After eighteen years spent at the Tancredi house, Sara didn't think awkward meals could throw her off anymore.

A few weeks after she passed the people's bill in mid-May, her people got Frank to agree to have dinner at the White House. She didn't know how they did it. Given her father spent the first twenty minutes sawing at his food in silence, Sara assumed he hadn't come here without motivation.

Since he didn't budge under small talk and Sara's patience had run out before they reached the end of the first course, she opted for honesty, "You've been avoiding me."

Frank looked up at her, and she saw that he looked tired. Not just tired, but old. There's always something eerie about watching your parents age, but seeing how rarely Sara saw her father, it was easier to see the new wrinkles etched around his eyes, the salt gaining ground on the pepper on his thinning hair. It had never struck her as awfully as it did that evening.

"Since the shooting," she said. Not that it needed saying.

Frank didn't speak for a while. The clock on the wall struck a quarter past eight. Out the door, past the long corridor that led to the reception room, Sara could imagine the rush she'd return to in less than an hour, people hustling by, wolfing vending machine sandwiches, their phones tucked between their cheeks and shoulders.

"We're both adults, Dad," Sara said. "I didn't give you the silent treatment when I was a teenager. Do you think you can spare me that now?"

Though Frank had looked up from his plate, his eyes wouldn't meet hers. "You keep – treating this as a joke."

"No. I assure you, I take it very seriously. I know you think I was reckless with my life, but believe me, I have hundreds of people working day and night to find the person who shot me –"

"Sara, please."

Sara's jaw slackened. If her father had stepped on the table and broken into a dance, she would have been less surprised than to hear him ask for mercy.

So she put her cards on the table, too. "Do you want this to stop?"

His eyes twitched. Still, he wouldn't look at her.

"You and I could never agree on anything," she said. "If politics didn't make it so we had to keep up appearances, we might have stopped talking to each other years ago. Do you want us to stop, Dad?"

To Sara's great dismay, her throat jammed.

Frank said, "I watched you die, Sara."

The pain in his voice was so raw, she didn't dare correct him. You almost watched me die. Who was she to say that? For a second, the dream she'd had back when she was in a coma came back to her. Standing with Frank, in front of a door that opened on an infinity black as space.

Her father's voice, What are you waiting for? Jump. Touch the fire. Take the bullet. Who's ever needed to push you? You do it yourself.

She tasted ash in her mouth. It crossed her mind to apologize, but that might only make things worse. She repeated, "Do you want us to stop?"

"God," he said.

More cracks burst upon his surface, and Sara felt her whole being cry out in protest. Her whole life, her father had been her adversary. A mirror, reflecting to her everything she would never be. Now cobweb patterns broke up all over him and she did not know how to face it – did not know, suddenly, how to treat him as a human being.

"To go through this with you," he said. "I can't. You understand? You know what it's like? To wish I could take back my own flesh and blood from the world, to never have had you – and not live with you so far from reach and know I'm going to lose you?"

Sara stared at him for a while. "Dad, you won't –" she stopped.

His eyes stared, vacant, ahead of her. "I have," he said, so she didn't have to finish. Lost you. The two words hung between them like a wall of concrete.

Sara could get on her feet right now and touch her father, cling to his neck, and still, there would be that wall between them. Nothing she could do would breach it.

That's when she realized maybe her death would have been easier to accept than the constant possibility of her dying.

After that meal, she didn't try to contact him again. It was too much like thrusting her hand inside his bleeding wound, forbidding it to heal.

In his own way, her father had already started grieving for her.

"It's six p.m.," Gretchen checked her watch, while the car wheeled them around the city. "Shouldn't you be running?"

Paul shot her a grin, the kind of grin that features in kids' books and spells out: I eat girls and boys for breakfast. "Not today."

Truth be told, he wasn't sure he'd need it anymore. The exercise had done him good, true. He'd dropped ten pounds since he started running, and probably his body hadn't looked like this since his mid-twenties. Most importantly though, that spike of endorphins at the end of the day had been enough to fuel him through almost full-clock workdays. Now that the work was done, though, and they'd identified the shooter? He'd be damned if he was caught doing anything for himself – including shave – until the man who shot Sara wasn't sitting in the Pentagon getting his fingernails ripped off.

