15. Operation Explain Yourself #2
“No extracting information while extracting molars?”
“Reese.”
“That might be the most shocking answer you’ve given me.”
“He doesn’t work for the agency.”
Her expression shifts, and I know she hears what I haven’t said. That there’s a story behind it. Several, in fact. She writes his name followed by a question mark but thankfully doesn’t ask me to explain that right now, too.
“What about Hammy?”
I don’t answer quickly enough.
She gasps. “Hammy is a spy? My new stepdad is a spy?”
“He goes by Abraham at work. He’s a retired field operative. He oversees disguises now.”
“Did he do your face today?”
“Yes.”
She smooths the peeling edge of her mustache. “I assume he would find this professionally insulting.”
“Deeply.”
“I did my best without government funding.”
“I’m sure he’ll account for your resource limitations.”
A smile flashes across her face, then it disappears. “My mom knows.” It isn’t a question.
I brace myself. “Yes.”
“How long has she known?”
“Since she and Abraham became serious.”
Her pen lowers to the notebook, but she doesn’t write. “Zoe knows.”
I nod. “She’s CIA.”
“Mackenzie?”
“She knows.”
“Owen?”
“He does, too.”
The room seems to grow still around us, and Reese is looking at her notebook without seeming to see it. “My roommate,” she says slowly. “My mother. My friends. Nearly the entire Lancaster family.” She lets out one breath that almost becomes a laugh. “Everyone was chosen for Spy Club except me.”
Every instinct I have tells me to explain. Zoe knew because of the CIA. Mackenzie became involved in an operation. Charlie had authorization to tell Owen. Abraham had authorization to tell Annette. There are reasons. Rules. Classified boundaries that have nothing to do with Reese’s value.
Abraham’s voice returns to me. If you list why everyone else was entitled to know, all Reese will hear is that every person had a place in this world except her. So, I don’t explain.
“You weren’t kept outside because I didn’t trust you or because you mattered less,” I say. “I wasn’t allowed to open the door.”
She looks at me.
“But I know that doesn’t change the fact that everyone else seemed to be standing on the other side of it.”
She swallows. “I didn’t even know there was a door.”
“I know.”
“All those times someone got called away. Every time Charlie said something weird, and everyone else acted like it was normal.”
“I know.”
“I feel stupid.”
“You aren’t.”
“I should’ve figured it out.”
“You were surrounded by trained intelligence professionals actively trying to make sure you didn’t. It wasn’t a fair contest.”
Her lips press together. “I still figured it out eventually.”
I allow myself a bit of a smile. “You did.”
I’m alarmed that she got so close without any of us spotting her. I’m also absurdly proud that she figured it out.
“While you were wearing a professionally constructed disguise.”
“Yes.”
“And while you had multiple operatives watching the area.”
“Apparently not all of it.” That bothers me significantly more than I intend to let her see. Especially because I no longer think we were the only people watching. I’m sure Charlie is already reconstructing every angle we can access.
Reese stands abruptly and begins pacing between the couch and the interrogation chair. I stay where I am. Let her move. Let her feel whatever she feels. I don’t talk merely because silence makes me uncomfortable.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” she says. “All this time.” Her voice sounds so hurt, and it kills me that it’s because of me.
“I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You could tell Mackenzie.”
“Jace had to because she became involved in an operation.” The explanation comes out before I can stop it. Reese’s expression tightens. I clamp my mouth shut. Abraham would be disappointed.
“And Owen?” she asks.
“Charlie received authorization.”
“My mom?”
“Abraham received authorization.”
She stops pacing. “So, authorization exists.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you ask for it?”
“I did.”
The anger leaves her face. “What?”
“I submitted the paperwork to have you vetted and get permission to read you in.”
Her eyes widen. “Read me in.”
“Yes.”
“Charlie said that this morning.”
“She did?”
“She tried to change it to ‘fill you in,’ but she has the subtlety of a marching band when she’s nervous.”
I drag one hand over my face. “I’ll talk to her.”
“She also told me not to spiral.”
“That was a mistake.”
“It was practically an engraved invitation.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For Charlie?”
“For all of it.” The words settle between us.
I want to tell her that I hated lying. That every fake client emergency felt worse because I knew she would believe me.
That I have spent five years giving the person I trust most explanations designed to keep her from seeing my life clearly.
But Abraham warned me not to turn my pain into something Reese has to carry.
So, I don’t tell her how difficult it has been for me. Not yet.
“When did you get permission?” she asks.
“Yesterday.”
“And that’s what tonight was supposed to be.”
“Yes.”
“You weren’t going to tell me you found someone.”
“No.”
Relief crosses her face again, softer this time.
Then she folds her arms. “Why now?”
My carefully prepared answer returns. Not the words.
The truth beneath them. Because I love you.
Because I can’t ask you to build a life with me while hiding the work that shapes half of mine.
Because I’ve spent five years knowing you’re the person I want, all while pretending friendship is enough.
I can’t say any of that tonight. “Because keeping you outside this part of my life stopped being something I could live with.”
Her eyes meet mine.
“You’re too important to me,” I continue. “I didn’t want any future version of our friendship built around me continuing to lie about this.” Friendship. The word tastes so inadequate. It’s also the only word I’m allowed to ask her to process tonight.
She starts pacing again. “You’re in danger.”
“Sometimes.”
Her head snaps toward me. “You said that like someone who means frequently.”
“There are risks.”
“You got a shoulder injury because you slipped while moving office furniture.”
“That was a cover story.”
“What actually happened?”
I hesitate, sorting through what I’m permitted to disclose. “I was in a vehicle that rolled during an extraction.”
Her mouth falls open.
“That may not have been the best first example,” I admit.
“How many times have you nearly died and told me you had a client meeting?”
I don’t answer quickly enough. Partly because I haven’t been keeping track, and partly because I don’t think it would be helpful for her to know.
“Miles.”
“I’m alive.”
“That wasn’t my question.” She points at the chair under the lamp. “You may need to move into the interrogation light.”
“I’ll answer your questions.”
“All of them?”
“Everything I’m permitted to answer.”
She makes a frustrated sound. “There are still things you can’t tell me.”
“Yes.”
“How am I supposed to know when you’re keeping something classified and when you’re lying because you don’t want me to know?”
The question lands harder than the others.
“You ask, and I tell you when I can’t answer. No more invented client meetings or fake explanations. If something is classified, I’ll tell you it’s classified.”
She stops again. For several seconds, she simply looks at me.
I can almost see her trying to fit what she learned today around the man she has known for five years.
Her gaze moves over my face. My hands. The sweater I’ve worn dozens of times around her.
She recognized me when none of those things looked the same.
She didn’t know my job. But she knew me.
“What were you doing at the hangar?” she asks.
“That falls into the permitted-to-answer category. Mostly.”
“Mostly is better than nothing.”
“The person we’re investigating only accepts certain clients through referrals. I got one. That referral got my cover identity a meeting today. The people at the hangar were deciding whether Maxwell Shaw was someone they were willing to do business with.”
“Maxwell Shaw.”
“Me with someone else’s nose.”
“Ah. Maxwell.” She says it as though she has been formally introduced. “The woman in the camel coat?”
“One of the people evaluating me.”
“And the thing you put in her bag?”
“A tracker. She planted it on me first. I found it and gave it back.”
Her entire face lights up. “Reverse brush pass.”
“That’s not technically—”
“Reverse. Brush. Pass.”
I decide to roll with it. “Yes. A reverse brush pass. How did you even spot that?”
“You taught me what to look for.”
Pride rises before I can stop it.