I laughed. "I wouldn't expect anything less. Go in full guns blazing. Just … maybe with a dusting of Canadian tact."
Her mouth curved into a real smile. "Canadian tact. That's a new one."
"You know what I mean," I said. "Polite, but relentless."
"I can do that," she said.
We raised our glasses.
"To the truth," she said.
"To the truth," I echoed.
We drank, and for the first time all night, it felt like we were on the same side.
Like maybe—just maybe—we could figure this out.
The hostess appeared at our table, young, blonde, nervous energy radiating off her in waves.
"Excuse me," she said, looking directly at Amelia. "Are you Ms. Emerson?"
Amelia looked up, surprised. "Yes?"
My instincts prickled, but I stayed relaxed. We hadn't given our names when we'd been seated. Maybe someone had recognized her—she was a public figure, after all. Journalists got recognized.
The hostess held out a small envelope. "This is for you."
Amelia took it, frowning. "Who?—"
"A woman came in a few minutes ago," the hostess said quickly. "She asked me to deliver this to you. She pointed to your table and then left. I hope that's okay? I just started here—my cousin got me the job—and last night I messed up two reservations, so I didn't want to mess this up, too, and she seemed really insistent?—"
"It's fine," Amelia said, cutting off the ramble with a smile. "Thank you."
The hostess looked relieved. "Oh, good. Okay. Let me know if you need anything else."
She hurried back to her station.
Amelia and I stared at the envelope on the table.
It was small. Like a calling card. Cream-colored, expensive-looking paper. No name. No return address.
I reached for it.
Amelia snatched it before I could touch it.
"Hey," I protested.
"Sometimes my sources are clever," she said, turning it over in her hands. "They think they're spies working against the old Soviet state. Very cloak-and-dagger."
But I could see it in her eyes—she didn't believe her own words.
Neither did I.
A woman who hurried in, pointed at our table, and left. That wasn't a source. That was surveillance.
Amelia ripped open the envelope and pulled out a card. Thick stock, the kind you'd use for wedding invitations or expensive business cards.
She read it, and her brow scrunched in confusion.
