“Give me options,” he said. “Somewhere that’s not the field office.”
The bedroom door opened, and Alyssa came out. She’d brushed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail. Her eyes were brighter. Her expression asked what was going on.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Claire said. Her voice lowered. “But Mack, this is the kind of call that affects the evaluation. You know that.”
“Yeah.” He looked at Alyssa, who was watching him with those green eyes that saw too much. “I know.”
He ended the call.
She was still watching him. Waiting. He owed her an explanation, but before he could give it, a buzzing came from the bedroom.
“That’s my phone,” she said, hurrying into the room.
He followed. “Who is it?”
She rustled through her bag and brought it out. He watched her face go still. “It’s Blake.”
Every alarm in his head went off at once. “Don’t answer it.”
She looked at him. “It’s my brother.”
“It’s a security risk.” He kept his voice level, the way he’d talk to any civilian who didn’t understand operational security. “Anyone monitoring his communications can trace a call. The cartel, the FBI, NSA. One call and they can start tracing your location.”
“I’m sure he’s worried about me. I need to answer it.”
“Blake is working for the people who killed Jenna.” The words came out hard, too sharp. “You think he’s worried about you right now?”
She flinched. The phone continued ringing, her hand gripping it tightly. He could see the decision forming, the old pattern of Blake-loyalty activating like muscle memory.
“If you’re going to answer it,” Mack said, forcing calm into his voice when what he wanted to do was take the phone and throw it out the window, “I’m listening in, and I need you do what I tell you to do.”
“You want to tell me how to talk to my own brother?”
He steered her into the kitchen, pulling out his cell. “I want to make sure you stay alive long enough to regret this conversation.” He grabbed her sketchbook and the charcoal pencil. “Put it on speaker. I’ll stay quiet. But if you need help, I’ll write.”
She stared at him for a long moment. The phone rang again, its loud sound echoing in the room as they stared each other down.
Then something in her face shifted, some decision made, and she nodded. As she hit the speaker button and set the phone on the table between them, Mack hit his voice recording app. “Blake?” she said.
“Alyssa. Jesus Christ, are you okay?”
His voice filled the room. Confident, smooth, the voice of someone who’d always been able to talk himself out of trouble. Mack’s jaw tightened.
Alyssa’s voice shook. “Blake, Jenna is dead.”
“I know. I know, Lyss, I’m so sorry. This whole thing is fucked up.”
Mack watched her face, saw how she wanted to believe the concern was real. He picked up the pencil, ready to intervene if she started going down a road he couldn’t let her walk.
Pay attention, Lyssa. Notice that he’s not saying what he’s sorry about. Not saying it’s his fault. Just that it’s fucked up.
She surprised him with the force in her voice. “Blake, what were you doing at that party? Those men?—”
“I can’t talk about that right now,” Blake cut her off. His tone became more urgent. “Where are you?”
Mack wrote quickly, Don’t tell him.
Her eyes tracked the words. “I’m safe,” was all she said.