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Vanessa’s death was a black swan. She wouldn’t have guessed it in a million years. They came into this world together. Allison always assumed they would leave the same way. Maybe if they were older, Allison might have conceived of one of them going first. But not at thirty-four.
    A part of Allison died with that call.
    The line was moving at a snail’s pace. Too restless simply to stand in line, Allison decided to call the Washington Post and have them run an obit. Vanessa lived in Washington. She’d worked for a major committee on the Hill. She had friends in the city. They had to know about her death.
    She took out her phone, called the obit editor, and recounted the information. He said they’d probably publish it.
    An hour later, approaching the last of several security checkpoints, another thought struck her. Suppose this wasn’t accidental. Suppose the man Vanessa was with killed her. A nut case? Or both high, carried away during kinky sex?
    What really happened? She had to find out.
    Almost at the glass booth, manned by armed guards, she noticed the sign. “ NO CELL PHONES BEYOND THIS POINT .” Hell, she still had a couple more minutes, she thought. And there was something she could do, even before the funeral.
    She checked the contacts on her iPhone and dialed Sara Gross, her former schoolmate and friend, now a doctor in Oxford, waking her in the middle of the night in Ohio. “I only have a minute.”
    She told Sara about the call from Anguilla.
    â€œWe can talk on Tuesday morning, but when Vanessa’s body arrives will you examine it?”
    â€œOf course. What am I looking for?”
    â€œAnything you can tell me about how she died.”
    After a pause, Sara said, “I’ll do that.”
    Allison realized that she hadn’t given Sara any guidance, but she didn’t know what she was looking for. Still, Sara was smart. If Vanessa’s body disclosed any evidence about her death, Allison was confident Sara would find it.

Washington
    L eave it and move on, Martin chided himself. But easier said than done. He felt it like a twenty-pound weight hung around his neck.
    He was usually able to compartmentalize. But not today.
    Suddenly he remembered it was Veteran’s Day, a holiday for some in Washington. But not for him. He had tons of work at the office.
    Francis was still sleeping. He trudged downstairs, brewed a pot of coffee, had some cereal, and headed to the office.
    Three hours later, Martin was sitting behind his green leather top desk in his corner office overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, twelve floors below. He lifted the china cup and swallowed the bitter black coffee as he watched lanky Paul Maltoni, clutching a legal pad and pen with his curly black hair as unruly as ever, come into the office and sit in front of his desk. Paul was Martin’s star associate, who had been with the giant law firm Martin had founded and headed for eight years.
    Martin felt a common bond with this brilliant young lawyer who, like Martin, came from a modest background and rose to the top of his class at Yale Law School as a scholarship student. Martin expected Paul to become a partner in another year.
    â€œWe have a big new case,” Martin said. “And I need you to work with me on it.”
    â€œSure, Andrew. What’s it about?”
    â€œGlobal Media wants us to challenge the proposed FCC Rule calling for a Board of Censors to review and to cancel television shows for undue sex or violence. The so called ‘decency regulations.’”
    â€œAs a violation of free speech?”
    â€œCorrect. And we’ll also have some procedural issues relating to the rulemaking. They decided to fire their current lawyer.”
    â€œI’d love to work with you on that.”
    â€œYou’d be perfect for it, but …” Martin hesitated. “Look Paul, you’re an excellent lawyer, but you love working on lots of things. Sometimes