“Today I think this story belongs to both of us.”

At three minutes to eleven the next morning we were sitting in the front room of Daniel Sloane’s apartment on the Upper East Side.

The boys were at the penthouse with a woman Kelsey had known for years from the restaurant, supplied with breakfast, crayons and board games.

Daniel had stopped practicing law long ago.

His home looked more like a library than a residence: floor-to-ceiling shelves, framed photographs of a century of handshakes.

My grandfather with two presidents.