“Daisy,” Atlas said. “I’ve been—You’ve—It’s been a while, I mean. We keep missing each other.”

I’d made a mistake at the wedding, kissing him. I did a trust fall, betting he’d catch me. I wouldn’t make the same assumption again. Vulnerability would do me no favors. “Work,” I said, watching Wallis approach her target, “has been nuts.” I heard her ask, “Excuse me?” But then a man with steak-house waistline and an imbecile’s half grin—I figured a member of her staff—hid her from my view.

“Right.” Atlas sounded unsure. “How are you?”

My eyes were still on Melinda Darley as her “bodyguard” stepped aside, and she and Wallis were—hugging. Whatever I expected, it was not that. I had to consciously return my jaw to its normal position.

Atlas had to ask his question again. “I’ve been good. Busy.”

“Yes,” he said. “You said that.”

“Sorry. I know.” I focused on him. “I’m pulled in a thousand directions. Including now. I know I owe you an answer about the interview.”

“Yes, I—” He stopped, noticing, as I had, Wallis beckoning me over.

“Excuse me.” I had no desire to talk to Melinda Darley, but I was also itching to escape this conversation. “If you see that dog, just yell.”

I made my way around a few stones, and then Melinda Darley was before me, diminutive but commanding, sipping from a takeaway coffee cup; burgundy lipstick stained the lid. I extended my hand.

“Absolutely not,” said the senator in her unmistakable palmetto drawl. “Come give me a hug.” I did as I was told. She smelled of rosy perfume and copper pennies. “I was just telling your sister,” she continued, “that we’re honoring the first anniversary of the death of that young doctor. Do you remember? He was in his car and swerved to avoid a bicyclist who ran a stop sign. Happened right on Capitol Hill. No? I see you don’t recall. It was really unfortunate. He was from Spartanburg, originally, and was working at Walter Reed.” She shook her head sadly. “Cities are setting up too many bike lanes. And don’t even get me started on these scooters. There’s a war on cars, girls.”

This statement was so abjectly outrageous, it made me briefly forget the prior discomfort with Atlas. In fact, I almost smiled. But the impulse was snuffed out a mere second later, when Crabtree returned, seemingly out of nowhere, and reared up, placing two muddy paws on the front of Melinda Darley’s fine jacket.