're going through right now. I lost my husband about a year ago, and the grief of losing someone you love so much is difficult for an ordinary person, let alone the president."

"I appreciate that," he said genuinely. "But you're no ordinary person, Andrea."

He wasn't sure why he had been so forward. But, well, it was true.

She laughed through her nose. "I'm flattered."

"I'm sorry about your husband," he added, wanting to validate her after she had just been so kind to him. "It's inspiring to see you still able to move on and do everything in his honour."

Andrea lifted a shoulder. "It's what he would have wanted me to do."

There was something truly wonderful between them right now. It felt like a safe space for them to be honest and open up about their pasts. When did he ever feel like this with anyone? It was like he had had a deep connection with her for some time, despite having only known her for half a day. Tom made a note to himself to keep her in mind for the future, both as an excellent consultant for anything aerospace, but also as someone who he felt understood him as Tom Kirkman, and not just the president. Emily, Aaron, Seth, and Mike were all good to him, and he was grateful to have them during such a difficult time, but he couldn't quite be as open with them the way he could with Andrea. Really, Ryan and Alex were the only two people he had ever been able to be this vulnerable around.

An urgent knock on the door stopped him in his musing. "Sir?" It was Aaron. When one crisis ended at the White House, there was always another right behind it.

"Excuse me, for a moment," he lamented, before calling for Aaron to come in.

When he turned around, Aaron had a look of immense worry on his face.

"Secret Service went to Emily's apartment. She was attacked. The assailant must have been the one to send the text."

His eyebrows rose. "Is she?–"

Aaron shook his head, making him let out a breath. "She's in the ICU. They're operating on her now. Hardy is already on it, too."

He rubbed his hand over his face, looking back at Andrea, who shared his concern. "I'll take that as my cue to leave. I hope your aide is okay."

Tom thanked her once again, before ensuring Mike escorted her out personally, and heading to the hospital, praying that if Emily lived through this, that she might give them the breakthrough the FBI so desperately needed.

Emily had been stabbed sixteen times, including through both of her eyes. Multiple surgeries had been required to repair all the damage to her intestines and lungs. She was comatose. She would require dialysis for the rest of her life and was legally blind. But the doctors had said, with confidence, that she was a fighter and would pull through. As for when, nobody could say. The FBI just prayed that she had seen her attacker before she had lost her sight. Tom had visited her as often as he could, despite Ryan's warning that the killer might try to finish off the job and silence Emily for good. Aaron and Seth had sent flowers and checked in on her, too. 

Penny had been quite upset about it, given that Emily had been spending a lot of time with her. It had become harder and harder to reassure her that she was safe. She would come to his room in the middle of the night, scared to be alone, scared of the dark. He just wanted it to be over. He wanted to stop being so fearful. He wanted closure, and he wanted the families of the other victims to have closure. He wanted the White House to feel lively and united, not increasingly isolated and haunted by the number of offices that were turning into off-limits crime scenes. 

Ryan hadn't been doing well, either. Every time Tom had seen him for a case update, of which there were few, he had seemed to look more haggard and more hungover. Tom had tried to tell him not to be so hard on himself, but he hadn't listened. However, what they had ultimately established was that Carroll's followers were attacking him even more personally, and that Penny could be their next target, which had led Tom to one of the hardest decisions he had ever had to make.

Penny hugged him again, pulling on his shirt desperately. Just the other day, he had been musing about how much she had grown up, but now she was very much his little girl.

"Daddy, I don't want to go. Please don't make me."

He took a shuddering breath, holding her tight. "I know it's a lot, but it's to keep you safe, sweet pea."

"But what about you?"

"I'll be fine, honey. It's okay," he assured. "You'll be back here before you know it." 

Tom was so ashamed, knowing he was speaking with sheer false bravado. Every second she stayed in the country felt like the countdown of a ticking time bomb. He needed her to leave, if only to know she would be safe. 

He and Ryan had concluded that putting her into Witness Protection with a relative would not be enough. She was too recognisable as his daughter, even with a change in hair colour and extensive fake identification. Furthermore, there were moles in the FBI, the people who managed the database. It was useless. The country was crawling with followers, so Witness Protection was like a Band-Aid on a bullet wound — stab wound, rather. But when Ryan had asked about family overseas, Tom had thought about Alex's sister, Sasha, who lived a quiet life in Paris. Tom had stopped her from coming to Alex's funeral to protect her, which she had been irate about. However, when Ryan had called and explained the situation, thankfully, she had been more than understanding and willing to take indefinite custody of Penny. Although there had been a handful of Carroll-style incidents outside America, they had not been intricate and accurate enough for the FBI to deem them an act of the followers, and none had been in France. Ryan had given him his word that through his long-standing connections at Interpol, Penny and Sasha would be safe.

When he looked at Penny's face again, she was crying more than she was before.

"I don't want to go to Paris!" she protested. "I want to stay here with you."

He sighed. "You'll have fun. You'll make new friends at your new school. You'll get to learn French from your aunt. You get to change your hair and clothes. It'll be like playing dress-up-"

But she soon cut him off, making him realise she was too old for make-believe. She knew what was going on, and she was understandably afraid. God, he really didn't want to do this.

"I'm not a kid anymore, Daddy! I know you're doing it because you're scared. I don't want you to be alone without me."

Tears pricked the back of his eyes. When she frowned like this, he was reminded so much of Alex it hurt.

"I'm so sorry, darling. I know this is hard, and I know it's scary, but we have to keep you safe."

"Why isn't Leo coming with me?"