The car took a left turn, and Gretchen crossed her bare legs. For the past month, he'd envied all the women in the White House just because they could opt for skirts instead of trousers. The July heat this year was vicious. In fact, when they stepped out of the car where the AC ran full speed, it was like walking into the mouth of a yawning dog.

"Jesus," Gretchen said.

"Save your prayers," Kellerman said, his eyes studying the skyscraper ahead of them. All glass. Full transparence. Hiding in plain sight, like all the finest criminals. The plaque at the door read, GKC – General Krantz's Company. "We're gonna need them."

"Who do these people think they are?" Gretchen scoffed as they strolled down the hall, peppered with art pieces expensive enough to buy a house, or photographs of famous people – Ronald Reagan, Jimmy Carter, even the Kennedys – shaking hands with a man, bald, average-faced, who astonishingly already looked old on some of the most dated photographs. General Krantz, Kellerman presumed. Christ, how long had that man been around?

"Actually," Gretchen resumed, "who are these people, period?"

A small sigh seeped from Kellerman's lips. He didn't like to admit he'd never heard of them until yesterday morning. General Krantz's Company – or, as it was mostly called, with all the allure and mystery of vagueness, the company – was a private organization, seemingly apolitical. When he called to have a chat with some of its officials, he got friendly laughter and dismissals like, "Oh, we're really not into politics, sir. Really, the company's more of a club. We just drink whisky, play golf, have a good time."

"But what do you do?" Kellerman wanted to know.

"Like I said. Drink whisky. Play –"

"Come on," Kellerman barked into the phone. "I've had a look at your premium members. You scoop off the cream of the marine and the army, as soon as they retire. Hell, your company's head is a former general. Want to tell me how you got to be so big, and so important that when the White House issues a request that you disclose one of your members' personal information, you get the right to 'respectfully decline'?"

The man had said nothing on the other end of the phone, and followed his silence with more friendly chuckling. "I'm afraid, sir," he said, "if you want more details, you'll have to ask the General."

And Kellerman had said, "You're damned right I will."

He'd briefed Gretchen in the car, and usually, for all her flaws, she was good at remembering information. But it didn't surprise him that the company's story would need a second dose. It was so unbelievable, he himself had needed to read over the documents twice to make sure he hadn't somehow dreamed it up the first time.

"Officially," Kellerman said, stressing the word, "they're some kind of club. Almost all male. Almost all white."

"You forgot filthy rich."

"The adhesion fee starts at a million a year. But that's the bottom of the food chain."

"And in exchange for that, they get – what? Nice golf clubs?"

"Officially?" he repeated. "Entertainment. Exotic cigars, VIP tickets anywhere."

"Some kind of badge, right? Something that gets them anywhere in the city."

"It's not a badge, it's a ring," Kellerman said.

Gretchen shrugged, as if to say, tomato, tomato. Google had given up nothing about this exclusive, little-known club. But a few well-placed phone calls confirmed to Kellerman that a flash of that ring could open doors for you faster than a magic wand.

Gretchen snorted. "What kind of man is so full of himself he chooses his members' privacy over his president?"

"Guess we're about to find out," Kellerman said.

At the reception, a woman greeted them with a smile so white it might as well have been a slice of moonlight. "Welcome," she said, and the choice of word didn't ring too well to Kellerman. What were they, Alice setting foot in Wonderland? "You must be General Krantz' six thirty appointment. Jim will take you to the office – Jim?"

A six-foot man in a cream suit flashed them an equally white smile. Hair cropped shot, military straight. "Please," he said, "follow me."

Kellerman resisted the urge to meet Gretchen's eyes throughout the elevator ride that carried them to the penthouse. Kellerman wasn't the kind to be impressed by money. When he saw high ceilings, a view so nice it felt like just to let your eyes linger on the glass was burglary, he didn't think, Wow. He thought, Danger. Money was power. And he started thinking General Krantz may be much too powerful for his liking.

