Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

twitting or whatever they called it.
    Henry said, “From what I gather, her injuries, while severe . . . are not permanent. And she will recover. Eventually. What I want to offer you is a way to ease that recovery along.”
    Beth said sharply, “Seeing that punk in prison — that’ll help her recovery, I goddamn guarantee it.”
    He tilted his head slightly. “Are you sure, Mrs. Mooney?”
    “Yes, I am.”
    “Really? Honestly? Or will having Clay in prison help
your
recovery, not your daughter’s?”
    “You’re talking foolish now.”
    A slight shake of the head. “Perhaps. That’s what happens when you spend so much time with the press, consultants, and campaign workers. You do tend to talk foolish. So let’s get back to basics. From my experience, Mrs. Mooney, there are two avenues open to you. To us. The first is the one I’m sure has the most appeal for you. The attorney general’s office, working with the state police, pursue a criminal indictment against Clay Thomson for a variety of offenses, from assault and battery to . . . any other charges that they can come up with.”
    Beth crossed her legs. “Sounds good to me.”
    “I understand. So what will happen afterward?”
    Beth tried to smile. “The little bastard goes to trial. Gets convicted. Goes to jail. Also sounds good to me.”
    Something chirped in the room. Henry pulled a slim black object from his coat, looked at it, pressed a button, and returned it to his pocket. “That may occur. But plenty of other things will happen, Mrs. Mooney, and I can guarantee that.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like a media frenzy you’ve never, ever experienced before. I have, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemies, personal or political. Your phone rings constantly, from all the major networks, the cable channels, the newspapers, and the wire services. Reporters and camera crews stake out your home and your hair salon. Your entire life is probed, dissected, and published. Your daughter’s life is also probed, dissected, and published. All in the name of the public’s right to know. If your daughter is active sexually, that will be known. Her school grades, her medical history, information about old boyfriends will all be publicized. If you’ve ever had a criminal complaint — drunk driving, shoplifting, even a speeding ticket — that will also be known around the world.”
    Beth bit her lower lip. “It might just be worth it, to see that little bastard in an orange jumpsuit.”
    “No doubt you feel that way now, Mrs. Mooney,” the man said. “But that will be just the start of it. You see, in a close-fought campaign like this one . . . the opponents of the senator will see you and your daughter as their new best friends, and they’ll try anything and everything to keep this story alive, day after day, week after week, so the senator will stumble in the Iowa caucuses and lose the New Hampshire primary and then the White House.”
    Her hand found another tissue. Henry went on, talking slow and polite, like he was telling her the specials from the deli counter at the local Stop & Shop. “And that’s the senator’s enemies making your life miserable. The senator’s supporters . . . they would be much, much worse.”
    Beth said with surprise, “His supporters? Why would they be worse?”
    Henry spoke again, sounding like a bored schoolteacher talking to an equally bored student. “For more than a year, many of them have been volunteering and donating time and money to the senator. They truly believe — as do I — that he is the best man to be our next president, the man who can bring justice back to this country and to our dealings with the world. But if you and your daughter were to pursue a criminal case concerning the senator’s son . . . there will be threats and accusations against the two of you. Some will say that it was a setup. That you are allied with political groups that are against the senator. That you resent the senator, or your daughter has a grudge against the senator and his family. You’ll be harassed at home, at work, and places in between. People on the internet will publish your home address and telephone number, as well as pictures of you, your house, and your hair salon. And it would go on for months . . . perhaps years.”
    “But that’s not fair!”
    Henry said, “That’s the state of politics today, I’m afraid.”
    Beth pushed the tissue against her lips, keening softly. This night wasn’t supposed to