Tom had called Leo on a burner phone to make the same suggestion, but he had told him outright that he was an adult with his own life and didn't need to be coddled. He also pointed out that given the high proportion of women being murdered, he was a highly unlikely target. He had barely spoken to him since Alex's funeral, and, when he had, he had been full of resentment. He was trying to shove his feelings down and steamroll past them. It was a strategy that wouldn't work forever, but Tom knew he couldn't pressure him into anything — especially since he was no better.

He wished he had a decent answer for her, but he didn't, so, he simply let his insincere smile come up again, desperate to assure her.

"It's safer if you stay separate."

She didn't seem satisfied with that. One of the agents behind her looked at his watch, then at him sternly, but apologetically. Part of the security measures was an insanely strict schedule to ensure they were never in one place too long, never able to be tracked. Tom nodded in understanding before the guard lifted Penny and carried her over to the plane. She screamed in a way that truly made him question whether he was doing the right thing. Ryan gave him a sympathetic look, wordlessly moving to his side as the plane took off. Tom swore he could still hear even as the plane took off. He clenched his fist, trying to fight his tears.

"It's to protect her, Tom," Ryan reminded him, his voice soft. "But I know this is the hardest thing for a parent to do to their child."

Tom gave a small nod, his eyes fixed on the plane as it shrank into a tiny dot in the sky. Ryan had to place his hand on his shoulder to get him to go back to the car, where he finally broke down. He wondered what Alex would think of him being so cowardly, sending their daughter away instead of facing the followers and fixing this. He just prayed to God that this would work, that he would succeed in protecting Penny, even if all else failed.

That night, he poured himself a drink, a malt whiskey from his father that had been collecting dust. He didn't even care about the possibility of a crisis occurring, inebriated to the point of dizziness. Nothing mattered anymore. He felt so numbed. He found himself sitting in Penny's room, now packed and void of all its pinkness and glitter. The cover story was that she was attending a private boarding school. So, it made sense that her room would be packed up. But he wished she had left something behind, something for him to hold on to. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall, listening to the faint tick of the clock. It was so quiet. He missed hearing the drone of Leo's gaming computer or Alex typing on her laptop at ungodly hours or Penny listening to music. He sighed. This would take some getting used to.

There was, however, one person on his mind. He blamed the alcohol for making it so prominent. But he knew that alcohol didn't make people think about things they wouldn't normally; it just made them come to mind more easily. And, well, he hadn't stopped thinking about Andrea since the day they had met. He wanted to believe she had been thinking about him, too. He had truly felt like himself around her. That cordial facade he usually put up for every other White House visitor hadn't been necessary, and that was a rare treasure he was desperate to hold on to. In the world of fame and politics, there was so much insincerity, obligation, and lying; it was refreshing to meet someone honest, upfront and authentic. Tom found himself scrolling through his contacts precariously, his thumb hovering over Andrea Frost. He would be an idiot to call her close to midnight on a Wednesday.

But damn it, he was lonely.

His heart leapt in his chest when she answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Tom," he said, hoping his words weren't too slurred. "How… how are you?"

"The fact that you're calling at this hour makes me feel like I should be asking you," she said sweetly, but with concern.

He let out a breath. He was still sober enough to know not to let it all pour out.

"Tom, are you there?"

"Y-Yeah," he answered unconvincingly. He might be on the call, but he was so far away. "I'm still here."

"Look, I know this sounds crazy, but… do you want me to come over?"

Had she… actually just suggested that? Maybe he had had too much to drink. Maybe he was half-asleep–

"God, what's wrong with me?" she muttered. "I'm sorry. I have a tendency to be forward-"

"No, I'd… I'd like that very much," he was quick to say.

"Then I'll be there soon."

Tom wasn't sure how much time passed before he heard a polite knock. He had never been so quick to get to the door before. It was different seeing her in a sweater and jeans rather than a suit. But she was so radiant, bringing light to the White House's dreariness and his own glumness. He knew now for certain that he was drunk because if he were sober, that thought would have been followed by self-flagellation for thinking about someone so fondly so soon after Alex.

Andrea held up a small bag. "I bought chocolate and a bottle of red. It's five o'clock somewhere, right?" 

He cracked a smile before inviting her to sit on the couch. God, he prayed nobody would come in. It was one thing to worry about moles in the White House for the sake of his safety. It was another to worry about press coverage of two widows being alone in an office on a weeknight.

"What happened, Tom?" she asked, looking at him worriedly.

Under any other circumstances, he would be more vague, but he was a little too tipsy to filter it. More than that, he felt an innate sense of trust with her. He felt safe around her. While the country was meant to be in paranoia mode, at this rate, he trusted people outside the government more than he trusted people within. Andrea was a consultant, but she had her own business and life going for her. She didn't have a void or vulnerability that could make her susceptible to someone like Carroll. She had money, power, fame, and influence. What else did she need? So, Tom explained that he had to send Penny away indefinitely and that he was struggling with being alone. She was incredibly empathetic. She listened. She was patient. She was everything he needed. He had never been particularly religious, but at this moment, he likened Andrea to an angel who had descended from the heavens at just the right time.

"I'm so sorry, I can't even imagine what you're going through," Andrea said, placing a hand to her chest.

He sniffled. "I… I can't even talk to anybody. And I'm sorry if this is too much for you, but–"

She immediately shook her head. "Sometimes we find connections in unlikely places. And it's… it's hard to talk to about it to someone who hasn't experienced loss, not in the same way. I won't pretend to understand everything or try to take that away from you, but from what I do recognise in my own heart, it's a pain I would never wish on anybody."