"This way," the man – assistant? Security? Impossible to tell in that suit – led them to the door at the very end of the corridor, and gave it a slight, almost frightened knock.

A deep voice on the other side of the door said, "Come in."

Cream suit opened the door for them, and closed it just as quickly when Gretchen and Kellerman had stepped in. Before them, an office that could have been a luxury hotel suite. If the outside of the building was ultramodern, this office clearly aimed for an old-fashioned feel. The walls were wood, suffused with the smell of liquor and pine. What really drew Kellerman's eye, though, was the decapitated boar head that hung on the wall, immediately behind General Krantz' desk. That's when it struck him that, unlike everything Kellerman had seen of the building so far, this office had no windows.

"Well, hello," General Krantz said. He sat behind a mahogany desk, where paper lay stacked – no computer. "Will you have a seat?"

Kellerman didn't wait to be asked twice. He wanted a closer look at the man.

As a matter of fact, General Krantz looked much as he did on those old photographs, like he had simply stopped aging at some point, struck a deal with the devil of sorts. His face and skull still absolutely hairless, and his piercing blue eyes defying you to underestimate him.

"A Secretary of State," the General said, "and the president's own chief of staff. What does me the honor of having the pair of you in my office?"

Though his speech included both Gretchen and Kellerman, the General's eyes lingered particularly on Gretchen.

"I think you know the answer to that," Kellerman said.

The General smiled, and the sight was ghastly. Probably the kind of smile he'd given that boar on the wall before he shot him. "Forgive me," he said, "my memory is not what it used to be. Surely you, sir, or this lovely young lady here, will be pleasant enough to refresh it?"

Kellerman saw Gretchen's brows arch in his peripheral vision. At any other time, he would have loved to see her called that to her face and bask in her humiliation. But the whole atmosphere was wrong. The General's office reeked of spoils and death. And there was nothing accidental about the way he spoke – an old man, trying to be gallant. This was power. Crude and simple.

"You'll call her Madam Secretary," Kellerman said, "if you don't mind."

General Krantz seemed not to hear him.

Gretchen said, "We're here because we have an interest in one of your members, sir. James Whistler." She pulled the photographs out of her purse. Kellerman willed himself not to look, but his eyes wouldn't budge, and in an instant, there he was. The shooter. Walking away from the cathedral. "He was an expert shooter in the U.S. army, up to five years ago," Gretchen went on. "Then suddenly, he seemed to vanish from the surface of the earth. Changed his name –"

"Yes," the General said, "in this company, we believe in being born again. As do a lot of Americans."

"And his new identity is a secret well-kept," Gretchen said. The General nodded, as if she had meant this as a compliment. "So well-kept that when we made a formal request, demanding that you release this member's personal information, we got a – forgive me – a rather surprising response."

"I refused," the General said. "Why should this surprise you? The identity of my members is no business of yours – or the president."

"We have strong evidence that this James Whistler, or whatever he calls himself now, was involved in shooting the president," Kellerman cut in.

The General chuckled. "Evidence?" He motioned at the photographs. "You call this evidence? I see a man walking down the street, Mr. Kellerman. Naturally, if you could provide evidence – DNA samples, fingerprints, anything – I'd reconsider. But at this point, I'm afraid the privacy of my members should come first."

Silence dropped in the room. In an old-fashioned room, you never expect total silence. A clock ticks, a chair squeaks.

The General's eyes returned to Gretchen, and he smiled. Like a tongue, his gaze probed her from head to toe. Even though it was only Gretchen, Kellerman's blood boiled at the sheer audacity of the man. Were they not representatives of the highest office in the land? Who did he think they were, dancers at a strip club? Performers for his amusement?

"Well," Kellerman said. If Death ever opened its mouth, it must have a voice like the one that had crept in Kellerman now. "That certainly is unfortunate. Let me be frank, General. So far, you've managed to fly well below the White House's radar. Whatever your affairs are, they're no concern of ours. I'll be very clear, shall I? That will no longer be the case, if you disappoint the president on this serious, deadly serious business. And if I can give you a piece of friendly advice – if I were in your chair, sir, I'd think twice about making an enemy of me."

