She had read for seven hours straight. She had gone back over several passages twice. She had not eaten since breakfast. At first she could not find Gregory and Frank; she wondered if they’d left. But finally she wandered around a corner and found them sitting on chairs in a sort of slapdash waiting room. Frank was laughing, nearly shouting, at what seemed to be Gregory’s recitation of some shared memory. How nice it was, thought Ada, to be in the presence of people who knew her father and Liston. “I’d imagine,” began Gregory, and then he saw her, and paused. “I’m finished,” said Ada. She felt pale and unsteady. They stared at her for a moment. Then Frank rose to his feet, brushing off the legs of his pants. “Right!” he said. “Is there anything else you need?” They did not ask anything further of her. It was not their story to ask for. As they were leaving, Frank put both of his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. His face looked like family. In his embrace, for the first time in years, she felt young, childlike.