Tom had noticed this on the day they had met, too, but Andrea really had a way with words. She spoke succinctly and directly but had a poeticism to it that felt like it came from the depths of her soul. He realised he had been staring into her eyes for a very long time, and that she was staring back. She moved to sit on the same couch as him, her legs folded beneath her, like she felt comfortable around him. This was their safe place. He never expected to have it with someone he barely knew, but in his gut, it just felt right.

"You have a little something," she reached out with her thumb to trace his lip with a slight giggle. The move had been innocent, but the look she was giving him wasn't. His guilt and doubts became quiet as their lips met chastely. He tasted vanilla and Shiraz, but just as he went to cup her face, his cell phone rang.

"Saved by the bell…" he muttered as he pulled away, but he felt his shoulders tense when he noticed it was Ryan. Somehow, he didn't feel it was a courtesy call to confirm Penny was safe.

"Where are you?" Ryan said urgently. No time for a greeting, apparently. It sounded like he was driving, and rather quickly.

"In my office, why?"

"I have a lead. I know who the mole is. At least, one of them."

Tom rose from his seat, quietly excusing himself to Andrea, who wasn't at all offended, before going into another room, speaking quietly.

"Who?"

"Agent Mike Ritter."

That couldn't be right. He was still mentally clear enough to know that was a mistake.

"It can't be. Mike's been with me since-"

"He's the head of the Secret Service. He's the only one with enough access to allow followers to enter the White House and know the First Lady's security protocols," Ryan explained. "I'm sorry, Tom, but he's the reason Alex is dead. He might not be the one who wielded the knife, but he is the one who killed her. He's working with the followers; it's the only explanation."

It did make sense. But it just wasn't right.

However, he thought about how Andrea was alone in the other room and felt a desperate surge to protect her. He trusted Ryan, implicitly. He didn't want to suspect Mike, and still believed there was an explanation, but… he wouldn't take any chances. He couldn't lose anybody else.

"I'm on my way. Just stay where you are and lock the doors. You have a panic button for that, right? One that nobody should know about?"

Tom recalled the early days of his White House security training. "Yeah, I do."

"I'm nearly there. I mean it, Tom, do not let him near you."

"I won't," he promised before hanging up and immediately going back to the main part of the office, pressing the button that put a seal around all entrances. Andrea jolted, looking around worriedly.

"That was Agent Hardy; he's sourced the mole in the FBI to the head of Secret Service."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"I-I don't know what to believe right now, but as soon as he's arrested, I will personally make sure you get home safe. I won't let him hurt you."

She seemed very honoured by his desire to protect her.

Tom opened up his laptop, trying to remember how to access the White House surveillance network. He had access to it, but rarely a need to use it. He managed to get the camera that showed the hallway outside the Oval Office where Mike's quarters were. He had his own apartment, but more often than not stayed overnight. That had always been a comfort until now. Andrea stayed where she was, biting her lip, not wanting to impose. Tom watched as Mike was dragged out by Ryan and three other FBI agents. When Aaron had been arrested, everyone had believed that it was all a mistake, and Tom had seen so much panic in his eyes. But Mike had his head dropped in shame, even as he went willingly. He didn't speak, but his body language was a confession.

The more he thought about it, the more it added up. And Ryan would never say something if he didn't believe it, his own protective desires aside. Mike was a private person. Mike never revealed too much about himself. Could he have been a candidate for a follower? Or perhaps it was less about ideologies and more about wants. Maybe someone had made an offer that Mike couldn't refuse. Mike, whose integrity and morals Tom had always valued and admired. It made him sick. It made him angry. Especially because if there was even a chance that Mike had been complicit in Alex's death, then there would be no forgiveness from him.

Before he knew it, Andrea had him in her arms. She squeezed him tightly, reassuringly, and it was everything he needed, more than she would ever know. He clung to her, wanting to never let go, but at the same time, wanting to keep her safe, no matter what.

"I'm going to be here for you," she whispered. "Just let me."

And when he met her eyes, before continuing what they had started before, Tom realised that he really didn't have a choice because the alternative sounded like hell.

Dropping his smoking habit was both a celebration of his apparent prevailing willpower through such a terrible time and a horrifying realisation that he had grown so accustomed to grief, trauma, and death that there was no need to crave extra stress release. So much had happened over these past few months and he felt guilty for being upset when he, for the most part, was not really that affected by it. Most of the White House funerals he had had to attend had been for women. He wasn't a widow. He wasn't dealing with rumours of a murderous twin brother. Survivor's guilt, that was what he was feeling, because he was a man with no immediate family members he had to worry about. He might feel a little scared to walk home to his apartment every night, but not the way others did. The only thing he had felt compelled to do with this grief and guilt was channel it into something productive: his job. It was his responsibility to communicate necessary information to media outlets who would disseminate the information to the public. He had to provide facts, and only facts. He could not discuss anything that wasn't certain. He had to keep sensitive information private and not let it fall into the hands of people like Carrie. But with the internet, it was difficult to feel totally in control.

Today's press conference was about shutting down false information about Mike Ritter's arrest. They couldn't deny it, but they could deny any certainty of guilt, by insisting that it was only part of an investigation into every senior member of Kirkman's administration. However, people were concocting wild theories about Mike being a devoted follower, spreading Photoshopped images of him visiting Carroll like wildfire. Although Seth trusted Hardy, since Kirkman trusted him and Hardy had busted Carroll in the first place, he was still a little sceptical of Mike's arrest. Perhaps, like when Aaron had been arrested, he was just severely in denial because he believed he was usually a good judge of character. Still, he believed that Carroll's followers could be trying to frame more important people to distract the FBI, particularly Hardy.

