Chapter 45 The Quient After The Storm

• The press conference was over. The circus had moved on, its caravan of satellites and reporters shifting to dissect the latest Black Oak indictments. In the secured hospital suite, the silence was a physical presence, heavy and absolute.
• Alexander stood by the window, his back to the room, staring out at the city he had once commanded. The borrowed suit jacket was slung over a chair, his shoulders slumped under the thin fabric of his dress shirt. The performance was over. The mask was off.
• I busied myself with pointless tasks—straightening already-straened medical supplies, reviewing charts that needed no review. The space between us hummed with everything that had been said, and everything that had not.