Page 145 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

Now the woman is trying to find her patience. “Who were you expecting to see at the hangar?”

“No one. I thought someone had taken my purse.”

Maybe the real key to interrogating a person is to keep asking the same questions in a loop, going over and over the same things to see if the person being interrogated will give up information just to get it to stop. But that method relies on the interrogator having more patience than the interrogatee. And I work with sixth, seventh, and eighth graders—I increase my patience endurance daily.

“What did you see in the hangar?”

“A meeting. And an airplane, some tool chests, those rolling metal stairs.”

“A meeting between whom?”

“I don’t know. Four people. I think only three of them were having the meeting, though.”

“Was one of them Maxwell Shaw?”

“I don’t know who Maxwell Shaw is, so how am I supposed to know if he was there?”

“And what did you hear?”

“I couldn’t hear all the words, but it sounded like a job interview. Why am I here? Why do you care if I saw part of a job interview?”

And then something clicks. They’ve asked why I was there, who I expected to see, what I saw, if I recognized anyone… but they haven’t asked me anything about Miles Lancaster. Not a single question. They’ve had two weeks to look into me and seem to know all about me, so they have to know who my friends are. If they knew Miles was Maxwell Shaw, they wouldn’t be asking the questions they are. They’d be asking me why my best friend was at the meeting, wearing a different face. They don’t actually think I’m part of this at all.

My heart is pounding, but this time there’s something useful beneath the fear. Their questions are telling me what they don’t know, like when Miles and I were people-watching and he noticed the man deliberately not looking at someone. This isn’t quite the same—this woman isn’t avoiding the right question. She just doesn’t know the right question exists.

“Because I want to know what relationship you have with Maxwell Shaw.”

I lean forward, meeting her eyes, like maybe my words will have more effect that way. “I do not have any kind of relationship with Maxwell Shaw at all.” Which is true. I don’t know Maxwell—I know Miles.

Miles, who is currently pretending to be Maxwell. Possibly while dealing with the same people who kidnapped me. The thought makes my stomach churn.

The man’s phone buzzes, and he checks it. His whole posture changes before his face does—his shoulders tighten, his jaw sets. His finger pauses over the screen.

“What?” the woman asks.

“Nothing.”

She looks at him, so he turns the screen toward her. Interesting. He doesn’t know enough to decide whether the message matters. They are not equals here.

I take a better look at the man. There’s a faint smear of glitter on the edge of his hand—the kind that doesn’t easily wash off. I start coming up with his story as if Miles and I are people-watching. He’s got a daughter. Elementary-school age. She does crafts at the kitchen table. Probably missing at least one front tooth.

Maybe. For all I know, he could’ve robbed a craft store before kidnapping me. But I’m going with daughter.

The woman stands and tells the man to keep an eye on me as she leaves down a hallway.

“How long are you going to keep me here?” I call after her. “Because it’s a school night, and it’s past my bedtime.”

The man looks at me like I might be insane, but the woman pauses.

I add, “I’ve got seventh graders depending on me.”

The woman glances at me for a beat, then continues down the hallway.

Once she goes into a bedroom and closes the door, I turn to the man. “How old is your daughter?”

His gaze snaps to mine quickly enough that I know I’m right. Score one point for Reese.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”