The Cave Dwellers, Christina McDowell [ap literature book list .TXT] 📗

his wooden cubicle to see who this pedestrian is who has appeared at their office door unannounced.

“Would you like to step outside for a minute?” Anne asks, but it’s more of a suggestion.

“Let me grab my coat.” Cate saunters to the back of her chair and whips her trench coat over her shoulders like a woman who knows what she’s doing.

The strong smell of coffee grounds blazes through the crowded Starbucks on North Capitol. Cate nurses a pumpkin spiced latte.

“You like to do things the old-school way—we don’t get reporters showing up at our office unless the Senate is voting.”

“In-person is always better than an e-mail or phone call, plus I don’t trust anyone in this town.”

Cate’s radar goes off. Green reporter and new to Washington.

Completely evident by the most basic statement Cate’s been hearing from Washington newcomers since she was a little girl sitting in Aunt Meredith and Uncle Chuck’s living room talking about the political merry-go-round and those who will never make it more than a few years in the swamp. I don’t trust anyone in this town. The girl has a point, but if you’re in it for the long haul, the point is irrelevant. Cate does what she’s learned to do best in situations where she has the upper hand.

She placates.

“Completely,” Cate replies.

“Do you know this man with Senator Wallace?” Anne pulls up a photograph on her iPhone. The photo shows a man with a sad face, round spectacles, gold Rolex, boat shoes, argyle sweater. He is standing between illuminated white columns of an old mansion; his arm is around Doug’s shoulders, but Doug’s head is turning away from the camera and toward the front door.

Cate studies the photograph. “I’ve never seen that man before in my life.… What is this about? I only have a few minutes.”

“We’ve launched an investigation into several high-powered men, a wide range of cases from verbal sexual harassment, to assault, to rape. A few of these men appear to have met at the home of Albert Rasmussen, former top lobbyist at Hill and Knowl—”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“Well, this is Tim Miller, and several women have come forward with strong corroborating evidence of harassment and assault.”

“Okay,” Cate replies, waiting for more information.

“Have you dealt with or are you dealing with any inappropriate behaviors by Senator Wallace or any other staffer within your office at the Capitol?”

Cate can’t believe this is happening. It’s too soon. She’s had no preparation. She thought she was in love. And she can’t throw Walter under the bus—not yet, not until she has a plan. She knows she has to think this through very carefully. Another thing she learned from Aunt Meredith: Washington is a small town. It’s not like Los Angeles or New York where you can reinvent yourself; when you’re out—You’re Out.

“No, no, Doug—Senator Wallace has the utmost integrity. Everyone is very professional and thrilled, truly, to be of service—and to see Senator Wallace get all of this wonderful new exposure.” She is proud of herself for that thrilled, a word she picked up from Meredith and her social sector of women who seem to enjoy adjectives like divine and dashing; it makes her feel mature.

“Cate, you’re one of the few new press secretaries who are women, and a very young woman to be in such a position, so I wanted to extend an olive branch—to let you know I am here if anything comes up or if anything has already come up and you’re just not comfortable enough yet sharing it. I know there isn’t a truly safe place for you to go, so consider me that.”

Cate tries not to laugh at Anne’s absurd statement. “I truly appreciate it, and the women who are coming forward are so brave and paving the way for our future—here in Washington, and across the globe,” she replies without missing a beat.

Anne takes a minute to study Cate’s body language, as though connected to a lie detector. “Of course, Senator Wallace was with Mr. Rasmussen that night. The night this photograph was taken.” Anne pulls up another photograph of Doug, alone, exiting the home through the same moonlit entrance, later the same night.

“And…?” Cate replies, teetering on hardball.

“And you know what they say time and time again: ‘Birds of a feather flock together.’ ”

Cate stands up, feeling on the cusp of disrespected.… Has she misread the reporter? Was the statement about trust an affront, a clue, so as to cue Cate to armor up, or is Anne on her side? Does she genuinely want the best for her? Or is Anne just in it for her own personal recognition? If she breaks a big story and knocks out multiple members of Congress and businessmen, what’s in it for Cate other than the loss of a job and being victimized? This isn’t Hollywood.

“I will reach out to you if I experience any misconduct, Anne. Thank you for all that you are doing—for your service to these women.”

Anne doesn’t budge. “Think about it. My door is always open.”

Cate struts down North Capitol whispering to herself: “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The pressure from the flat white sky strains Bunny’s eyes into squints as she approaches the wrought iron gates of the graveyard in a black oversize snow coat and backpack, marking her turn to the visiting center when her cell phone rings. Bunny stops in front of the brick fence and picks up. “Hey.” She drops her backpack next to her.

It’s Billy. “I got in,” he tells her.

“To NYU?” she asks, beaming with anticipation.

“Yeah,” Billy says, smiling on the other end of the phone.

Bunny can feel Billy’s joy in how he says it. She hops up on the brick wall—it’s a moment worthy of pausing—lets her legs dangle over a headstone beside the stone statue of a praying angel.

“Holy shit, Billy.”

“I know,” he says in a more solemn tone.

“What are you gonna do?”

“Send them