“No,” Kamal said abruptly from where he sat on a love seat in the Oval Office.

Teague glanced at the president uncertainly. He still wasn’t sure how the whole power dynamic worked between President Hampton and her new husband. For as long as Teague had known him, Kamal was in charge—of everything and everyone he could be. Yet, he was now an American, and his wife was also his president. The whole damn thing made Teague’s head hurt, but didn’t seem to bother the Masris at all.

“Apparently, the First Gentleman doesn’t like your resignation, and I have to say I’m not enthusiastic about it either.”

Teague looked at the president. “Ma’am, I appreciate the vote of confidence, but surely you can see that I’m a sitting duck now. I’ve lied to the administration, Congress, and the public. In addition to the fact that everyone is going to see my ability to hear cases dealing with the death penalty or penal issues as compromised. All those cases the Supreme Court hears as the final court of appeals, those cases that deal with the civil liberties of prisoners, methods of execution, appeals to death convictions. No one will believe I can be impartial about those.”

Kamal stood and paced the width of the room. “Look, we can spin this. You didn’t lie, your mother told you he had died, and you’ve believed that since. You never bothered to investigate, because why would you?”

“You’re going to pin all this on my sixty-something mother?” Teague asked, one eyebrow raised.

Kamal stopped in front of the fireplace, a painting of George Washington hanging above him. “I’m going to paint a picture for the press and public that is as close to the truth as possible without calling you a liar. Let me ask you this—did you ever look up your brother? Did you try to find him or know anything about his day-to-day life?”

Teague scratched his head, embarrassed that he had to admit his selfishness and negligence in front of the president.

“No. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t. I worked very hard to put him out of my head and focus on my goals and my life. It was the height of selfishness.”

“Or it was the height of self-preservation,” the president added gently.

“It also makes what we’re going to tell the press and Congress so close to the truth that you will be able to say it with a clear conscience.”

Teague snorted.

“Hear me out,” Kamal said, glancing at his wife, who nodded her approval. “Your mother told you something—that your brother had died—you believed her, you moved on. All that is true. It’s what you’ll say, it’s what we’ll say. It’s simple.”

“But it doesn’t deal with the issue of the court’s docket and my ability to be impartial.”

“Is anyone impartial when it comes to things like the death penalty?” the president said. “Can any judge at any level—any attorney, any juror—be impartial about the government acting to imprison a nineteen-year-old for decades, or end a human being’s life through state-sponsored execution? These prisoners have been convicted of some of humanity’s most heinous crimes, but they are also still people. They have loved ones. They have thoughts and feelings. How can anyone be impartial about that?”

Kamal gave Teague a wry smile. “She has a very good point.”

“The question isn’t whether you can be impartial, Teague,” the president continued. “It’s whether you can make logical, rational rulings on constitutional law. Rulings that you can defend, and that you feel provide the most freedoms to the most people while still protecting our citizens and the nation.”

“And what do you think, Madam President?” Teague asked, genuinely curious.

“I think that I spent a great deal of time vetting possible candidates for the most important judicial position in the country, and that I chose my nominee carefully and wisely. I think that I will support him no matter what, because I have the utmost faith in his abilities to protect our Constitution.”

Teague swallowed, his throat dry and tight.

“And as someone who has known you for several years now, I concur,” Kamal added.

So far nothing about this morning’s meeting was going the way Teague envisioned. He’d come to the White House to tender his resignation as the president’s nominee, and now he was blindsided by her endorsement and her belief in him. He didn’t deserve it, but he was inclined to take it and run before she changed her mind.

“I can’t thank you enough, Madam President. Your confidence in me is humbling. And I apologize again for not being honest with you and your staff when all this started.”

“Thank you, Teague. It’s unfortunate that it’s going to make things more difficult for us, but I’ve never backed down from a fight on the Hill before. I won’t start now.”

“Since we have the president’s directive, why don’t we adjourn to my office to discuss more strategy,” Kamal said, standing smoothly. “I’ll see you at lunch?” he said to the president, giving her what Teague could only describe as a heated look. Teague ducked his head to cover his smirk, pretending to examine the ornate Persian rug on the floor. He felt like a twelve-year-old spying on his parents.

Lunch plans were confirmed, and Kamal led Teague out of the Oval Office to the East Wing, where his own offices were housed. They greeted his secretary, who had been with him since his days as the Egyptian ambassador to the US, and then went into his office.

