Free Eighteen Acres: A Novel by Nicolle Wallace

staff.” Michael had quoted her as an “administration official” saying that “nothing’s changed for those of us functioning at the nuts-and-bolts level.” His article had concluded that the White House was “out of touch” and “out of line” for refusing to discuss the indictment openly with staff.
    Melanie had been mortified when she read the piece and saw slivers of stories she’d shared over the previous weeks reflected and in many cases distorted to fit Michael’s thesis that everyone at the White House was in denial. She’d phoned him and told him she needed to see him immediately. He’d laughed and said she was being childish. He’d assured her that he had many sources who told him similar things. Melanie had wanted to believe him, but she was fairly certain that he’d taken her stories and built his mood piece around her account.
    “It’s unethical,” she’d said to him on the phone.
    “Lesson number one, Kingston: getting a national security story or an indictment wrong is unethical. Mood stories are all bullshit. My editors wanted a mood story. I trust your judgment about the mood, so I wrote off what I understand to be true from our visits. Take it as a compliment. You’re a credible source.”
    “And you’re a piece of shit,” she’d retorted.
    She didn’t talk to him for months. Then, one day, when she was dropping off President Harlow’s Florida clips, she’d heard Barry Donaldson, the communications director, on the phone in the West Wing basement. He must have thought he was alone. It was just after six A.M. , so it was a reasonable assumption.
    “Listen, you need to protect my ass. Can’t you ID me as a ‘senior government official’ instead of a ‘senior White House official’? No, not White House official—it needs to be ‘senior’ so they know it’s real. Listen, Harlow is going to dump her like a hot potato—he’s just waitingfor our friends on the Hill to start complaining in the press. Then he can say that it was a matter of party unity. No, he isn’t going to throw her overboard until she embarrasses herself in front of Congress. I know, it’s cruel, but life’s a bitch. Welcome to the big leagues, Dottie. No, no, you can’t quote me on that, no way. Listen, I’ve gotta go.” He’d hung up and rounded the corner, where Melanie was standing in front of the West Wing security guards.
    Melanie had kept her head down and tried to avoid making eye contact.
    “Hey, Marnie,” he’d said.
    “Melanie,” she’d corrected.
    “Right, Melanie. Uh, how long have you been standing here?”
    “I just walked in and was on my way to the staff secretary’s office,” she’d said.
    “I’ve never seen you in the West Wing before.”
    “I deliver President Harlow’s Florida clips each morning.”
    “You’re here at this hour every day to satiate POTUS’ obsession with his beloved Sunshine State?”
    “Yes, sir,” she’d answered. President Harlow had been governor of Florida for eight years before being elected president, and he loved keeping up on his hometown press.
    “Cool. Hey, anything you hear over here is classified, right, Leonard?” he’d said, turning to the security guard.
    “Whatever you say, sir,” he’d said, winking at Melanie.
    She’d smiled at the guard. “OK, well, I have to go.”
    “I’m serious, Melanie. Classified,” Donaldson had emphasized.
    Her hands had been shaking when she handed the clips over to the staff secretary. She’d felt her stomach tie into a knot and her palms begin to sweat. The president’s communications director had been trashing the president’s nominee for homeland security secretary. Dottie Flor was President Harlow’s pick for the post, and her confirmation process was not going smoothly.
    She couldn’t go to her boss. Donaldson was her boss’s boss. She couldn’t go to the chief of staff. He played golf with Donaldson every Saturday. He’d never believe Melanie. She’d waited until ten