Page 53 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

My mother looks at me.

“Celeste gave it to you willingly?”

“Yes.”

“And she still intends to validate the referral?”

“Her exact words were, ‘The referral still stands.’”

“Then we use it exactly as Rooke expects it to be used.”

Charlie nods. “I can isolate the handshake without breaking the encryption. When the token is placed near a compatible device, it points to a secure contact relay.”

She slides a CSA-controlled phone into the tray, and a few seconds later, a blank screen appears. Then a single line of text.

REFERRAL CREDENTIAL RECOGNIZED.

Below it are two fields—Name and Secure Contact.

Ledger leans closer. “That’s almost disappointingly simple.”

“That’s good security,” Charlie says. “Anything more complicated creates more places to fail.”

My mother looks at me. “Ready to introduce Maxwell Shaw?”

I look at the screen. Maxwell Shaw. A man who didn’t exist a week ago. A man Celeste Alati watched for one evening and decided was worth opening a door for. I nod. “Do it.”

Charlie enters Maxwell’s name and the secure contact channel we built into his legend. Then she taps submit, and the page goes blank.

For several seconds, nothing happens. Then three words appear.

REFERRAL UNDER REVIEW.

“That’s it?” Ledger asks.

“That’s it,” Emerson says. “Now they verify with Celeste.”

“And then?” I ask.

“Then,” my mom says, “Julian Rooke decides whether Maxwell Shaw is worth his time.”

I look at the black token beneath the scanner. Celeste chose Maxwell. Now Rooke gets to decide whether he agrees.

My phone reconnects as Ledger and I leave the analysis room for medical, and several messages from throughout the night arrive at once. Most are from the team.

Two are from Reese.

Reese: I found my phone. It was in the pocket of yesterday’s cardigan. Of course it was.

Reese: Thank you for staying. And for everything you said. I’m embarrassed that you saw me like that, but I’m also really glad it was you.

I stop walking.

Ledger makes it several steps before noticing and turning back.

The words on the screen blur slightly, so I blink and read them again. I’m glad it was you.

Not Maxwell Shaw. Not the man at the poker table. Not whichever version of myself would have made last night easier or lighter or less real.