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President Walker gestures for us to join him at the sofas in front of the fireplace.
Thirty-six inches separate my kneecap from President Walker’s when we sit.
I’m like a spider dancing on a string of web above a bonfire. My lungs are tight, my throat clenched. He’s perfectly poised, as if he’s sitting for a magazine shoot, one leg thrown over the other, hands clasped in his lap. One of my hands is twisted in the sofa cushion.
What the fuck is going on?
This is not the way the briefing is supposed to go. This is not the way briefings ever go.
Henry’s shoulder brushes mine. Get on with it, Reese.
“Mr. President,” I begin. “We’re here to discuss your security procedures and the Secret Service protection you’ll have for the next four years.”
He’s staring at me. He’s staring into me.
And I’m staring right back.
