'And?' He winced at the impatience of his tone.

'Well—' she swallowed—'I've been informed that this guy can't mention Neil's work in any way—it's all classified—so the most he can do is give us his personal impressions.'

'So?'

'I could really use your help.'

'What about Shelley or Gerard?'

'Like I told you, we're stretched to the breaking point here.'

Thomas frowned. 'Why? I mean, what could I do?'

Her face went blank. The FBI, Thomas knew, underwent extensive training in tactical communication—or 'verbal judo' as they liked to call it in the media. The courses typically used words like 'managing', 'redirecting', and 'achieving', but manipulation was pretty much what it all came down to. A veneer of impersonal professionalism, as it turned out, was generally the best way for law enforcement to get what they needed, whether from civilians or suspects. The best way to win a pissing contest was to keep your dick holstered.

'Interpretation requires context, professor. No one knows Neil better than you.'

Thomas scrutinized her for a bemused moment. 'Have you always been so ambitious, Agent Logan?'

'C'mon… It's not so simple. You know that.'

She was right. There were lives on the line. Real honest-to-goodness people.

'I suppose not.'

'Then will you come?'

It felt wrong. He knew it in his bones—it felt so very wrong.

But she needed him.

'Call me in the morning, agent.'

And she looked so very right.

It took some rummaging, but he eventually found an old air mattress in the basement. He sat on the couch, his eyes fixed on the TV screen as he blew the thing up. Various news-models muttered in low volume. Apparently a bloody vertebrae had been found in a Long Island mail box, someplace far from the camera grid.

After finishing with the air mattress, he went upstairs and peeled some sheets and his comforter from the bed. Arms heaped, the air mattress bobbing back and forth, he went to the kids' room. Frankie and Ripley were fast asleep. Standing at the door, he paused to savor the magic of children bundled beneath blankets—warm, clean, and safe. Then he laid the air mattress on the floor between them, made his impromptu bed. He angled himself close to the rose-colored night-light, as if he planned to read. He stared at a broken crayon and the shadow it cast across the carpet. He tried to guess its color.

The little bubble in his gut suddenly yawned, became vast with fear and remorse and self-pity. Alone on the floor, he hugged his shoulders, clenched his teeth. He felt like a macaque monkey cringing desolate in the corner of some greater cage, watching the rest of the troop with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

Neil and Nora…