A young girl, no more than five or six, swayed back and forth on the swing, blonde ringlets flying in the wind.
"Higher, Mom, higher!" she squealed, shrieking in a mixture of terror and delight as the woman behind her gave her push, sending her towards the sky.
"Elizabeth." A man stepped out onto the back porch of the modest bungalow, the hard lines of his face a reminder of the things he'd seen, the pain and the death and the hurt. He was wearing a grey suit. Grey was Richard Posen's favourite colour; it was bold and disciplined, void of emotion, a solemn colour, steely and cruel. Richard struggled to remember a time when life was about love and happiness rather than rigidity and strength. Had his years of service in the military changed him, or had he always been this way? He wasn't sure.
"Elizabeth." He repeated her name, sharply, the way one addresses a wild animal. The woman put her hands out to slow the swinging girl in front of her and leaned down.
"You keep swinging by yourself, okay Bree?" she whispered.
"Where are you going?" The girl turned in her seat, blue-green eyes large and pleading, oh please don't go.
"Your father wants to see me. Stay here."
And Aubrey Posen stayed. She was a good girl.