Page 8 of Campaign Season (By Design #18)

Chapter

Three

Only a few more days until Candace could finally exhale.

News that she planned to watch the midterm election results from the family home in Schoharie—and spend the weekend there afterward—had been met with mixed reactions.

Some commentators chose to paint the trip as proof she was still recovering from her injuries that summer, suggesting that perhaps the White House hadn’t been as transparent about the president’s health as it claimed.

There were moments when the spin machine amused Candace and others when it drained her to the bone.

“We can spin this back in your direction,” Michelle said crisply. “It’s no secret that there’s construction inside the White House. It makes sense for you to work from New York or Camp David for a few days. Evacuating staff during another false alarm is easier than moving the First Family.”

Candace groaned.

“It might quiet some of the chatter,” Michelle added.

“Or it might open the floodgates for more conspiracy theories.” Candace set her glasses down on the Resolute Desk.

“The truth is best, Shell. Simple. Direct. I’ll be flying home Tuesday morning to cast my vote.

I’ll remain in Schoharie for the rest of the week, barring anything urgent in Washington.

Your father’s illness isn’t a national security secret.

We’re gathering as a family. That’s the truth. Stick to it.”

Michelle arched an eyebrow. “You realize some people will color that, too? You spending a long weekend with your ex-husband?”

Candace shrugged. “The problem with spin is that it’s self-perpetuating. Once you start the wheel, it’s hard to make it stop.”

“It’s your call.”

“Yes, it is,” Candace agreed, her tone final. “What else?”

“Do you plan to speak to the press after your appearance with Congressman Dean?”

“I imagine it will be hard to avoid them.”

“They’ll press this issue.”

“It isn’t an issue,” Candace said firmly.

“Mom—”

“I’ll handle it, Shell.”

“What if they ask about Dad?”

Candace massaged her brow, trying to ease the tension there. “Shell, your father has terminal cancer. It isn’t a secret. If they ask, I’ll be forthright. We don’t know how much time we have left with him. The election timing worked. We’re having an early holiday together.”

Michelle hesitated, then pressed gently, “They’ll ask why you need to be there.”

Candace inhaled slowly, tempering her irritation.

Michelle was doing her job well. Still, this topic scraped raw.

Some people couldn’t fathom divorced couples remaining friends.

They didn’t understand that Jonathan had been part of her life since they were kids.

She didn’t feel the need to justify her decision, not as president and certainly not as a mother.

“Let them ask,” Candace said at last.

“Mom—”

Candace met her daughter’s gaze, steady and unflinching. “Let. Them. Ask.”

The intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Carol?”

“Sorry, Madam President. Assistant Director Toles is here.”

“No need to apologize. Shell and I were just wrapping up. Send Alex in.”

“Mom—”

“I heard you, Shell. You need to trust me.”

“It’s not you I don’t trust.”

Candace nodded, letting the words linger in the air before turning her attention to Alex as she entered.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Alex said.

“We were done,” Michelle replied.

“How are you, Shell?” Alex asked.

“Good. Busy.”

“I’ll bet the kids are excited about Halloween,” Alex offered.

“Not as excited as my wife,” Michelle replied. “Apparently, we have costumes.”

Candace snickered.

“Why are you laughing?” Michelle asked. “Did Mel tell you what she’s planning?”

Candace shook her head. “No idea, but take lots of pictures.”

Michelle groaned. “With my luck, she’ll have me dressed as a roll of toilet paper.”

Candace laughed. “Could be worse—you could be the?—”

“Mom!”

Candace shrugged, her smile widening.

“Don’t forget,” Michelle said as she stepped into the doorway, “you have trick-or-treaters coming through the Oval in an hour.”

“I have candy at the ready.”

“Are you dressing up?” Alex asked.

“Yes. As the president.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “I’ll see you in a bit,” she said, closing the door.

“Busy day,” Alex remarked.

“It’ll be fun to have the kids trick-or-treating through the White House. A nice change of pace.”

“Planning to bribe the press corps with high-end candy?”

Candace chuckled. Traditionally, members of the press brought their children for an afternoon of trick-or-treating alongside the children of the White House staff. Jameson had taken the lead on planning the festivities with Cooper’s enthusiastic help.

“Cooper and Jameson chose the candy. I haven’t looked. My best guess is peanut butter cups, sour candy, and bubble gum.”

“Excellent choices.”

“Mm-hm. I can already imagine tomorrow’s headlines about presidential dental care.”

