"I'm working on the Dominion Hall story," she said. "And I think I'm close to something big. But I need more information. Corroboration before I can run it. You know how it is—can't publish without being absolutely sure."
"Smart," the colonel said, like he was grading a student. "Careful reporting. I respect that. What do you need?"
She was playing him perfectly. Stroking the ego. Making him feel important.
"I need to know more about your source," she said. "The one who tipped you off about Dominion Hall in the first place. If I can verify their credibility, their track record, I can move forward with confidence. And if this story breaks the way I think it will, it's going to make waves. Serious waves. The kind that get people noticed."
There was a pause on the other end. I could almost hear the gears turning. The colonel calculating what he could get out of this.
"You're talking about career-making stuff," he said finally.
"I'm talking about a general's star," Amelia said.
The room was silent. Every man leaned forward, listening.
The colonel made a sound—half laugh, half exhale. Like he was pretending to think it over but had already decided.
"You drive a hard bargain, Emerson," he said.
"I'm just trying to get it right," she said sweetly. "And I know you want the same thing. Truth. Accountability. Justice."
I almost rolled my eyes. But the colonel ate it up.
He hummed. Hawed. Played like he was being put out, like this was a huge ask and he was doing her a monumental favor.
"All right," he said.
Another pause. Then:
"The only name I have is Victoria."
Around the table, men shifted. Exchanged glances. Elias typed the name into his laptop, already searching.
But my eyes were on Dad.
He'd gone absolutely still. Not the kind of still that came from tactical discipline. The kind that came from shock. His face had drained of color. His hands, flat on the table, trembled.
"Victoria," Amelia repeated, her voice steady even though I could see the slight tremor in her hand as she wrote it down."Can you give me anything else? How to contact her? A last name?"
"Information goes one way," the colonel said. "She calls me. I don't call her. That's how she operates. Old school tradecraft. Very careful."
"Okay," Amelia said. "That's helpful. Really helpful. Thank you, Colonel. I owe you one."
"You know where to find me, Emerson," he said, his tone sliding into something too warm, too familiar. "Anytime you need help, you just call. I'm always happy to assist a talented journalist."
I wanted to punch him through the phone.
The call ended.
All eyes turned to Dad. He was staring at the table, his face pale, his hands flat against the wood like he needed the support to stay upright.
"Dad?" I said.
He didn't move.
"Byron Dane," Atlas said, his voice careful. Controlled.
The Charleston Danes were watching him with something close to alarm. They'd never seen him like this, I realized. Whatever this was—whoever this woman was—she was a ghost none of them had ever heard of.
