Q. Did you have a sexual relationship with Frankie Callahan?
A. Yes, very briefly.
Q. How old was she at that time?
A. She was a college student.
Q. How old was she?
A. I thought she was 18, but I later found out she was 17.
Q. Was the relationship consensual?
A. Yes.
Q. But you had her sign an NDA in exchange for $450,000?
A. My wife was—I was trying to save my marriage.
Q. Have you been in touch with Ms. Callahan since the signing of that agreement?
A. No. Never.
Q. She told people you were harassing her.
A. I know. But the police investigated. They checked my cell phone records and all of that. They confirmed that it wasn’t me.
Q. What about in person? Did you at any time in the past two years see, or attempt to see, Ms. Callahan in New York City?
A. No. I haven’t seen or tried to see her since we signed the NDA. It had a clause that prohibited me from contacting her.
Q. Have the police confirmed that?
A. Yes, and I was in Portugal on vacation with my family when all of this happened.
Q. Did you know Brooks Grace?
A. Yes, we worked together at Sinclair, Williams in D.C. before I entered public office. We were friends back then.
Q. Did he know about your relationship with Frankie Callahan?
A. Unfortunately, yes. I confided in him after a night of heavy drinking. My wife was threatening to leave me. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I told him what had happened with Frankie. And about the NDA. I said way too much. I regretted it immediately. This is the kind of guy who can figure out how to use anything to his advantage.
Before
Frankie
September 10
I still have my back turned. Maybe I can run before the Senator grabs me. I can feel how close he is—the heat of his body. Too close for me to get away. I look down at my canvas, the easel with my painting supplies. The scraper knife. It’s like a big razor. I don’t know how sharp it really is, but I snatch it from the easel and extend the blade before I spin around.
It’s not the Senator.
It takes me a minute to process the face. I blink a few times. Still, it makes no sense.Hemakes no sense. Not here.
“Brooks?”
I do not feel relieved, though. Not at all. I feel a flash of hot, then cold. This is very bad. Brooks. Standing here in my apartment, looking exhausted and disheveled. As if maybe he made his way to my apartment from D.C. on foot. Like he hasn’t slept in days. Weeks.
