“Gregory!” I called out, my voice ringing through the empty hall.

There was no answer, only the ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner.

We moved down the long hallway toward the library.

The double doors to the library were cracked open.

Through the gap, I could see the orange glow of a fire in the hearth.

I pushed the door wide.

Gregory was sitting in a leather armchair by the fire, an amber glass of whiskey in his hand.

He looked older than he had on television last week.

His hair was uncombed, and his tie was loosened at his collar.

Eleanor stood by the window, her back to him, staring out at the foggy gardens.

She turned when she heard my boots on the hardwood.

Her eyes were red, but her face was set.

“Natalie,” she whispered.

Gregory did not look up immediately.

He took a slow sip of his drink and stared into the flames.

“You brought the circus to my door,” he said, his voice dry and raspy.

“The Department of Justice brought the warrants, Gregory,” I said.