It was a ten-hour drive to Washington; Gibson made it in just under eight. He drove hard, Billy Casper’s gun wrapped in a cloth in the glove box. A reminder that it wasn’t over. He’d only known Billy for a couple of days but had felt a bond. Billy had said they were connected through Suzanne without ever knowing how true that was. After this was over, he’d drive back to Pennsylvania and comb the field until he found Billy. Leaving him to lie unclaimed behind an abandoned service station didn’t sit well with Gibson.

He called Nicole and told her that she could go home. Her voice was tight, and when he asked if he could talk to Ellie, Nicole said she was sleeping. Silence. He wanted desperately to fill it, to tell her what he now knew about his father. That Duke Vaughn hadn’t killed himself. Hadn’t abandoned him. He hadn’t been able to clear his father’s name with the general public, but his dad had been restored to him. It wasn’t a magic potion; it didn’t make him intact. Life didn’t work like that. But it loosened a knot down near his heart. In the last few days, he’d been able to think about his father again, and, though tinged with melancholy, his memories of the man made him smile for the first time. If not reborn, he felt, at least, rebooted.

The moment passed, and Nicole said good-bye and hung up without waiting for him to say it back. He wondered if he would ever be able to tell anyone the truth.

There was one thing left to do. For Bear.

Traffic was heavy driving into the District. He crossed Key Bridge and steered into Georgetown down M Street. He drove with the window down. Undergrads and tourists made it slow going, and once he crossed Wisconsin Avenue he turned north into the wealthy residential neighborhood behind the shops and restaurants.

The gates to Colline were closed. Gibson pulled his car up to the intercom. A man’s voice answered after a long wait, and Gibson told him who he was. The gate swung open, and he drove up to the house.

A butler in a black suit opened the door and welcomed him.

“Good evening, sir. My name is Davis. Ms. Dauplaise is expecting you.”

“She is?”

“Yes. She’s been waiting for . . . one of you.”

“Well, I’m here.”

“May I offer you anything? A drink, perhaps?”

Being invited in and offered a drink by a butler wasn’t exactly how Gibson had imagined this playing out, but since he was offering . . .

“I’d take a beer.”

“Very good, sir.”

Davis left him alone in the entry hall filled with portraits, sculptures, and the hollow echo of disappearing footfalls. Colline was enormous in its silence.