The First Counsel

* * *

On the Saturday morning drive downtown, as I approach the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue is packed with joggers and bicyclists trying to leave the work week behind. Behind them, the sun is gleaming off the mansion's ivory columns. It's the kind of sight that makes you want to spend the whole day outside. That is, unless you can't get your mind off work.

I pull up to the first checkpoint before the Southwest Appointment Gate and flash my ID to a uniformed Secret Service officer. He glances at my photo and offers me a subtle smirk. In his right hand, he's holding what looks like a pool cue with a round unbreakable mirror attached to the end of it. Without a word, he runs the mirror below the car. No bombs, no surprise guests. Knowing the rest of the ritual, I pop my rear hatch. The first officer rummages through the back of my Jeep, as I notice a second officer standing on the side with a way-too-alert German shepherd. When my car's finally parked, they'll send the dog sniffing on an hourly basis. Right now, they wave me in.

I find an open spot on State Place, right outside the steel bars of the gate. At my level, that's the best parking I can get. Outside the gate. Still, at least I have a parking pass.

Traveling the rest of the way on foot, I cross inside the gate, swipe my badge at the turnstile, and wait for the lock to click. I walk past two more guards, neither of whom gives me a second look. As I glance over my shoulder, however, I notice the officer with the mirror on the other side of the gate. Through the bars, he's staring straight at me. Smirk still on his face.

Picking up speed, I head up the sidewalk, with the OEOB on my left and the West Wing on my right. The corridor between the two is lined with Mercedes, Jaguars, Saabs, and just enough beat-up Saturns to stave off elitist guilt. The most prestigious parking lot in the city. All of it inside the gate. An island unto itself, West Exec parking is also where the hierarchy of White House command is laid out for the world to see: the closer your spot to the entrance of the West Wing, the higher your rank. Chief of Staff is closer than the Deputy Chief of Staff, who's closer than the Domestic Policy Advisor, who's closer than me. And even though I don't usually drive to work, that doesn't mean I don't want to be inside the gate.

Getting closer to the front, I can't help myself. I pretend to hear someone calling my name and again look over my shoulder. The guard's still there. Our eyes lock and he whispers something into his walkie-talkie. What the hell is . . . Forget it. He's just trying to scare me. Who could he be speaking to anyway?

I turn back to the parking lot and see a black Volvo in Spot Twenty-six. Simon's somewhere in the building. At the end of the row, there's an old gray Honda in Spot Ninety-four. It belongs to Trey, whose boss lets him use her spot on weekends. Midway between the two, I notice there's a brand-new red car parked in Spot Forty-one. Caroline's been dead less than twenty-four hours, and someone's already taken her parking space.

As I approach the side entrance of the OEOB, I take one last glance at the guard outside the gate. For the first time since I arrived, he's gone--back to sliding his mirror under the belly of arriving cars. Still, it's just like the night on the embankment--not only is my neck soaked--I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.

Without even thinking, I look up at the dozens of gray windows on this end of the enormous building. Every one of them appears to be empty, but they're all somehow staring down at me like square magnifying lenses. My eyes flick across the panes of glass, searching for a friendly face. No one's there.

Inside the building, it doesn't take me long to reach the anteroom that leads to my office. Opening the door, though, I'm surprised to see that the lights are already on. I didn't see Julian's car on State Place, and Pam told me she was going to be working from home. The office should be dark. Putting the blame on a careless cleaning crew, I snake my arm behind the tallest of our file cabinets to flip off the silent alarm. But as I braille my way along the plaster, I don't like what I find. The alarm's already been turned off.

"Pam?" I call out. "Julian? Are you there?" No one answers.

Under Pam's door, I notice that the light is on. "Pam, are you there?" Just as I turn toward her office, I notice that the three stackable plastic file-trays that serve as our mailboxes are all full. Next to the table, the coffeemaker is off. I'm about to open her door when I freeze. I know my friend. Whoever's in there, it's not Pam.

I rush toward my office, push the door open, and dart inside. Spinning around, I grab the deadbolt and lock it. That's when it hits me. I shouldn't have been able to open my door. It's supposed to be locked.

Behind me, something moves by the sofa. Then by my desk. A creak of vinyl. A pencil rolling down a keyboard. They're not in Pam's office. They're in mine.

I turn around, struggling to catch my breath. It's too late. There are two men waiting for me. Both of them head my way. I turn back to the door, but it's locked. My hands are shaking as I lunge for the deadbolt.