"Enough!" Seth yelled. He was normally someone who tried to be patient, but God damn it, he didn't sleep anymore. He didn't have time for this. This was a waste of resources. He was tired of seeing suffering and not doing enough to stop it. "Are all of you that heartless that you'll insist on propagating misinformation rather than respecting the privacy of the victims and the people in the government who are trying to stop Carroll's followers?"

"Seth, we have reason to believe that the government can't be trusted," Carrie pointed out, and if it wasn't for his iota of sanity, he was about ready to run into the crowd and strangle her. "Doesn't that mean the power should be to the people? Doesn't that mean that we are the best source of information? If anything, you could be the one propagating misinformation."

To his frustration, other reporters murmured in agreement.

"You've confirmed that Mike Ritter was indeed arrested. You're claiming it's a routine interview, but if that's the case, why wasn't it done at the start of the investigation? Why suddenly suspect the head of the Secret Service?"

He bit the inside of his cheek. That wasn't good. Another effect of sleeping very little these days was not being as quick on his feet. Even Redbull didn't do as much for him as it used to.

"I don't know. The strategies of the FBI are confidential in order to prevent followers from further evading the authorities," Seth reminded them.

"The FBI that we have good reason to believe contains a mole?" Carrie scoffed. "Is confidentiality really something we can justify when the people who work in the government are the ones aiding these killers?"

"You know what, Carrie? We're doing our best given the circumstances. What doesn't help is people like you," he spoke, pointing at her, "who create these conspiracy theories and spread them around so you can make sure you get your precious clicks. People are dying, for Christ's sake. I'm demanding Secret Service escort you all out immediately. Next time you come here, if your questions aren't about general updates for the case, expect a permanent ban from this building."

People stared at him, shocked. He had lashed out a few times, but he had never gone off at Carrie so directly like that. It felt good, damn good, but that feeling was immediately followed by a sense of panic. He had just lost whatever credibility the White House Press had had left, and created about ten times more work for himself. At this stage, the latter was a bigger inconvenience than the former. He was just trying to get through the day at this rate. He was so tired, and, simultaneously, so angry at himself for not doing enough to lead the public. 

Seth stormed out, but the Secret Service seemed to agree with his outburst, escorting reporters out. He avoided eye contact as he walked to the Oval Office, knowing that many people had probably just heard him yell. Kirkman probably wasn't going to be too happy about this. But when he knocked and was invited in, Kirkman seemed oddly content. He had been so numb and detached from everybody, clearly trying to do his job with a smile that only existed on the outside. It was nice to see him a little more spirited, although he couldn't blame him for being miserable when he was still a widow and both of his children were far away from him. Seth suspected this was correlated with Andrea Frost appearing in the Oval Office or just around the White House more and more. She was crazy to be here when it wasn't necessary. But obviously she and Kirkman had something going on. Whether it was friendship or something more really wasn't his business. He trusted Kirkman's judgement. And, well, she wasn't connected to any government agency, so really, she was the one at risk, not him.

"What can I do for you, Seth?" Tom asked.

"You're about to get some angry letters and Tweets from reporters. I'm sorry, sir, I really couldn't take it anymore."

Tom lifted a shoulder, seemingly unfazed. "I can't blame you. It'll be a bitch to deal with, but…" He sighed. "We've got bigger problems."

"You're reading today's reports from the FBI, aren't you?"

He nodded. This had become something of a routine, so it wasn't surprising.

"People are losing faith. There are riots going on everywhere. Gun purchases are through the roof. This country is falling apart," he lamented before letting out a sad laugh. "Are they really going to be that bothered by you telling the reporters where to shove it?"

"I guess not."

Since the president was alone, something that rarely happened, especially in recent times, Seth figured it was an opportunity to ask his burning question. He hadn't wanted to at the time, with everything being so tense. But it just didn't sit right with him, and he had to understand what the FBI's logic was.

"Sir, what's going on with Mike?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "The FBI is basing this off the fact that he had the means and opportunity to let the followers slip through security measures and get into the White House or locate the motorcade escorting Alex."

His eyebrows rose. "So, wait, they're just guessing now?"

"I trust Ryan, and it unfortunately adds up. But I don't believe it, either."

"Has Mike said anything?"

Tom shook his head. "That's what makes it concerning. He didn't put up a fight when Ryan dragged him out of his quarters and arrested him. He hasn't said anything since, either. They're interrogating him forcefully, and he won't budge."

That was certainly surprising. Although Mike was a reserved person, he wasn't the kind to just sit there and take such outrageous accusations. More than that, he wanted nothing more than to protect the president. Being in a holding room directly obstructed that purpose. Could it really be that he was staying silent out of devotion to Carroll? The handful of suspects the FBI had managed to apprehend had all committed suicide while in holding. Perhaps Mike would be the next one. He shook his head. This didn't make sense. Just because he had had the means to allow the followers to get intel, that didn't mean he had done it.

"Would I be able to see him?"

Tom furrowed his brow. "Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. I just- Maybe he'll talk to me. Maybe seeing someone he knows, who isn't, well, the president with the power to punish him, will make him talk."

"I guess I can ask Ryan. He let me talk to him, so it wouldn't be a stretch to let you."

"I would appreciate that very much, sir."

Thankfully, despite his reputation for being stubborn, Hardy permitted him to see Mike later that day. When Seth looked through the interrogation room window and saw Mike with his head bowed, cuffed hands clasped in front of him, Seth couldn't help but feel sorry for him. This just wasn't right. While he had had to teach himself to not be so trusting since the Carroll murders started, something in him knew this was a mistake. He might not be a highly trained FBI agent, but he did trust his gut.