Alex laughed, then her expression sobered.

“You didn’t come here to discuss candy,” Candace said.

“No.”

“Well, sit down. Let’s hear it.”

Alex lowered herself into the chair opposite. “Are you sure you want to nominate me to take over at the CIA?”

“I am. Do you disagree?”

“No. But it will tie my hands more. My ability to help Claire will be diminished.”

“Alex,” Candace said gently, “I need someone at the top I can trust. I know how you feel about being tied to a desk. But this position gives you access to the hierarchy—a chance to see what’s really happening among the rank and file.

We both know I have adversaries within the government.

That’s more dangerous than detractors. I could appoint someone else, but no one has your experience.

You’ve worked across agencies and in the field. ”

“Yes. But not on the record.” Alex’s voice was low. “My time at Carecom was cover. The official CIA isn’t the same as The Company. They work in partnership; that much is true. But my paycheck never came from the U.S. government.”

“I know. And that’s exactly why I want you there. Carecom isn’t the only civilian front. Those facades may have started with good intentions. I understand the rationale, but I don’t condone how it’s evolved. There are people inside that agency working against this administration.”

Alex sat back. “I’ll do whatever you ask. But we need someone lower, too. Someone who can feel the ground under their boots.”

Candace nodded. “Then close the gap.”

Alex frowned. “Meaning?”

“I’ve heard you talk about your people at Carecom.

Make the directorship hands-on. Walk the halls.

Learn the names. Tell Congress, in your confirmation hearings, that you’ll do just that.

There’s been a drumbeat about intelligence budgets, bloat, and lack of oversight.

You’ve testified on the Hill before. They respect you—both sides of the aisle.

Despite our friendship, they see you as nonpartisan. That’s why this is the right move.”

Alex’s lips quirked. “You’re casting a line into Congress.”

“Let’s just say there are members on the Hill who might come to you first with their concerns once you’re no longer in the West Wing.”

“And what about filling my role?” Alex asked.

“I have a few ideas. I want to run them by Joshua first.”

“Someone outside our circle?”

“I think so.”

“Candace?”

“I was thinking of Greg Scott.”

Alex blinked. A former Marine captain, Scott had left active duty to found Sentinel Global, an international security company that earned its reputation by supplying private soldiers to hotspots where governments hesitated to tread.

Three years ago, he had stepped away from the company to work as a consultant, lowering his profile but maintaining his influence.

He was more than qualified to serve as Deputy National Security Adviser, though Alex wasn’t convinced all his methods had been ethical.

“You have concerns,” Candace observed.

“He has the qualifications. Some of his ideas—and his clients—could be described as unorthodox.”

“I’m aware. He also has a powerful ally in the Army.”

“Who?”

“Matthew Waters.”

Alex pinched the bridge of her nose and groaned.

“It’s a necessity,” Candace said.

Candace Reid was not a typical leader. Voters lit up when she entered a room.

At fundraisers, she remembered the names of donors’ children, even their dogs.

In debates, her spine straightened, and her hazel eyes cut through opponents like glass.

She could take a 300-page policy brief and extract the thread that connected it to the broader tapestry of international relations.

Alex had seen intelligence analysts with less acuity.

This made the decision harder. Alex wanted to argue against bringing anyone with ties to General Matthew Waters into the fold.

Waters commanded a rare kind of respect—military, political, and public.

His family name carried even more weight: his sister had been First Lady Jane Merrow, and his father, Dr. Donald Waters, was publicly lauded for fertility breakthroughs while privately tied to CIA black programs.

Alex’s stomach twisted. She knew too much.

She had tracked evidence that Donald Waters wasn’t dead.

He continued working on the human enhancement projects he and William Brackett had implemented.

Those programs had scarred Cassidy’s family.

The Boston clinic Waters had founded had provided the opportunity for Brackett to steal embryos.

The revelation that Claire Brackett was Cassidy’s sister had cut Alex’s family to the bone.

Matthew Waters’s loyalty to his father’s legacy made him dangerous. Bringing in Greg Scott—someone with ties to Waters—was a risk. But sometimes, the only way to track an enemy was to make him think you viewed him as an asset.

“Alex?” Candace’s voice pulled her back.

“I’d like to know a little more about Greg Scott,” Alex said carefully.

“So would I. He’s consulted for Costin Barbu.”

Alex groaned. The Romanian president was always a wild card. “Candace.”