Eldon Monahan sat at his antique dining room table, half a bottle of Pisco-Tabernero to his left, the broken shell of his cell phone, which he had crushed in frustration, to his right. The photographs curled as they burned in the ashtray, scattering ashes that descended like snow onto the pristine surface. He drew another long swig from the bottle and poured a touch into the ashtray to fuel the blue flames. His housekeeper had taken the rest of the day off at his request, leaving him alone with his shattered dreams and the specter of his future. He had left his office shortly before noon, claiming to have a severe stomach ache, which hadn't required the slightest bit of embellishment. Everyone had been telling him how pale he looked all morning. He hadn't been able to focus on his work at all, nor had he been able to carry on simple conversations in passing without his thoughts reverting to the train wreck that was now his life. It wasn't as though all hope was lost. Plenty of Senators had survived sex scandals and illegal business dealings.
