Party Lines by Fiona Wilde

thing to her. But he knew the media would be seeking him out for comment
on the story. Already his Blackberry was buzzing away, but he’d only tried to
reach one person: Lindsay. And she’d not answered.
    Was
she OK? He didn’t know. He only knew he had to get to the bottom of what
happened, to try to mitigate it somehow. He needed to convince his boss not to
gloat, to downplay it. He’d tell Hopkins it was for his own good,
that looking mean-spirited would not help his campaign, that the voters
would respect him more if he appeared magnanimous. And that was true. After he’d
done that, he’d find Lindsay – no matter where she was – and let
her know that he’d had nothing to do with what had happened, that she’d had
every cause to trust him, that she still could.
    Ron
slammed on brakes in the circular drive of Hopkins’ home. He’d not bothered to
speak to the butler as he rushed inside and had only grunted a ‘hello’ to
Hopkins’ heavily made-up wife, whose bleach-blonde hair was pulled back in its
usual severe bun.
    “He’s
in the study,” she said, her voice pouty at being ignored by her husband’s
handsome campaign manager.
    Ron
walked in without knocking to find Hopkins on the phone.
    “Hey,
gotta go,” he was saying. “And thanks for everything. Yeah, this is going to be
the turning point. No doubt. We’ll talk later. Bye.”
    He
snapped his cell phone shut and tucked it in his pocket. “Ron!” he said
jovially. “Damn glad to see you. Damn glad. It’s going to be a good day, compadre, a good day. But I guess you already know that if you’ve
seen the paper or watched the news.”
    Ron
had not seen the papers, but now he stood holding the one sitting on the arm of
the couch and stared down at the front, the sick feeling in his stomach
deepening. He turned it towards Hopkins.
    “Your
work?” he asked icily.
    “My
idea,” he said. “But the credit goes to a good friend who also happens to be a
private investigator.”
    Ron
felt a renewed surge of anger. “I thought finding out information on Lindsay
Martin was a task you were assigning to me.”
    Hopkins
smirked. “Initially,” he said. “But nothing was forthcoming and I was impatient
for results, especially after that little bitch got all high and mighty on me
at the last debate.” He laughed. “Bet she’s not so high and mighty now.”
    “Well
neither are we,” Ron said angrily. “It’s hard to be high and mighty when you’re
fighting in the gutter.” He flung the paper across the room and Hopkins stood
there, looking shocked.
    “I
can’t believe this,” he said. “I really can’t. I go out and find someone who
can turn this campaign – my campaign – around, and you stand there
daring to lecture me on how to win? In case you haven’t noticed, Ron, our
numbers are up in the latest tracking poll. There’s not a radio host or
editorial writer in this state who’s not questioning the judgment of Clara
Faircloth right now. And as for that little arsonist cunt…”
    “Enough.”
Ron waved him off, shaking his head. Words came back to him – Lindsay’s
words about how she wouldn’t have committed herself to Clara Faircloth’s
campaign had she not truly believed in who the candidate was and what she stood
for. Ron remembered how he’d called her noble. And she was. And at the moment,
he felt less than noble running the campaign of some reptile in a three
thousand dollar suit. Ron had promised Lindsay she could trust him, promised
himself that he’d be someone she could respect and obey. But serving Bradford
Hopkins negated those promises.
    The
words “I quit” were sitting on his lips, ready to tip from his mouth. His feet
itched to head towards the door. But something stopped him. There was a better
way to handle this, a way that would redeem the woman he loved and punish
Bradford Hopkins for hurting her.
    “No
wait,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “You’re right. I’m just