Now the sender tells me she thinks she’s been hacked.”

“And why is that my problem?”

“If the hacker went through the sender’s address book, he knows the sender’s been communicating with me and with you, too, since you’re interviewing her in D.C.”

“Diana? Diana Wilmington?”

“Right.”

“Who’s hacking her?”

“Who knows? But when someone sends me the scan of a newly discovered Lincoln letter, and the next morning she tells me she’s been hacked—”

“You do what you always do.”

“What’s that?”

“Get suspicious.”

“Is that why we’re not getting married?”

“Because you’re suspicious?”

“No. Because I’m predictable.”

“A little bit of both and … Peter, you sound kind of woolly. Are you hungover?”

“Of course not. And don’t open any strange e-mails. Whoever is reading Diana’s stuff, we don’t want them reading ours, especially if this is about a Lincoln letter.”

“Now receiving passengers at Gate 9E, train 2109, Acela Express to Washington—”

“Peter, I have to go. Drink some water. Hydrate. You’ll feel better. See you tomorrow.”

After she hung up, Evangeline looked down to put the phone into her purse and saw the shoes of that cell-phoning business mom right next to hers.

The shoes were red patent leather, half-heeled, stylish but sensible. The legs were well shaped if a bit muscular. The suit was blue pinstripe, with a skirt just short enough to be stylish but sensible, too. The body in the suit was trim, fit, tight.

Evangeline didn’t like anyone invading her personal space, but as she raised her head, the woman smiled and said, “I want to show you something.”

“Yes?”

She put her iPhone in front of Evangeline’s nose. And there was a picture of Evangeline in a linen sport coat, blue jeans, and oxblood cowboy boots, in front of the famous bas-relief of the Massachusetts Fifty-fourth, the first black regiment in the Union Army, in a publicity shot for her new show.

“I read your articles all the time,” the woman said. “I look up and here you are.”

Evangeline felt a little jolt. It was the first time anyone had ever recognized her in a public place. So she stood and offered her hand.

The woman took it. “I’m Kathi. Kathi Morganti. I’m a fan.”

“Thank you. Are you going to Washington?”

“Going home. I’ve been in New York all week meeting clients. I’m a lobbyist, and reading your travel articles always reminds me of what I’m working for.”

“What’s that?”

“Vacations.”

They laughed and headed together for the train.

Evangeline hoped that she hadn’t made a three-hour friend, someone who’d talk the whole way to Washington. She had work to do. But she liked to think she had fans, and maybe this one might offer a business card. Knowing lobbyists in D.C. was a good way to get to know everyone.

As they started down the stairs, Kathi Morganti said, “Acela to Washington. A literal power trip. You never know who you’ll meet.”

*   *   *

Peter had been lying.

He was a bit hungover. So he took two more aspirin and took Evangeline’s advice. He hydrated, inside and out, with a can of seltzer and a shower.

When he got out of the shower, he cursed.