A fist comes down and pounds me in the knuckles. My hands still don't leave the deadbolt. Clutching. Clawing. Anything to get out.

Over my shoulder, a fat, meaty hand covers my mouth. I try to scream, but his grip's too tight. The tips of his fingers dig into my jaw, his nails scratching my cheek.

"Don't fight it," he warns. "This'll only take a second."

Chapter 10

Where the hell are we going?" I ask as we head up the hallway. On Saturday, the place is near-empty. The two men are holding me tightly by the back of my arms and forcing me toward the West Exec exit.

"Stop complaining," the one on my right says. He's a tall black man with a neck as thick as my thigh. From his posture and build, I'm assuming Secret Service, but he's not dressed the part--too casual, not enough polish. And there's no microphone in his ear. More important, they didn't identify themselves--which means these guys aren't who I thought they were.

Skittishly, I try to jerk my arm free. Annoyed, he squeezes even harder and jabs two fingers into my biceps. It hurts like a son of a bitch, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of crying out. Instead, I bite down as hard as I can. He keeps digging, and I feel my face flush red. I can't keep it up much longer. My shoulder starts to go numb. From the smug grin on his face, he's definitely enjoying himself. His pleasure; my pain. "Ow!" I shout as he eventually lets go. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

He doesn't respond. He just pushes the door open and forces me out into West Exec parking. Trying not to panic, I tell myself that nothing bad can happen as long as we're in the West Wing--security's too high. Before I can relax, though, a sharp tug to the left lets me know that the West Wing isn't on the itinerary. Crossing toward the north side of the White House, we head past the briefing room and toward the tradesmen's entrance, where most of the mansion's deliveries are made. My eyes are focused on the large yellow van that's straight ahead. There should be workmen around, but I don't see any. We get closer to the van. The back doors are wide open. I stop walking and start backtracking. My arms thrash to break free. I'm not letting them put me in there.

My escorts tighten their grip and drag me forward. My shoes scrape hopelessly against the concrete. My arms are held in place. As hard as I fight, it's no use. They're too strong. "Almost there," one of them warns. With one last tug, we're right behind the van. It's empty inside. I'm about to scream. And just like that, they shove me to the right and we're past it. I look over my shoulder and the van fades behind me. Then I look back and realize our real destination. The tradesmen's entrance. I'm not sure which is worse.

Inside the building, they throw a knowing nod to the uniformed officer who guards the door. When he lets us pass, it becomes clear that these guys are doing someone a favor. Only Lamb and Simon have that kind of power.

The hallway is cluttered with dozens of empty crates and boxes. The smell of fresh flowers from the White House florist fills the air.

We make a sharp left and head down another long hall. My heart's pounding against my chest. I've never been down here before. The white guy pulls out a janitor-size set of keys. He turns the lock and pulls the door open.

The area's too secluded. "Tell me what's--"

"Don't worry--you'll be safe." He reaches for my arm, but I quickly pull away. This isn't a place to meet Simon or Lamb.

"I'm not going in there!"

The first guy grabs me by the back of the neck. I lash out at him, but I don't have a chance. They twist my arms behind my back and, with a quick shove, force me inside. Stumbling to the ground, I nearly fall on my face. As I crash-land on my knees and the palms of my hands, I finally check my surroundings. It's a long, incredibly narrow room. In front of me is a long polished wooden floor. At the far end are ten striped pins. To my right, I hear the hum of the automatic ball return. What am I doing in a bowling alley?

"Up for a game, sport?" a familiar voice asks.

I turn to the spectator seats behind the scorekeeper's table. Nora stands up and walks toward me. Reaching down and extending a hand, she's hoping to help me to my feet. I refuse the offer.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I ask.

"I wanted to speak to you."

"So that's what you do? You send the Planet of the Apes to manhandle me?" I struggle to my feet and brush myself off.

"I told them not to say anything--you never know who's listening."

"Or who's not listening. I must've called you twenty times; you never once returned my calls."

She goes back to her original seat and motions for me to join her. It's her way of avoiding the question.

"No, thanks," I tell her. "Now why'd you have the Service lie when I came by to see you?"

"Please don't be mad, Michael. I was abou--"

"Why'd you lie?" I shout, my voice echoing through the narrow room.

Realizing I need to vent, she lets it pass. It's been a tough two days. For both of us. Truthfully, though, I don't care. It's my ass they're going to pin it on, not hers.

Eventually, she picks her head up. "I didn't have a choice."

