Hal walked with her. “You looked really great on camera today. Really great,” he said, at her elbow. “But have you considered pulling your hair back? You’ve got great eyes. We could see them more if you’d just pull it back like—” Natalie, too stunned to move, watched as Hal leaned in to pull strands of her hair up and away from her face. Her stomach was mid-somersault when, mercifully, they were interrupted.

“Natalie!” It was the voice of an angry mom.

She turned to see a figure rushing toward her in a blur of khaki, diamonds, and white blond hair. Bibb Connaught, her bureau chief.

“We need to talk,” Bibb snapped.

Before Natalie could reply, Hal said to Bibb, “They want you—”

“I know, I know.” Bibb waved him off, then impatiently looked at Natalie. “I need to handle something. Come with me, then we’re going up to my office to have a talk.” She hurried past and disappeared down a second hallway, leaving the scent of Chanel No. 5 and fear in her wake.

This is not good. Natalie felt as though her stomach was trying to crawl out of her body.

Jogging to keep up, Natalie had a chance to take in Bibb’s outfit. She was dressed like the Georgetown version of Isak Dinesen wearing a yellow linen shirt with a high popped collar, khaki pants, a cloth belt, and knee-high riding boots. There was a hint of jodhpur in the cut of the pants, not enough to make them look like she’d just bounced over from the riding stables but enough to give the impression that at any moment she might throw a machete over her shoulder and lop off some heads.

Bibb didn’t lead her to a conference room for a quiet execution. Instead, Natalie found herself pressed against the back wall of the DC control room, where producers were directing the network’s live coverage in a state of mayhem unusual even for live news. Three people were simultaneously screaming.

“How about Developing Story? Do we have Developing Story?”

“Can we reboot?”

“Graphics, that name is BRIT not TIT. Fix it now!”

Their voices layering over each other.

In the otherwise pitch-black room, the thirty monitors up front were filled with images of older men in bad suits aimlessly milling around a stage. The sound was muted but Natalie deduced the network was covering the group photo for the PanAmerican Summit now underway at the DC Convention Center. Cleary the sedate scene on air had nothing to do with the panic in the room.