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BRANDY HAD THE DRIVER let her out at Constitution Avenue and Twelfth Street. She decided to walk the balance of the distance back to the hotel. Walking allowed her to think before she had acted on what she knew and observed. To write a report on what she witnessed, or not? For her, everything was news, but it was becoming a task to report subjects that called into questions the greatness of the United States. She was beginning to struggle with the idea that the public—and the United States’ enemies—needed to know every morsel about national security. She hated that political scandals highlighted the flaws of the U.S. to foreigners. She passed the National Museum of American History which she ignored because she wasn’t in tourism mode at that moment. She had to investigate in an effort to connect what she saw and what David Thurman told her to facts. Who was his wife? What were the circumstances surrounding her arrest and conviction? Who was David Thurman, really? The costume and the acting had been perplexing. David Thurman’s arrest and assault was a consequence that she had rarely ever eye-witnessed. She stopped in a discount store and bought massage bubble bath and scented candles.
She carried her purchases back to the hotel, cutting through The Ellipse, and let herself into the suite. It had been replenished. New towels—clean and plush—new wrapped moistening soap, and fresh roses had been changed. The roses were red, but the new set was yellow. She ran bath water, stripped down, and wiggled her luscious body into a four-person Jacuzzi. On the side of the tub was a silver tray with two glasses and a bottle of white Santa Margherita pinot grigio. Lovely, she thought. Wait, where’s Nai?