"Oh, suddenly you're sapped of your free will?"

"You know what I'm talking about. It's not that easy."

"Actually, it's really easy--all you have to do is pick up the phone and dial my extension. Near as I can tell, that's the least you can do."

"So now it's all my fault?"

"You are the one who took the money."

She gives me a steady, cold look. "And you're the last person who saw her alive."

I don't like that tone in her voice. "What're you saying?"

"Nothing," she purrs, suddenly unconcerned.

"Don't give me that--you just . . ." My voice cracks. "Are you threatening me, Nora?"

She tosses me a dark grin. Her voice is ice smooth. "Say a word to anyone, Michael, and I'll slaughter you with this." As the words leave her lips, I feel my heart in my throat. I swear, I can't breathe.

"That's what you get for being a nice guy," she adds, refusing to let up. "Sucks to be you, huh?"

Oh, God. It's just like Pam said . . .

Nora breaks into a smile. And starts laughing. Pointing at me and laughing. The whole room is filled with her playful cackle.

A joke. It was just a joke.

"C'mon, Michael, you really think I'd desert you?" she asks, still plenty amused.

The blood flushes back to my face. I look at her with disbelief. Two people--one body. "That wasn't funny, Nora."

"Then don't point fingers. It's no way to make friends."

"I wasn't pointing fingers . . . I just . . . I don't like being left out to dangle."

She turns away and shakes her head. Her whole body suddenly looks deflated. "I couldn't do that to you, Michael. Even if I wanted to. Not after you . . ." She stops, searching for words. "What you did for me . . . I owe you way more than that."

I can practically feel the pendulum swing back. "Does that mean you're going to help?"

She looks back, almost surprised by the question. "C'mon now, after all this, you really think I wouldn't be there for you?"

"It's not just about being there--if things go bad, I may need you to corroborate my side of the story."

Lowering her gaze, she studies the empty scorekeeper's sheet in front of her.

"What?" I ask. "Say it."

Again, all she does is stare down at the sheet.

I can't believe it. "So that's the way it goes, huh? Now I'm suddenly back on my own?"

"No, not at all," she shoots back. "I told you I'd never do that--it's just that--" She cuts herself off, but finally turns my way. "Don't you get it, Michael? If I get involved, all it does is get worse."

"What're you talking about?"

"Do you even realize what would happen if they found out we were dating?"

Did she just say we were dating?

"They'd kill you, Michael. They'd put your picture on the front page, talk to every teacher and enemy you ever had, and eat you alive--all to see if you're good enough for me. You saw how they tore through my last boyfriend. After three weeks of having reporters stalk him, he called me up, told me he was nursing an ulcer, and broke it off."

I know this is no time to get distracted, but I can't help but smile. "So now I'm your boyfriend?"

"Stay on subject here. Even if I jump in and take the beating myself, they're still going to tear you down with me."

I stop mid-step, a few feet from the scoreboard. "How do you know? Did someone say that to you?"

"They don't have to say it--you know how it works."

Much as I hate to admit it, she's right about that one. Every time a bigshot falls, everyone near the epicenter goes down with them. Even if I'm innocent, the public needs to think we've cleaned house.

I close my eyes and shade them with my hand, hoping to get some distance. For the past two days, there was always at least one clear way out--sacrifice Nora and save myself. But once again, with Nora, it's never that simple. Even if I give her up, they'll still hang me out to dry. "Damn!"

My shout rumbles down the lane, but Nora never looks up. With her head bent over, and the way she stuffs her hands behind her knees, she once again becomes that little girl. It's not easy for her either. She knows she's put me in this one. That's the penlight at the end of the tunnel--she's not just worried about herself--she's worried about me. "Michael, I swear to you, if I thought it'd be like this, I never would've--"

"You don't have to say it, Nora."

"No. I do. Whatever else happens, I got you into this, and I'll get you out."

She says the words forcefully, but I can still hear her fear. Her eyes are locked on the floor of the bowling alley. Her bowling alley. She's got a lot more to lose. "You sure you want to risk this, Nora?"

Slowly, she looks up at me. She's been debating this one since I dropped her off the other night. Her hands are still stuffed nervously behind her knees. But the answer comes as quickly as her grin. "Yeah," she nods. "No question."

