Hidden in Plain Sight

“Four long years!” 

A battle cry for some, a reinforced nail in the coffin of my life. As if the time we’d already spent together wasn’t enough, the people of this great republic had chosen to elevate the man they loved — the one I hated — to a cozy, new office, confident in his ability to lead.

As the First Lady, I harbored many secrets, though none to do with national security. My husband wasn't really my husband. 

I’d found myself unlawfully married to John, months before he'd even announced his candidacy, when a member of the Secret Service came to collect me like a child from a sitter.

“Senator Laughlin requests your presence, Ms. Collins. If you could please follow me.” 

He was so matter-of-fact, as if I had any prior interaction with the senator at all. Naively, I expected my ignorance to be enough to send the smooth-faced suit on his way. 

“Who are you? And more importantly, who the hell is Senator Laughlin?” I'd asked in a defiant tone, one I lost from that point forward and for longer than I’d like to admit.

“He’s the man requesting your presence,” he said, stepping forward.

His hand sealed my fate as its vice grip tightened on my arm. Another suited man stepped from what seemed to be thin air and pressed a patch to my skin. Whatever the Nicorette-like square contained I never found out, but it rendered me a walking coma patient.

I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out. My lips wouldn't obey. My mind thrashed against the constraints of the serum running through my veins, but my legs carried me where the man led.

•••

I didn’t meet John Laughlin until two days later. 

My head had finally begun to clear, and my speech returned slowly. I was led to a large sitting room with nothing on the walls. White paint contrasted with all-black furniture and complimented the array of suited Secret Service agents canvassing the property.

The atmosphere of the room shifted as John entered. I never saw him sit; he always towered over me, whether I sat or stood. Every surrounding member of his security promptly left the room, as they always did from then on when we spoke.

“Meredith. Welcome,” he'd said, his voice an arrogant rumble. He almost managed a friendly facade during that first encounter. 

“Why am I here?”

I'd voiced the most straight-forward question, seeing how I was sure “Who are you?” and “Why?” likely wouldn’t get me far. He grimaced in what I’m sure was meant to pass as a smile.

Something I learned quickly was that John didn't like being questioned, and he only tolerated such behavior as a means to an end.

“You are here because I have a unique opportunity for you — one that will change your life.” 

I blinked expectantly, willing my face to betray nothing of my inner monologue. Seeming to appreciate my silence, he continued. 

“I became familiar with your work six months ago when a fellow senator insisted I attend an event where you were presenting.” 

“The Psychological Conclusion Summit,” I interrupted.

His veins strained against the skin on his forehead and neck as he held onto his temper by a thread.

“Yes. Obviously,” he replied, evidently irritated at my intrusion. “You spoke surprisingly eloquently for someone with little skill or training. Following your presentation, I immediately dispatched my assistant to consolidate your work for my review.”

I chose to ignore his derision, as I had every instinctual reason to believe I was in danger, too much to speak my mind without careful consideration. All the while he dictated on, as if I should commit his words to a mental catalog with grave importance.

“Of course, I couldn't care less about the bleeding heart causes at these types of things. I was simply there to indulge in any free ass that came my way. But you… you were unexpected.”

The summit was the year’s pinnacle of fundraising for many of the area’s mental health charities. As an advocate and researcher, I'd spoken on the work I was doing to provide support, medication, and mental health services to the D.C. area, as well as its importance and my personal experience with the subject. 

However, truth-be-told, I hadn’t liked my job. It was events like that one, and the constant interactions with the likes of John, that made all the hard work feel like a financial battle royale.

“Since you’re such a large part of the philanthropic community behind the scenes, and now publicly, I decided you’d be perfect for what I have in mind,” John said, beginning to pace.

I couldn’t contain my reaction.

“Excuse me?” I stood up, coming as close to him as I dared.

“You’re well-spoken, have a philanthropic appeal, and nothing to lose. If I’m going to make a successful bid for president, I need the right First Lady, and you’re it,” he finished, turning his back to me.

