But the damage is done. She pushes against my chest, sliding down until her feet touch the floor.
"I have to take this."
"No, you don't."
She's already reaching for her phone. "It's work. I'm sorry."
The call goes to voicemail. Immediately, it rings again.
"Shit." She looks at the screen, face going pale. "I really have to take this."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "Who is it?"
"My boss. From Chicago. There's a situation at one of our other locations." She's already backing toward the bathroom. "Give me five minutes."
The door closes behind her. I stand in my bedroom, hard as steel and suspicious as hell.
Her voice carries through the thin door—tense, professional. Words like "timeline" and "evidence" and "federal prosecutor."
My blood turns to ice.
I move closer to the door, straining to hear.
"—can't push any harder without blowing my cover?—"
Cover.
"—need more time to build trust?—"
Trust.
"—he's starting to suspect something?—"
Me. She's talking about me.
The call ends. Water runs in the sink. When she emerges, her face is composed, but her hands shake.
"Everything okay?" I ask, voice deadly calm.
"Yes. Just work drama." She forces a smile. "Where were we?"
"You tell me." I cross my arms. "What kind of work emergency requires discussion of cover stories and federal prosecutors?"
Her face goes blank. "I don't know what you mean."
"Sure you do." I step closer. "Just like you knew exactly where to search my apartment while I was gone."
"I didn't search?—"
"My bedroom drawer. The one that sticks. You went through my things while I was protecting you."
Guilt flashes across her face before disappearing. "I was looking for aspirin."
"In my personal effects? Next to my service medals and medication?" I laugh without humor. "Try again."
"Eamon, you're being paranoid."
"Am I? Because right now you look like someone who got caught lying." I move closer until she backs against the wall. "What's your real name, Sorcha? Who sent you?"
