Waiting in a hideously expensive armchair, Gibson adjusted Billy’s gun, which rested uncomfortably against the small of his back. On the top step of the tall staircase at the far end of the hall, Catherine Dauplaise sat watching him. It had only been a little more than a month since she had introduced herself to him at her birthday party—it seemed many lifetimes ago. Catherine was wearing a pretty blue dress. Her hands were on her knees, chin resting on her balled-up fists.

He waved, and, after a moment, she waved back.

Davis came back with his beer wrapped in a yellow cloth napkin. Fancy.

“If you’ll follow me, sir.”

Davis led him through the house and out to the veranda where Gibson had first met Calista. The tables and tents from the birthday party were long gone, and Colline appeared all the more regal and expansive without the clutter. Wrought-iron furniture looked out over the property, and enormous planters blazed with every kind of flower. Somehow he’d missed the koi pond altogether. At the top of the stairs, Davis stopped and pointed to the cupola at the far end of the gardens.

“Ms. Dauplaise is just there. I apologize, but she instructed that I send you on alone. If you follow the footpath, it will take you around the hedgerow.”

“Get the girl packed.”

“She already is, sir.”

Of course she was. “This fucking woman.”

“Yes, sir.”

Like so much nineteenth-century architecture in Washington, the cupola was inspired by the city’s early obsession with the Greeks. Doric columns supported the domed roof and flanked a set of heavy, metal-banded doors. A low wall circled the central crypt, and several rows of identical white headstones stood symmetrically along the inside.

Calista Dauplaise sat on a green metal chair between two graves. One appeared older, fully grown over. A simple white stone cross. A heavy gray marble headstone marked the other, which was topped with freshly laid sod.

Gibson detected none of Calista’s haughty imperiousness. She looked tired and aged. Her formally immaculate hair had been hastily tied up, and chaotic strands hung free. On her face was the faraway look of someone waiting for a bus that they were no longer sure would come. She clutched a handkerchief and didn’t look up when he approached.

“A safe trip, I trust?” she asked.

“Benjamin Lombard is dead.”

“Yes, I heard. It’s regrettable that some lack the fortitude to weather life’s hardships.”

“Should I thank you?”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” she said. “Won’t you sit?”

There was a second chair, but he didn’t want to be that close to her. Instead he circled around and leaned on the headstone of the fresh grave. It read, “Evelyn Furst.” She looked at him and anger flared in her eyes, but there wasn’t fuel enough to keep it burning.

“Please. A little respect. That is my sister.”