My voice is dry monotone. “He may be in boarding school now, but he was around for junior high. And for every summer.”

The stunned look on Trey’s face tells me this is the first he’s heard of it. “So he… Oh, sick-Does that mean we’ll-”

“The press’ll never hear it. Hartson’s personal request. However she lived, Nora Hartson’s going to die a hero-giving her life to catch Caroline’s killer.”

“So she and Lamb… ”

“You only heard it because you’re a friend. Understand what I’m saying?”

Trey nods his head and gives me the rub. A quick one. More unnerved than upset. Unless I bring it up, that’s the last I’ll hear of it.

Turning back to the wall above the fireplace, I stand on my tiptoes to reach the court artist’s rendition of me at the moot court finals. Trapped behind a huge piece of glass, it’s even bigger than it first appears. Deeper too. It takes me a second to get both hands around it.

Trey rushes to my side, helping me get control of it. “So what’d they do?” Trey asks as we lean it against my diploma. “Fire you or force you to resign?”

I stop where I am. “How’d you know?”

“You mean besides the oh-so-subtle clue of you dismantling your office? It’s a crisis, Michael. Lamb and Nora are dead, and you were sleeping with her. When it gets that hot, this place goes running for shade.”

“They didn’t fire me,” I tell him.

“So they asked you to leave.”

“They didn’t say the words, but… I have to.”

He stares out the window. There’re still a few reporters doing stand-ups on the lawn. “If you want, I can help you with some media coaching.”

“That’d be great.”

“And I can still get you into all the really cool events-State of the Union, Inaugural Ball-whatever you want.”

“I appreciate it.”

“And I’ll tell you what else-wherever you apply for your next job-you better believe you’re getting a recommendation on White House stationery. Hell, I’ll steal a whole pack of it-we can write letters to all the people we hate: meter maids, men who call everybody ‘Big Guy,’ people in retail who act like they’re doing you a favor, those bitchy stewardesses on the airplane who always lie and say they’re out of those Chicklet pillows-‘One per person’ my neck-cramped little ass-like I’m denying them a patio on their pillow fort.”

For the first time in two days, I laugh. Actually, it’s more like a cough and a smile. But I’ll take it.

Catching his breath, Trey follows me to my desk. “I’m not joking, though, Michael. You name it; I’ll get it for you.”

“I know you will,” I say as I quickly flip through the piles of paper on my desk. Memos, presidential schedules, even my wiretap file-none of it’s important. It all stays. In my bottom left drawer, I find an old pair of running shorts. Those I’ll take. Otherwise, drawer after drawer, I don’t need it.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” Trey asks. “I mean, what’re you gonna do with your time?”

I pull open the top right drawer and see a handwritten note: “Call me and I’ll bring Chinese.” Below it is a tiny heart, signed by Pam.

I stuff the note in my pocket and close the drawer. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“It’s not a question of being fine-it’s bigger than that. Maybe you should speak to Hartson… ”

“Trey, the last thing the President of the United States needs right now is a constant reminder of his family’s worst tragedy walking the halls. Besides, even if he asked me to stay… it’s not for me… not anymore.”

“What’re you talking about?”

With one swift tug, I pull the photo of me and the President off the wall behind my desk. “I’m done,” I tell him, handing Trey what’s left of my ego wall. “And no matter how much you moan and groan, you know it’s for the best.”

He looks down at the photo and pauses a second too long. End of discussion.

Reaching down for my diploma and moot court sketch, I slide my fingers under the picture frame wire, and with a half-fist, lift them up and head for the door. As I walk, they bang against my calves. It may be the last time I’m ever in this place, but as I leave the office, Trey’s right behind me.

Shooting him a quick look, I ask, “So you still going to call me every morning to tell me what’s going on?”

“Six A.M. tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“Monday it is.”

EPILOGUE

A week and a half later, my car turns off I-95 and heads back to the quiet, rural roads of Ashland, Virginia. The sky is crystal blue, and the early-fall trees blush in yellow, orange, and green. At first glance, it’s just like before-then I take a quick peek in the rearview. No one’s there. That’s when I feel it the most.

Every time I come out to horse country, I notice the sweet smell of wildflowers. But as my car twists and turns past an amber thicket, I realize it’s the first time I’ve actually seen them. It’s amazing what’s right in front of your face.

Taking in every yellow stalk in every wide-open field, I wind my way past the farms and toward the familiar wooden fence. A quick left takes me the rest of the way. The thing is, the gravel parking lot, the ranch house, even the always-open screen door-for some reason, they all look bigger. That’s the way it should be, I decide.

“Look who finally made it,” Marlon says in his cozy Creole accent. “I was getting worried about you.”

“It always takes me longer than I thought. It’s the side roads that mess me up.”

“Better late than never,” Marlon offers.

I pause to think about it. “Yeah. I guess.”

Marlon stares down at the newspaper that’s sitting on the kitchen table. Like every conversation over the past few weeks, there’s an awkward pause hanging in the air. “Sorry about Nora,” he eventually says. “I liked her. She seemed like a real brawler-always calling it like it was.”

I pause on the compliment, seeing if it fits. Sometimes the memory’s better. Sometimes, it’s not.

“Is my dad…?”

“In his room,” Marlon says.

“Did you tell him?”

“You told me to wait, so I waited. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“I guess.” Heading to the room, I add, “You really think I’ll be able to-”

“How many times you gonna ask me this?” Marlon interrupts. “Every time you leave, all he wants to know is the next time you’re coming. Boy loves you like all-you-can-eat ribs. What else you possibly want?”

“Nothing,” I say, fighting back a smile. “Nothing at all.”

“Dad?” I call out, knocking on the door to his room and pushing it open. There’s no one inside. “Dad, are you there?”

“Over here, Michael! Over here!” Following his voice, I look up the hallway. At the far end, on the back porch, my dad’s standing on the other side of a screen door, waving at me. He’s wearing wrinkled khakis and, as always, his Heinz ketchup T-shirt. “Here I am,” he sings, his feet shuffling in a little dance. I love seeing him like this.

The moment I push open the screen door, he grabs me in a bear hug and lifts me off the ground. I jump up to help him along. “How’s… this?” he asks, spinning around and planting me on the porch. The moment he lets go, I see what he’s talking about. Beyond the picnic tables where we all ate that day is the yawning field of the farm next door. Under the blinding glow of the honey-gold sun, four horses run wild through the crisp, green fields. The whole scene-the sun, the horses, the colors-it’s breathtaking-as breathtaking as the first time I saw it, the day I came to examine the group home, a week before my dad moved in.

“Isn’t it pretty?” my dad asks in his slurred voice. “Pinky’s the fast one. He’s my favorite.”

“Is that him?” I ask, pointing to the chocolate-brown horse who’s way out front.

“Nooooo-that’s Clyde,” he tells me as if he’s said it a thousand times. “Pinky’s the second to last. He’s not trying today.”