Shit, Addis thought, Huntington’s disease? He knew the symptoms. He remembered accompanying his own father to see a specialist on Huntington’s years ago when his father was writing the Woody Guthrie book. Jerking movements. Speech problems. Mental deterioration. The child of a parent with Huntington’s has a fifty-fifty chance. They wait years for that first “twitch.” Had Matthew Morrison felt a “spasm” and realized what lay ahead? Pissed-off, cheated, little to lose—the classic profile.

Two reporters spotted Addis and rushed toward him. One of Byrd’s assistants cut them off. Addis was off-limits. Not right before the big send-off. The assistant press secretary stood in front of the reporters, while Addis headed toward the West Wing.

“You can decide.” Margaret had said that to him. She had not revealed what she knew. Not about the deal. Not about Griffith’s death. Had she approved Chasie’s scheme for her family? Been in on the planning? Realized that her father had maneuvered Matthew Morrison’s family off their land? Was Addis right to assume Jordan had been dispatched to New Orleans to tend to Griffith? Or had Jordan done this on his own, as a gift to Margaret?

“What do you know?” she had asked him. That was the question for her.

But, then, did it matter if she knew all the details, all the history? Allison Meade was dead. So was Gillian Silva. That reporter, too. And the guy who ran that bizarre escort service. What did the adult services ads in the alternative weekly call it? “Private viewings,” didn’t they? Some CIA shrink was in deep shit in Africa. And, and … Damnit, was it better to try to remember what Julia Lancette had looked like, felt like, smelled like … or better to let it go?

“She knows.” That’s what Morrison had said. Was that what he meant? A guess on his part, or a wish? Did it matter what Margaret knew?

Not to the dead.

But it should matter—particularly to Margaret. In her name or at her hand—was there any difference? What had been done had been done for her. The deal-rigging. The fixing. The god-knows-what. For her and for Bob Hanover. Had the sheriff of Opelousas been one of those who had been of help to the Hanovers? Or had a lying psychopath had the decency to commit suicide and save the judicial system a few bucks?

“This is not about me.” Margaret’s eyes had searched for acknowledgment—for agreement—from Addis in the elevator. Yes, it was about more.

Pink trails on her face.

Hands floating as the water reached her breasts.

“You can decide.”

He certainly could. Margaret or Mumfries.