Fraud. Fraud. Fraud.

The word echoed in her mind as she stalked down the deserted hallway, one foot precisely in front of the other. The worried look on Leo's face was still clear in her mind, and she told herself she should call her father immediately. He would know what to do. He would know what this meant.

Multiple Sclerosis. God.

Ainsley's steps slowed.

She should call her father and tell him that the president had lied about his health. That Leo had talked to her himself, no doubt to gauge her reaction, to make sure she wouldn't tell any Republicans that the staff had probably known all along. They were, after all, the people who'd planned and plotted and strategized during the campaign. The people who'd written words for him to deliver.

She stopped, staring at her office door. Not yet. She couldn't walk into that office until she got everything straight in her mind. She was a lawyer; she was trained for this sort of thing. She'd parse the truth from the information she had, and then she could face Sam, who was in her office, waiting. He would turn on that smile and try to charm her into believing that the president made an honest mistake. That they hadn't orchestrated the largest political fraud since...

She couldn't even come up with an example. It was worse than cheating. It was worse than Kennedy's ballot-stuffing. How could Jed Bartlet win by deceit and then take the Oath of Office? The hypocrisy was staggering.

But she'd sensed the mood over the past few days, and it didn't quite track with the obvious explanation. Toby, glowering even more than usual when she'd stumbled into a meeting looking for Sam. Then Josh imploded, calling her forty times in one day for information about federal regulations on importing animals. CJ'd been brutally sarcastic, a little over the edge at a briefing Ainsley'd seen, and then Sam. Sam, with his big, hurt eyes looking like somebody told him Superman really couldn't fly.

None of them seemed nervous, as if they'd been caught. They seemed... crestfallen. Disappointed. Not unlike how Ainsley herself was feeling.

She should call her father, she reminded herself. This was an outrage. It was Democratic politics, Daly style. It was rank and cheap and she expected better of Josiah Bartlet. Sure, his politics were wrongheaded, his staff was egotistical and frightfully misguided about life outside the Beltway, but still; she expected more.

Ainsley frowned, standing there in that hallway, in that amazing building. She imagined the headlines, the graphics on CNN, the pundits and the op-eds and the incredible bluster from the Hill. She thought about the way the president spoke to her, the way he treated his staff, the way he was with his wife and his daughters.

She thought about how scary it must be to learn you could lose your mind, and she thought maybe Jed Bartlet could explain.

Maybe she wouldn't call her father. Not yet.