The phone on my desk rang.
Not my personal phone. The office line.
Alvarez glanced at it, then at me.
Only three people had this number so far: my assistant, the commanding general’s office, and base security.
I answered. “Colonel Whitaker.”
The voice that came through was thin, trembling, and familiar.
“Emily.”
Linda.
Linda breathed into the phone, and I could almost see her standing in my kitchen, one hand pressed against the counter, her face composed into that martyr’s mask she wore whenever she wanted the world to believe she had suffered more than anyone else.
“You’re not as clever as you think, Emily.”
“No,” I said. “But I’m patient.”
The line went silent.
Then Linda said, “There are things you don’t understand. Things that were set in motion before you ever put on that uniform.”
“Then explain them.”
“You always did love giving orders.”
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