Page 89 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

Emerson swipes across the tablet, transferring something to her monitor. “They want second-stage verification. Proof of liquid capital, references, and proof he can move funds through the channels listed.”

“Deadline?” Miles asks.

“Tomorrow.”

Charlie is already typing. The warmth in her face disappears, replaced by complete concentration.

Miles steps closer to the screen. “Anything about why they ended the meeting?”

“Nothing.”

Miles’s jaw tightens slightly. I know what he’s thinking—it was me.

Emerson continues. “But the fact that they’re still vetting Maxwell means whatever happened at the hangar wasn’t enough to kill the referral.”

This must be good news, because Evelyn immediately begins issuing instructions. Charlie opens files and communication windows. Emerson returns to his desk without another word. Miles studies the screen, his posture changing in the same way it did at the hangar.

The family disappears. The agency takes its place. Not because they are pretending to be different people—this is just who they are, too.

Evelyn finishes speaking to Charlie, then turns back to me. “I’m sorry. This is why the visit needs to remain brief.”

“I understand.” And I do.

An hour ago, phrases like liquid capital, moving funds through channels, and second-stage verification would have sounded like vague corporate language. Now I know there are people behind them. People Miles may have to lie to. People who may already have noticed me.

I walk over to the portraits along the wall both to give Charlie, Emerson, and Evelyn some space to finish their conversation, and because I know I’ll need to leave soon and want to look first. Miles follows me. Most of the faces are unfamiliar, but I see both Evelyn Lancaster and Rick Lancaster. He looks older than he does in the family pictures at Evelyn’s house, but his smile is the same. Confident. Warm. Slightly mischievous. A plaque beneath his portrait identifies him as a former director of the Clandestine Services Agency.

My eyes fly to Miles’s. “He was the director?”

He nods. “Right before my mom.”

“How did he die?”

“During an operation connected to his work here.”

The room feels suddenly quieter, although Charlie’s fingers are still moving across her keyboard and Emerson is speaking softly.

I look at Rick’s picture again, then over at Evelyn, then back to Miles. A memory returns of when I found out that Charlie was kidnapped as a preschooler. Something about the kidnappers wanting some information from her dad. It must’ve been while he was the director here. And then, years later, he died on the job. Suddenly, I understand why Blake chose not to have a desk here.

And why Miles seemed terrified to tell me what he does. His dad died doing what Miles is doing now. Miles’s life is probably frequently in danger. Can I live with that?

Evelyn joins us near the portraits. When my eyes meet hers, she says, “The secrecy here was never a judgment of your place with us.”

I nod, loving hearing her reference my place with them, as if I’ve always been accepted. “I know that logically.”

“Emotion rarely limits itself to logic.”

I smile. “Mine prefers interpretive dance and dramatic costuming.”

Her eyes crinkle. “I’m glad Miles asked for permission to tell you,” she says. “And I’m glad you wanted to see this.”

“So am I.”

I look at the room again. Miles’s desk. Charlie’s screens. Emerson’s sprawling map. Evelyn’s place at the front. Rick’s portrait. It is one thing to know everyone has been standing together in a room I didn’t know existed. It is another to see their chairs.

“Does it help?” Miles asks quietly.

“Yes.”