"Yell out if you need anything," Hardy said, opening the door. "You know how strong he is, so don't underestimate him."

Seth nodded. When he came inside, Mike looked up at him with surprise, then looked down.

"Hey, Mike…" Seth said, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward. What was he supposed to lead with? The fucking weather? He then took a seat across from Mike. "I need you to talk to me. I know something more is going on, and I know you would never endanger President Kirkman or his family. Whatever it is… I want to help you."

Mike shook his head.

"Are you really going to let the FBI think that you're a follower of Carroll? Are you a follower of Carroll? Because I refuse to believe that, but that's what everybody else is telling me and I need to know the truth. Everything is fucked, Mike. We have nothing to go on. More than that, the president needs someone like you in his corner. So, please… tell me what's going on," he begged.

"The president needs to learn not to trust anybody, not anymore."

Seth pressed his lips together, realising that Mike probably had no reason to confide in him, likely believing he could be a follower.

"If I were a follower of Carroll, I wouldn't be here trying to get information out of you," he pointed out, although he wouldn't put it past the followers to be good at reverse psychology. "I'd be helping you escape, and I'm not doing that."

He noticed how tense Mike was. He had curled his fists so tightly that the veins in his hands were protruding. Was it anger? Was it homicidal rage? Was it something else entirely?

"Mike, they're probably not going to let me visit you again. If you have something to say… it's now or never. Please."

The urgency of time seemed to be important to him because when Mike looked up again, there were tears in his eyes. Tears? Mike was crying? Something really had to be wrong if Mike was crying.

"T-Tell them to turn the cameras and microphones off," he muttered. "Then I'll tell you everything."

Seth was pretty sure he didn't have the authority to do that, nor would Hardy allow such a thing to happen.

"If it's information that's important or could save someone's life… the FBI needs to know."

He shook his head, hardening his voice. "I will tell you, and only you. That's the deal."

After deliberating for a moment, Seth turned to look up at the camera in the corner. "Agent Hardy, can you turn the surveillance off in here?"

There was a pause before the lights on the camera turned off. Some of the droning of the computers in the other room ceased. It certainly looked like Hardy had heeded his request.

"Someone in the White House is working for Carroll and holding my family hostage," Mike confessed, his voice breaking. "He told me that if I didn't follow his instructions, he would kill them all in front of my eyes." He took a shuddering breath, sounding shameful as he said, "I did exactly what Agent Hardy accused me of. I let security protocols slip. I'm the reason the First Lady is dead. I'm the reason all these people have died in their offices. I let the followers in."

While Seth had been shocked to learn of Mike's horrible situation, he was even more shocked to learn that he was indeed guilty of what they had arrested him for. There wouldn't be any sympathy for him, probably. A lot of people, good people, were dead because of him. Kirkman certainly wouldn't be lenient. Maybe once upon a time, Kirkman might have found some empathy and understanding, but not after Alex's death. However, as much as Seth wanted to yell at him for being so selfish, remind him he took an oath when he joined the Secret Service to put the president's life before his own… for Mike to be this scared, it had to be someone truly terrifying. His mind went to the other Secret Service agents, the ones who were physically strong and intimidating and occasionally reminded him of rottweilers. But Mike would know these men and their capabilities. He wouldn't look so intimidated and downright terrified.

"I need a name, Mike."

"No, you know too much already-"

"I'm not leaving here without a name," he insisted quietly. "If you tell me who is threatening you, I will try to work with the FBI to find proof-"

"Not the FBI," Mike disagreed. "He has a direct line to the FBI through their mole. If you do this, you find the proof on your own, and you watch your back."

As daunting of a task that sounded for someone with zero field training or protection, at the same time, it gave him a surge of determination and hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could be the one to put an end to this.

"I'll do it," Seth assured. "I promise this stays between us."

"Are you sure? Once he finds out we spoke, you'll be a target."

"If it means saving innocent lives and getting justice, then I don't care."

Mike took a few breaths, as though deciding himself whether he wanted to disclose this follower's name.

"It's Aaron," he confessed.

"What?" 

"That whole story about the twin brother, he made it up, because that darkness he referred to was in his eyes when he put a knife to my wife's throat. Something is wrong with him, Seth, and he's working for Carroll."

Seth realised he must have really learned to adopt the mindset that anybody could be a follower because somehow he wasn't surprised. It was like the bad gut feeling he had had when Aaron had been arrested had never gone away. Like he had been right to believe the photo was of Aaron when he first saw it. He didn't want to believe his friend was a psychopathic serial killer, but he also knew that for Mike to be crying and only willing to tell him, of all people, meant that it had to be real. His stomach started to churn. How many times had Aaron come to him with updates from the FBI, acting disappointed in their lack of progress? How many times had he trusted Aaron, confided in him? How many times had Aaron been in the office with the president alone, with nobody to protect him? Had Aaron killed the First Lady? Had he been the one to stab Emily? When she woke from her coma, would her first word be Aaron? Or would Aaron not let it get that far? Seth tried to remember where Aaron was those nights but on top of all his other thoughts, his head was spinning.

"I-I believe you, but is there any proof?" Seth asked.

"I don't know," Mike admitted. "All evidence of his twin brother added up. He's good enough with computers to be able to fool the government."

"Anything, Mike. Even if it's small. I can't let him keep doing this to your family!"

His voice had escalated a little, so Mike hushed him with a look of warning. "You will tell nobody until my family is guaranteed to be safe."

