Words slipped out before Elena knew what she was doing. "I'm sorry about Marissa."

  Frances blinked. Hurt and surprise played across her features.

  Sorry I'm an imbecile. People went to prostitutes to escape. Not to be reminded of their shitty reality.

  Frances swallowed. "Yes, well. Thank you for your concern."

  Eleven years ago, Elena went into the gym and glanced at CNN behind the reception desk. Frances Dourne, then Gay Is a Choice's vice president despite being thirty-one years old, was in tears, true, fat, wet, wild tears. Ice queen breaking down, for the first and probably the last time in public. She could barely get her appeal for Marissa's return out. Her hair was askew, her eyes and cheeks red and splotchy. Some people said Frances had it coming, but Elena could never quite rejoice in their glee. From that time on, the animosity Elena felt toward Frances was tempered. Especially after Isaiah died. Oh yes, especially after Isaiah died.

  Elena burned with questions to ask Frances. Questions she doubted she would ask. Questions such as how had Frances done it, kept going on, kept building and running her empire, after losing her daughter? Easy. Marissa is alive.

  Elena did not know how she herself got up every day, only that some small inner spark urged her on. She brushed her thoughts aside and forced a grin. "Did you say you wanted alcohol?"

  Chapter 2

  "So you know who I am," Frances said after she won the first round of rummy, seventy to thirty-five.

  You're Marissa's mother.

  Elena pushed a flirtatious smile through. She leaned in, cursing her stiff business suit. Stupid, stupid idea. "I know who you are." She met Frances's eyes. Frances had taken her glasses off halfway through the round, and the distraction had proved fatal for Elena. She could not concentrate on her game with those eyes right there.

  Felicianna, Elena's best friend, would howl if she knew Elena thought like this. To Felicianna, Frances Dourne was Satan, hell on Earth. That was the good thing about thoughts, about fantasies. They were private.

  Frances reached for her drink on the nightstand. She tilted her head back to get the dregs. Her fingers were long and slender, her nails manicured and shiny. Her neck was…Elena smiled, wishing she was a vampire.

  "Maybe I'll have one more drink." Frances got up from the bed.

  "I'll do it."

  "Allow me. Sure you don't want any?"

  "I'm sure." Elena let her gaze linger on the tiny lines crinkling Frances's eyes. The only sign that she was forty-two and not the thirty or so she looked.

  The bottle of rum was on the desk across from the bed, and Frances poured herself a generous serving. "Are you allowed to drink on the job?"

  Elena shuffled the cards. "Yes." She was not a good card shuffler, did not play cards much. The contrast between Frances's smooth, graceful shuffling and Elena's clumsiness was painful.

  "You seem nervous."

  "I don't shuffle well."

  "Don't be afraid of me."

  Elena dealt the cards. "I'm not."

  "Haven't you done anyone famous? Or semi-famous? I would think with the agency--"

  "A few, yes."

  "Anyone more famous than me?"

  "Yes."

  Amusement flickered in Frances's eyes. Appreciating the honesty. And perhaps the fact that she was not the biggest hypocrite out there. "Anyone really, really famous?"

  Elena smiled. "Maybe." Meaning yes. She had serviced the Supreme Court chief justice last month--during three sessions, actually.

  And last year, Albert Reginald Charles William Louis X, the seventy-seven-year-old king of England. She and two other prostitutes. He was visiting again in a few weeks and had requested them for a second go.

  Frances returned to the bed for round two of rummy. She held out her glass. "Drink. A few sips."

  Elena obeyed. The alcohol burned her throat and tingled in her stomach. A great feeling.

  "You like it," Frances observed.

  "I do."

  "What's different about me that makes you nervous? Is it because I'm Frances Dourne? My work?"

  "No."

  "Because I’m a woman?"

  Elena chuckled, more heartily than she would have liked. "No." She did not let herself elaborate. Now was not the time to reveal personal information. Not so soon. If at all.

  Frances narrowed her eyes. "No?"

  "No." Elena enjoyed another sip and returned the glass to Frances.

  "You don’t mind female clients?"

  Elena shrugged. "Apparently not. I’m here, aren’t I?"