Kamal ordered tea and coffee from the White House kitchen, then they both sat down at a small conference table.

“Now, we talk spin,” he began.

* * *

Deanna’s in-box was stuffed. She clicked through message after message, filing, forwarding, and mostly deleting.

Then she came to it. Another one.

Her father’s email address flashed on the screen like a taunt. You know you want to open me, it said. You can delete me, but I’ll never really go away.

Out of habit, her mouse moved the cursor over the message, hovering, waiting to click and drag to the Trash. But something happened, and before she could stop herself, that mouse had clicked instead of dragging and dropping. Then, instead of staring at her father’s email address, she was staring at his words. The first words she’d seen from him in eleven years.

Her breath caught as she stared at the screen. Like a car wreck along the side of the cyber highway, she was unable to look away. Her eyes scanned the missive, not really comprehending the words as her heart beat a fluttering rhythm.

Some part of her remained rational, however, and she found herself remembering to breathe, exhaling slowly as her hand moved off the mouse, and she leaned into the screen, reading the words slowly, one at a time.

Dear Deanna:

I never know if you read these or not. If you do, they’ve probably become very redundant. If you ever feel like responding, you can tell me to quit beating a dead horse and come up with something more creative to write.

In the years since you left, I have spent countless hours wondering how we allowed our beautiful family to reach a place where we would choose to let anything—any fear, any worldview, any discomfort—become more important than our own daughter and her happiness.

I think maybe when you’re blessed, as your mother and I have been, with so many benefits in life—money, respect, power, social standing—you become too used to things being comfortable, easy, peaceful, and anything that causes you discomfort, that challenges the world in which you exist, is viewed as undesirable. You become spiritually lazy, never challenging the way in which you live, the world in which you operate, the people with whom you have contact.

Dee, once upon a time I took credit for who you were. I was proud of you because I felt that your mother and I had done a spectacular job raising a bright, gracious, spirited young woman. But if we really did have anything to do with how you turned out, it was only in the early stages, because you obviously outpaced us to such a degree, there’s no doubt that we had very little to do with who you’ve ultimately become.

You, my beautiful daughter, are not spiritually lazy. You went into the bigger world, the one outside of Sewickley Heights, and you challenged yourself. You learned new things, sought out new achievements, and met new people. Your successful career is a testament to your ability to open your heart and your mind to the entirety of the world and provide observations about it for those of us who might not experience those things in our day-to-day lives.

If there is one thing I’ve learned from watching you all these years, it’s that an open heart is a beautiful heart. When I read the words you write about the people and places you’ve known, I’m convinced that my own life has been stagnant and tiny. I am so happy that you have been able to break free of that, fly higher, rise above what your mother and I presented to you.

I read your most recent piece on Teague Roberts, and I gained hope that possibly you and he have found your way to one another again. He is obviously an exemplary man, a consummate professional, and someone who will serve our nation admirably in the Supreme Court.

I’m looking forward to your upcoming series on the lives of single mothers in rural West Virginia. I know you will do the topic justice.

With all my love, each and every day,

Your Father.

Deanna sat staring at the screen, not even realizing that tears were sliding down her face until they began to splash on her keyboard. She quickly sat up straighter, wiped at her eyes, and sniffed.

Her mind swirled with contradictory thoughts—emotions run rampant. Never in her wildest imaginings could she have conceived of a letter like this from her father. Never could she have envisioned her father changing his view of their shared history and the world around him so completely.

Dr. Forbes was a decent man, but a somewhat rigid one. He’d run a very successful medical practice for thirty years, as well as served on the board of the local country club, the prep school Deanna had attended, and the state medical association. He always gave his patients the best medical care possible, but the truth was his clientele was almost entirely upper middle class and white. He’d never actually been challenged as a physician or as a person.

Until the day Deanna walked out of his house for the final time.

And now, if his email were to be believed, it had changed him in some fundamental way, made who he was versus who he should be, focused and immediate.

She blinked away the last tears, then dragged the message to her Save folder. She shook her head slightly as she struggled to regain her composure.

Yes, her father had changed. She had changed him. But was it too late? She didn’t have an answer for that. At least not yet, and until she did, his message would sit and wait. Just as the man himself had been for over a decade now. Waiting for his one and only daughter to come back to him.