Seth could respect that. "I… I'll leave here without saying anything. I promise," he said, meeting his gaze. "I can try to look at Aaron's computer. I can… I can try to see if any of his alibis don't hold water. I will do what I can. And once I find something, I will tell the president directly, and I will make sure your family is safe before he tells the FBI."

Mike nodded after a beat. "Alright, but be careful. Please. He might already know you're onto him."

"I'm going to fix this, Mike. I won't let him get away with it."

"Thank you," he said gratefully, but not convincingly.

Once he left, he noticed that Hardy had a very interested look on his face.

"Seth, what did he tell you?"

But Seth had a one-track mind, and it was to protect the president. If he told the FBI, they might act in a way that alerted the followers, more critically, Aaron. This needed to be done discreetly. The FBI couldn't know yet. He would keep his promise to Mike.

So, he walked as fast as he could, ignoring Hardy's repeated calls of his name, and, when Hardy requested security stop him, he bolted, stopping only to toss his visitor's pass onto the front desk before running to his car. The tyres screeched as he took off, and all he could pray was that he could find the evidence in time. Otherwise, he and Mike would be in that holding room together, powerless to stop Aaron.

When Seth got back to the White House, he practically sprinted to his office. He had never been so afraid until now. Could it really be that Aaron was a follower? He wouldn't believe it completely until he had proof. However, seeing Mike crying and shit-scared was pretty damning evidence in its own way. Mike would never make something like this up. Unless, of course, he was a follower and just trying to send him into a trap. Who the hell could he trust? 

Seth sighed, putting his head in his hands when he sat down. He might be the only one who could find the truth. If there was a possibility that Mike's family was being held hostage, then he couldn't risk harming them. Unless that was the precise intention: to try to get him to focus on his missing family while the real followers got away. He wished he had Emily here, so she could look into one and he could look into another. Just the thought of her made his chest hurt. The nurses had apologetically informed him that he couldn't keep sending flowers, as the room was now overflowing with them — and that was with them discarding the dead ones routinely.

What could he prove? He didn't have the FBI's resources, but he did have top-level clearance and access to most government databases. He was inclined to believe Mike, just slightly more, only because he considered himself a close friend of Aaron and was a little shocked that he had kept such a big secret, when both of them had confided in each other so much since becoming part of Kirkman's cabinet. And, well, again all he could think of was Mike's terrified face as he begged him not to go to the FBI and risk his family's well-being. If Mike was right, and Aaron was really the murderous twin brother he had mentioned, then the proof of that had to be in the evidence Aaron had presented to exonerate himself. If he found something, chances were Aaron would know and come after him. But if he tried to debunk the possibility that Mike's family was being kidnapped, he could alert Aaron and give him or a follower a chance to kill them, knowing that Mike must have confessed. He would rather risk his life.

As Seth started looking through the evidence again, he felt a sense of urgency come over him. The followers probably had a way into these records. It would only be a matter of time before someone knew he was snooping. He reminded himself to breathe. Something in here had to be false. The best way to catch onto someone lying was being aware of their level of detail. A lie was more likely to include facetious aspects to make it all look legitimate, but somewhere, there was usually something that inadvertently betrayed the person who had created the story. Through being a communications officer and speaking with some of the slimiest journalists in existence, he had learnt how to read people, how to see if they were spewing bullshit or genuinely wanted to exchange valuable information. Aaron's story about his childhood, while farfetched, hadn't seemed too detailed. That could be because it was the truth, or because he knew how to act like he was telling the truth. He wondered what kind of life Hardy had if this was how he thought about everyone he met, always psychoanalysing, assuming that everybody had something to hide.

Speaking of, his phone had ten missed calls from a number he knew had the extension for the FBI. He hoped they wouldn't come and bust down his office door — at least, not before he found the evidence he needed.

Something occurred to him. If Aaron really had a murderous twin brother… with Aaron being such a public figure, even before being Kirkman's Chief of Staff, if that brother wanted retaliation, and apparently had not lost his murderous ways, then why hadn't he come after him? Aaron didn't have more agents around him than usual. His apartment wasn't decked out with security cameras and sensors. If Seth were in his position and had a killer brother on the loose, he would have agents follow him everywhere. He wouldn't be so… lax. It didn't add up. Aaron had been so emotional when he had talked about his brother. Even if he was trying to put the past behind him, he still wouldn't be so stupid. He might be subtle and apologetic, but he wouldn't be stupid.

Maybe this would have to be enough for now. At the very least, he could try to discuss this with Kirkman. He just prayed he wouldn't dismiss him. Seth got his phone out, texting Kirkman vaguely. He couldn't risk sharing such a broad theory over the phone. His screen time had slashed since the possibility that White House communications were being tapped had been presented. He spoke to people in person wherever possible. He kept calls short. He had downloaded every secure, encrypted messaging app that was normally only used by those paranoid that the government was spying on them.

His head shot up when he heard a creak, like someone had opened a door. God, he was paranoid to the point of having heightened senses. 

Seth stood and called out, not sure who he expected to respond. He walked into the other room, unnerved by the lack of lighting and closed curtains.

And, as he met a pair of familiar eyes in the dark, he knew he should have trusted his gut.

Tom knocked on Seth's office door, confused by the lack of response. His text had seemed quite urgent. Tom looked at his phone, confirming that Seth had indeed wanted to meet him in his office. Apparently, he had something to show him. While he wouldn't normally risk interrupting someone in the middle of their work, he felt concerned by the vagueness of Seth's message and decided to try the handle. It was unlocked. 

The room was dark as he stepped inside. He could smell something metallic. "Seth?" he said, but still heard nothing.

