“Did you keep the sheet?”

Pam continues to laugh.

“What?”

A wicked smile takes her cheeks. “Remember that victory party we had when Simon gave his congressional testimony on alcohol advertising?”

I nod.

“And remember the victory cake we served-the one Caroline said we made from scratch?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Pam adds with a wide smile. “On my hundred and fifty-second day here, Edgar Simon ate his words.”

I laugh along with her. “Are you telling me you put your old evaluation in the cake?”

“I admit nothing.”

“How’s that even possible? Wouldn’t he taste it?”

“What do you mean he? Trust me, I watched the whole thing-you ate quite a nice piece yourself.”

“And you didn’t stop me?”

“I didn’t like you as much back then.”

“But how’d you-”

“We wet the sheet, ripped it into small pieces, and threw it in the blender. That sucker puréed in no time. Best cooking lesson I ever took. Caroline was a mad genius. And when it came to Simon-she hated that bastard.”

“Right up until the hour before she di-” I catch myself. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean… ”

“It’s okay,” she says. Without another word, the two of us spend the next minute in complete, stark silence; an impromptu memorial for one of our own. To be honest, it’s not until that moment that I realize what I’d left out. Through the two hours of questioning, and the worrying, and the angling to protect myself, I forgot one key thing: I forgot to mourn. My legs go numb and my heart sinks. Caroline Penzler died today. And whatever I thought of her, this is the first moment it’s actually hit me. The short silence doesn’t make her a saint, but the realization does me a world of good.

As soon as Pam looks up, she sees the change in my expression. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah… I just can’t believe it.”

Pam agrees and shrinks back in her seat. “How’d she look?”

“What do you mean?”

“The body. Weren’t you the one who found the body?”

I nod, unable to answer. “Who told you?”

“Debi in Public Liaison heard it from her boss, who has a friend who has the office right across from-”

“I got it,” I interrupt. This isn’t going to be easy.

“Can I ask you a separate question?” Pam adds. From the tone in her voice, I know where she’s going with this. “Last night-whatever you got into-is that why Caroline died?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t do that to me, Michael. You said it was cover-of-Newsweek big. That’s what you went to see her about, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer.

“It was about Nora, wasn’t it?”

Still, nothing.

“If Caroline was killed for some-”

“She wasn’t killed! It was a heart attack!”

Pam watches me carefully. “You really believe that?”

“I actually do.”

When we first got assigned to the same office, Pam described herself as the person in fifth grade who got left behind when her friends got popular. It was a self-effacing icebreaker, but I have to say, even then, I never believed it. She’s way too savvy for that-she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t. So even if she loves to play the underdog and put herself down-even if she constantly feels the need to lower expectations-I, until today, have always thought she was a guru of interpersonal dynamics.

“So the little psycho’s really worth that much to you?” she asks.

“You may have a hard time believing this, but Nora’s a good person.”

“If she’s so good, where’s she now?”

I look over at the toaster. Nothing’s changed. In green digital letters are the same three words: Second Floor Residence.

Running up the hallway of the OEOB, I know that the only way to find out what’s going on is face-to-face and in person. At full speed, with an empty interoffice mailer clutched in an anxious fist, I blow through the West Exec exit, cross the corridor between the buildings, and head for the West Wing of the White House. Passing through the doors under the sharp white awning, I wave a quick hello to Phil.

“Going up?” he asks, calling the elevator for me.

I shake my head.

“Crazy news, huh?”

“No question about it,” I say as I rush past him. Climbing the short flight of stairs on my left, I slow my pace to a brisk walk. You don’t run this close to the Oval. Not unless you want to be tackled or shot. I take a quick peek at Hartson’s secretary’s office to see how things are going. As always, the Oval and everything else near the President is lightning hot. It’s charged with an energy that’s impossible to describe. It’s not panic-there’s no panicking when you’re near the President. It’s simply a wave of energy that’s conspicuously and unapologetically alive. Like Nora.

Staying on course, I push forward. Ahead of me, I see another two uniformed officers and the lower press office, where four original Norman Rockwells line the wall that leads to the West Colonnade. Shoving open the doors, I step outside, fly past each of the spectacular white columns that line the Rose Garden, and reenter the mansion of the White House in the Ground Floor Corridor.

Straight ahead, across the wave of lush, pale red carpet, there’re four cherry-wood foldable dividers blocking the back half of the corridor. Public tours are on the other side. Every year thousands of tourists are led through the Ground Floor and the State Floor, the first two floors of the White House. They see the Vermeil Room, the China Room, the Blue Room, the Red Room, the Green Room, the Fill-in-the-Blank Room. But they don’t see where the President and the First Family actually live-where they sleep, where they entertain, and where they spend their time-the top two floors of the White House. The Residence.

Up the hallway, through the second door on my left, is the entryway that houses an elevator and a set of stairs. Both lead up to the Residence. The only thing in my way is the Secret Service: one uniformed officer on this floor; two on the floor above. No need to lose it, I tell myself. It’s just like anything else in life-a purposeful walk gets you inside. With an even, deliberate pace, I hold out the interoffice mailer and make my way up the hallway, toward the first officer. He’s leaning against the wall and appears to be staring at his own shoes. Keep your head down-just keep your head down. I’m only ten feet from the door. Five feet from the door. Three feet from the-Suddenly he looks up. I don’t stop. I shoot him a friendly nod as he eyes my ID. Blue pass goes just about anywhere. And presidential interoffice mail goes straight upstairs to the Usher’s Office. “Have a good one,” I add, for authenticity’s sake. He looks back at his shoes without a sound. Confidence is once again the ultimate hall pass. I head for the stairs. Only one more floor to go.

Although I’m tempted to celebrate, I know that the Ground Floor officer is just there to make sure people don’t wander in off the tour. The real checkpoint for the Residence is on the next landing. As I make my way up, I quickly spot two uniformed Secret Service officers waiting for me. Standing across from the elevator, these two aren’t looking at their shoes. I avoid eye contact and maintain the purposeful pace.

“Can I help you?” the taller of the two officers asks.

Keep walking-they’ll buy it, I tell myself. “How you doing?” I say, trying to sound like I’m here all the time. “She’s expecting me.”

The other officer steps in front of me and blocks my path to the next flight of stairs. “Who’s expecting you?”

“Nora,” I reply, showing them the mailer. I step to my right and act like I planned to take the elevator the rest of the way. When I push the call button, a rasping buzzer screams through the small entryway.

I turn around and both officers are looking at me.

“You can leave the mail with the usher,” the taller one says.