My mind is racing with all the reasons Pam and Trey gave me to walk away. And all their Freud-babble explanations for why I'd stay: my need to protect, my need to help my dad, my need to somehow get the inside track to the President . . . But as I stand here--as I watch Nora--there's only one real thing that makes sense. Unlike before, it's not about the stupid things like the way she looks at me and the way she says my name. It's not about how much she needs me, or even who she is. In the end, as I take it all in, it's about what Nora Hartson is willing to give up--for me--to make things right.

"I'll get you out," she repeats confidently. "I'll get you--"

"We," I interrupt. "We got in. We'll get out." I take the seat next to her and put a hand on her shoulder. It's the same thing with my dad--sometimes the only way to problem-solve is to look past how we got here. And while I don't necessarily like it . . . with my family . . . it's the only way I know how to live.

Once again, she picks her head up. A soft smile lights her cheeks. "Just so you know, I hate romantics."

"Me too. Hate 'em with a passion," I shoot back. She's got the comeback ready, but I don't give her a chance. The only way out of the box is to figure out what really happened. "Now what about your bodyguards? Did you tell them what's going on?"

"These guys? They just work the weekends. I told them we went on a date and you pissed me off. They figure this is makeup time. Why? Did you tell your girlfriend Pam?"

"How do you know about Pam?"

"I checked you out, Garrick. I don't date every slob in the building."

"She's not my girlfriend," I add.

"That's not what she thinks, Romeo." She gets up from her seat, heads for the alley, and throws an imaginary bowling ball down the lane. "You know Nixon used to come down here and bowl ten games back-to-back? Is that psychoville, or what?"

As she asks the question, I can't help but notice how quickly her mood's changed. Within seconds, she's a different person. And once again I'm reminded that I've never met anyone who can make me feel so old and so young at the same time.

"So did you tell Pam, or what?"

"Yeah," I say hesitantly. "I didn't have anyone else to talk to, so I--"

"Don't apologize. Chris said I should've got to you sooner."

"You told your brother?"

"He's family--and one of the few who can handle it." She throws another imaginary ball down the lane.

Pointing to the rack of bowling balls, I say, "Y'know, the real ones are right behind you."

She looks at me with those pick-you-apart eyes. "I hate bowling," she says, matter-of-factly. "Now tell me what happened when you went to see her."

"Caroline?"

"No, the other dead woman with thirty grand in her safe. Of course, Caroline."

I quickly relay all the important details.

"So Simon narked on you?" she asks when I'm done. "Forget Washington-ruthless; this guy's film-industry."

"That's the least of it. Let's not forget he might've killed her."

"You don't think it was a heart attack?"

"I guess it could've been . . . but . . . with everything from the bar, it seems like a hell of a coincidence."

"Maybe," she begins. "But you'd be surprised why things happen--especially around here."

I'm not sure what she means by that, and she's not giving me a chance to ask.

"Assuming it was Simon," she continues, "why do you think he did it?"

"It's got to have something to do with that money."

"You still convinced he's selling secrets?"

"I don't know. When you sell secrets, you drop off information. He had nothing but cash--the same cash that was in Caroline's safe."

"So you think he was being blackmailed?"

"Married man in a gay bar? You saw his expression in there. He didn't look like he was in control--he was scared. If you wanted control, you talked to Caroline."

"I see where you're going. Caroline's the blackmailer, and Simon killed her to stay quiet."

"She's the only one with access to all that personal information. And she relished it. You should've seen how she came after me." Staring at the end of the alley, I have a lateral view that allows me to see all ten pins. "There's just this one thing that doesn't make sense: If Caroline was doing the blackmailing, why didn't Simon take back his money when he killed her?"

Once again, Nora finds that dark grin. She shakes her head like I'm missing something. "Maybe he didn't know the safe's combination. Maybe he didn't want to get caught with it. For all we know, maybe it really was a heart attack. Or best of all, with his fake story, maybe it's the best way to put the blame on you. If he saw us the other night, he certainly could've seen the cops. Now the whole plot changes. The ten thousand the cops confiscated was only a quarter of it. The rest you gave to Caroline as hush money. The consecutive numbers on the bills prove it. You're the one who was being blackmailed. You're the one who has the money. You're the one who killed her."

The money. It always comes back to the money. In the safe. In my glove compartment. In my name. Consecutively marked, it's all tied to me. She's hit it on the head. The money with the D.C. police is a time bomb. And as soon as someone finds out about it, it's going to explode. Even if it was a heart attack--with that kind of cash in my possession . . . in that neighborhood--just raising the specter of drugs, my job's history. They'll cut me loose simply to avoid the front-page story. And if the autopsy shows it's a murder . . . Oh, God. I rub the back of my neck, doing my best to stall. What I'm about to say is going to set her off, but it has to be done. "Nora, if this starts snowballing, it's going to work its way to the top."

