Page 63 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

Jace gives Ledger a brotherly punch, and I just run my fingers through my hair. Each suggestion is getting more and more ridiculous.

Then Jace says, “She likes murder mysteries, right? So, she likes solving clues. Just give her a bunch of clues.”

Charlie lights up at that suggestion. “Yeah. She finds a clue you leave her in one location, and it leads to the next location and its clue, and the next one after that. And the last one could lead her to this building, and you could be waiting out front, dressed like James Bond. You like dressing like James Bond. Heck, half of your wardrobe is James Bond-appropriate.”

“Okay,” I say, holding up both hands to get them to stop. “No more suggestions. I’m going to go talk to Abraham.”

As I’m walking toward the elevators, Ledger calls out, “Be careful, bro. Just because you make a detailed plan, doesn’t mean things will go according to it.”

I take the elevator down to Sub-level One, trying not to think about Ledger’s warning. Yes, he only said it because his proposal didn’t exactly go according to plan. Plans go wrong eighty percent of the time, and you have to quickly adapt. But when the mission is telling my best friend I’ve been lying about my occupation for five years, I’d really prefer to land in the other twenty percent.

Abraham is at his worktable when I enter the disguises department, studying two nearly identical pairs of glasses. One has tortoiseshell frames. The other has darker tortoiseshell frames. He holds them up one at a time, squinting at each.

“Clearly, I’ve caught you in the middle of a high-stakes decision.”

“Extremely.” He sets one pair on the bridge of his nose and looks at me over the frames. “This pair says wealthy man who occasionally flies private. The other says wealthy man who considers commercial aviation a personal failure.”

“Ahh.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he sets them down. On the table beside him are an assortment of facial-hair pieces, dental veneers, skin-tone palettes, and the pieces we used to turn me into Maxwell Shaw on Saturday. He gestures toward one of the two chairs across the worktable from him.

“I was expecting you eventually. I wasn’t expecting you to come looking as though you just got put on spreadsheet duty.”

“I got clearance to tell Reese about the CSA.”

“That’s wonderful,” he says.

“I think the more accurate word is ‘terrifying.’”

He chuckles softly. “It is definitely that, too.”

I sit down and lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs. “I’ve already gotten advice from my siblings.”

He winces. “I see.”

“Charlie said I should talk to you.”

“A wise young woman.”

“She also thinks I should send Reese on a scavenger hunt that ends with me waiting outside this building dressed like James Bond.”

Abraham smiles. “Less wise in this particular instance.” He moves the second chair to face me and takes a seat in it, so we no longer have the worktable between us. “What are you planning so far?”

“I don’t know. Every time I try to picture telling her, I think of everything that could go wrong. I need to explain why I kept it from her, but I don’t want it to sound like I’m making excuses. I also need her to understand how classified everything is, but I don’t want her to think I’m dismissing how she feels. I want her to know I trust her, even though five years of evidence is going to make it look like I don’t.”

“And you’re hoping to find precisely the right method and wording so none of those things will happen.”

“Exactly.”

“I can’t give you that—it doesn’t exist.”

I stare at him. “This is already less helpful than Charlie promised.”

Abraham smiles. “You’re trying to plan Reese’s reaction, Miles.”

“I’m trying to keep her from hating me.”

“That would be a reaction.”