Page 85 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“You answered.”

“I’m trying something new.”

I sit back, impressed. Miles pulls to a stop at the guardhouse. A broad-shouldered man in a dark uniform steps toward Miles’s window, and Miles lowers it.

“Evening, Moss.”

“Evening.” Moss looks past him at me. He has the expression of someone who could watch a building explode without raising his voice. “Director Lancaster is expecting you,” he says. “I’ll need her identification.”

I retrieve my driver’s license from my purse and hand it across Miles. Moss scans it, then looks at the screen in his hand. Not at my unfortunate DMV picture. At information about me. I’m guessing there is a lot more information on his screen than my height, eye color, and the fact that I need corrective lenses to drive.

“Am I currently being assigned a threat level?” I ask.

Moss returns my license. “Your vetting was completed before tonight’s authorization.”

That is not a no.

Then Moss holds out some kind of scanner, and Miles taps his badge on it before placing his hand palm-down on it. Huh.

The gate begins opening, and Moss says, “Have a pleasant visit.”

“Thank you. I’ll do my best not to overthrow anything.”

Moss’s face remains perfectly neutral.

The mansion grows larger as we follow the cobblestone drive. Warm light shines through a few of the tall windows, but most of the building is dark. Only two other cars are parked in front.

“Who’s here?” I ask.

“Charlie and Emerson are still working on the operation I was part of today. A few security and support personnel are elsewhere in the building.”

“They know I’m coming?”

“They know someone authorized for a controlled visit is arriving. It’s…not a common thing.”

“They don’t know it’s me?”

“Charlie probably knows.”

“Because she’s a technical operative?”

“Because she’s Charlie. And she probably told Emerson.”

Miles parks, and we climb the front steps and open the big, wooden front door. The lobby is all polished marble, dark wood, sharp lines, and intimidation. A woman sits behind a massive reception counter wearing a black suit and an expression that makes me want to apologize for several library books I returned late in the fifth grade.

“Good evening,” she says.

“Ms. Hinshaw,” Miles says. “This is Reese Wilder.”

Her gaze shifts to me, but she doesn’t blink. “Director Lancaster is waiting.” Then, she gestures toward a row of small lockers built into the wall.

Miles opens one. “Phone, watch, purse, keys.”

I put all the items inside, and the locker seals with a soft click.

A door opens to the side of Ms. Hinshaw’s desk, and Evelyn Lancaster steps through. I have seen her in her home, in restaurants, at family celebrations, and holding her granddaughter while directing six adult children with a single look. Tonight, she is wearing a charcoal suit and a security badge. She doesn’t look like Miles’s mother.

Or she does, but she also looks like a woman in charge of a secret intelligence agency. Now I realize that her being able to direct with a single look is a skill she may have perfected on armed intelligence operatives. Those two realities are going to take some time to fit together.