Enough pushing on this front, Addis thought.

“Okay, is it my turn?” he asked.

“You don’t have to bother,” she said. “I’ve read the profiles. Seen the interviews. And I have a confession.”

Jesus, I love the way your mouth moves.

“Yes?” he asked.

“A close friend of mine is intensely preoccupied with you. She’d be disappointed—actually, she’d feel betrayed—if I didn’t try to introduce her to you. She’s really nice. A lawyer at the DOE. So maybe when all this is …”

She trailed off.

Bad sign, he told himself.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure.”

He sipped the wine.

“Care to tell me how you got into this thing?” she asked.

“A product of celebrity. See what happens when—”

“They put your face on the cover of magazines.”

“Yeah,” he said.

He thought of Gillian Silva. He poked a shrimp across his plate.

“A woman who wanted to meet me. Had what she believed was important information. She got it to me and …”

“And what?”

“She was hit by a car and killed. I can’t say it’s connected. But …”

Lancette moved her hand on the table toward his, but it stopped inches short.

“Mr. Dunne asked me not to tell the director about any of this.”

“Clarence is obsessed these days. That’s understandable. He wants to be in control. I’m not fighting him on that.”

“It’s hard to sit on this. I’m supposed to bring Wenner everything. That’s the whole point. No surprises—”

“No skeletons, no bumps in the middle of night,” Addis said.

“Something like that,” she said. “He called twice today. He saved my ass, saved my career. He’s going to be royally p.o.’ed.”

“Well, go ahead. I’m not going to fight you, either.”

Addis lifted his wine in mock toast to her and drank.

“You’re not exactly what I expected,” she said.

“Or your friend, I bet.”

“Probably.”

“Well, Julia”—it was the first time he used her name—“it’s been an unusual time for me—”

“I can imagine,” she interrupted. “It must be very—”

“It’s not just that. Even before this … I was getting tired of gaming out one situation after another. I’m not so certain life is so malleable. Sure, major events—momentous events—can turn on small decisions. You know, the pebble in the pond and all the ripples. But you can spend so much time trying to figure out what pebble to throw where to get precisely the right ripple. And then, anyway, a flash flood comes racing in and washes over the ripples you’ve so carefully orchestrated.”

“How many hours a day do you put in at the White House?”

“Usually—and it hasn’t been ‘usual’ lately—fourteen or so.”

“And you’ve been doing this for almost four years?”

Almost five, if you count the campaign, he thought. He nodded.