“My mother was killed because she knew the locations of these black sites,” I say, leaning forward. “I’m not sure how she got her hands on the intel—if she stole it, or if she was personally involved in their operation—but she did. Maybe she threatened to go public, maybe she was trying to force the CIA’s hand into actually closing them like they were ordered to do. Maybe she saw things, unthinkable acts that shouldn’t be done to mice, let alone human beings, and she couldn’t sleep at night.”

“Are you accusing the CIA of killing your mother?” asks the President.

My mother passed along one more piece of information in her review. I didn’t catch it until the last time I read it, right before I called the President. The third sentence: Smith and Jones are amazing together and Heghil did a great job directing.

I thought to search up Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones, but for some reason I didn’t think to search up the director.

Turns out the movie was directed by a guy named Barry Sonnenfeld. Not by anyone named Heghil.

Then why put that name?

It took me awhile. Well, three minutes. But, then again, I had just done an internet search on the CIA.

Heghil is an anagram of LeHigh.

“I’m not accusing the CIA,” I say, then point at the director. “Him. He killed my mother.”

::::

The President and I watch the SUV speed away.

“What are you thinking?” screams Sullivan. “Accusing the Director of the CIA of murdering your mother. Are you insane?”

LeHigh didn’t so much as blink when I accused him of killing my mother. He simply looked at the President as if to say, “You stole me away from my bottle of wine for this?” and proceeded to open the door and leave.

I wish I could say his reaction helped dissolve any residual doubts I had about his innocence, but it didn’t. It made me question his guilt. And in line with the President’s last three words, question my sanity.

“Tell me you have proof and you aren’t just shooting from the hip here. I went to high school with LeHigh’s son. I’ve known the man for more than half of my life, which is why I personally appointed him as the Director of the CIA two years ago.”

“I have proof,” I say with little conviction.

“What?”

I don’t dare tell the President that my proof is a review written for Men in Black. He would give Red an executive order to clobber me in the face with one of his giant ham hands.

“Trust me,” is all that I can say.

“Get out,” he says.

I want to object, but I have nothing to say.

“We’re even,” he says.