Laughter bubbled out of me. All the nerves from the past two days rushed forward, urged on by the ridiculous notion that I would even remotely consider this proposition.

John whirled around to come inches from my face. He sneered down at me, taking both of my arms in his hands and squeezing hard enough to leave lasting outlines of his fingers.

“I don’t remember saying something funny,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You can’t possibly think I’ll go along with this,” I whispered, trying to appear braver than I felt.

His grimace returned. 

“I don’t think you quite understand your options, Meredith, or your lack thereof. You belong to me now.”

I tried to release myself from his grip, but it only tightened further. He looked down at me with amused malice.

“You want to run? Jamie!” he yelled into my face, and the man entered from a hallway behind him.

“Yes, sir?” Jamie answered, still as stone-faced as when he collected me from my home.

“What are Ms. Collins’ last three addresses?” John didn’t move his eyes from mine.

“Before renting a townhome in Alexandria, Ms. Collins lived in a second-floor apartment near Floyd Street in Richmond. Prior to Richmond, she and her roommates rented a three-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn, which was after she briefly lived and worked in Kansas City, Missouri,” Jamie recited.

My eyes widened and the fear settled into my core. His point was made, but he continued on. 

“And her family?” John smirked, knowing the intricate web into which I’d already stepped.

Jamie obliged, a human computer program spitting out facts.

“Mark and Jan Collins live in Cincinnati, Ohio, on the northside. Jared Collins lives in Indianapolis with his boyfriend, Aaron, and their dog, Sitka.”

I began to shake as John’s hands tightened further still.

“I know your social security number, your bank account numbers, the city you were born in, and what you’re allergic to,” he said. “Not to mention,” his fingers skimmed the patch still on my arm. “You will do as I say and say as I say or you will be silenced. Every document that counts shows you’re my wife, and you will act as such until I’m done with you.”

And all at once, he let go of me and was gone. Jamie stepped toward me as I stepped backward.

“This way, Mrs. Laughlin,” he said.

“I am not Mrs. Laughlin. Don’t call me that again,” I said, flatly.

“Mr. Laughlin has requested we refer to you as Mrs. Laughlin,” Jamie said.

“How can you be part of this?” I spat. I received no reply as he led me to a room I didn’t recognize.

When I was left alone there, behind a locked door, I contemplated my options. I had no phone. Jamie had made sure that wouldn’t be a problem by catching me unexpectedly at home. In fact, there were no electronics of any kind that I'd seen so far.

Despite my best efforts, I began to cry and eventually sob. Who the hell was this psycho? Being around lobbyists was an eye-opener as far as the amount of unbridled power running rampant in the Capitol. But this was beyond the scope I thought possible.

I'd planned to fight back at first, plotting every opportunity to get away. That was until I began to overhear conversations within the house. Between Secret Service ongoings and the occasional conversation between John and what I assumed were other senators, I realized John’s threats weren't empty. He had his dirty hands in every pie across town and beyond.

It was as if he sensed my increasing feelings of dread and defeat as the days went on. My door was left unlocked and open, allowing me to leave whenever I wanted but never without an accompanying agent.

•••

He announced his candidacy for president with me by his side. Before my first public appearance, I received a new wardrobe, full of brands I never fathomed wearing, and a new patch on my arm, put in place while I slept.

I attended every town hall, every campaign tour stop, and the national convention. His assistant gave me talking points for each philanthropic event I spoke at, often mental health-related, turning what once was a passion into a chain I carried with each step.

For months, I resented every member of his staff. As far as I was concerned, they were co-conspirators in the constant upkeep of my prison sentence. However, one day, while visiting an actual prison for a press appearance, realization dawned on me. He could have anything on any of them. He could know where their brother’s dog took a shit for all I knew. Once my empathy extended to his assistants and my apathy overtook my feelings for his security team, I knew I'd resigned myself to playing along.

He won the nomination easily after his only real competition mysteriously became entrapped in a scandal.

The general election proved to be more difficult for him to manipulate. As November loomed closer, his stress and anger grew, which meant I saw more of him. Talking points and lectures were delivered directly from his mouth rather than through an assistant.

