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“I'm glad you've decided to cooperate,” he said. “I'm sure you'll find it most beneficial to your health.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes.
“Now then,” he said, staring at her with shrewd intensity. “Do you know Oliver Prewitt?”
There was no use denying that one. He'd seen her leaving the house just the night before. Still, there was no point in wasting her secret weapon on such a simple question, so she nodded.
“How long have you known him?”
Caroline thought about that one. She had no idea how long Carlotta De Leon had been working with Oliver, if indeed that was the case, but she also suspected that the man standing in front of her with folded arms didn't know, either.
Best to tell the truth, her mother had always said, and Caroline didn't see any reason to depart from this policy now. It would be easier to keep her stories straight if they were as truthful as possible. Let's see, she had been living with Oliver and Percy for a year and a half, but she'd known them for some time longer than that. She held up four fingers, still wanting to save her handwriting for an answer that was nice and complex.
“Four months?”
She shook her head.
“Four years?”
She nodded.
“Good God,” Blake breathed. They'd had no idea that Prewitt had been smuggling diplomatic information for so long. Two years, they'd thought, possibly two and a half. When he thought of all of the missions that had been compromised … Not to mention the lives that must have been lost as a result of Prewitt's treason. So many of his colleagues, gone. His own dearest …
Blake blazed with anger and guilt. “Tell me the exact nature of your relationship,” he ordered, his voice clipped.
Tell you? she mouthed.
“Write it!” he roared.
She took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for some terrible chore, and laboriously began to write.
Blake blinked. Then he blinked again.
She looked up at him and smiled.
“What the devil language are you writing in?” he demanded.
She drew back, clearly affronted.
“For the record, I don't read Spanish, so kindly write the answer in English. Or, if you prefer, French or Latin.”
She wagged her finger at him and made some sort of motion he wasn't able to interpret.
“I repeat,” he bit off, “write down the exact nature of your relationship with Oliver Prewitt!”
She pointed to each collection of scribbles—he was hesitant to call them words—slowly and carefully, as if demonstrating something new to a small child.
“Miss De Leon!”
She sighed, and this time she mouthed something as she pointed to her scrawl.
“I don't read lips, woman.”
She shrugged.
“Write it again.”
Her eyes flared with irritation, but she did as he asked.
