Chapter 13: summons

Evelyn’s POV

It’s been forty-eight hours since the troubles started and I’ve been enjoying watching him move from pillar to post, trying to hold everything together, calling people, shouting orders, pretending he isn’t drowning. I was getting ready to go to Pilates when my phone rang.

“Evelyn.” His voice. Tight. Flat. No greeting. “I need you to come to the office. Now.”

I held the phone away from my ear for a second, staring at it like maybe I heard wrong. “Is something wrong?”

He didn’t answer that. Just repeated, “Come now,” and hung up.

I stood there a moment, phone still in my hand, trying to decide if I cared enough to go. But curiosity wins with Alfred it always does. I wanted to see how bad the fire is this time, how much he’s pretending he can handle it alone.

So I changed out of my leggings, grabbed my keys, and drove.

By the time I reached the campaign office, the building felt like an overworked beehive. Staff moving fast, voices low, phones ringing off the hook. The energy was different from the usual excitement. This one felt nervous, scattered.

His secretary looked pale when she saw me, hands fidgeting with a stack of files. “Mrs. Cole, he’s expecting you,” she said quickly, and gestured toward his door.

Alfred was standing by the window when I walked in, shoulders stiff, one hand pressed on the desk. He didn’t even look at me at first. Just said, “Close the door.”

I did.

Then he turned, face hard, eyes burning with that familiar mix of anger and fear he hides behind control. “Read this,” he said, and pushed a letter across the desk.

I picked it up. The words jumped at me before I even finished the first line.

Summons for questioning. Financial irregularities. Campaign fund discrepancies.

Ah. So that’s what this was about.

I let the paper fall back on his desk. “Who sent it?”

“The Bureau.” He ran a hand through his hair. “They’re making official claims now that there’s a report about missing funds, tax fraud, money laundering shit. It’s all bullshit. Someone’s trying to ruin me.”

His voice cracked at the end, but he caught it fast, slamming his hand against the desk hard enough that his coffee cup rattled. “This is political sabotage!”

The secretary flinched outside. I heard a paper drop.

“Alfred…”

Before I could finish, the door opened and Lawson, his PR manager, slipped in. “Sir, we’ve reached out to the communications team. We’ll draft a statement but we can’t release anything until we confirm…”

“Nothing gets out,” Alfred snapped. “I don’t want the press hearing a word about this.”

Lawson nodded quickly. “Of course.”

They started going back and forth about damage control how to contain the leak, who might be behind it, how to spin the narrative if it goes public. I didn’t say anything. I just watched the two of them, Alfred pacing, Lawson sweating through his shirt, both acting like the world might end if anyone found out their saintly candidate wasn’t so clean.

Finally Alfred turned to me. “The summons is for today.”

I frowned. “Today?”

“Yes.” He came closer, voice low now. “I need you to come with me.”

I laughed. “You have a lawyer, Alfred.”

“I want you there too.”

“You don’t need me.”

He stared at me for a moment, jaw tight. “I do.”

“Why? So I can sit beside you and watch you pretend you’re the victim? I’m sure your lawyer can handle that.”

“You know how these things work,” he said, frustrated. “Better than anyone.”

I looked at him properly then, really looked his shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loose, face drawn like he hadn’t slept. He meant it. He actually wanted me there.

“Now you need me?” I asked quietly. “After all these years of treating me like I was some stranger living in your house, now I’m the one you trust?”

He hesitated. “Evelyn, please. You’re better than any of them.”

That word -please did something. It always does. He never says it unless he’s cornered. And hearing him admit I’m better than anyone else? That scratched a part of me that’s been sore for years.

But I wasn’t about to let him have it easy.

“You have everyone else at your back,” I said. “Lawyers, consultants, media handlers. You never needed me before, Alfred. Don’t start now.”

He clenched his fists. “You’re my wife. You’re supposed to help me.”

“Then you should’ve treated me like one.”

We just stood there staring at each other, years of resentment pressing into the silence.

That’s when the intern walked in poor boy, barely twenty, holding a file. He froze at the door the moment he saw our faces. “Sir, the uh the car’s ready.”

Alfred shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “Get out.”

The boy nodded too quickly, nearly dropped the file, and left.

I sighed. “You really shouldn’t talk to people like that.”

“Not now, Evelyn.”

“You brought me here. You don’t get to choose when I speak.”

He closed his eyes, steadying himself. “Please. Come with me.”

I watched him for a moment, debating whether to make him beg again. Then I grabbed my purse. “Fine. But I’m not your lawyer.”

“I don’t care what you are,” he said quietly. “Just come.”

He meant that. And maybe that’s why I went.

Outside, the car was waiting. Lawson followed us out, talking in a rush, promising to manage the story, find out who leaked the report. Alfred barely listened. He opened the door for me like we were strangers being polite, then got in on the other side.

The drive was quiet. He kept his eyes ahead, knuckles white around his phone. I could feel the weight sitting between us the years of love turned into duty, pride turned into silence.

When we got to the Bureau, his lawyer was already waiting. A tall man in a crisp navy suit, briefcase in hand. He looked surprised to see me but didn’t say anything.

Inside, the questioning room was small. No intimidation tactics, just a plain table, a recorder, two agents who smiled too kindly. They started with introductions, then moved straight to business.

Alfred answered confidently at first, smooth, composed, giving them just enough but never too much. But as the questions went deeper dates, figures, specific accounts his confidence thinned. His lawyer tried to steer the conversation, but it was clumsy. He fumbled on a detail about donor transfers, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

“Actually,” I said, interrupting. My voice cut clean through the air. “The donations were processed under the committee’s joint account, not his personal one. You can verify that with the bank records.”

Both agents paused. One of them glanced at me, then nodded slowly. “That’s correct. Thank you, Mrs. Cole.”

Alfred didn’t look at me, but I saw his shoulders drop slightly. He needed that.

The rest of the session went smoother after that. They asked, he answered. Nothing explosive. By the end, they said they’d review the documents and get back to him.

When we stepped out, the afternoon light hit his face and I saw it relief. A fragile kind that never lasts.

“That went better than I expected,” he said quietly.

I adjusted my bag on my shoulder. “Don’t celebrate yet. They’re not done.”

He nodded, then finally turned to me. “Thank you.”

I looked straight ahead. “You’re welcome.”

The driver opened the car door. Alfred got in first, waiting for me to follow. I slid in beside him, crossing my legs, and stared out the window as the city passed by.

He thought it was over. But something in my gut told me this was only the beginning and I’ll see it to the end