Across the narrow room, she leans against the rack of bowling balls and stares directly at me. She knows it's true. I can see it in her dancing eyes. She's terrified. "They're going to try to kill him with it, aren't they?"

There he is again. Her father. However it plays out, a scandal like this takes a mean toll. Especially with Bartlett nipping at the lead.

"All we need is some time," she says, vigorously rubbing her nose. "It can still work out okay."

The more she talks, the more her voice picks up speed. It reminds me of the speech she gave at the party's national convention when her father was nominated all those years ago. Initially, they asked her brother, Chris, to speak, thinking that America would rally around a young man standing up for his dad. But after a few private run-throughs, where Chris stumbled over words and looked generally panicked, Nora asked if she could step in. The campaign played it as the firstborn child coming to the forefront, while our opponents played it as another bossy Hartson vying for control.

When it was all over, Nora, like any other eighteen-year-old speaking to a group of a hundred and ten million people, was criticized for being jittery and unpolished. That's what you get for trying to steal the spotlight, a few critics blasted. But as I watch her now, anxiously rocking back and forth at the mere mention of her father's pain, I think it was less a power play and more a protective one. When she got up there, Chris didn't have to. And when the beating gets particularly hard, we all take care of our own.

"For all we know--it's just a heart attack," she stutters. "Maybe Simon'll even stay quiet."

What am I supposed to say? No, your father's life is definitely going to get wrecked--especially if I scream the truth? In the span of a few unstrung seconds, my options quickly narrow: I open my mouth, her dad takes it in the knees, and since I'm at the epicenter, we all go down. If I keep my mouth shut, I buy some time to sniff around, but I risk going down alone. Once again, I look over at the pins at the end of the alley. I can't help but feel like the lead pin in the triangle. The one that always gets creamed by the ball.

"Maybe you should talk to him," I suggest. "Just so he knows who to trust. I mean, even if it was a heart attack, Simon was being blackmailed for something--and unless we figure it out, he's going to keep hanging the noose around me."

Nora looks at me, but doesn't say a word.

"So you'll talk to him?"

She pauses. "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I'm telling you, he can't be bothered with this stuff. He won't . . . he won't understand. He's not your average dad." Right there, I stop arguing. I know that frustration in her voice. And I know that world--an orphan with a living parent.

"Is there anyone else you can--?"

"I already told my Uncle Larry."

"Who?"

"Larry. Larry Lamb."

"Of course," I say, trying to be nonchalant. She's not going to call him Lawrence. She's known him since birth--I read the People magazine cover story--she and her brother spent summers at his farm in Connecticut. There was a picture of Nora and Christopher in mid-scream on a swing set, and another one of them hiding under the covers of Lamb's four-poster bed. I sink down in my seat and gather my thoughts. He's the shadow of the President; she calls him Uncle Larry. It sounds almost silly when you think about it. But that's who she is. Still acting unimpressed, I eventually ask, "What'd he say?"

"Exactly what you'd expect. 'Thank you. I'm glad you told me. It was ruled a heart attack, but I'll look into it.' He's got his eyes on reelection--there's no way he's pulling the plug now. When everything dies down, they'll do the official investigation."

"So where does that leave us?" I ask.

"It leaves us as the only two people who care about protecting your butt. As it is, Simon seems happy to keep it quiet--but that's not much of a solution."

I nod. Detente won't work forever. Sooner or later, the more powerful side realizes its advantage. And the other side dies. "I just wish we had some more information. If Caroline was doing this, it probably wasn't just to Simon. She had all our secrets--she could've been doing this to--"

"Actually, that reminds me . . ." Nora walks over to the scorekeeper's seat, picks up her black leather purse, and pulls out a folded-up sheet of paper.

"What's this?" I ask as she hands it to me.

"It came in when I was talking to Uncle Larry. They're the names on two of the FBI files that were found in Caroline's office."

Rick Ferguson and Gary Seward. One's up for a presidential appointment at Treasury, the other just started at Commerce. "I don't understand," I say. "Why only two?"

"Apparently, she had tons of files all over her office--and not just for presidential appointments. Some were judicial, some were from the Counsel's Office . . ."

"She had mine. I saw it."

"The FBI's rechecking each one."

"So they released a full list of the names?"

