“She also has the feeling that her idea for a serious emotional documentary is being converted into a sleazy RAM soap opera.”

“Oh, for shit’s sake, David, we live in a capitalist society.”

“Meaning …?”

“Meaning the media business is—surprise, surprise—a business. Nuance is nice, but drama is what sells.”

“Maybe you ought to be having this conversation with her rather than with me.”

“Like hell I should. She and I are oil and water. But, like I told you before, she looks up to you. She’ll listen to you.”

“What do you want me to tell her? That RAM is a noble enterprise, that Rudy Getz is a prince?”

“From what I hear on the street, Rudy is a shit. But he’s a smart shit. The world is the world. Some of us face it, some of us don’t. I hope she thinks twice about bailing out.”

“Bailing out in this case might not be such a bad idea.”

There was a silence—not a common thing in a conversation with Connie Clarke. When she spoke again, her voice was lower. “You don’t know what that could lead to. Her decision to go to journalism school, to get a degree, to pursue this idea of hers, to build a media career for herself—it’s all been such a lifesaver, such a salvation from where she was before.”

“Where was that?”

There was another silence. “The ambitious, focused young woman you’re seeing now is kind of a miracle. The way she was a few years ago had me scared—the way she was when she bailed out of normal life after her father disappeared. When she was in her teens, she was adrift. She didn’t want to do anything, wasn’t interested in anything. There were times she’d be okay, and then she’d sink back into a dark hole. This journalism thing—particularly this Orphans project—has provided some direction. It’s given her a life. I’d rather not think where ‘bailing out’ might lead.”

“Do you want to talk to her?”

“She’s there? In your house?”

“Yes. Long story.”

“There, now, in the same room with you?”

“In another room, with my son.”

“Your son?”

“Another long story.”

“I see. Well … I’d love to hear that story when you have time to tell it to me.”

“Be happy to. Maybe in another day or two. Things are a little complicated right now.”

“I gather. In the meantime please remember what I said.”

“I’d better go now.”

“Okay, but … do what you can, David. Please. Don’t let her self-destruct.”

When the call ended, he stood at the den window, staring out at the ridge without really seeing it. How the hell was anyone supposed to keep anyone else from self-destructing?