Protocol was invaluable for maintaining order, but Darlene never grew accustomed to how it dehumanized her twenty-five-year marriage. Here, in Cuthbert’s realm, Darlene was no longer the man’s wife. She was merely another guest, someone with approved access to the president through the same rigors applied to any prospective visitor. More and more she found herself longing to return to their former life together, with the privacy, true intimacy, and, yes, the fun so increasingly lacking in their marriage.

Granted, Lou wasn’t the President of the United States. But he did have intense stresses in his life, and he had managed to overcome them and continue active devotion to his daughter, and even to his ex-wife. Darlene felt some guilt at harboring the feelings that she did. But she was nothing if not a woman, and a deeply emotional woman at that. Whether it was guilt or longing, joy or shame, her feelings were her feelings, and she would always own them.

Cuthbert’s phone rang and a brief exchange followed.

“The president will see you now,” she said.

Rising from her chair, Darlene smoothed out her skirt. “Thank you, Cynthia. I shouldn’t be too long.”

Had she just said that cynically?

Martin smiled warmly as soon as Darlene entered his office. He came out from behind his expansive desk, took hold of her hands, and gave her a brief, perhaps obligatory, kiss on the lips. “You look nice,” he said, though his eyes barely stayed on her.

Darlene sucked in a deep and nervous breath. This wasn’t going to be pleasant. “Marty … there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

Martin’s gaze became more probing, as if he had begun sizing up a diplomatic adversary. “How about we go to the sitting area? Coffee? Tea?”

“The effervescent Miss Cuthbert already offered.”

“Ah, Cynthia—always and ever the right thing,” Martin said, favoring her with the boyish grin she liked most.

Darlene sat at the center of one of a pair of peppermint-striped sofas, and was not totally surprised when he took the seat across from her.

“Thanks for making time to see me,” she said.

“Nonsense. Honey, what’s wrong? You look upset.”

She inhaled deeply and let her breath out slowly.

“It’s about Russ Evans,” she said.

She could see Martin tense. His back became rigid, and the beginnings of a glare materialized in his killer blue eyes.

“I thought we had decided that subject would be taboo,” he said, still maintaining control.

Darlene had hoped to keep Victor Ochoa out of this discussion, but now she could see that unless Martin simply threw her out of his office, it wasn’t going to be possible. She pressed on, ignoring his tight-lipped reminder of “their” agreement, and extracted an unmarked envelope from her purse.

“The girl who framed Russ is dead,” Darlene said, handing Martin Angela’s photos.