“Okay,” North said. “Now I understand why you’re drowning your sorrows here at the bar.”

“Wallbrook is using her for some purpose,” Jake muttered. “I know it. He doesn’t care about her. He’s a self-centered narcissist.”

“Give it time. She’s a smart woman. She’ll figure it out.”

“Sure. But probably not before she gets hurt. And even if she does see him for what he is, she’s not going to turn to a guy like me. She’ll go for someone else with a PhD after his name. I’m just a college dropout who hunts bad guys for a living.”

“You really are in a mood tonight, aren’t you? Have another beer.”

“Good idea.” Jake raised his hand to signal Hank.

“Look on the bright side,” North said.

“What side would that be?”

“Got a feeling Victor Arganbright is going to put you in charge of a cleaner team one of these days. You’re good, and he knows it.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “You’re talking about me taking over your job, aren’t you? That’s not the way I want to advance my career.”

“We both know it’s not going to be long before Arganbright removes me from the team. I won’t be any good to him once I’m totally psi-blind.”

“Shit, man. I can’t believe this is happening to you.”

“If you had to wear these damn glasses day and night, you’d believe it.”

“I think we both need another drink.”

“A brilliant plan,” North said.

Being pulled from the one job he was good at was going to be bad enough. He had not told anyone—not even the doctors or his parents—his deepest fear. He was terrified he was losing his sanity as well as his talent. He worried that even the special lenses in his glasses could not save him. The hallucinations were getting worse.

No one wanted to work with a talent of any kind who might be mentally and psychically unstable. That went double if the talent in question happened to be the grandson of Griffin Chastain, the man who was believed to have sold some of the secrets of the Bluestone Project to the former Soviet Union. The fact that Griffin had disappeared altogether after betraying his country had convinced everyone that he had been quietly executed by the Soviet spy who had recruited him.

Griffin Chastain had vanished not long after North’s father, Chandler, was born. North knew that his dad had carried the burden of the dishonor that Griffin had brought upon the family name all of his life. North had also understood from a very young age that the weight of that dishonor had fallen on him as well.

“Some good news headed your way, at least,” Jake said.

North watched a long-legged brunette in a snug red dress emerge from the crowd. She stopped in front of him and gave him an inviting smile.

“How about a dance?” she said.

Her name was Larissa Whittier. She worked in the Foundation museum. She was smart, talented and ambitious. They had dated a couple of times but it had quickly become obvious to both of them they were doomed to remain friends.