It had been a day trip to see the Orioles. He couldn’t remember whom they were playing. The Red Sox? That sounded right. Originally just him and Duke, but the senator had gotten wind of it and invited himself and Bear along. Lombard’s wife was out of town, so it was just a couple of dads taking their kids to a ball game . . . with a security detail following at a discreet distance. Half family outing, half political theater. But then Bear had flipped out at the ballpark, and they’d missed most of the game.

No, that wasn’t right. It had started earlier.

When Gibson really thought about it, Bear had been out of sorts for some time. Withdrawn. And she’d been an absolute nightmare on the drive to Baltimore. Hostile toward all of them. Kicking the back of the passenger seat. Glaring at anyone who looked her way. Nothing like the chirpy little girl he’d grown up with. She wouldn’t answer him when he asked her what was wrong. That never happened. Duke, who could always bring a smile to her face, had gotten only sullen silence.

Gibson remembered Lombard’s frustration and stubborn determination to have a good time. Duke had suggested calling it off halfway there, but the senator wasn’t having it. The drive had become a pantomime of upbeat banter, and they had all felt the false, strained tension that came from putting on a happy face.

By the time they’d reached the ballpark, no one was much in the mood for baseball. Camden Yards had been bustling, so it wasn’t until they’d gotten to their seats that he’d realized Bear was crying. At the time, he’d just seen a bratty kid not getting her way, but now he saw that she’d been more than upset; she’d been frightened.

I was so angry with you for not seeing.

What hadn’t he seen?

As they had taken their seats, a play in the field brought the crowd to its feet. Gibson, out in the aisle, had turned to watch, and by the time he’d looked back, Bear was sobbing. Duke had knelt to comfort her, but Bear shrank away from him, wailing inconsolably.

Gibson got a sick feeling as he tried to recall what had happened next.

Lombard snatched up his daughter and carried her up to the concourse. Duke had just stood there, watching after them, his face drawn and troubled. What had happened at that ballpark? What was he missing? All these years, Gibson had believed his father had killed himself because he’d been caught embezzling from Lombard. It had been such a welcome relief when Calista Dauplaise told him that it had been Lombard himself. But it raised a new and unpleasant question: What had driven Duke Vaughn to suicide?