“I know it’s just standard protocol, so just . . . ask away.” I was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop. “Really,” I said. “Whatever you need to know, just—”
“Do you attend the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Young Women?” the man blurted, and for reasons I will never understand I said, “Uh . . . yes?” as if it might be a trick question.
“Have you ever studied the subject of Covert Operations?”
“Yes,” I said again, feeling my confidence, or maybe just my training, coming back to me.
“Did your Covert Operations coursework ever take you to the town of Roseville, Virginia?”
Even in that sterile room beneath Washington, D.C., I could almost feel the hot, humid night last September. I could almost hear the band and smell the corn dogs.
My stomach growled as I said, “Yes.”
Polygraph Guy made notes and studied the bank of monitors that surrounded him. “Is that when you first noticed The Subject?”
Here’s the thing about being a spy in love: your boyfriend never has a name. People like Polygraph Guy were never just going to call him Josh. He would always be The Subject, a person of interest. Taking away his name was their way of taking him away, or what was left of him. So I said, “Yes,” and tried not to let my voice crack.
“And you utilized your training to develop a relationship with The Subject?”
“Gee, when you say it like that—”
“Yes or no, Ms.—”
“Yes!”