He noticed the chair behind his desk was swivelled backwards, like Seth was looking out the window. Now, he was really worried. If he were on the phone or something like that, he would at least hear him talking, but it was dead silent.

"Seth," Tom repeated, walking to the desk and spinning the chair around.

He gasped when he found Seth slumped forward, blood pooling from his neck and staining his white shirt. That had been the smell. His hands started to shake as he stood there frozen in shock, unable to even find the words to call for help. Oh, God. They were coming for him. He needed to tell someone. He wished Mike was here. He wished he had someone to depend on.

Aaron. He could trust Aaron.

But as he turned to run, his eyes widened as Aaron emerged from the shadows, brandishing a bloodied knife. The look on his face was one he had never seen before. It was very reminiscent of the security footage he had been shown of Aaron's twin brother visiting Carroll.

"Sir, you really should be careful who you let into your inner circle," Aaron said calmly, quietly shutting and locking the door behind him so nobody would hear.

He was on his own. Emily was in a coma. Mike had been arrested. Seth was dead. And now… he realised that he never should have insisted on Aaron's innocence so quickly.

Tom tried to run but was stopped by another pair of hands, keeping him in place. They smothered him with a wet cloth. He struggled to breathe, coughing at the pungent scent of what he believed was chloroform, before his vision bled into the darkness.

When Tom came to, his head was pounding. His limbs felt heavy, his appendages numb. A strip of duct tape sealed his lips tightly. There was quiet muttering that he strained to hear. The room was darker than before. What happened came back to him in flashes. Aaron was a follower. He had killed Seth, and God only knew who else. That realisation jolted him awake from the sedation, making his heart race. He tried to break free of his restraints instinctively, but his efforts were futile. He also realised that he was sitting in the swivel chair Seth had been in.

"Don't bother," a voice suggested sternly.

His cheek twitched when he met Aaron's gaze. As he became more conscious, he noticed another figure standing beside him. He recognised him as Jacob, Kendra's new aide. Kendra had been going to the shooting range every day after hours, from what he heard. She had gone from being a strong anti-gun advocate to conceal-carrying her own everywhere she went. The paranoia had affected her deeply. Tom hated the thought that even with everything she had done to protect herself, the killer had been right under her nose the whole time. 

He wanted an explanation, and he wanted it now. He recognised that what gave him this source of anger and determination was the thought of getting justice. He needed to know the truth. Tom kept trying to speak out of habit, making Aaron chuckle. He looked at Jacob and motioned with his head. Jacob then came up behind him, pressing a switchblade to his throat and flicking it out.

Aaron bent down in front of him. "If you try to call for help, Jacob will slice your carotid artery. But if you play nice and speak quietly, you can ask all the questions you want." He smiled. "Since you're not leaving this room alive."

As much as he wanted to be defiant and hopeful that someone would rescue him before Aaron had the chance, as much as he wanted to have faith, after everything that had happened… he just couldn't. Aaron clearly had the means to falsify intricate government files. He had the clearance and power to pull the strings across every government department. He had been ten steps ahead of everyone the whole time. Only now did he truly understand why Ryan had been so desolate throughout this whole investigation, and increasingly so: the followers really had the power here. If their goal had been to demonstrate that they could overthrow the government, then they had won. Aaron, Jacob, and whatever other associates they had would have ensured that nobody would question his location, not until it was too late. They would clean up the crime scene, and meddle with the FBI reports so it looked like the follower had been an intruder. Aaron would automatically become the president. Oh, God. A serial killer was going to be president.

Tom nodded, trying not to look like he was downright terrified, and the tape was peeled off his mouth. He felt every small hair on his upper lip come with it, making him cringe.

"So it was you the whole time," Tom concluded, intentionally keeping his voice level. "The twin brother story, it was a lie?"

He made a so-so expression. "It was mostly true. I did have a brother. I killed him. The first time I tried, I was five years old. I hated everything about him. He always got the attention and the love while I got nothing. They sent me away and then took Aaron across the border legally not long after. I watched, and I waited. I learned how to use computers." He laughed. "My so-called adoptive mother, the psychologist, thought I was learning a valuable skill to replace killing. Instead, I used it to get better. The first time I killed a man, I was twelve years old. Everything I did was to prepare me to take Aaron's place. I kept an eye on him. All those bullshit awards and scholarships. He loved it. He always wanted the spotlight. Then, one day, once my new parents stopped giving a shit about me just like the old ones…" He twirled the knife in his hands. "I left. I found Joe and learned his ways. Then, I hunted my brother down and killed him, made sure there was no trace of the body, and then became him. I couldn't pretend the old me didn't exist, but I did have every reason to bury him if I, well, Aaron, wanted to be in the White House."

His mouth fell agape. He thought the original story was twisted; this was so much worse. What he had barely justified with the reasoning that Aaron's brother had been a troubled child and simply unaware of the ramifications of his behaviour was now undoubtedly a purposeful, malicious act. Aaron was a psychopath. Well, this Aaron was; the real one had probably never seen his brother coming.

Tom then looked at Jacob. "So, you're, what, his partner in crime?"

"Something like that," he answered. One thing Tom had noticed was that Jacob kept looking over at Aaron with eagerness, as though wanting his approval. From the few interactions he had had with Jacob, he had always been quite reserved. In some ways, it made sense that someone quiet and mysterious like him could be a secret serial killer. However, Aaron, Aaron who was brave and upfront about everything — almost everything — was the last person he would have suspected. Even then, Tom could see that this was, really, still the Aaron he knew. It wasn't a Jekyll and Hyde situation. If his goal had been to become his brother, then even without having ever known him, Tom could say he was doing a decent job of it. The man in front of him was still Aaron Shore, just with a clear ambition for bloodshed.