  "I suppose money is money."

  "Pretty much."

  "Where’s your hourglass necklace?" Frances asked.

  "My what?"

  "Hourglass necklace. From your picture."

  Elena remembered Amanda saying that Frances had picked her out of a lineup of twenty photos. Twenty women from the service.

  "In my jewelry box at home."

  "Why do you have the necklace?"

  Elena focused her gaze on a wall photograph: the Capitol at night. Should she tell the truth--which necessitated revealing personal information? Or some glib lie that would make everything easier? The agency recommended concocting a fake life story. Life stories based on friends or family members were easiest to remember, the agency said. Elena had no problem spouting falsehoods--as long as they were appropriate to the client.

  She did not want to lie to Frances. Not when Frances’s grief had been so naked and honest and palpable and wet on CNN--hell, all the channels--for days. And trotted out every year on the anniversary of Marissa’s abduction. Plus, Elena sensed that Frances was the type of person who would rather know less than be lied to.

  Elena decided to go truthful but restrained, very restrained. "It's from someone I used to watch Days of Our Lives with."

  Frances grinned and laid down a six, seven and eight of diamonds. "I loved Days of Our Lives when I was in middle school and high school."

  This was interesting. Frances's memoir said that her father had not let her watch TV. The explanation was probably something like Frances watched the show at a friend's house or cousin's house. Encouraged, Elena went on. "They're awesome, aren't they? Hourglasses. I like the red sand ones best."

  "Depressing, too."

  "Depressing?"

  "Marking away your days. The end of your life."

  "That's one way to look at it."

  "I collect hourglasses. Your necklace is why I picked you."

  "You collect hourglasses? Why?"

  A shadow crossed Frances's expression, and she shrugged. An I’ll-tell-you-later shrug.

  For whatever reason, Elena's nervousness, her feelings of imbalance, her fear, dissipated. She reached out, stiff suit be damned, and caught Frances's hand in hers.

  Frances wore a Mickey Mouse watch. Why?

  "Frances," Elena said. "We haven't gotten off to the best start, and that's my fault. I want you to know--"

  Frances slithered out from Elena's touch. "I want to play cards."

  "Why are you here, Frances? How can I help you?"

  Frances did not answer. They played in silence, speaking only to report their scores. Frances recorded the numbers and added them up on Howard Johnson paper. The glass with the rum and Coke went back and forth between them, but Elena took tiny sips. She was allowed to drink on the job, but getting drunk with a client was a personal no-no. A buzz was far as she would go.

  "What do you think about me?" Frances asked at last.

  "I think you're beautiful."

  "Honestly."

  "I think you're beautiful. Honestly."

  One corner of Frances's mouth pulled into a slight smile. Her eyes were clear. No drunken sheen. "What else? You must have an opinion on me."

  Elena considered Frances a moment. She claimed that a year at camp when she was seventeen helped put her back on the righteous road to heterosexuality. A certain group of people lapped up her trembling voice when she talked about the moment she knew in her heart her conversion was complete, when her world parted and the heavens rained down on her, when she felt God's love most deeply--when she met Daniel Dourne, the man who would become her husband. Gays could, and should, choose to be straight, she said.

  After all, she herself had chosen. And won.

  Except she hadn't. Apparently.

  Elena decided to answer. "My best friend says you're a hypocrite, a two-faced liar."

  Frances betrayed no reaction. "Go on."

  "She says you're probably no better than the preachers who have male call boys, no better than the family-values politicians having anonymous, gay bathroom sex."

  "And what do you think?"

  Elena got up so she could sit next to Frances. She took Frances's hand and kissed one of her knuckles. Frances's skin was warm, and Elena kissed another knuckle, letting her mouth linger. "I think you're like me, Frances. We act for money. We act to escape."

  Frances nodded slowly. "O--okay."

  Elena rested her hand on Frances's thigh. She quirked her eyebrows and let her eyes do the talking.

  Frances's breathing shallowed, and Elena moved her hand up Frances's leg. Frances trembled. This was a sex-starved woman. Love-starved woman too, probably.

