When Donald Trump is asked about Jeffrey Epstein, his answers reveal less than the noises he makes—the irritation, the discomfort, the barely contained rage. He bristles. He huffs. He snaps. You can feel it: incredulity boiling into ire as the president confronts the expectation that he must answer for a pedophile.

“Quiet, piggy,” he snapped at a female Bloomberg reporter in November 2025, cutting her off as she began to ask, “If there’s nothing incriminating in the files, sir, then why not…”

A few days later he attacked ABC’s Mary Bruce, saying her “crappy company” should lose its FCC license after she asked about the files.

“You’re not credible as a reporter, so I’ve answered your question,” he jabbed. “You should go and look at the Democrats who received money from Epstein.”

The president who relishes causing offense now takes offense at the ongoing intrusion from a ghost of his past.

As he tells it, they were friends, sure, but for much longer they were ex-friends, and that was Trump’s decision. They were contemporaries of a kind in New York and Palm Beach, but Epstein was a criminal who did time in a county jail cell, while Trump became president—and when criminality threatened to define him, he overcame dropped or resolved charges to return to the White House.

Among their stark differences, the most obvious is this: one man is dead, the other is leader of the free world. Epstein, who died in 2019, should be old news. Trump should be more relevant than ever.

Yet it doesn’t seem that way, at least as far as the public is concerned. Epstein’s shadow has darkened nearly every corner of Trump’s first year back in office, from DOJ inertia and congressional paralysis to personnel decisions and sinking poll numbers. Inside the White House, the issue is treated less like unfinished business and more like radioactive waste—something to be managed, contained, and cleared away daily. And it has clearly rattled a president determined to shape the narrative of his legacy in what is ostensibly his final term.

Trump has long said he kicked Epstein out of Mar-a-Lago in 2003 over a staffing dispute, after Epstein continually “stole people” who worked for him. But reporting by The Wall Street Journal later found that Epstein was also barred after pressuring an 18-year-old spa employee for sex, and months before that story was published, the White House said Trump had expelled Epstein simply “for being a creep.”

The Journal also identified several other Mar-a-Lago employees in Epstein’s address book. And we know that Ghislaine Maxwell recruited Virginia Giuffre while she was working at the club’s spa at just 16 years old, bringing her back to Epstein’s house, where she was sexually assaulted.

However it began, the rupture has been framed as everything from a personnel squabble to a moral line in the sand. Still, it’s hard not to notice how small all of these explanations feel for something so consequential. Could the trajectory of a presidency and a major political party, and perhaps modern American history itself, really trace back to a parochial dispute at a Palm Beach club at the start of this century?

The reporting, of course, says that’s not quite right. What we can say for certain is that reality suggests Trump’s version is incomplete, the facts darker and more complex.

Giuffre’s story is of special consequence to me. I first met her in 2019 and came to know her and her story well. In a saga that could feel like a chaos of abstraction, she was crystal clear. Her allegations were consistent and specific.

Several years after Giuffre’s recruitment, Trump and Epstein were locked in a quiet war over oceanfront real estate. In 2004 they competed for Maison de l’Amitié, a Palm Beach mansion that ultimately sold for $41 million. Trump won the bidding, but only after Epstein drove up the price. Trump later flipped the house to a Russian oligarch for $95 million, yet insiders have said Epstein’s participation made the overpayment sting. For two men obsessed with dominance, money, and status, it was a public humiliation, especially for Trump, who is notoriously cheap and whose ego is tethered to crushing opponents in deals.

White House chief of staff Susie Wiles told Vanity Fair that the Trump-Epstein friendship dated back to when they were “young, single playboys together.” The administration wants the Epstein connection framed as ancient history—something the president has long moved past and that the country should move on from too.

Whether or not that characterization is accurate, and no matter which account of their breakup comes closer to the truth, one thing still stands: The two men remain locked in association. And Epstein holds the upper hand.

When he was alive, Epstein bragged about his access and insight, hinted at shared sins, and worked behind the scenes to humiliate Trump through journalists like Michael Wolff. Now, in death, Epstein has achieved something more enduring. He has hijacked Trump’s presidency.

Early in Trump’s first administration, a White House official explained his media strategy to me. The morning tweets—the racist provocations, the impossible policy threats—were designed to whip the press into a frenzy. The goal was distraction: get us to chase everything and accomplish nothing. Some might say it worked. But Epstein doesn’t work like that.

These crimes are too grave, the network too sprawling, the documents too voluminous and concrete. Trump’s name appears tens of thousands of times across Epstein-related files. Roughly 3.5 million pages have already been released. Millions more remain under review or withheld by Trump’s own Justice Department, for reasons still unexplained.

Trump’s presidency has become about Epstein. For proof of this, look no further than the New York Times homepage, where the layout of coverage of the administration paints a clear picture of what matters: “Epstein Fallout” comes first, before news about his official policies or his geopolitical maneuvers.

Meanwhile, the files have fractured MAGA. To prevent their release, Trump pressured House leadership to avoid a vote on the Epstein Files Transparency Act. His myopic self-preservation was so intense that it helped trigger one of the longest government shutdowns in history. Marjorie Taylor Greene said Trump told her releasing the documents would mean that “my friends will get hurt,” a phrase Trump often uses when he means to talk about himself.

When survivors gathered on Capitol Hill in September to demand transparency, fighter jets roared overhead, drowning out their voices. The administration claimed it was unrelated, a ceremonial flyover for a fallen Polish airman. The timing was uncanny, but the symbolism was perfect.

Then came Trump’s exchange with CNN’s Kaitlan Collins.

After being asked last Tuesday whether the Epstein files should be more transparent and what he would say to survivors unhappy with the redactions, Trump didn’t offer empathy or accountability; he attacked the reporter.

“I think it’s really time for the country to get on to something else, now that nothing came out about me,” he said, refusing to acknowledge the crimes or the victims, “other than it was a conspiracy against me, literally, by Epstein and other people.”

Then, for good measure: “You are the worst reporter…. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile.”

It was telling. Asked what he would say to people who feel they’ve been denied justice, Trump defaulted to grievance and misogyny. His fixation is exoneration, not truth.

The Epstein files tell a number of stories about the president. There are statements, photos, and flight logs about trips on Epstein’s jet, about social overlap, about introductions, including a possible early connection to Melania Trump that echoes reporting by historian Andrew Lownie in his book about Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor, Entitled. Lownie alleged that Epstein helped facilitate introductions within elite circles; Melania has denied any such connection involving herself. After her lawyers sought retractions and apologies from others who made claims that Epstein introduced Melania to Trump, several passages referencing her were removed from both the UK and US editions of Lownie’s book, and HarperCollins UK issued an apology to the first lady. What remains in the public record are photographs of and familiar exchanges between Ghislaine Maxwell and Melania, including at least one email in which Maxwell addresses her as “sweet pea.” Lucky for Trump, the height of his friendship with Epstein predates the reign of email, and predates the much more recent era in which he has expressed himself in private writing on digital channels, so we may never get a complete portrait of his personal communications.