“That’s surprisingly honest.”
“I’m not good at lying. You know that.”
“I know.” Another pause, longer than the programmed delay. “Good luck.”
Lincoln headed for the stairs.
The house was quiet around him—that particular stillness of early morning when even the servers seemed to be holding their breath. His footsteps echoed on the hardwood, each one sounding heavier than the last.
He found her in the kitchen.
She was standing at the window, a cup of tea cradled in her hands in that prayer-like grip. The first gray light of dawn was just starting to touch the mountains outside. The bruising around her nose had faded to yellow-green, and she was wearing one of the soft sweaters he’d ordered—gray, long sleeves pulled down past her wrists to hide the bandages.
She turned when she heard him, and something in her expression shifted immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
He’d never been good at hiding things. His face didn’t know how to perform the social masks other people woreautomatically. Right now, standing in his kitchen with his whole life balanced on what came next, he couldn’t have hidden anything if he’d tried.
“I need to show you something.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.”
He pulled out his phone. Navigated to the file he’d saved. His thumb hovered over the screen for just a moment—one last breath before everything changed.
He handed it to her.
Morgan looked down at the screen. At her own face staring back from a federal wanted bulletin. At the charges listed beneath in stark black text.
Lincoln watched her expression, waiting for shock or panic or the kind of disbelief that would require comfort and explanation. Instead, he saw resignation. A tired acceptance that settled over her features like something she’d been expecting all along.
“I knew this was coming.” Her hands were steady on the phone. Her voice didn’t waver. “I should have told you sooner. I just hoped—” She shook her head. “He said the investigators wouldn’t have reason to look. I thought maybe I’d have more time.”
She looked up at him. Exhausted. Resigned.
“I suppose,” she continued, “we need to talk.”
Chapter 12
Eight months ago:
Binary: You’re using more semicolons than usual.
Mercury: Am I?
Binary: Seventeen percent increase. Semicolons connect things that could stand alone.
Mercury: Maybe I’m tired of things standing alone.
He’d expected shock. Panic. The kind of visceral terror that came with seeing your own face attached to federal charges. He’d prepared himself to manage that reaction, to talk her through it, to explain what he’d already deduced in his command center—that she’d been used, framed, turned into a weapon against her will.
“I should have told you sooner.”
“I already know some of it.” Lincoln kept his voice level. “I’ve been analyzing the cyberattack patterns. I know you didn’t orchestrate anything—the skill set doesn’t match.And I know they used your memory as a storage device. What I don’t know is how. Or who.”
Morgan looked at him then, something flickering in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or relief at not having to start from the very beginning.
