There were questions he should have asked then. Answers he should have demanded. And hadn’t.

He had his secretary cancel all his appointments for the day and left the office early. He drove to a drugstore and bought his own copy of You magazine, his first ever. And he sat in his car and studied the man in the Red Sox cap. Bartholomew Wakefield. A farmer. A man committed to frugality and hard work.

A murderer, Mac thought. A torturer and a traitor and a man Mac would hate for as long as he lived. Thirty years ago, he had left well enough alone. He’d thought it best for all concerned.

But now, he thought, everything had changed.

Ashley had bought all twelve copies of You at the Park Street station newsstand and had resisted the impulse to buy up every available copy in metropolitan Boston. She had locked herself in her office, checked all twelve copies out of some insane hope that maybe they wouldn’t all be the same.

She felt awful. She didn’t like having her picture on the cover of a national magazine. Was that actually her? In one picture she had half a boob showing. In another she looked as if she'd just been sick to her stomach. In another as if she ate nails for breakfast.

But the picture of Barky was too much. That made her feel like a snake in the grass.

She picked up the phone and dialed Sybil Morgenstern’s New York number herself.

Sybil was obnoxiously ebullient. “Ashley, how are you?”

“Furious. Fit to be tied.”

“Oh?”

“I know there isn’t a thing I can do about it now, but you can tell your sleazy reporter to send me back my picture of Barky.”

“Barky? Ashley, what are you talking about?”

“My uncle. Your Pat Oberlin swiped the picture you printed of him out of my office—without my permission. I want it back.”

“Oh, how awful. I had no idea.”

Not for a second did Ashley believe that. “Just send me the picture.”

“Of course.”

“And, Sybil, no more interviews.”

Lillian Parker laid her copy of You on the parson’s table in her surprisingly small office high above the Avenue of the Americas. Her people subscribed to all the magazines and tabloids, including You. Lillian had nearly gagged when she’d seen this week’s cover.

Ashley Wakefield. Smiling and beautiful. And wearing the tiara and the choker.

Good God, was there ever going to be an end to this? Her head aching, Lillian walked over to her window and looked down at the street, crowded as always. Her window was covered with a film of fine ubiquitous soot that filtered the sunlight. Life was like that, she thought. After a half century of mistakes, you just hope the sun’ll be bright enough once in a while and your life not so crudded up with misery that a few rays of sunlight and joy can still get through.

She wondered at her mood. She was Lillian Parker, for God’s sake. The legend. The trailblazer. The daughter of the unforgettable anchorman Addison Parker and the utilities heiress Margaret Parker.