“Heads up,” he said flatly. The gentle sound of fingers on a keyboard infuriated me.

“We were at my father’s memorial, Todd.” I did not bother to keep the sharpness from my voice.

“Yikes.” The typing paused. Then resumed. “Actually, I’m calling about another piece I’m working on about your father.”

“What else do you possibly have to say? Are you going to report on whether they were in a queen or a king at time of death?” It was singularly humiliating that, of all the outlets in the world, I was talking about this to the New York Times, the distinguished Gray Lady. Beside me, Cricket dropped her head into her hands, and I immediately regretted my question.

“There is evidence,” he said crisply, “that Senator Richardson used his office expense account to buy Andrea Pell a cell phone, a car, and plane tickets.”

“Who?” I stalled, even though I recognized the name. Cricket was asking me for a tissue; her eyes were wet. I fished in my purse and handed her an old receipt. It was all I had.

“The lover, companion, whatever the correct nomenclature is these days,” said the reporter. “She was—is—a photographer, and she’s listed on Senator Richardson’s most recent expense ledger as his employee.”

My mind emptied, then swiftly filled with every swear word in every iteration I could imagine. He had the woman on his payroll?

Todd continued: “We even have a source who says your father gave her money to buy a condo in Bethesda. Did you or your family know about this?”

“Who is this source?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“We have no comment at this time,” I said.

“I figured. Publication will probably be within the hour online and above the fold tomorrow morning.” He ended the call.

I stared at my phone, which was still pinging with incoming texts. The letters shuddered and twitched on my screen. Or maybe that was just my shaking hands. Wallis asked me several questions in a row, none of which I could comprehend. Cricket went on dabbing her eyes with my receipt.

When we arrived at the house, the driver asked if we needed anything else from him, then told us, sunnily, to have a good rest of our day.

Once inside, we all appeared lost. We bobbed around the living room like flotsam in the ocean, Cricket running her fingers across the dessert plates and linen napkins she’d stacked on the sideboard the night before, having unceremoniously vetoed my idea of disposables. And Wallis, gazing at the upright piano and the silver-framed photos on its lid. She picked up the one of me, around age nine, cuddled into Gregory’s side on a horse-drawn sleigh. We’d been on Prince Edward Island, a trip after Christmas, and I’d fancied myself Anne of Green Gables, minus the red hair and good spelling.