"Not until they're done. According to the memo, they don't want to tip anyone off. Instead, for security purposes, we get them as they clear them--one or two at a time."

"And how'd you get these?" I ask, holding up the sheet of paper.

"I told you, Uncle Larry."

"He gave them to you?"

"Actually, he walked out to talk to his secretary, and I copied the names on some scrap paper."

"You stole them?"

"Do you want them or not?"

"Of course I want them. I just don't want you stealing them from Lawrence Lamb."

"He doesn't care. The man's my godfather--he took the training wheels off my bike; he's not gonna care if I sneak a peek at a file. At least this way, we're not sitting in the dark."

It's no consolation. "So that means the FBI's looking at my file."

"Relax, Michael. I'm sure they'll clear you."

Trying to believe that, I stare down at the list. Nora's handwriting has a circular bubble-quality to it. Like a third-grade girl who's just learning to write in cursive. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Two people who've been declared innocent by the FBI. I try to remember how many files I saw in Caroline's office. There were at least five or six under mine--and probably more in the drawers. Looks like the FBI is also thinking blackmail. Turning back to Nora, I ask, "Why'd you wait until now to give these to me?"

"I don't know. I guess I forgot," she says with a shrug. "Listen, I gotta run. Some Prime Minister's bringing his family by for a photo-op."

"Are you going to see your uncle there?"

"The only person I'm going to see is the Prime Minister's son. Handsome lad, y'know."

I'm not sure if she's trying to change the subject or make me jealous. Either way, it's worked. "So that's who you're dumping me for?"

"Hey, if you get your own country, they'll try to get me to kiss your ass as well. In the meantime, though, I'm puckering elsewhere--these guys'll freak if I'm late."

"I'm sure they will. Foreign markets'll tumble; honor'll be lost. It goes hand in hand with tardiness: international incident."

"You like to hear yourself talk, don't you?"

"Even more than you like photo-ops with foreign strangers. But that's just another day in the life, huh?"

"Ever since the last hour of sixth grade."

"I don't understand."

"That's the day my dad decided. Running for Governor; or at least, that's the day he told me. I still remember waiting for the last bell to ring--and then tearing out of the classroom and flying toward the bike rack with Melissa Persily. I was supposed to sleep over her house that night. She was one of those cool kids who lived close enough to bike to school--so the bike rack itself was a big deal. She had her own combination lock and this beat-up black ten-speed that used to be her brother's . . ." Nora's voice is racing as she looks up. "Man, it was tomboy heav--" The second our eyes connect, she cuts herself off. Like before, her gaze goes straight to the floor.

"What?" I ask.

"No . . . nothing . . ."

"What d'you mean nothing? What happened? You're at the bike rack . . . you're going to the sleepover . . ."

"It's really nothing," she insists, stepping backwards. "Listen, I really should go."

"Nora, it's just a childhood story. What're you so scared--"

"I'm not scared," she insists.

That's when I see the lie.

For the past two months, Nora's spent every day in full election mode--from three-hundred-person luncheons with big donors, to sitting next to her mom at satellite-televised rallies, to, if she's in a real good mood and they can get her to cooperate, giving interviews on why college kids should mobilize and vote--she's been the youngest and most reluctant master of the grip-and-grin. That's what she's known since sixth grade. But today . . . today she got caught up in a real moment; she was even enjoying it. And it scared the hell out of her.

"Nora," I call out as she heads for the door. "Just so you know, I'd never tell anyone."

She stops where she is and slowly turns around. "I know," she says, nodding me a thank-you. "But I really have to go--you know the game--sitting Presidents have to look strong on foreign policy."

I think back to Bartlett in the front photo.

Nora's almost out the door. Then, just as she's about to leave, she turns my way and takes a deep breath. Her voice is a hushed reluctance. "When we got to the bike rack, my mom was sitting there, waiting for me. She took me home, my dad told me he was running for Governor, and that was it. No sleepover at Melissa Persily's--I'm the only one who missed it. The next year, Melissa started calling me 'It.' As in, 'There It is,' and 'Don't let It come near me.' It was stupid, but the class sided with her. That was junior high." Without another word, Nora regrabs the doorknob. The Prime Minister's son awaits.

"Don't you ever get sick of it?" I ask.

Once again, it's a chance to open up. She offers a weak smile. "No."

It doesn't take much to see through her answer. But instinct still made her say no. On some level, she doesn't trust me with everything just yet. I'll get there eventually. She said it herself. Whatever else is going on, I'm dating the First Daughter of the United States.