He had learned where to aim by watching who adults refused to defend.
Michael’s eyes moved from my face to the phone in my hand.
“Who are you talking to?”
“It’s a secure line,” I said.
I should have known that would land wrong.
To a reasonable person, it was a warning.
To Michael, it was a challenge.
His jaw tightened.
Then his eyes narrowed.
Then the small muscle in his cheek started jumping, the way it always did when someone did not shrink fast enough.
“A secure line?” he said. “So now you’re a spy, too?”
The voice in my earpiece came again, sharper now.
“General Mitchell, is there a problem?”
Michael heard the title.
So did my mother.
So did Tyler.
The kitchen seemed to pause around it.
Then Michael laughed.
It was dry and ugly, the kind of laugh a man uses when he cannot afford to look uncertain.
