“I’ll speak with Ms. Higata later.” She went around the driver’s side, avoiding the comfort she knew Jinadh wanted to bestow—if she had it now, she’d fall apart. “In the meantime, will you bring a pot of coffee up to my office? Thank you.”

She couldn’t look at Jinadh, but not looking didn’t phase him; she felt his hand close on her wrist before she got through the door.

«Moon-eyes,» he said, tugging gently. «At least let me kiss you. I’ve been worried past endurance.»

Probably furious, too. He wouldn’t say in front of Magnusson or Stephen, but she wagered he had clocked her—that she’d been out of the city on purpose for Cyril’s disappearance.

But he really did look awful: face slack, bags beneath his eyes. If he was angry, it had long ago yielded to his fear. So she paused on the threshold and let him gather her in his arms, surrounding her with the smells of tobacco and leather and Marygale soap. His kiss was bitter. He’d been smoking, which he didn’t, often. Nerves.

«I love you,» he said.

“I’ve got to make a call.” When he frowned, she kissed him again and said, «I’m sorry. You know I love you, too.»

Getting ahold of Opal Saeger at this hour, on this evening, took some ingenuity. Lillian had no card; Saeger had sent her a telegram to arrange their last meeting. And her number wasn’t listed in the directory.

She went through Honora, who was flustered to receive the call, but was eventually convinced to give her the home exchange of a campaign liaison. The liaison, in turn, prevaricated nearly past Lillian’s endurance. Eventually she said—did not snap—“If you’re worried, why don’t you ring her up and ask if she’d like to speak to me. I’ll wait here by the telephone. All night, if necessary.”

She hadn’t even finished her coffee before the ringer went again.

“Lillian?” It was Saeger, on the line. “What’s this about? Rauleigh said you want to meet.”

“I do. I … do you still need a campaign manager?”

A badly muffled snort. “I know I’m slipping in the polls, but I’m not sure how much you’ll help.”

She turned her cup in its saucer, watching the surface of the coffee shiver. “I’ll admit I don’t look good on paper.”

“You don’t look good in the papers, either. I’m already down by a pile of chips in that game, and we’ve just about reached the last hand. What are you angling for, exactly?”

“I know who blew up that warehouse,” she said. “And I know why.”

Silence ate the line up for far too long. “And you’re only going to tell me if I give you a job.”