Grace put out a hand, reaching back for the arm of the chair behind her, unable to look away from the book. Her hand hung there, forgotten, and her face flooded with a pain, profound and deep, as a thousand shards began to fall into place—the fragments of a knowledge that she hadn’t known existed. But as it assembled itself from previously unconnected memories, as she stepped back and began to see not only the tail but also the entire elephant, Grace Lombard opened her mouth and let out an agonized cry.

“What is it, Mrs. Lombard?”

“Goddamn you, Gibson.” She slammed the book into his chest, the book still open to the same page, and turned to Denise.

“Where is he?” she asked Denise.

Gibson held open the book, looking for writing in blue ink. He found it in the left margin:

I wish I could explain. If I go now, before he finds out, he’ll be okay again. He will. I bring out something bad. That’s what he always says. I just shouldn’t have waited so long to leave. I was afraid. I’m sorry. Don’t be sad.

Gibson looked up in horror at Grace, but she was already halfway to the door.

“Who?” Denise asked.

“My husband, Denise. Where is he?”

“Mrs. Lombard?” Denise asked, unease heavy in her voice. “What is it? Sit down for a minute. Talk to me. What’s the matter?”

Grace spun back to Denise aggressively. “Stop handling me, Denise. My husband. Where is he?”

“Conference Room Three,” she stammered. “Mrs. Lombard?”

But Grace was out the suite door and past the startled Secret Service agent before he could react. Half running, half walking, she plowed down the hall with a look on her face that threatened dire consequences. Staff scurried from her path like field mice from a thresher.

Denise trailed after her. Gibson trailed after Denise, who glared back at him angrily, accusingly. The Secret Service agent brought up the rear.

They caught up to Grace Lombard at the elevators. The down arrow was lit, but she pounded away at the “Down” button—a morphine drip for her uncontainable agony.

The ride was one short floor down, but it felt like a life sentence in that elevator. Such was the tension in the claustrophobic space. Denise tried to get Grace to acknowledge her; when she couldn’t, she turned her anger on Gibson.

“What have you done?” Denise wrenched the book out of his hands.

He wished her luck. Whatever forces he had set in motion, it was out of his hands now. It was down to the Lombards now. He and Denise were merely bystanders.