“Excellent.”

“I met them at the party Herbert had at the Embassy.”

“Party?”

“Yes, James. I texted you about it. Do you even read my messages?”

“But of course I do, my darling queen.”

She shot him a look askance, sitting up again as Araba brought her water with ice. “What’s new in your world?” she asked.

“Nothing, really. J. K. and I have been talking a lot. He’s going full speed ahead with his anti-corruption scheme, and now that Evans-Aidoo is dead, J. K. probably has the election in the palm of his hand. Aidoo’s running mate is very weak.”

“Yes, I understand.” Josephine hesitated. “I think you mentioned once that J. K. is turning more of his attention to the higher echelons in the police?”

“Right,” he said, searching her face. “You look worried.”

“No, not really,” she said, which wasn’t true. “Just wonder if it will affect what we do and how we do it.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. Things are pretty secure.”

“Okay then.” Josephine was persuaded, at least for now. “And the search for Aidoo’s killer? How is that going?”

“Not very well,” James said. “The police seem to have no leads at all.”

They were quiet for a moment. At length, Josephine spoke. “Love? I was thinking. If I was to achieve my dream of the Autism Center taking in a few boarders and coming up to world standard, would you consider having Kwame moved from England back here?”

He frowned. “Why would you even consider that? How would we ever provide the same standard of care? And you know how much he depends on a set routine for peace of mind. Come on, Josie.” He moved closer and put his arms around her. “We’ve done the best for him. He’s safe and secure where he is. And that’s what we should care about most.”

What James said made intellectual sense, but it failed to assuage the guilt eating at Josephine’s soul.

EIGHTEEN

February 5, Washington, DC

Derek called out from the bottom of the stairs. “Dad?”

No reply came. Derek went up to his father’s room, but it was empty. He crossed to the window and saw his father dozing off in a deck chair in the solarium below. A weak winter sun had emerged. As Derek turned to leave the room, the open screen of Gordon’s desktop caught his eye. It was Dad’s Widows & Widowers Facebook page with a Messenger window open at the bottom right. Derek lingered, sneaking a look. He shouldn’t be infringing on his father’s privacy like this, and for an instant, Derek’s curiosity clashed with guilt. Curiosity won. The last message in the window was from someone called Helena Barfour at 2:16 p.m., about forty minutes ago: How are you today, my love?

Gordon, presumably away from the computer at the time, hadn’t yet responded. But what drew Derek’s attention were the antecedent messages. Inexorably drawn in, he scrolled up farther, and farther still. “What the fuck,” he muttered.