9. Controlled Exposure #2
I consider this. It is a risk. If Voss has my full operational file, if he knows I am FBI, then being visible in that hearing room puts me directly in his sightline as an agent rather than a spouse.
But if he only has the cover documentation, if he is still operating on the assumption that I am a political plant rather than Bureau...
"Controlled exposure," I say. "Make him show his hand."
"Make him think his move is working while we gather the evidence to end him."
I almost smile. "You would have been very good at this job."
"I have been doing this job for fifteen years." He opens his door. "Yours just has better dental coverage."
We enter the hearing room together, his hand at the small of my back, the gesture visible to everyone who matters.
I scan the space with the automatic assessment that six years of undercover work has made instinctive: exits, sight lines, camera positions, threat vectors.
Voss is already seated at the committee table, surrounded by staffers, his attention apparently focused on a briefing document.
He looks up when we enter. His eyes find mine, and something moves behind his expression that is not quite a smile.
I hold his gaze for three seconds. Then I turn to Dominic and say something innocuous about the schedule, leaning in close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm, performing intimacy for an audience that includes the man who is trying to destroy us both.
Voss looks away first.
The hearing proceeds with procedural tedium.
I take notes that I do not need, tracking the rhythm of questions and responses, the subtle currents of influence moving between committee members.
Dominic is a master at this, his attention focused and engaged, his questions precise enough to demonstrate competence without revealing strategy.
I watch Voss.
He is good. Better than I expected. He performs the role of senior statesman with the ease of long practice, deferring to witnesses when it serves him, pressing when it does not, his smile calibrated to the exact temperature the room requires.
But I have spent six years learning to read the spaces between performances, and what I see in those spaces is a man who is watching me the way a predator watches something it has not yet decided to hunt.
During a recess, Dominic steps away to speak with an Energy Committee member about an unrelated amendment. I stay seated, reviewing my notes, my phone dark on the table beside my water glass.
A shadow falls across the page.
"Mrs. Thorne."
Voss's voice is warm, avuncular, precisely calibrated to sound friendly to anyone listening. He slides into the empty seat beside me with the ease of a man who has spent thirty years claiming space in rooms like this.
"Senator." I do not look up from my notes.
"I wanted to apologize for the column this morning." His tone is concerned, solicitous. "Reyes has always been more interested in gossip than governance. I hope it has not caused you any distress."
Now I look up. His face is arranged in an expression of sincere concern, and his eyes are watching mine with the focused attention of someone cataloging my reaction.
"I have read worse," I say.
"Of course." He smiles. "A woman of your... capabilities... must be accustomed to scrutiny."
The word capabilities lands exactly where he intends it to. I feel my thumb press against the ring.
"I am accustomed to many things, Senator." I hold his gaze. "Including people who underestimate what I am willing to do to protect the people I care about."
Something shifts behind his eyes. The avuncular warmth flickers, and for half a second I see the calculation underneath, the assessment of a man who is deciding whether I am a threat or an opportunity.
"I am sure you are," he says. "Dominic is fortunate to have found someone so... dedicated."
"He is."
Voss holds my gaze for two more seconds. Then he stands, smoothing his jacket, and walks back to the committee table as if we have just shared a pleasant conversation about the weather.
My pulse is louder than it should be. I press my thumb against the ring and count three breaths.
The hearing resumes. I do not look at Voss again.
On the drive back to the townhouse, Dominic is quiet. His briefing documents sit untouched on the seat beside him, and his attention is focused on something outside the window that I cannot see.
I wait. He will speak when he is ready.
The car turns onto Embassy Row before he does.
"He approached you during the recess."
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
I consider how much to share. "He apologized for the column. Mentioned my capabilities. Suggested I was dedicated."
Dominic's jaw tightens. "He was testing you."
"He was confirming what he already suspected." I turn to face him. "He knows the cover is constructed. He does not know yet whether I am Bureau or simply a political operative with a manufactured background. The approach was designed to provoke a reaction that would tell him which."
"And your reaction?"
"I told him I was willing to do whatever it takes to protect the people I care about." I pause. "He smiled. Then he went back to the committee table."
Dominic is quiet for a long moment. His hand moves to his jacket pocket, the flat-palm gesture, and I watch him process the information with the focused precision I have come to recognize as his version of operational analysis.
"He will escalate again," he says finally. "The column was the first move. The approach was the second. The third will be something designed to force my hand before Friday."
"I know."
"Are you ready for it?"
I look at him. His face is composed, controlled, the senator's mask firmly in place. But underneath the polish, in the spaces between his words, I can see something that was not there three weeks ago: concern. Not for the operation. Not for the career. For me.
It is the most honest thing he has shown me since the shower silhouette through the mirror, and it costs me something to recognize it.
"I am ready," I say.
He nods. The car turns into the townhouse driveway.
I am halfway out of the car when Dominic's phone rings. He answers with the clipped efficiency of a man who has been expecting bad news, and I watch his face change as he listens.
The color drains from his jaw first. Then his hand goes flat against his pocket, pressing hard, and his voice drops to the quiet register I have learned to fear.
"When?" A pause. "No. Do not do anything until I arrive."
He ends the call and looks at me, and something in his expression makes me step back toward the car.
"Voss just called a closed Intelligence Oversight session for Friday morning." His voice is steady, but I can hear the strain underneath. "The subject is listed as personnel security review of Senate-adjacent contractors."
The words take a moment to land.
Personnel security review. Senate-adjacent contractors.
Me.
"That means you," Dominic says, and his hand is still pressed flat against the photograph in his pocket, and I understand with perfect clarity that the third move has already begun.