“You will do as I say, Collins. Every word from your mouth could make or break my election,” he hissed, slithering out of the room as quickly as he'd come.

I gave interviews. I waved. I even went to a rally sans coma patch, though more likely to coincide with the cut of my dress's sleeves than my cooperation.

If the public had been smart, they’d have noticed the lack of actual affection in our sham marriage. He never kissed me or even held my hand during appearances or press. He would only touch me to put a restricting arm around my shoulder or forcefully guide me by the arm.

Regardless if I had any actual impact on the results or national perception, John won the presidency.

Unexpectedly, my life slightly improved within the confines of the White House. While things became increasingly more lonely, I saw less and less of John, only coming in contact with him for formal appearances. 

The White House also brought with it new security. Jamie moved to a new assignment, allowing me to say goodbye to the expressionless wonder. My new assigned security was outside of John’s control, a small oversight that changed everything for me.

I sat in one of the rooms in the Residence; I wasn’t sure what the room’s original intent was, but I’d turned it into my escape. He was quiet, so quiet I didn’t hear him approach and started at his first words to me.

“Mrs. Laughlin, my name is Ben, and I’ll be your security for the next four years,” he finished slowly as if approaching a frightened animal.

I nodded before briefly looking at him and then away. 

“What are my instructions?” I asked.

His brow furrowed for a split second before he recovered, more expression in one moment than Jamie showed in months.

“Your only instruction… is to do your best to keep yourself out of obvious danger, to keep close, and communicate often.” 

Either this was an elaborate trick or Ben worked outside of John’s scope. My face contorted in a spasm of hope. I racked my brain for any probing question I could think of.

“Mrs. Laughlin?” he asked, clearly confused. I chanced a small act of defiance, a risk for the opportunity to know for sure.

“Please don’t call me that,” I whispered.

His face slightly contorted again, but just for another brief moment, before he recovered.

“What would you prefer to be called, ma’am?”

“My name is Meredith,” I replied, with more conviction than I’d felt in too long.

“Nice to meet you, Meredith. If you’ll follow me, I’d like to go over some things.”

•••

Ben followed me at nearly every step. For six months, he seemed to maintain the stoic silence that Jamie carried with him, observing every detail in every situation.

On the first day of the first scandal of John’s presidency, however, that changed. Ben stood against the doorframe of my bedroom, which was separate from John’s — a fact that couldn’t have escaped him. John’s booming voice echoed through the hallways.

“She will go there, and she will go now,” he bellowed. 

I stood, registering his intent before Ben could receive orders. I opened a closet where I retrieved a “John-approved” go bag. Ben raised his eyebrows marginally as he listened to the string of orders from his earpiece.

“We have to go, Meredith,” he said quietly, still with a furrowed expression. “We’re going to a hotel.”

“Okay,” I said.

He looked puzzled.

“Usually, my clients want to know where we’re going,” he elaborated.

“Does it matter?” I replied, waiting for him to lead the way. He cleared his throat, hovering his hand near the small of my back to lead me through the Residence.

Our trip to the hotel was quiet. Ben flashed his credentials at the front desk before heading to a private elevator. He led me inside, this time connecting his hand with my back. It was the first time I’d experienced gentle human contact since I’d left my home so many months before. 

As we entered the elevator, his hand remained, and he spoke clearly to his earpiece.

“Damsel is clear.”

I flinched. 

Damsel. My call sign was Damsel. 

I shrank away from Ben as the elevator rushed upwards to the penthouse. He sensed the shift in my energy as we arrived at the room. My control snapped, and my sobs broke free. Ben cleared each of the penthouse’s four rooms before returning to my hysterics.

“Meredith? What is it?” 

I shook my head violently, willing this ironic, cruel joke to be part of an elaborate dream.

“Meredith, please.” He placed his hands on either side of my arms, undoubtedly feeling the permanent divet from the patch’s frequent placement.

I tried to pull away, but not before he gave a pointed glance at the patch’s remnants.

