“You gotta admit what?” he said.
“You were the perfect fall guy,” she said weakly.
“Well, thanks for pointing that out to whoever required one. You laid it all out there—literally a narrative for them to follow.”
“Oh, come on, no one would seriously believe that you were a murderer just because of this.”
“There was already suspicion on me. It would be convenient for a lot of people if they could pin this on a rogue former U.S. spy—especially for the real killer.”
“I can tell them I made up that part.”
“You could try that, sure.”
“Why do you sound doubtful?”
“Because my very reliable sources tell me this is all being driven by someone in a position of power. Someone who has seized on this narrative and is right now finding the ‘facts’ to back it up, while making inconvenient truths disappear. But yousaid there were recordings of Nika. Transcripts. Notes. Where are they now?”
“The transcripts are on my laptop—not that one,” she added, as he stepped toward her work laptop. “Another one, at home.”
He picked up Alice’s purse and passed it to her, though her phone remained in his pocket. “Then we’d better get this computer before someone else does.”
The bell buzzed, and she gave a little shriek. “I have a class right now. I can’t…” She straightened. “What do you mean ‘before someone else does?’”
“First we get the laptop, then we figure out our next step.”
“Ournext step?”
He studied the whiteboard, on which half an hour ago, in her previous existence, she’d written:Secrets and Lies: Conveying Subtext Through Body Language. “It’s the end of the year. They won’t give a shit. After you, Ms. Thornton.”
“I can’t just walk out. You’ll have to wait until after school. Hold on, no, I have an English department meeting. I could get away maybe four, four-thirty?”
His focus locked on something over her shoulder, through the outside windows. His jaw tightened. “I’m gonna tell you straight. You’re a witness in a conspiracy that many dangerous, powerful people would like to find a scapegoat for. You may well be the only person alive with a clue to the real killer’s identity, aside from the real killer, who’d rather you weren’t in a position to tell. You could be dead before your departmental meeting.”
“You’re not … overthinking this?” Her voice came out squeaky.
“That’s a question I’m gonna refer to those guys.” He pointed outside. The basketball court was emptying as students drifted to class. Beyond the chain-link fence, a van had pulled up, a Daisy Sparkles logo splashed across its side. Two men were unloading buckets and mops.
“The window washers?” Okay, maybe hewasa fantasist. One of those paranoid conspiracy-theory types.
“You recognize them?”
“Sure. They’ve been coming here for years. Every month like clockwork—the last … Thursday.”
“It’s the first Monday,” he said, needlessly. “And I’m guessing your window washers don’t usually carry.”
She squinted. A big guy with a bushy gray beard passed a squeegee to a taller guy, who had his back to her. “Actually, no, they’re not the usual people. Who are they?”
“Not the cops, or the FBI. More likely the Russians.”
“The Russians? TheactualRussians?”
“Now, these guys with the squeegees may be a coincidence but we in the Intelligence Community don’t believe in coincidences. We whowerein the I.C.,” he added, to himself. The door handle rattled, making her jump. He planted a hand on her lower back. “Time to go, Ms. Thornton.” It sounded like an order.
“Are you … kidnapping me?”
He used just enough pressure on her back to compel her to walk. “Of course not.”
She twisted to look up at him. “Can I choose not to come?”
