Wallaces had lived on Dumbarton street in Georgetown “since Eve ate the apple,” as Marion Wallace often said. Gaspar parked down the block and Kim watched him limping back toward her, trying to hide the pain. She knew he’d walk it out. She wished her own anxiety was as easily dealt with. She saw fall leaves and green spaces and tired jack-o-lanterns nestling on stoops. She was hunched into her jacket against the frigid wind. She was repeating her silent mantra on a constant loop: One choice, right choice. One choice, right choice. One choice, right choice. Marion Wallace’s place was a Colonial revival mansion, all red brick, white trim, Doric columns, eyelid windows, and keystone lintels. The exterior had been well maintained since the nineteenth century. Kings had slept there, and waltzed there. Diplomats. Presidents, senators, governors. A few other worthy celebrities from time to time. “Where’s your new best friend?” Gaspar asked, only slightly winded when he got next to her.