  Desperation radiated from Frances. Desperation to explain herself. To understand herself.

  To have her brains fucked out.

  Elena kissed a third knuckle. "I'm very happy you’re here, Frances. Your hand is very nice. I could kiss it a long time. I would love to kiss you all over."

  "Not--not now. Maybe later."

  "Let me touch you," Elena persisted. Knuckle kisses were a trick of hers. A nice little touch of individual attention. Clients loved it. Frances did, too. She must have. How long had it been since Frances had sex? The area between Elena’s legs sighed. Maybe she was projecting her own desires onto Frances. Elena had not made love, had not had true sex, in years. She did not count her friends with benefits fumbling with Felicianna.

  "Would you like to touch me?" Elena asked. She guided Frances’s hand to her own breast. Instead of following through, Frances got out of bed.

  "I’m gay," Frances said. She looked Elena right in the eyes.

  Elena smiled encouragingly. Am I the only person you've told? Elena thought yes.

  "The other prostitute," Frances said.

  "Yes?"

  "She hated me. She tried to act her way out of it, but her hatred was deep. She tried. I'll give her that. The sex was okay. Maybe less than okay." Frances grimaced. "I hoped she would go public and out me so I wouldn't need to do it myself. How cowardly is that? My first time with a woman was three years ago. With her. And it was awful."

  "I will remedy that. I promise."

  "No," Frances said instantly. Harshly. "No. I'm not here for that. I’m coming out."

  "Coming out?"

  Frances's eyelashes fluttered. "Coming out to the world."

  Elena's first thought was that Frances was crazy. The public--both gay and straight, Republican and Democrat alike--would savage Frances. Attack her. All sides would hate her. Elena shook off the thought. Maybe events would not happen that way. And if they did, at least Frances would feel right with herself. "You're brave," Elena said, her own secret gnawing at her.

  "I'm not brave. It's taken me this long to come out of hiding, but I'm ready to live. To be true to myself. I've made my peace with God." Frances reached into her pocket and handed over a piece of paper.

  Elena opened it gingerly, as if a creature would jump up and attack her. The paper was heavily creased, and instead of a menacing monster, a typed message in Times New Roman font greeted her.

  "My rough draft speech," Frances explained. "After I come out to my family, I plan to come out live. I'll call a press conference."

  Elena managed a weak smile.

  Good morning. I hope everyone's had a great weekend. I have called you here today to talk to you about something, something very important and dear to my heart.

  I've known joys in my life. Tragedies, too. I also have regrets, lots of them. Regrets that I haven't been true to myself. Regrets that I've tried to force my beliefs, beliefs I never truly possessed deep down inside, onto others. Every fiber of my being knows I have caused untold pain and suffering.

  I'm going to keep this speech short and sweet, because when you come down to it, I only have three words to say.

  I am gay.

  There. I've said it.

  I'm gay, and there's nothing wrong with that.

  Effective immediately, I resign as president of Gay Is a Choice. I am developing a gay rights organization and an organization to track down missing children.

  To the people I have hurt, to the people I have caused to feel subhuman, I am sorry. Truly sorry, from the bottom of my heart.

  To the people who work at GIC, I am not abandoning you. I love you all. I will be in touch with you very soon.

  I want this to be an open and honest forum, so I'm opening the floor. If you have questions, please ask them. I will answer them as honestly as I can.

  One last thing. Daniel, please bring Marissa home. I will do everything in my power to make sure you're not prosecuted. I will do everything in my power to ensure joint custody. I will take care of you both. Daniel, just please bring our daughter back.

  Elena read the speech twice. This was for real, and she was unsure how to react. "I’m happy for you," she said carefully.

  Frances fiddled with her watch. "Do you like the speech?"

  "It--it--Frances, what do you want with me?" Frances's coming out would cause a storm. A tornado, a hurricane, through the heart of the nation. And, she, Elena might be in the background of it all. Possible? Was there any way for her to lurk like a wallflower and not be glimpsed by the media? To not be outed as a whore, a prostitute? Her single mother, Brenda, had worked tirelessly since Elena was four years old to provide for her and her two older sisters. For food, for clothes, to save for college. Her mother had worked as a maid. As a street cleaner. As a McDonald's cashier. Never as a whore.

