“They aren’t a good match,” she said. “Of course you know that.” Her lackey came forward, whispered something into her ear. “I must go,” she said, then touched me lightly on my shoulder. “Good seeing you. Hello to Miles.” She strolled away, sure-footed, her hands clasped behind her back. The crowd of reporters and staff closed around her like a pair of jaws.

Wallis and Atlas returned with Crabtree, all out of breath. “What were you guys talking about?” she demanded. “God, this dog. Never again. Were you talking about me?”

“I—no,” I said, because I couldn’t say the truth aloud, for then it would be real, and I would have to live with it, and sleep with it, and my bed was full of enough worry already. “Just...the defense authorization bill. Aircraft carriers, nuclear weapons.”

“I didn’t make a great impression. God, I made no impression at all. What did I even say to her? I was in some kind of fugue state... Shit.” Wallis put her hand to her head. “We forgot about Dad.”

“Another day,” I said. I couldn’t spend one more minute there.

Atlas, still breathing shallowly, managed, “Lunch this week, Daisy? I—I’d like to catch up.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, noncommittal, trying to keep a neutral expression as we said our awkward goodbyes.

I turned Wallis toward the cemetery exit and we began our procession out. Of course, now that I was desperate to leave, Crabtree moved at a snail’s pace, probably exhausted from the most eventful walk of his short life. Atlas and I hadn’t embraced, and I felt the drought of it on my skin as we made our way through the rows of graves and pine needles and first daffodils of spring.

“You’re sure Blake is worth all that?” I broke the silence when Wallis and I were at last through the gates. “You’re going to have to fight for him. Harder than you think.”

But Wallis simply smiled to herself and said, “She hugged me tightly. I’m optimistic.” Then she gave all her attention to Crabtree, leaving me alone with thoughts filled, unlike hers, with worst-case scenarios.

The pictures were leaked less than twenty-four hours later. Miles was the one who alerted me, texting me about a dozen screenshots in a row, then about thirty-seven question marks, also in a row.

The camera had caught Melinda Darley, Wallis, and me candidly. The smiles, the hugs. We all looked like friends. From the angle of the pictures, it seemed like they were taken by an enterprising photographer, one who’d undoubtedly received more money for these photos than from any related to Melinda Darley’s graveside presser.

I knew I should resist, but I followed the links to the comments, then to the hashtags, and became lost in the consternation and scorn of the social media universe, in which mercy and measure were absent.