The General's blue eyes kindled. A crawling feeling jolted through Kellerman – like he was staring at an ancient species of animal, a bird, or maybe a snake, and he just didn't know how deadly the thing would turn out to be.

"Mr. Kellerman," the General said, "far from me the idea of antagonizing you, or my president, or your charming friend here. If you only asked for my personal information, you'd have it before you could say please. But it's my people you want. You were in the military as I was," he glanced at Kellerman's ring, "and you know the first thing they teach you."

"To follow orders."

The General grinned. "To look after your own. Now, if you'll be kind enough to show yourselves out – I think we've said everything."

Sara ran her fingers over the rose tattoo on Michael's arms, trying not to wake him. Almost an apology. Tonight had been – unhinged. They always were, on some level. The first few hours they spent together was like the ocean breaking into storm, passion unwinding until they could be quiet.

But this time –

This time was different.

The face of the shooter, James Whistler, never completely left Sara's mind. When she was in a meeting, listening to Gretchen brief her about international crises, he floated about like a brutally ordinary-looking ghost. Not to talk about the shooter at work was strictly professional.

But with Michael?

It hadn't struck her the omission would be a lie until he lay asleep next to her.

As a lover, he has every right to everything I know about the man who shot me.

But Sara was his president, as well as the woman he loved. What was she supposed to do? Divulge national secrets, so Michael would be as half-crazed as her? Besides, there was no telling what he would do. He had delivered to her a diary filled with information about her chief opponents, in the White House garden, regardless of the risks. He had quit his career, moved to Washington, all so he could hope to make a difference in the world. Beautiful of him, for sure – but impulsive.

No.

The face of Sara's shooter was not the kind of information she wanted in Michael's hands.

A shudder spasmed through the muscles of his chest and his eyes blinked open.

"Hey," she said.

He came awake the way she did now: immediately alert. In the jungle, you never know what will creep in on you at your most vulnerable.

"I didn't mean to."

"I know." She smiled.

Sleep came at a cost, seeing as they could spare these evenings together so seldom. Yet one of the things she'd missed most about their hotel room nights had been the way her whole body let go and they fell asleep, pressed against each other, sometimes while he was still in her. The irresistible way physical exhaustion draws you into its ocean of quietness.

But that was then, and this was now.

Her phone beeped, as if to suggest dreaming about quietness was as ridiculous as walking into a McDonald's and ordering a filet mignon.

Michael didn't sigh, but she heard the hitch in his breath, felt his body tense beneath her fingers.

Sara glanced at her phone. She half-expected Kellerman again, who'd been boiling since he came back from that meeting with 'the General'. He'd described him as, "A leering old man whose office reeked of whisky."

"Sounds like my uncle," Sara had said.

"Except your uncle doesn't have the president's shooter hiding behind his skirts."

There'd been no reason to press the point. Kellerman was clearly on the verge of bursting. If Sara hadn't learned to keep a layer of ice over her feelings these past three years, she might have joined him. A 'Gentlemen's Club' for old veterans and military's finest, where a single man – the General – decided everything? How could it have slipped below the government's radar for so many years?

But the text wasn't from Kellerman.

"Is Bagwell whining about the Great Replacement again?" Michael asked.

Sara shook her head. "A donor, rich enough to buy the Atlantic Ocean. Started showing interest in my campaign, wants to meet over dinner."

"Since when do you take donations?"

A seductive smile cracked open her lips, a smile she thought had died in 2020. "Oh, Michael. Nobody buys me." Her hand roamed up the muscles of his upper body. Why did she keep wanting to stray to the rose tattoo?

His eyes hardened on her. It was just as well he was awake. They still had a couple of hours.

"But sometimes, it feels good, you know. To wave off billionaires. It gives America hopes. Shows people democracy is not for sale."

"You'd go to dinner with a man just for the pleasure of saying no?"

"Why not? There's so little left it… pleasure."

"Mmm."

His lips brushed hers, velvety-soft. Before she'd realized it she'd crawled on top of him.

It never crossed her mind when she said yes to dinner with that aspiring donor that she'd be walking right into a trap.