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father. He had always been the one to take her fears seriously. He was different now, she knew this, something had happened that had made them move, something had happened to him, he was further away somehow, but he was still the one she went to when she was afraid.
    Inside the house she marched straight to her room, ignoring her mother’s questions, closing the door and crying until the light outside dimmed and she heard the front door open, her father’s footsteps in the hall. It was the only thing she had really learned about this new place. She could tell the sound of him in the house.
    When he opened her door she ran to him, clinging to his waist, blubbering about the movie, embarrassing herself but unable to stop, tears and snot on the belly of his shirt, the tail of his tie, gulping air from hiccuping sobs, pleading with him not to go back into the city. He sat with her on the bed, listened to her recount the story of the film. He didn’t try to convince her that what she had seen wasn’t real. He considered everything she said. She could see him working it over in his head, so when he told her, finally, that she didn’t need to be afraid of this, she knew she could believe him, that there was some truth there, something to hold on to. Exhausted, she lay back onto the bed and he covered her with the blanket, her hand in his, her breathing slowing, deepening.
    When she woke it was dark in the house. She was still in her school clothes, though her shoes were off and her hair was down, had been brushed. She sat up and thought she could see explosions again out the black window, fire across the water, but then her father’s hand squeezed hers and she lay back down beside him, closing her eyes in the safety of his arms.

10
    The girl leaned across the bed, tapped her cigarette against the wall to pack the tobacco. She found a box of matches in her purse and lit the tip, inhaling, blowing smoke in a long steady stream. It was part of some kind of show, Henry knew. She was establishing her character for him. A hard-edged woman of the world.
    She was twenty, maybe, skinny and pale and angular. Her hair was blond, showing dark at the roots. She wore a thin blue dress that matched her eyes. There were bruises on her knees, and one on her thigh that Henry could see when she crossed her legs.
    She said her name was Elizabeth. The first time she had buzzed at the front door he had turned her away. She’d had his name wrong, had asked for Mr. Stonewell. An hour later she returned with the correct name and he let her in, followed her up the stairs to the north apartment.
    “What has he told you?” Henry passed her an ashtray, stood back by the dresser while she sat back on the bed.
    “About what?”
    “About this.”
    She looked around the room, caught her reflection in the mirror, pushed her hair behind her ears. “That I’ll be bringing men here a couple times a week.”
    “And then what?”
    “Slipping them something, maybe. In their drink.”
    “How long have you known him?”
    “Jimmy?”
    “Yes.”
    “A couple of years.”
    “How long have you been doing this?”
    “A couple of years.” She looked to the mirror again, then back at Henry. “There’s going to be someone else? Another girl?”
    “Possibly.”
    “Will we be working together?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “I mean will we be working together.”
    “That’s yet to be determined,” Henry said. “What did he tell you about me?”
    “He didn’t tell me anything. Just your name: Mr. Gladwell.” She gave a smart-aleck smile, getting the name right.
    “Nothing else?” Henry said.
    Elizabeth leaned across the bed again, tapped the end of her cigarette into the ashtray. She looked back at Henry. “He said that you’re someone who likes to watch.”

11
    At night, he sat at his desk in the basement of the house in Oakland and worked on the biography. He believed he had been away from Washington long enough to think clearly, that there had