I answered. “Julia.”
Static. Then his voice, rough and low.
“Hey, Detective.”
I pressed my eyes shut, laughter and tears tangling in my chest. “Took you long enough.”
“They just released me from the room of Very Serious Men and their Very Serious Charts,” he said. “Didn’t think they’d appreciate me stepping out mid-interrogation to make a personal call.”
“How considerate of you,” I sniffed.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
I looked around my home—at the half-unpacked bag, theuntouched coffee, the damp spots on my jeans where tears had fallen.
“Define okay,” I said.
He was quiet for a second. I could hear distant hallway noise behind him. Muffled voices. A door closing.
“You cried,” he said softly.
“Excuse me?”
“You’ve got that congested, trying-to-sound-normal voice,” he said. “You cried.”
“I hate you,” I muttered.
“No, you don’t.”
I swallowed hard. “How’s D.C.?”
“Gray,” he said. “Loud. Smells like old carpet and ego.”
Despite everything, a laugh slipped out. “That sounds about right.”
“They want me back tomorrow,” he said. “Different group. Different set of questions. They’re circling something.”
“Circling what?”
I could hear him lean against something—could picture him in some anonymous hallway, one shoulder braced against the wall, phone to his ear, eyes tired.
“A position,” he said at last. “Some kind of liaison. Oversight on new AI guidelines. Policy advisory. Fancy words for ‘we’d like you to sit in a box and be our conscience on command.’”
My stomach clenched. “And?”
“And I told them I’d think about it,” he said.
Fear snapped up my spine. “Think about it.”
“Julia,” he said quietly. “Breathe.”
“No,” I said. “No, Lucas, you don’t get to—”
“I’m not taking it,” he cut in.
I went silent.
“They just don’t know that yet,” he added. “I wanted tohear your voice before I walked back in there and slapped their golden offer back across the table.”
