Compound monitoring on one end. NSA filtering on the other. The breakup would land on Davis’s desk within hours. He wouldn’t miss the timing.
The transcript was the point. I was firing a distress flare.
It was three-twelve in Seattle.
Six-twelve in Washington.
Nate picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?” He sounded tired. The kind that came from long days, reheated coffee, and checking a phone too often without wanting to admit you were checking it.
“Hey,” I said.
The line went quiet.
One beat.
Two.
Then his voice changed. “Cat?”
Recognition first.
Then worry. “Are you okay?”
I looked at the phone.
Embassy line. Official number. No context. No warning.
Of course he thought something had happened.
Something had.
Just not the kind of something he could help with.
“Nate.”
“What’s wrong?”
I let my eyes close. The alcove around me felt too small.
“Nate. We need to talk.”
The silence on the line was immediate. Everyone knew what came after those words.
I pushed through and continued, “I’m sorry but I can’t keep doing this.”
“What?” A breath he tried to cut off and couldn’t.
“Us, Nate.” I made myself say it slower, because he needed to actually hear it. “I can’t keep doing us. I’m not coming home. I’m not coming back.”
“Jesus.” The word came out cracked.
A long silence.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed. He sounded careful. He was stepping around broken glass without knowing where it was. “Cat. Tell me you aren’t breaking up on the phone. Come home, we’ll talk about it.”
I pressed my fingers against the edge of the table. “I am.”
