Page 77 of Keep

“He hasn’t ruined anything.” Heat climbed through him. “If anyone ruined anything, it’s whoever took that photograph. Someone was following us, Frannie. I saw them—at the Botanic Garden, outside the CVS, again at the Kennedy Center. I thought I was being paranoid.”

“You weren’t.”

“No.” His hands had curled into fists. He made himself unclench them. “Someone hired a photographer. Someone who knew where I’d be and when.”

“The photograph was taken the evening of October 11th,” Frannie said. “National Coming Out Day. That’s probably not a coincidence.”

They looked at each other.

“Clancy,” Hank said.

“Clancy.”

“He has a brownstone in Dupont Circle. He mentioned it—very private, very discreet.”

“And he’s been circling you for months.” Frannie’s voice went flat. “What was it you told me said, about bachelors sticking together? He wanted you, Hank. And you wouldn’t give him the time of day.”

Hank’s stomach turned. “You think this is about⁠—”

“I think he’s a man who’s used to getting what he wants. Escorts, favors, discretion—he buys what he needs. But you wouldn’t play.” Frannie leaned forward. “And then he sees you happy. Actually happy. With someone you chose. Someone you care about.” She shook her head. “Men like Clancy can’t stand that. If he can’t have it, nobody can.”

Hank thought about Clancy’s moist handshake, his insinuating smile. He thought about Chad’s face in that photograph, half-turned, caught in a moment that should have been private.

“If I see him in the hallway,” Hank said, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Then avoid the hallway.”

“I’m serious, Frannie.”

“So am I.” Her eyes were sharp. “You losing your temper is exactly what he wants. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Hank didn’t answer. The anger was still there, coiled tight in his chest.

“Let me do some digging,” Frannie said. “Quietly. Clancy’s been playing this game a long time. He’s bound to have made enemies. If there’s something there, I’ll find it.”

“And then what?”

“Then we’ll see.” She picked up her sandwich. “Right now, you need to focus on the campaign. And on sorting things out with Chad.”

“I told you. He won’t talk to me.”

“Then give him time.”

“Five days, Frannie.”

She set her sandwich down. Looked at him with the expression she usually reserved for colleagues who’d said something stupid on C-SPAN.

“Hank. He’s twenty-three. He’s not punishing you. He doesn’t know what to do yet.”

The words landed harder than they should have. Twenty-three. He kept forgetting that. He kept treating Chad like someone who’d had decades to practice navigating crisis—because Chad was so sharp, so self-possessed, so much himself that it was easy to forget he was twenty-three years old and his face was in the Washington Post because he’d held someone’s hand.

“He’s a kid,” Frannie said, more gently. “A smart kid. But still a kid. And his whole world just flipped in a direction he didn’t choose.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Because right now you’re sitting here looking like a man who thinks he’s been abandoned, and I’m telling you that’s not what this is.”

Hank picked up his sandwich. Set it down. Picked it up again.