  Elena made more in three months than her mother had in a year. Elena imagined her mother's scathing, biting words. There's more honor in being a maid than a whore! That's not how you go on living after the death of your child. You don't sell your body to take care of your soul!

  Elena thought about Isaiah, about the police, the balding Sgt. Christopher Gates in particular, his squints, his raised, quizzical eyebrow, his eyes that said Isaiah's death was her fault. Worse had been the Washington Post reporter who dropped in on her, her mother, Kevin and Isaiah at the hospital. Wanting to do a human-interest story.

  "Tell me about your son," the reporter said. Kevin talked and talked, on and on. Brenda added a few things.

  Elena said nothing. She only stared at Isaiah, at his prone body, the doctors' words continuing to squeeze her soul. Braindeadbraindead….

  "How do you feel, Elena?" the reporter asked.

  No. It was not possible. Not possible to be Frances Dourne’s call girl and stay in the background. "What do you want with me?" Elena repeated.

  Frances met Elena’s gaze. "Be my sounding board. Something like that. You don’t have--" Frances sighed. Played with her watch again. "I’m thinking I’ll come out about Christmastime. I’ll stop seeing you then."

  "What if people find out you've been seeing a prostitute?" Elena asked. "That you saw one before, too?"

  "They won't."

  "What if they do? My family and my friends don't--I mean…"

  Frances's gaze was sympathetic. "I'll accept that risk. If you do this, I'll make it worth your while money-wise. You won't be on TV. Or photographed. We will meet in private, in private only. I promise you that. I'd like you with me when I come out to my family, but that isn't necessary. Whatever you're comfortable with. No need to decide on that specific topic now. If you can't help me, I understand. But please tell me."

  Elena had the need to flee the room, to get as far from Frances as possible. But what was the big deal? Elena was a sounding board for most of her clients. To Elena, sounding board meant knowing how to let the other person feel in control of an increasingly chaotic life, being a friend, a lover, a person who gave critiques with warmth and concern, a person who kept another person warm, a person who seemed truly interested. "You want a consultant. A public relations firm," Elena said.

  "They'll leak. Be about damage control. Not being honest. They'll try to talk me out of it or out of changing my message. And they won't understand what leading a double life is like. They'll look at me like the other prostitute did."

  Something intense, yet hopeful, lurked in Frances’s blue depths. Something like: And they won't be my friend. They won't give me sex. Frances yearned for a connection. For someone she could be herself with. "Hey," Frances said. "No pressure. I can do it myself if I have to. Really, no pressure." She smiled widely, genuinely, to underscore her point.

  Suppose Elena said no. She would wonder what would have happened. With Frances. Between her and Frances. A woman, a very important, beautiful woman needed Elena. A woman who caused Elena’s stomach to flutter.

  If helping Frances might bring Marissa back, Elena would never forgive herself if she said no. Isaiah was gone forever, but Marissa did not have to be.

  "I'll help you," Elena said. "Of course I will." But I’m gone the minute you come out. Elena was going to stay as far as possible from the media tsunami.

  Chapter 3

  Frances paid for another hour. The prostitute added the cash to the envelope and excused herself to the bathroom. Frances headed for the back deck. The view from her Arlington penthouse was the best. Washington looked perfect twenty stories up. Twenty stories down. The third-floor view from this Howard Johnson deck was…well, it was something. The deck overlooked a mini-forest, part of the Baltimore-Washington Parkway. The trees were dark, shadowy ghosts. Frances strained her ears, and the drone of cars came to her. Also mewling and hissing. The music of stray cats.

  She looked up. Too much city light to get decent stars, but the moon was full. Frances wondered why the prostitute had tried to kill herself. On each of her wrists, the prostitute wore three bracelets--one chunky, one medium, one thin--for a total of six. All were differing shades of green and set off her hair brilliantly. Frances was sure the bracelets concealed scars from a suicide attempt. She had met many people with these scars, with these protective bracelets. Had tried to help them. Had the awful feeling she further hurt them.