I find Rudy in the back of the tent with, among others, John Eastman. The corners of his mouth split into a Cheshire cat smile. Waving a stack of documents, he moves toward me, like a wolf closing in on its prey. “We have the evidence. It’s all here. We’re going to pull this off.” Rudy wraps one arm around my body, closing the space that was separating us. I feel his stack of documents press into the small of my back. I lower my eyes and watch his free hand reach for the hem of my blazer. “By the way,” he says, fingering the fabric, “I’m loving this leather jacket on you.” His hand slips under
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