“Lemme guess. That little birdie was our brother? Keith doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” I pick up the phone, and I step out into the hall to gain the tiniest measure of privacy.

“Hey, Ez.”

“Tru, hey.”

By some silent, mutual agreement, we both fall quiet. I’m remembering our kisses in his car this morning. Urgent and hungry. I’m remembering last night, how we couldn’t get to each other fast enough. How my desire for him was fathoms deep. How I couldn’t reach the bottom of it.

“I can’t wait to see you,” I tell him, hush-voiced, making sure no one is around.

“You have no idea. I miss you already. What time are you coming for dinner?”

“I, um, let me call you when I’m on my way. I’m kind of in the middle of something and I’m not sure how long it will take.” I squeeze my eyes shut tight. “I’m going on CNN.”

“That’s great. What are you talking about?”

I give him the abbreviated version of what Piers found and how it’s been reported.

“And by commenting on this,” he says at the end of my explanation, “you kill two birds with one stone? Exposing Colson’s discriminatory practices and—”

“And taking Ruiz’s probable greatest threat down a peg or two, while giving us a sore spot to return to for black and brown female voters when the election rolls around. He thinks he needs the good ol’ boys to win this state. I want him to realize we can take this state with a broader coalition than that. This is one step in that strategy.”

“It’s a queen move.”

I chuckle, liking the sound of it, but not fully understanding. “What do you mean?”

“In chess—”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“As I was saying—” He pauses meaningfully, a smile in his voice. “In chess, when you run an attack on your opponent, you need the queen’s strength. It’s easier to capture a king using the queen than any other piece on the board. You are running offense on Ruiz’s behalf.”

“Ain’t that the truth. Never send a man to do woman’s job. You’re right. It is a queen move. Thank you.”

“Just the truth,” he says. “Now you'll text me when you’re on your way?”

“I will.”

“And you’ll spend the night?” he presses, the timbre of his voice going a few shades deeper and darker.

“Gladly, Dr. Stern.”

“Ms. Allen!” a young lady with a clipboard calls from the end of the hall. “Five minutes.”

I nod and smile. “I gotta go.”

“Are you nervous?”

“You know I am.” I touch my forehead. My fingers are trembling. “Every time I have to do this, I’m scared I’ll stutter or somehow—”