Killer Instinct (Instinct #2)(20)

“I’m calling that last dumpling, though,” said Tracy, pointing at the box in front of me as he headed for Annabelle’s room.

No sooner had he gotten there than Elizabeth turned to me. “I need to ask you something,” she said.

“Anything,” I answered, although I immediately regretted it.

“Before Pritchard reassigned me this morning I showed him the video of Darvish and his mystery woman,” she said.

“And?”

“And Pritchard pretended to have no idea about the white glow obscuring her face.”

“How did you know he was pretending?”

“It was a look he had,” she said. “It was super quick, came and went in an instant, but I saw it. I know I did.”

“What kind of look?”

“The same kind you gave me last night when I showed you the video,” she said. “You already know what’s causing that glow.”

“You’re that sure, huh? All based on a look?”

“Actually, I wasn’t sure until after I walked into your apartment tonight. That was the clincher.”

The second she said that, I knew she had me. I hated it when Elizabeth reminded me of how smart she was. But I loved it even more.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“You haven’t once tonight mentioned the video. You haven’t asked about my meeting with Pritchard, what he thought about the glow, anything …”

“You’re right, I haven’t,” I said.

“Because you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Or maybe I can’t talk about it.”

“Too late,” she said. “What are you not telling me, Dylan Reinhart?”





CHAPTER 26


I GLANCED down the hall, listening to the faint sound of Tracy singing softly to Annabelle.

When we first brought her home, we discovered she was basically lullaby-proof. None of the staples like “Hush, Little Baby” seemed to calm her down. Desperate one night, Tracy and I riffled through his iTunes playlist like a couple of possessed Casey Kasems. Much to our relief—and delight—we discovered that our baby girl was a Beatles fan. Tracy was now in the middle of one of her favorites, “Penny Lane.”

“Tracy really has a nice voice,” I said. “Don’t you think?”

“You’re stalling,” said Elizabeth. “That’s what I think.”

She’d intentionally waited until we were alone before asking me about the glow, and that only made me feel worse. She knew my darkest secret and Tracy didn’t.

I’d become all too adept at concealing from Tracy anything having to do with my CIA days. But my decision not to tell him—made so many years ago and done, I was convinced, for his protection—had always hung over me. At that moment it felt as if there were a giant boulder perched on a ledge in the middle of an earthquake, and I was standing directly below it wearing a pair of lead shoes.

Still, Elizabeth wasn’t about to take No comment for an answer.

“It’s called Halo,” I said. “That’s what’s causing the glow.”

“Halo? I don’t know what to ask first,” she said. “How does it work or who created it?”

“It was developed by a CIA lab back when I was stationed in London,” I said. “As for how it works, I’ll be damned if I understand all the science behind it.”

Elizabeth blinked in disbelief. “Did you just admit to ignorance?”

“Bite your tongue. I said I didn’t know all the science. The device, sometimes disguised as a necklace, reflects infrared waves, along with some visible light, and distorts any CCTV image. The effect is that blur of white you saw.”

“With a simple necklace?” she said.

“That’s the gee-whiz part. They’ve been able to produce the effect with what look like ordinary beads.”

Wait for it, Dylan. In five seconds, she’ll forget all about the science and realize the implications. Five, four, three, two …

“Jesus,” said Elizabeth. “So this woman with Darvish is CIA?”

“It’s possible.”

“Could she have killed the professor and made it look like an accident?”

“Also possible,” I said.

“Would Pritchard know something like that?”

“It’s highly unlikely anyone in your unit would know, including your boss.”

“But he could know about Halo, right?” she asked.

“We’re back to it’s possible,” I said. “But you can’t ask Pritchard because—”

“You and I never had this conversation. I get it. Besides, I’m not even assigned to the case anymore.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” I said.

“Can you blame me? We need to find out who this woman is.”

“We?”

“You want to know, too, don’t you?”

“Not necessarily. If she’s an operative, I’ll take it on faith that she was acting on good intelligence—information that no one inside the Agency is about to share with me.”

“What if she’s not, though?”

“Acting on good intel?”