Fred is white, lean and younger than I expected. Late twenties, maybe. Fair skin, scruffy hair, friendly wrinkles at the edges of his brown eyes. He has the voice of a venture capitalist or a junior lawyer. He doesn’t look or sound like he runs the most violent porn site on the dark web.

The house is made from many kinds of wood, carefully arranged. Pale slats around the foundations, darker beams up top, with a gradient in between, like a sunrise. Recycled timber, maybe, like in one of those expensive eco homes. The windows on either side look double glazed, the light inside dampened by thick curtains. The second level is smaller than the first, maybe just an attic.

It’s a fusion of the Old South and the New. Texans used to march into the wilderness with nothing but a hatchet and build a house to live in. If anyone else settled within a half mile of them, they’d abandon the house and build another somewhere even more remote. That urge is still there—but now people want their isolated homes to have solar orientation and heated towel rails.

Fred is unlocking the front door, even though he only just walked out of it. ‘Automatic locks,’ he explains. ‘Can’t be too careful. There are some bad people out there.’

‘Oh?’ I say.

He welcomes me into the warmth of a short hallway, two mirrors gleaming on either side, like in an elevator. I can hear a fire crackling somewhere. The downlights are painfully bright, making me feel as though I’m in a dentist’s chair, about to be poked with something sharp.

Fred hangs his jacket on an old-fashioned coat stand. The door locks itself behind us with a crisp beep.

‘Come on.’ Fred leads me through the hallway, which opens out into a spacious living area. Two white men in muscle shirts drop their Xbox controllers and get up off a grey sofa. A refined-looking woman in a slinky dress appears at the far end of the room holding a glass of white wine. A young man—maybe a teenager—sits on a beanbag in a hoodie and a baseball cap, looking at his phone. A skinny guy in a suit turns away from the fireplace and looks at me through glassy eyes.

I worked hundreds of cases at the FBI and studied thousands of mugshots, but I don’t recognise any of these people. Am I supposed to? Lux never met Fred in person, but he might have met Fred’s friends. If he did, I’m screwed. I don’t look anything like him.

But everyone is giving me polite smiles. My cover is intact, for now.

‘Guys,’ Fred says, ‘this is Lux.’

Heads nod all around. The two muscle men each raise a hand in a small wave. The young guy says, ‘’Sup?’