Old Ghosts Never Die.

“So this is your house?” I asked as we got to the end of the hallway, burying my thoughts from earlier to avoid staring at her thoughtfully and uncomfortably. There was no quicker way to be branded a weirdo.

Instead of taking me up the Y stairway that led upstairs, she gestured for me to follow her as she went towards a bank of two elevators.

I followed her into the first. “My father's house, but he stays here just once in five years so it was safe to bring the team here,” she said, pushing a button that read zero.

“Team? What team?” I asked, duly noting that the elevator was going down instead of up. A basement level? Maybe.

She looked at me in askance. “The team POTUS put together to investigate Stiff and hunt him down?” She said.

“Eh,” I was almost speechless. “Wouldn’t such a team be in the Pentagon, or wherever the C.I.A calls their strategy facility these days?”