Nora nodded again. She managed to contain her excitement. Chief of archaeology. It was a big deal, with a substantial increase in salary—but most important, it was tangible recognition of her hard work, years of service, and respected scholarship.

“We have made our decision.” At this Weingrau paused, and her face took on a serious expression. “I asked you here because I wanted to tell you the news in person.”

Nora nodded. Of course she did.

“I know this is going to be disappointing to you.”

At first Nora thought she hadn’t heard correctly. But she had. She felt a sort of freeze take hold inside, as if she were falling into suspended animation.

“It was a difficult decision, with much back-and-forth. But in the end, it was the opinion of myself and the board that the position should be awarded to Dr. Connor Digby.”

Weingrau paused, but when Nora didn’t respond she went on in a hearty voice. “Again, I know this is disappointing news, and I feel you’re owed a clear explanation. The position involves not just administrative tasks, you understand, but also a great deal of public and community interface. A great deal. It requires not only a person who has impeccable academic credentials, but, well, someone who is personable, articulate, charming—in more coarse terms, a schmoozer. Not that you aren’t those things, of course—but you’re first and foremost an archaeologist. Absolutely first-class. Your work is brilliant. And what you’ve done for the Institute has been stellar, and we are so, so grateful to you. But administrative work is not your forte. The Tsankawi project is behind schedule—I understand the reasons for that, of course, but still, we will have to renew the permit next year, when we hadn’t expected to. Nora, we want to keep you where you shine, where your strengths are so evident—in the field and in the lab. Not in the boardroom or at the fund-raiser.”

She was speaking rapidly and nervously now. “That’s where Connor comes in. He was a graduate student of mine, you know, and I got to know his family rather well.”

No: Nora hadn’t known. But it made sense. If she’d taken a look at Digby’s CV, as she’d intended to, no doubt she’d have seen he had gotten his doctorate from Boston University—and made the connection.

But Weingrau was still talking. “ … He’s from that sort of background, you know what I mean: old New England and all that. It’s just something you’re born into, really. That’s no comment on you. It’s just the way it is. We’re making strides—every year, we’re making strides—but it’s those old-money, East Coast family connections that still make the difference.”

Weingrau finally stopped talking—realizing, perhaps, that she’d already said too much. Nora felt a certain tightening around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, and to her great mortification realized she might cry. But she would never, ever let this woman see that happen. So she stood up with as much dignity as she could muster, and—because she didn’t trust herself to speak—simply turned and walked out of the office. She heard Weingrau call her name once before she rounded the corner and hastened back to her office, shutting and locking the door and thanking God Digby wasn’t around. He had probably made himself scarce, knowing what was coming down.

She sat there in the dim light, breathing hard, but in the end she didn’t cry. She realized this must have been the plan from the very beginning. Weingrau had brought in Digby for this very promotion. It was preordained. Nothing Nora did, didn’t do, or could have done would have made a difference. The newspaper articles highlighting her prominent role in the White Sands conspiracy and related murders must have made it awkward for Weingrau to push this through the board. But the board was weak, mostly retired businessmen, and no doubt it had been easy enough in the end.

Nora shook her head. She needed to pick herself up and dust herself off. Life was unfair—she’d already learned that lesson many times over. Losing the promotion was certainly not the worst thing that had happened to her—not by a long shot. As much as she hated to admit it, there was some truth in what Weingrau had said. The job of chief archaeologist, for all its prestige and high pay, brought with it more politics than academics. The chief managed the dirt herd but didn’t do the actual work or get her hands dirty. This was something that, in her eagerness for advancement, Nora hadn’t really considered.

She heaved a deep sigh. No doubt this was all just rationalization. The entire charade—and that’s exactly what it was—stung badly, and she knew it would rankle for a long while. Digby, she supposed, wasn’t really at fault—Weingrau had been the mover and shaker. Still, Nora knew she couldn’t ever look at either of them in quite the same way again.

It was then she realized that something was clasped in her right hand. It was the envelope she’d been about to open when she’d gotten the news that the president wanted to see her. In her emotional reaction, she had reflexively crumpled it. She now placed it on her desk and smoothed it out. There was no return address on the envelope, just U.S. Department of Justice in embossed letters. With the kind of day she was having, it was probably a notice of audit from the IRS.

Nora tore it open with the back of an index finger, pulled out the single sheet, and read the missive within. After she had finished—it was a short letter—a deep silence gathered. For a long time she didn’t move. Finally, she raised her head and gazed out the window, which had a view of the Institute’s rose garden, beyond which stood the pi?on-clad outline of Sun Mountain, bathed in the golden light of afternoon. She brushed away some moisture from the corner of her eye, then smiled faintly to herself. Life was indeed unfair—but sometimes when you least expected, it stacked the deck in your favor. As she looked down once more at the letter, a shaft of light fell upon it, and she read it again.