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forward. The body blow came swiftly, a sequence of four photos of Lenore intimately flanked by an anonymous older man – a handsome, graying man appearing to be in his young 40’s –– standing just to the side of the child model. In one photo, they held interwoven hands.
    “There were photos, Lenore…”
    Lenore’s composed facade crumbled, an audible gasp escaping her lips. She saw the photos on the monitor and froze, aghast. Succumbing to nervous, childish habits, Lenore uncrossed her calves, bouncing and jittering her right leg. In her lap, she dug at the cuticle of her left index finger with her right thumb.
    “These photos show you with an older man, Lenore. He has his arm around you. And not just in one photo, Lenore. Several. Nobody has yet explained who he is or why he suddenly disappeared. Would you care...?”
    An emergency note of coaching replayed in Lenore’s ears. It was her father’s voice with counsel for crisis moments, for when talking points eluded her. “Never let the attacker remain on the attack. Even if you have nothing to throw at him, deflect his thrust. Buy time. Regroup. Breathe. Refocus.”
    Lenore parried wildly, flashing quickly through all options in her arsenal of canned responses. A vague memory of a strategy teased her. In the fog of terror, she remembered just one word. Paparazzi.
    “The paparazzi! The paparazzi, Terry! They photographed me… Many times…”
    There was a number! What was the number? She was supposed to say a number! Her aid gave her a number! What was the number?
    Lenore’s voice wavered, her shoulders slipping forward into a guarded hunch, she lifted her fussing hands from her lap. Armand heard the tone and saw the slump. Lenore had lost sight of her security blanket. Maneuvering quickly, Armand found a second sight line over Trainor’s other shoulder. With Lenore’s eyes darting frantically, yearning for a reassuring glimpse of her father, Armand finally recaptured her attention. He mouthed…
    “Respirar, mi linda. Respirar… Relajarse!” gesturing in slow, looping motions with his hands.
    As the 18-year-old received urgent coaching, Trainor pressed onward. “Yes… We all know about the paparazzi, Lenore. They are indeed everywhere. But the paparazzi had nothing to do with the man standing next to you in those photos. The paparazzi didn’t…”
    “Recuerde, Lenore. Ciento cuarenta y seis…”
    Lenore remembered! Confidence returned to her stiffening spine. She leaned forward and lunged verbally at her attacker, slashing the air with her right hand. Startled, Trainor recoiled.
    “Mr. Trainor! I am offended by all this disgusting innuendo! This personal attack is appalling behavior coming from a respected journalist! Did you know that I am photographed more than 100 times every day by paparazzi and photographers from around the world?” For emphasis, Lenore slapped the back of her right hand into the palm of her left. “More than 100 times every day, Mr. Trainor ! Over the past four years that would total over…”
    Acting her part like an Oscar nominee, Lenore pretended to calculate a number in real time, a number that was etched into her memory. Raising one hand she tapped fingertips to fingertips as if calculating the total.
    “…Well… That would be over 146,000 photos! And I do not always know when such photos are taken! They are often shot with telephoto lenses or by people who jump up in front of me without warning.”
    “But Lenore…”
    “And I am often surrounded and touched by people I do not know. As a public figure, Mr. Trainor, I am certain you can appreciate that I rarely know who stands near me. I heard that someone once took an embarrassing photo of you , Mr. Trainor, a photo you never fully explained. Would you like to share your humiliating photo with your viewers tonight? If I asked your Director to put your embarrassing photo on the screen, would you be prepared to explain it to your viewers?”
    The interviewer