Meghan Royce hires an attorney, and she points out Royce’s impeccable record as a public defender; she’s never missed a day of work and routinely goes to the mat for defendants who have no other champion. She adds that Royce’s personal life has no bearing on her memories of what happened between her and Stone Cavendish on New Year’s Eve 1991. He pushed her farther into the closet when she asked to get out. He clapped his hand over her mouth. She had to kick him to escape.

The FBI investigates this second claim and manages to reach Justine Hwang in Mongolia, who makes a statement that she does recall the night in question and she does remember Meghan Royce saying that someone forced her into a closet and that she fought her way out. Justine Hwang can’t say for certain that this person was Stone Cavendish. She never met the guy that Meghan was talking to, that party was crowded, and she has no recollection at this point of the address of the party or how they ended up there. Word of mouth, she assumes.

Stone Cavendish’s spokesperson says that clearly Meghan Royce had been drinking and while something might very well have happened to her at the party she went to, she is mistaken about the identity of the man because it was not Stone Cavendish.

“She probably heard the other accuser’s story and decided to try for her fifteen minutes of fame.”

Bess is outraged. “I hope you see what’s happening here, Mom. They’re shaming these women and they’re trying to say that just because a woman has lost custody of her son, she’s not credible. It’s disgusting. The two stories are pretty similar, and the first story has a corroborating witness who remembers seeing Stone Cavendish follow Eve into the dunes and seeing Eve emerge alone. What other proof do you need? People are saying, ‘Oh, Cindy is bitter because Stone ditched her for another girl and now she’s getting back at him.’ Getting back at him thirty-five years later? What’s so hard to believe about a woman just remembering what happened and speaking up?” Bess pauses to catch her breath. “You know he did it, Mom.”

“There wouldn’t be enough to convict him in a court of law,” Ursula says.

“Mom.”

Ursula sighs. Frankly, she would like to see Cavendish own up to the allegations—or at least admit the possibility that these women might be right even if it’s so long ago he doesn’t remember—and apologize. How refreshing would it be for someone in power to just admit to wrongdoing instead of unequivocally denying it? Stone could say he was forceful with women, that he was—just say it—abusive, that he was intoxicated and thoughtless, and that he felt invincible and entitled, like so many privileged white males do. And then he could say that he’s sorry now. He wishes he could go back to his younger self and give him a thrashing. He has learned so much in the past thirty years. He has grown up.

Ursula could write the statement for him. This will work! she wants to say. But Kevin Blackstone Cavendish remains in deny-deny-deny mode. He digs in. His team collects statements from eighty-four female attorneys that he’s worked with over the past three decades vouching for his integrity, his character, his manners. They get letters from his priests, from his neighbors, from his teachers and classmates.

The FBI concludes its investigation.

The night before the confirmation hearing, Ursula receives a phone call from Bayer Burkhart.

“Take it easy on him in the hearing, please,” Bayer says. “This is the guy we want. He’s centrist, speaks for the majority of normal working Americans. Throw him some softballs, please, Ursula. You’ll be rewarded.”

You’ll be rewarded. What Bayer means is that he and his billionaire friends will back Ursula for president in 2020. Until recently, there was talk of running Vincent Stengel for president with Ursula as VP. But the country is ready for a female president; hungry for one, even.

Isn’t that what Ursula wants? Isn’t that what she has always wanted?

And isn’t it true that Kevin Blackstone Cavendish would make an excellent Supreme Court justice? Doesn’t America deserve an end to partisan politics? Can’t they compromise on issues while preserving the central tenets of freedom, equality, and justice for all? Isn’t it time to usher in an era of reason and enlightenment?

“Do you think he did it?” Ursula asks.

“Whether he did it or not isn’t relevant,” Bayer says. “It was relevant in 1983 and 1991 but it’s not relevant now. Do you know who the president was in 1983, Ursula? Ronald Reagan. Do you know who was president in 1991? Bush the father. What these women are digging up is ancient history. And I’m old enough to remember someone saying, ‘Men are not the enemy.’ Do you know who that someone was, Ursula? It was you.”

“What’s relevant,” Ursula says, “is that Cavendish is lying about it. Right, Bayer? If he did these things, and I’m inclined to believe that he did, then why doesn’t he just admit it?”

“Have you ever lied about anything, Ursula?” Bayer asks.

“Of course.”

“Of course,” Bayer says.

“But not about something major like this!” Ursula says. “This is denying some egregious behavior.”

“What about egregious behavior like sleeping with Anders Jorgensen while the two of you were working on a case in Lubbock, Texas?” Bayer says. “You were married, were you not?”

Ursula nearly drops her phone. She’s behind her partners’ desk in her home study, sitting in the dark. Jake is somewhere else in the condo. Watching the news, maybe, the pundits’ endless speculation.

Anders. Somehow, Bayer Burkhart knows about Anders.

“Bayer,” she says, because she’s afraid to say anything else.

“A. J. Renninger told me,” Bayer says. “She knows because Anders told her. She thought I would be interested. And I am, Ursula, I am—because you seem so squeaky clean, so…irreproachable. But we all mess up. Believe me, I know. I’ve done what you did, and worse—and that’s why I’m not running for office myself.”

“Bayer,” she says again.

“Tempted to deny it, aren’t you?” he says.

Yes, actually, she is tempted to deny it.

“Throw him softballs,” Bayer says. “And above all, vote to confirm.”

Ursula skulks out to the living room. She’s giddy with panic.

AJ knows about Anders, and she told Bayer. Who else might she tell? She hates Ursula. Maybe she’s always hated her. Yes, okay, let’s be realistic, there wasn’t a single woman at Andrews, Hewitt, and Douglas who hadn’t hated Ursula, but it wasn’t Ursula’s job to be liked, it was Ursula’s job to be the best damn M and A attorney she could be. She was a better attorney than AJ; she was a better attorney than Anders. When AJ ran for mayor and called on Ursula for an endorsement, Ursula said she couldn’t get involved, but behind the scenes, she’d supported AJ’s opponent, and since nothing in Washington stayed a secret for more than five minutes, AJ must have found out.

And you know what? AJ has been a fine mayor. The city has improved under her stewardship. Ursula was a fool not to endorse her. Why did she not guess that Anders had confided in AJ? Why did Ursula assume that Anders would keep their secret? He had probably told AJ in a moment of tender soul-sharing early in their relationship, when it seems wise to disclose details about your past lovers. He’d probably thought it wouldn’t matter. Jake and Ursula were in Washington. Anders and AJ were in New York. Nobody was running for office.