"What does Carroll get out of this? He's not politically motivated."

"What he wants is power. Hardy is dead-on; it's about demonstrating that he can reach and educate so many minds, and that the government will never stop them."

"And once you kill me, you'll be the president."

Aaron grinned. "As much as I hated reading through all of those college notes on public policy, I have to say Aaron's choice of career certainly worked to my advantage."

He sighed. He didn't even know what else to ask. He had so many questions but was at a loss for words. It was clear that talking and compassion or trying to get an understanding of the situation, very humane tactics that he had built his presidency on, just wouldn't work here. There was no chance of getting through to him or breaking down the parts of him that were built on the pillars of Carroll's principles. He was a lost cause. Tom could only pray his death would be merciful. Still, his children were on his mind. He was more grateful than ever to know that they were safe. He trusted Ryan would ensure it stayed that way after today.

"You did the right thing by keeping Penny away from all of this," Aaron commented, as though reading his mind.

His eyes widened. Although this statement still aligned with the cover story of her going to a private boarding school, the look in Aaron's eyes made Tom wonder whether he actually knew more.

"She'll be safe in Paris, Tom. Hardy was right about that. And, even then…" he fiddled with the knife. "I think two young minds with so much potential, so malleable, so angry at what happened to their parents… would be better off as pupils of Carroll rather than victims. They deserve to be something more than their parents."

"Don't you dare!" he exclaimed, feeling like his heart was going to burst from his chest. All the fear he had tried to bury in favour of looking strong rose to his chest. He could have lived with dying knowing his children were far away from this, but not knowing that the followers might try to brainwash or kill them. Somehow, the former felt worse. He tried to move, just as he had when he woke. "Leave my family alone. Please. you've done enough. You have everything you want now, just… just let them live normal lives. Let them have what I couldn't give them."

Jacob laughed at his desperation with a faux pout. 

There was a knock at the door. Maybe all hope wasn't lost. He went to call out but Jacob preempted this by replacing the duct tape on his mouth, still sticky despite being previously used, the knife coming to his throat again. Still, he let out a muffled yell.

"Tom?" Andrea called. "Seth?"

No. Not her. Anybody but her. She couldn't be roped into this. God, she was supposed to be safe. She was supposed to be away from this. She had been his only ray of light in these dark weeks since Penny had been sent away. He couldn't lose her, too. 

Aaron sneered, knowing by the look on his face that he had found another weak spot. He mouthed for Jacob to step away, and they both hid in the corners of the room, Aaron only stopping to unlock the door. 

Andrea came in, stumbling a little, having tried to open the door but not expected it to suddenly unlock. She looked around warily before gasping as she noticed him. She crossed the room and bent down in front of him.

"What happened?" she asked worriedly. 

He tried to warn her through the tape that they weren't alone in this room, as Jacob emerged with the knife, a hungry look in his eyes. Tom tried even harder to free himself of his restraints, licking the duct tape to loosen it. Even if he couldn't move, he could still verbally alert her. 

She turned at just the right time, narrowly dodging Jacob's movement. Andrea kept looking around her, trying to avoid being slashed with either the knife or the switchblade. She had mentioned taking self defence lessons in the past, and he could certainly say they were well worth it, because she managed to kick Jacob between the legs, and sprain Aaron's wrist as she grabbed his hand. Still, they were relentless. She was a witness now. She wouldn't leave this room alive, just like he wouldn't.

He could see the determination in her eyes, though. She wouldn't go down without a fight. 

Aaron went after her again, and she managed to punch him in the solar plexus. He dropped the knife, which she was quick to grab. Still, he had a physical advantage, throwing his body weight onto her and pinning her to the ground. One hand wrapped around her throat, while the other held her forearm down to prevent her from moving the hand with the knife. Tom watched helplessly as she struggled to breathe, her grip on the knife loosening. He felt sickened by the maniacal look in Aaron's eyes, like he was enjoying this, especially when Jacob moved behind him, wanting to watch, too. 

But his pleasure was his weakness, because as he lowered his head, as though wanting to watch the life leave her eyes, she took that as an opportunity to headbutt him, hard. He backed away and she swung her arm in an arc to drive the knife through his throat. Blood spurted out. Despite the rushed movement, she had hit the carotid artery.

"No!" Jacob yelled, and it was clear he was more devoted to Aaron than Carroll, because he completely lost focus of Andrea, going to tend to Aaron's wound, which gave her the chance to repeat the motion, this time driving the knife between his shoulder blades. Blood poured from him as he collapsed on top of Aaron. Andrea panted, tears in her eyes, blood spattered on her white shirt. But the fact that she was okay made him sigh with relief as she came back over.

To his confusion, she made no move to remove the duct tape. Her expression shifted from fear to a smile that was all too familiar to him. Except, he had never felt uneasy seeing her smile before. Tom noticed she was still holding the knife in her hands, now dripping with blood to the hilt.

"I couldn't let them do it," she explained, her voice soft. "It wasn't their right."

He furrowed his brow, and she lifted the knife, tracing his cheek with the blade. "Joe said you would get to be mine. And now you will be, forever."

His blood ran cold. How many things had he told her? How many secrets did she know? Ryan would be so disappointed in him.

"I'll take care of Leo and Penny. Don't worry, Tom," she assured. "I'll teach them well."

Tom jerked around, yelling as much as he could through the tape, more fearful than ever. He couldn't let this happen. He had to call Ryan. He had to call Sasha. He had to tell someone.

She pursed her lips. "You know… your wife was a screamer. I hope you won't be the same."