“Who put this on you?” he asked, taking a tone I’d never heard from him before.

I continued to shake my head, though my tears slowed.

“Meredith,” he paused, outwaiting me with his silence until I looked up at him. He spoke deliberately. “Who put this on you?”

“Do you know what it is?” I asked, trying to avoid the question. 

“Yes,” he replied curtly.

“That makes one of us,” I said.

“Was it your husband?” he asked. I shook my head. “Meredith. Remember what I said about clear communi…” 

“He’s not my husband,” I interrupted.

To my surprise, he didn’t refute my claims, seemingly taking me at my word.

“Okay.” He took a deep breath. “We’re going to be here for the night. Take your stuff to your room, get settled, and we’ll talk about this,” he said.

“No. That’s not how this works,” I retorted. “I don’t just spill my life story to anyone who asks.”

He stared at me for what felt like ages, a deliberation clear in his eyes.

“My full name is Benjamin Joseph Hannigan. I served in the Marines and did two tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq before coming back to the States and training with the Service. I served the administration prior to President Laughlin’s election. My mother died when I was 17, and my dad lives on a ranch in Montana. My favorite ice cream is Dutch chocolate, and my greatest fear is failing my asset, i.e. you.”

He paused long enough to rein in whatever emotion he didn’t want me to see.

“So I’m asking, Meredith. Who did this?”

It didn’t take much time for the dam to crack, as I’d reached the point of no return. If he was being sincere, the box to which I was confined would get a little bigger. If he was a test from John, I’d already failed, and speaking less wouldn’t mitigate any potential punishment.

“A suit. A nameless suit at that,” I responded. My voice scraped against my vocal chords as it left my mouth, the sandpaper of my honesty leaving no room for denial. “He was with Jamie when they came to get me.”

“Jamie? He’s assigned to the vice president,” he questioned.

“Before the inauguration, he was John’s number one,” I said without feeling. Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by a flicker of anger, which he didn’t bother to hide. When he spoke next, his voice was eerily calm.

“How long have you been with him?”

“Almost two years,” I said, having an exact count as to how many days I’d been in hell.

I sat down, knowing this conversation was likely far from over. He crossed his arms, his eyes sweeping across each of the penthouse’s windows. Abruptly, his gaze cut to my face. He must have been clenching his fists, because his biceps twitched in a steady rhythm. 

“I want you to answer this question, honestly,” he said, his eyes boring into mine. “Do you trust me? Because if you don’t, I have no problem waiting on the other side of the door for the rest of the night. You have no reason to take me at my word, but I promise you, all you have to do is say the word and I’ll keep my distance. But if by some unlikely circumstance you trust me, I need to know everything.”

He looked at me expectantly. 

I studied him with an intensity I previously reserved for my toughest clients in what seemed like a past life, culling every observation, every instinct from my surroundings. I nodded at him, standing from the couch.

“I need a minute,” I said, and he turned toward the door. “You can stay,” I added before he could cross the length of the entryway.

I walked into the main bedroom, looking for a bathroom. The hotel staff had everything arranged in the room, set up for a single occupant, instead of a couple. Clothes were stacked near the bed on an expansive table, obviously newly bought that afternoon. My go bag never included any clothes I could be seen wearing in public.

The room’s arrangement had to have been Ben’s doing. A small act of defiance in and of itself, he’d likely coordinated with the hotel to ensure the master bedroom was mine, in stark contrast to my life in the Residence.

I found a black shirt in the stack and slipped on a pair of Lululemon leggings, tossing every other ridiculous piece of clothing onto the floor. Only the best for John’s dearest wife. Finally making my way back to the sitting area, I released my hair from its knot and sat down on the sectional’s end.

Ben’s back was to me, as he looked out a window. His jacket was placed across the kitchen counter, and his sleeves were rolled to his forearms. If this man knew how to hold his arms any way other than locked in front of him, I’d never seen it.

“I ordered a pizza,” he said, still facing the window.

“I’ve never had this hotel’s pizza,” I replied.

