Page 23 of Jonesing for a Spy

The one caught in the snare thinks he’s a patriot, forcing more security and helping make the grid stronger. He has no clue who’s masterminding this or what they’re planning. I don’t either.

But I will.

No one will dig further or work harder than me.

One reason—even if I wish it weren’t the case—is Mom’s reputation looms large. I’m in her shadow. I always have been… at the agency, at home, in our family. This little town thinks the retired school secretary is genteel and proper.

I know better.

I’m also the only person who knows aside from my dad. Her allowing me to know has created a power imbalance that I’d love to right, one I wish didn’t exist.

June Jones—former operative, professional liar, and my mother.

And the reason I work my ass off to be the best of the best, even if it means lying to everyone I love.

10

multiple vibe thefts

Mirren

My day flies by. I’m up to my eyeballs in conspiracy theories, conspiracy facts, and Reddit threads with all manner of ideas on how one could bolster or destroy a power plant, infect a transformer, or disable a substation.

Gotta love Reddit. People there chat. Good, bad, or seditious, they’re there to one-up the previous poster or to create a thread that becomes the “it” topic.

And when my job is scrolling socials and egging them on, it’s hard to complain.

I’m on my parents’ back dock, soaking up the late Autumn sun, and pointedly avoiding my renter. It didn’t take much. In joggers and running shoes, abs on full display, those dark-rimmed glasses up front, Strider took off at a great pace this morning, fiddling with something on his watch.

And that was it. I shoved my laptop into my purse, grabbed an iced tea from a drive-through, and planted myself in my happy place.

Well, one of them.

Dad checked on me early, but his quick, clipped footsteps tell me he’s returned.

“How’s it going, Scooter?”

I twist to look at him as he drops into an Adirondack chair next to me. “Good. But research is boring.”

“Research is the job.” Graying at the temples, deep grooves radiating from his eyes, my dad’s salt and pepper hair is perfectly placed. Military life suited him, and he’s never quite left some of its confines.

“You’re right.”

“I know.” His smile is charming and casually confident.

The man’s not arrogant, but he’ll never be confused for humble either. He knows what he knows and has no problem making sure those around him are aware. It’s not even annoying. He’s confident where his experience has taught him. He doesn’t pretend where it hasn’t.

Except maybe in the field, but I’ll never know. His days are long since behind him. As far as I know, he hasn’t dabbled since he retired in the late eighties like Mom has. He’s the kind of man who’s content, which is my favorite characteristic about him.

I give him a knowing look. “Doesn’t mean it’s not boring.”

“Would you rather be bored in Pakistan? Saudi? Yemen?”

Surveying Mobile Bay sprawled out before me, Sara Bareilles humming through my mind, I shake my head. “Nah. I’d rather be bored on a laptop right here.”

“That’s what I thought. And not that I mind—I never mind—but something has you twisted up. So tell me what brings you here today?”

Thoughtful question, but one that’s tough to answer. Mom. Strider. Work. Being a chickenshit.