After Addis had finished recounting the episode over lunch, Wenner had not asked him who had leaked. Addis had appreciated that.

“How are you, Nick?” Wenner now inquired.

Shit, I should really get an answer to that question.

“Like everyone else, sir.”

“Hard days, hard days,” Wenner said.

“Yes, they are sir.”

“Yes, indeed,” Kelly interrupted. “And, Nick, you and I need to talk soon … . About future considerations.”

“Sure.”

Kelly and Wenner started to move off.

“And that appearance a few minutes ago.” Kelly had stopped and was facing Addis. “Interesting. Don’t you think?”

Kelly was trying to be melodramatic. Wenner, lost in thought, wasn’t paying attention. Addis shrugged.

“We’ll talk,” Kelly said and guided Wenner toward the Oval Office.

“Can’t wait,” Addis said, to no one in particular. He looked at the Rose Garden and walked on.

Neither O’Connor nor Margaret were in the widow’s office. He ambled down the hall, and he saw Jack in the library. Addis entered the box-filled room, wondering if Lem Jordan was near.

“Hi, Jack.”

Jack, with his back to the door, was startled. He wheeled himself around.

“Hey, Nick,” he muttered. His eyes brightened to see Addis.

The car accident, nine years ago, had left him paralyzed from the waist down. It also had turned him from a gregarious child into a withdrawn, sullen boy. He occasionally entered what the doctors called conscious blackouts. He would be awake but coma-like, impenetrable, nearly autistic. The specialists had not been able to find the cause of these retreats. Psychologists and psychiatrists came up with various theories. It was the shock, the anger, the guilt for not being the perfect son. No treatments had taken hold.

Jack wiped his stringy blond hair from his face. Was he getting thinner? He was wearing an Orioles T-shirt. Addis squatted next to him.

“Whatcha doing?” Addis asked.

“Helping Mom pack.”

“And what are you packing?”

“Old stuff.”

Addis sat on a sealed box. He looked at the open cartons. They were filled with books, knickknacks, old newspapers.

“How you doing?” Addis asked.

“I keep the list,” Jack said. He held up a clipboard. “Then Mom puts it in the box.”

Addis pulled a scrapbook out of the box at Jack’s feet.

“These are my mom’s boxes,” Jack said, pointing to the ones closest to him. “Those”—he pointed across the room—“are my dad’s.”