She came over to him, rested her hand on his shoulder and tiptoed so that she was tall enough to kiss him on the cheek. Her lips were warm and she smelled of cinnamon. He felt a lump in his throat as she lowered herself down to her height. “It was good to hear you speak. I know you’re carrying a burden, John, and I think it’s very painful. You should share it. No-one will judge you and it’ll be easier to carry.”

He smiled at her. His throat felt thick and he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“See you around,” she said, rubbing her hand up and down his right arm. “Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

* * *

He drove back to the El Capitan for the last time. He recognised Trip Macklemore as he slotted the Explorer into the kerb outside the entrance to the building. He scanned his surroundings quickly, a little fretfully, but there was no sign of anything out of the ordinary. The Group were good, though. If an agent was using the boy and didn’t want to be seen, he would be invisible. Milton felt an itching sensation in the dead centre of his chest. He looked down, almost expecting to see the red crosshatch of a laser sight, but there was nothing there. He turned the key to switch off the engine and stepped outside.

“Hello Trip.”

“Mr. Smith.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“What can I do for you?”

“There’s someone you need to talk to.”

Milton noticed that there was someone else waiting at the entrance to the building.

She smiled nervously at him.

Milton couldn’t hide his surprise. “Madison?”

“Hello, John.”

“Where have you been?”

“Is this your place?” she said, rubbing her arms to ward off the chill. “Can we maybe go in? Get a coffee? I’ll tell you.”

* * *

She explained. To begin with, she edged around some of the details for fear of upsetting Trip but when he realised what she was doing he told her — a little unconvincingly — that he was fine with it and that she should lay it all out and so that’s what she did.

It had started in May when Jarad Efron booked her through Fallen Angelz for the first time. She had no idea who he was other than that he was rich and generous and fun to be around. They had had a good time together and he booked her again a week or two afterwards, then several times after that. The eighth or ninth booking was different. Rather than the plush hotel room to which they usually retreated, this was a private dinner party. Some sort of fundraiser. He had bought her a thousand dollar dress and paraded her as his girlfriend. It was a charade, and it must have been easy to see through it, but there were other escorts at the party, a harem of young girls with rich older men. Madison recognised some of them but it didn’t seem like any of it was a big deal.

One of the other guests came over to speak to Efron. She guessed within minutes that the conversation was an excuse; he was more interested in finding out about her. She hadn’t recognised him at first; he was just another middle-aged john with plenty of cash, charming and charismatic with it. He didn’t explain who he was and when she asked what he did for a living all he said was that he worked for the state government. They had exchanged numbers and he had called the next morning to set up a meeting the same night. She reserved a room at the Marriot; they had room service and went to bed together.

He booked her two more times until, one day, she was idly watching the TV in a bar where she was waiting for Trip and she had seen him on the news. The bartender made some quip about how they were watching the next President of the United States. She Googled him on her phone and nearly fell off her stool. He booked her again the day after her discovery and she had told him, when they were lying on the bed together afterwards, that she knew who he was. He asked if that bothered her and she said that it didn’t. He asked if she could keep a secret and she had said that she could. He had said that he was pleased because he thought that she could be special — “different from all the others” — and he wanted to see her more often. Mentioning that there were “others” didn’t make her feel all that special, but she told herself that he was with her, and that she was special; she would make him see that and then, maybe, eventually, it would just be the two of them.

Robinson had been good to his word and they saw each other at least once a week all the way through the summer. She had persuaded herself that he really did see her as more than just another working girl and that, maybe, something might come of it. She dreamt that he would take her away from hooking and give her a better life: money, a car, a nice place to live. He had made promises like that and she bought all of them. She read about him online and watched him on the news. The fact that a man like him, with so much to lose, had started a relationship with her and trusted her to keep it secret? Man, that was totally crazy. The proximity to power was intoxicating, too, and she admitted that she had let it get to her head. He told her that his wife was a bitch and he would be leaving her as soon as the election was over. She started to believe his spin that, if she was patient, they could be together. At no point did she question how any of that could ever be possible for a working girl. She loved him.

“And then he dropped me,” she said. “No warning. Just like that. He called me and said he couldn’t see me again. I asked why and he said it was one of those things — we’d had a good run, he said, we’d both had fun but all good things have to come to an end. No hard feelings, goodbye, and that was it. Just like that.”

She moped for a week, wondering whether there was any way she could put things back the way they were before. She blamed herself: she had pushed him too fast, talking about the future and the things they could do together once they were a couple. That, she saw then, had been childishly naïve. She had scared him off. She called the number he had given her but the line had been disconnected. She saw that he was speaking at a rally in Palo Alto and had hitched down there in the vain hope that she might be able to speak to him but that, too, had been a failure. She had found a space near the front but he had been absorbed in his speech and even as he beamed his brilliant smile into the crowd, his eyes passing right across her, she knew that he hadn’t even noticed that she was there.

Two days later, Jarad Efron called.

“He was having a party,” she explained. “A fundraising thing for the campaign. He was inviting people that he knew, CEOs and shit, these guys from the Valley, and Robinson was going to be there, too. He asked if I could come. I couldn’t understand it at first, I mean, why would he want me to be there after what had happened between me and J.J., but then I realised, there was no way he could’ve known how involved we’d been and what had happened since. All he knew was that Robinson had taken a shine to me and so he thought he’d get me to be there too because he thought that’d make him happy.” She laughed bitterly. “That’s a laugh, right? I mean, he couldn’t possibly have been much more wrong about that.”

“What happened?”

“You drove me to the house. It was fine, at first. Robinson wasn’t there. Jarad was sweet, looking after me — the place was jammed with rich guys, totally flush and there was as much booze as you could drink.”

“And drugs?”

“Yeah,” she said, “but I didn’t take any. I’m not into that.”

Milton frowned but he said nothing.

Madison said that Jack Robinson and Arlen Crawford arrived at a little after midnight. Milton remembered the town car that had pulled into the driveway and the two guys who had stepped out; he hadn’t recognised them, it had been dark and foggy, but it must have been them. Crawford had been aghast to see her. He sent Robinson into another room and came over to deal with her. He had been kind, she explained, taking her to one side and having a quiet drink with her. He explained that the Governor couldn’t see her that night, that there were people at the party who couldn’t be trusted and that it would be damaging to the campaign if anything leaked out, but, as she protested, he told her that the Governor was missing her and that he would call her the next day. She had been overwhelmed with relief and, as Crawford refilled her glass, and keen to ingratiate herself more fully with him, she had accepted his offer to do a pill with him. He said it was ecstasy and, although she rarely did it these days, she had swallowed it, washing it down with a slug of Cristal. She realised afterwards that he had not taken his pill and then, after that, that it wasn’t ecstasy but something that was making her feel woozy and out of it. “I asked him what it was that I’d taken and he said not to worry, it was just MDMA, and then when I told him I was feeling worse he said it was just a bad trip and that he’d get me a car and take me home. He was on his cell, making a call, and he had this weird expression of concern and irritation on his face. Mostly irritation, like I was this big inconvenience for him, this big problem he was going to have to deal with. I knew then that Jack never wanted to see me again and that Crawford was getting rid of me. I told him that. He snapped at me, said I was a fucking embarrassment and a mistake and a liability and why couldn’t I have stayed away? I shouted back at him, I went totally nuts, so he lost his cool too and when I tried to get away and he grabbed me and told me I had to stay until they could drive me back and that’s when I screamed.”