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Epilogue
Extract from The Forgotten by Heather Graham
Lara Mayhew held her cell phone to her ear, trying to reach her friend Meg as she hurried along the length of the National Mall. She moved as quickly as she could; she’d never intended to be out so late—or so early, whichever it might be. The buildings she loved by day seemed like massive living creatures at night, staring at her with a strange malevolence. She loved the White House, the Capitol building, the Mall and, maybe more than any of them, the Castle building of the Smithsonian with its red facade and turrets.
They suddenly seemed to be looming hulks of evil. It was the hour, of course.
She told herself she was being ridiculous.
The ringing finally stopped and Lara got her friend’s voice mail. Of course. Why would Meg be up at 2:30 a.m.?
But Lara could at least leave a message that might save her friend from worry when she disappeared.
“Meg, it’s me, Lara. I wanted to let you know I’m going home. Home, as in getting out of DC and heading for Richmond. I’m going as soon as it’s daylight. I’ll talk to you when I can. Love you. Don’t say anything to anyone else, okay? I have to get out of here. Talk soon.”
She clicked the end button and slipped the phone into her bag. Meg was her best friend. They’d both been only children—and they’d both wanted siblings. They’d decided once that they’d be just like sisters. And they were.
She wished she’d managed to get ahold of Meg, that she could’ve heard her voice.
She walked briskly along the dark and empty sidewalk and yet she was certain she could hear all kinds of noises. Furtive noises.
Get a grip, she warned herself. She wasn’t prone to being afraid—not without good reason.
Yet the night...scared her. And for no real reason.
Maybe because what she suspected was bone-chilling?
She considered calling 9-1-1. And saying what? She didn’t have an emergency. She was stupidly walking around on dark city streets, suddenly afraid of trying to make her way home in the early-morning hour.
She reminded herself that she was near the White House, for God’s sake, the Capitol, the Smithsonian buildings—and the Washington Monument. Despite the darkness and the shadows, she was fine.
She’d just never been in the area so late. Then again, there’d never been a night quite like this one. She was so upset about what she suspected that she hadn’t thought about the time when she’d made her indignant retreat. She hadn’t had the sense to be afraid as she dashed out.
She hadn’t thought to call a cab, either, and there weren’t many of them on the streets right now.
She mulled over her fears about what was going on, the situation that had caused her to stay so late, spend so many hours talking. Of course, she and Congressman Walker had often stayed at the office late. Not this late, though. Well, maybe, but he always saw that she got home safely. And most of the time, she’d left feeling exhilarated.
She had adored him. She worked on media and communications, but she was also an adviser, a problem-solver.
It was about a month ago that she’d first begun to feel uneasy. She’d wanted to call Meg then, but hadn’t. Meg had been in the middle of her FBI training. So she’d gone home to Aunt Nancy’s for a day and then done a quick circuit of the things she and Meg had done as children and during their breaks at college. She’d followed what they called their trail. All places that were cheap and historic and wonderful. And she’d left a message in the hollow of the broken marker in the Harpers Ferry graveyard, as they’d done when they were kids. One day—who knew?—she might go back to pick up the message. If her suspicions proved groundless.
She was angry with herself. She wasn’t naive. She’d just wholeheartedly believed in what she was doing. Then she’d begun to realize that there were little erosions in those beliefs—which had become big erosions.
She thought about her friend again, wishing Meg had answered her phone.
They’d been such dreamers. Meg had always focused on law enforcement, she on law and governance. Her love of history and the story of America had made her understand and value the importance of good government, and she still believed in the passion for justice and freedom that had forged her country. There had been painful lessons along the way; among them, a bloody Civil War, which had taught Americans some of those lessons.
Longing to work in DC—to fight for justice and equality herself—she’d found Congressman Ian Walker, who was a dreamer, too.
And an idealist. One who did, however, recognize that in a country where different people had different ideals, compromise
