There’s something strange in Harry’s face that I can’t put my finger on, something darker than doubt. Studying her, he tilts his head in thought. “Or maybe the master manipulator is someone else.”
Suddenly, I’m out of breath.
I look at Tabby with wide eyes. When she sees my expression, she looks as if she’s been slapped.
We stare at each other. My brain says No, no, no.
And then, more faintly, something not so unequivocal.
Into our silence, Harry says, “I have no proof this person S?ren exists, except for your insistence that he does. I do have proof that you’re perfectly capable of breaching extremely sophisticated network systems, because you’ve given me a lovely demonstration. I also know you recognized me the minute you saw my ugly mug, which strikes me as incredibly coincidental. Too coincidental. And judging by the way our boy here keeps staring at you, I’m guessing there’s a lot more going on between you than could be considered strictly professional.”
When he pauses, I look at him. He says, “Which may or may not also be coincidental.”
I cut my gaze back to Tabby.
She whispers, “Connor. You can’t believe that.”
I stare at her, remembering how upset she was when I kissed her against the wall at the hotel, only to show up in my room half an hour later, demanding sex. My brain is recoiling in horror from the idea that…she…
“You came to me for this job!” she cries.
You knew I would, I think, but can’t bring myself to say it.
Harry muses, “I also find it interesting that Victoria Price, your employer from the time you left MIT until she disappeared under mysterious circumstances three years ago, left you everything in her will. Including a twenty-five-million-dollar penthouse in Manhattan.” As an afterthought, he adds, “Her body has never been recovered, correct?”
A crackling pause follows.
In the moment before Tabby jumps to her feet, time is suspended. I see her lips flatten, see outrage flare in her eyes, see the exact moment her opinion of me goes from “not sure if I like you” to “wouldn’t spit on you if you were on fire.” Then, with a lightning-fast unfolding of limbs, she’s up, and then I’m up too, and my hand is wrapped firmly around her bicep.
Stiffening, she bites out, “Lay another uninvited finger on me and you’ll lose the whole goddamn hand.”
Looking back and forth between us, Harry says, “Well. At least I know one of you isn’t in over your head.”
I growl, “Tabitha—”
Before I can finish the sentence, someone calls Harry’s name from the other side of the room.
He rises. I turn and see one of his agents, the one named Chan, at the entrance to the cafeteria. He’s holding out a cell phone.
“It’s Professor Durand from MIT.” His gaze skips to Tabby. “He’d like to talk to you, sir.”
Harry waves him over.
As Chan walks closer, Harry says calmly to me, “You got your cuffs on you, Connor?”
Staring at Tabby, I nod once, a curt affirmative.
“Excellent,” he says, taking the phone. He smiles at Tabby. “Because depending on what the good professor says, you might need ’em.”
Sixteen
Connor
While Harry has a muted conversation a few yards away, Tabby and I stand in frosty silence, staring at each other. I’ve still got her arm in my grip.
Fighting the adrenaline coursing through my veins, I keep my voice controlled when I say, “Tabby—”
“Fuck you,” she snaps, eyes blazing. Her cheeks are bright red, she’s breathing hard, and there’s a good chance I’m gonna get a knee in the balls any second.
I try again. “Tabitha. Listen—”
“Off is where you should fuck,” she hisses. With a swift, practiced move, she manages to twist away.
All my muscles tense. I’m braced to chase after her if she tries to break and run, but she doesn’t do anything except angrily brush her hair out of her eyes. Then she glares at me with what looks to be hatred.
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off.
“Go. Fuck. Yourself. Asshole.”
Heat radiates up my neck. I curl my hands to fists and count to ten.
Then I count to twenty.
“You lied to me.” It’s fast and cutting, spoken before she can curse. Her response is just as quick, just as angry.
“Never.”
I have to breathe deeply for a few seconds before I can control the scream crawling its way up my throat. When I speak, my voice is raw. “You said he was ‘wrong.’ That you were the only one who thought so. That you weren’t”—my voice grows louder—“fucking him.”
Special Agent Chan, standing off to one side, throws us a curious glance, and then looks away.
“All true! And then you shoved your tongue down my throat before I could say anything else!” she spits back at me, so furious, she’s trembling.
The anger gives me some hope that she’s telling me the truth. I’ve met plenty of people who can convincingly lie, but I’ve never met anyone who can force the physical signs of anger. The red face, the shaking hands, the ragged breathing, the dilated pupils, they all tell a tale. Rage is distinct, and honest.