He turned to look at me, smirking. 

“I don’t intend to find out. I ordered out.”

He came to sit at the other end of the sectional. His elbows rested on his knees as he looked down toward his shoes. 

“It’s safe. You know me better than that,” he said, finally meeting my eyes. I nodded, knowing it wasn’t likely he’d risk the safety of the First Lady, regardless of what he did or didn’t know.

“Mer…”

“I’d never even heard of John before the day Jamie took me,” I interrupted. 

I recited the events that followed my capture, every detail I could remember, every morsel of information I could retell. There were missing pieces, of course, with every new patch that’d been adhered to my skin I’d lost some portions of my memory. As I recounted months of a bizarre hellscape, I realized the weight of isolation. I’d become akin to one of Harlow’s monkeys, devoid of nurture and conformed by nature.

After I finished, there was a lingering silence.

“Damsel,” he said softly. “That’s why… Damsel.”

I turned my head to look out upon the Potomac, now glittering with the moon’s reflection.

“Despite obvious appearances, I’m not a damsel,” I replied. He scooted closer to me, closing the distance between our positions.

“No, you’re not,” he asserted.

We didn’t talk much after that. He didn’t move from his place on the sectional until the pizza arrived. After finishing dinner and another hour of light conversation, I stood to leave for the bedroom. He stood too, standing so still that I had to look at him to assure myself he was still with me.

“If you need anything, you know where I am,” he said. I nodded, which seemed to be the only form of conversation I was capable of. I turned to go. 

“Meredith.” I stopped but didn’t turn, my shoulders falling in exhaustion.

“Ben.”

“Anything,” he said, almost in a whisper.

•••

The next morning it was as if nothing had happened. As I walked into the empty sitting area, my heart palpitated and my anxiety spiraled. He’d raised the alarm. I was truly alone and would never be free. I began hyperventilating, a luxury I was only afforded while alone. After five minutes, I heard a door close, catalyzing my panic.

Despite my best efforts, and my devastation at his betrayal, Ben’s voice echoed in my mind. “Your first line of defense is to disappear.”

I wedged myself between the open window shutter and the wall, tensing every muscle I could and willing myself to stay quiet. 

Footsteps tracked across the penthouse floors. Another door opened and closed. And another. And then Ben’s strained voice rang out.

“Meredith?”

My body relaxed and the window shutter swung forward as my muscles released. All of the panic diffused into exhaustion, and the adrenaline turned into tears. I heard him approach my position, his steps quiet and measured.

“What happened?” he asked, clearly confused. 

“I was alone, and then someone was here. I didn’t realize it was you, so I panicked,” I said, not looking in his direction. He cleared his throat.

“Meredith. You will never be alone until your husba… until the president is no longer in office. And if you are, don’t hide. Leave as quickly as you can. Understand?” 

I nodded, but his shadow remained above me. I looked up to find his eyes trained on me as he let another long silence fill the air.

“I understand.” I finally replied, realizing it's what he was waiting for.

He extended his hand, helping me from my position against the wall. He looked at me, almost forlorn.

“We have to get back,” he said.

We walked to the same private elevator where I had unraveled the day before. As was customary with every outside-White-House-walls trip, we left everything for some force unbeknownst to me to retrieve at a later time. As the elevator doors closed, Ben relayed our position. “Lavender is on the move.” 

My head whipped towards him.

“Lavender?” I asked, using the same silent intensity he’d successfully inflicted on me so many times already. His eyes never left mine as he replied. 

“Your call sign was compromised, and as is security protocol, a new one was issued.” 

I couldn’t look away, even as a sheen of tears glazed over my eyes.

“We’re almost to the lobby,” he said, almost in a whisper, still meeting my gaze. 

I nodded, quickly wiping the tears from my eyes and any evidence of emotion along with them. I turned to face the elevator doors. A moment before they opened, he leaned in toward me, placing a light kiss to my temple. Before I had time to react, his hand met the small of my back and he led me to the car, an awaiting chariot ready to return me to the devil himself.