16. Welcome to the CSA #3
Evelyn finishes speaking to Charlie, then turns back to me. “I’m sorry. This is why the visit needs to remain brief.”
“I understand.” And I do.
An hour ago, phrases like liquid capital, moving funds through channels, and second-stage verification would have sounded like vague corporate language. Now I know there are people behind them. People Miles may have to lie to. People who may already have noticed me.
I walk over to the portraits along the wall both to give Charlie, Emerson, and Evelyn some space to finish their conversation, and because I know I’ll need to leave soon and want to look first. Miles follows me.
Most of the faces are unfamiliar, but I see both Evelyn Lancaster and Rick Lancaster.
He looks older than he does in the family pictures at Evelyn’s house, but his smile is the same.
Confident. Warm. Slightly mischievous. A plaque beneath his portrait identifies him as a former director of the Clandestine Services Agency.
My eyes fly to Miles’s. “He was the director?”
He nods. “Right before my mom.”
“How did he die?”
“During an operation connected to his work here.”
The room feels suddenly quieter, although Charlie’s fingers are still moving across her keyboard and Emerson is speaking softly.
I look at Rick’s picture again, then over at Evelyn, then back to Miles.
A memory returns of when I found out that Charlie was kidnapped as a preschooler.
Something about the kidnappers wanting some information from her dad.
It must’ve been while he was the director here.
And then, years later, he died on the job.
Suddenly, I understand why Blake chose not to have a desk here.
And why Miles seemed terrified to tell me what he does. His dad died doing what Miles is doing now. Miles’s life is probably frequently in danger. Can I live with that?
Evelyn joins us near the portraits. When my eyes meet hers, she says, “The secrecy here was never a judgment of your place with us.”
I nod, loving hearing her reference my place with them, as if I’ve always been accepted. “I know that logically.”
“Emotion rarely limits itself to logic.”
I smile. “Mine prefers interpretive dance and dramatic costuming.”
Her eyes crinkle. “I’m glad Miles asked for permission to tell you,” she says. “And I’m glad you wanted to see this.”
“So am I.”
I look at the room again. Miles’s desk. Charlie’s screens. Emerson’s sprawling map. Evelyn’s place at the front. Rick’s portrait. It is one thing to know everyone has been standing together in a room I didn’t know existed. It is another to see their chairs.
“Does it help?” Miles asks quietly.
“Yes.”
His shoulders loosen.
“And also no.” I turn toward him. “Seeing it helps me understand. But it also makes it more real. All the times you said you were meeting a client, you were coming here. All those nights Charlie said she was fixing a server problem, she was sitting at those screens.” I look at his desk again.
“But somehow it helps knowing you kept my stupid Batman mug here.”
He smiles. “It’s an excellent mug.”
“You hate Batman.”
“I don’t hate Batman.”
“You gave a twenty-minute speech about the impracticality of the cape.”
“Because it creates several tactical disadvantages.”
“And yet you still use the mug.”
“Every day.”
Evelyn checks the time. “We should conclude the visit. The longer Reese remains, the more difficult it becomes to maintain operational restrictions.”
“Understood,” Miles says.
I nod, even though I’m not ready. I look back at the desks. Charlie turns and waves at us, and Emerson raises one hand in a brief wave without looking away from his work. Then Miles, Evelyn, and I step into the hall.
Behind us, the CSA continues operating. No one transforms it back into Lancaster Business Solutions when I leave. I don’t know whether that means anything, but it feels like it does.
Once we’re through the door into the lobby, Evelyn tells us goodbye and heads back inside. I retrieve my purse, phone, keys, and watch from the security lockers, and Miles grabs his. It immediately begins vibrating with messages, but he silences it without looking.
“You can check it,” I say.
“Charlie will call if they need me.”
“And if they do?”
“I’ll tell you I have to go.”
“Not that a client has an emergency.”
He smiles. “Nope.”
Honestly, it makes me smile, too. This is a lot to take in, but I’m glad I know.
Outside, the night air is cool and smells like damp earth and trimmed grass. Miles walks me toward his car, then I look back at the mansion. From here, it appears exactly the way it did when we arrived. Beautiful. Imposing. Quiet. No hint of the agency inside it.
“Your family is extremely weird,” I say.
“I know.”
“And impressive.”
“I know.”
“And possibly responsible for permanently damaging my ability to trust dentists.”
Miles laughs. “Blake really is just a dentist.”
“That’s what makes him suspicious.”
Miles opens the passenger door for me. I get in and look up at the mansion again. Now, when Miles says he can’t answer, I’ll know the door is real. And I’ll know he is no longer pretending it doesn’t exist.