Page 45 of Make Them Bleed
She’s pacing—slow, almost idle—but I know her tells. Right hand slid into her jacket pocket, thumb rubbing the zipper tab back and forth. That’s her “I’m processing” tic. She stops at the corkboard, head cocked, studying it like she’s never seen the red yarn before. A hum of tension radiates off her leather-clad frame.
“Long night,” I venture, voice still wrapped in the Ghostface vocoder. The distortion is habits and shield. Dropping it feels like stepping onto open ice.
“Mmm.” She traces a length of yarn with one fingertip, gaze never leaving the board. “Productive, though.” Pause. “Your friends are…efficient.”
My muscles tense.Your friends, notour friends. I switch off two monitors, buying time. “They’re the best at what they do.”
Silence. I can almost see the gears turning behind her eyes. She pivots on her heel, leans against the corkboard, folds her arms. “Tell me about them.”
“About who?”
“Fillmore. Hayes. Polk. Arthur.” The names drip like test samples. “What do they do when they’re not wearing nineteenth-century presidential headgear?”
I swallow. “Various contracts. Oz— uh, I mean, Arthur handles infiltration logistics. Hayes is eyes-in-the-sky. Polk…well, Polk can charm a fingerprint scanner. Fillmore’s social-engineering royalty.”
“Uh-huh.” She pushes off the wall, begins a slow prowl along the bank of desks. Her boots tap a lazy rhythm. “Where’d you meet them?”
I deflect. “Internet’s a big place.”
She hums noncommittally. “And you, Hoover? Where do youreallywork? You dodge that question every time I ask.”
The air thins. I let my fingers drum the desk edge once, twice. “Consulting. Secure networks, physical audits. I told you.”
Her eyes flicker—dark humor, maybe hurt. “Consulting’s a big umbrella. Name on the door?”
I hesitate a beat too long. She pounces.
“You’re good,” she says, voice deceptively light. “Too good, actually. You know my tells—did you notice you called out my restless feetbeforeI knew I was doing it?”
I retreat behind the mask—literal, figurative. “Observation is the job.”
“I bet.” She stops dead center of the room, under the rattling ductwork, and stares at me. “One more question.”
“Fire away.”
“What color are your eyes, Hoover?”
Heat slashes across my neck. “Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.” Her chin lifts. Challenge issued.
I try humor. “Black. Soulless. Haven’t you looked into these sockets?”
She steps closer, the sound of her shoes echoing. “Behind the rubber. Behind the voice mod. Tell me whether they’re pine-needle green or warm-brown espresso. Tell me if you have a beard.”
I take an involuntary half-step back. She advances that same half-step, shrinking the gap till I can count the freckles across her nose in the dim glow.
“You’re upset,” I say—stupidly obvious, but the only thing that comes out.
“Upset?” She lets out a shaky laugh and plants both palms on my chest. “I’mlivid. And terrified. And weirdly relieved. Pick a cocktail.”
She knows. I don’t know how, but she does.
“I never meant to?—”
“Lies.” She slides her hands up, skimming the hoodie fabric, fingers catching on the hood. She fists it. “Youalwaysmeant to. You planned every inch of this deception weeks ago.”
The accusation slices. “I planned to keep you safe.”
