Page 34 of Whistleblower

“You were alone, in the middle of the night, with a stranger. You said you hated guns and the people who carried them. Look at how you reacted when you saw that photo. You’re…” I want to say precious, but that sounds too forward, too fast, so I settle for, “jumpy,” and immediately regret it.

“Jumpy?” She drops her jaw, clearly offended.

“Sorry, I mean…sensitive?”

Her open palm finds her forehead with an audible smack. “You’re not supposed to say that to a woman in the workplace—it’s a microaggression.”

I groan. “See? That’s why I lied. Talking was easier when I was a janitor.”

She throws her head back in laughter. “Fair point. All right, I’ll stop giving you a hard time now, I’ll ask you the actual questions.” She clicks her pen against the pad and gives me an earnest smile. “If you need to pass on any of these, that’s fine. No pressure.”

I nod. Just ask.

“What’s your real name?”

Fuck, that was fast. It’d be nice to tell her that I didn’t lie about my name the first time we met, but I really don’t want her poking around the name Chandler Janey. According to the obituaries, he died at sixteen. “Pass. I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay—”

“It’s not personal. I’ve been Lincoln for so long that in every way that matters, it’s my real name.”

“That’s fine. As I said, there’s no pressure—”

“Ask me another, please.”

“Okay, how old are you?”

“Twenty-eight. You?”

“How old do I look?”

I scoot forward to the edge of the couch. Just another inch or so and our knees would touch. “I’m not an idiot. I am not answering that question. That’s a trap if I’ve ever seen one.”

Her cheeks bunch in my favorite way and her lips curl into an unguarded smile that reminds me of the first night we met. “You’re smart, Linc. I’m twenty-nine.”

“That’s a little young for a doctor with all your accolades.”

“For a medical doctor, perhaps. But not necessarily for a Ph.D. I went right from my undergrad to a doctoral program. I kept my grades up so they allowed me to fast track.”

She’s driven—smart—and should not be cooped in this dungeon that the rest of us now call headquarters.

“So, what exactly is—”

She holds up her palm and closes her eyes briefly. “Who is interviewing whom here, Linc?”

Snickering, I offer her a compromise. “How about a question for a question?”

“Hm,” she says, trying to reel in her wide smile. “Okay, but let’s make it more interesting. Two passes each—max. But I’ll forgive the first one you gave.”

“Deal.”

“Ladies first.”

She draws in a deep breath. “The prisoner who was still alive in that photo… Did you make it in time? Did you save his life?”

I see the painful trepidation in her eyes. Ah fuck.

“Pass.” Her hopeful expression falls, replacing her sweet smile with a half-hearted scowl. “Eden, I know what it must look like, but those men weren’t exactly innocent. The brutality they faced… They’d done much of the same to others. These are insurgents fighting against each other—they deserved what was coming. The FBI’s main concern was the fact that it happened on U.S. soil.” Among other things…but Eden is on a need-to-know basis and I’ve already said too much.

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