Page 58 of Hunt Me, Daddy

Most men waited for their turn to speak and called it listening. Ivan watched the architecture beneath the words. He knew when I turned a question sideways to avoid the answer. Twice he let the deflection pass. Once he did not. He did not press hard. He simply waited long enough that the evasion became embarrassing, which should have made me want to leave.

Instead, I stayed and we spoke for twenty-seven minutes. I knew because I checked the time afterward and felt betrayed by physics.

We talked about attribution confidence, financial shell behavior, false routing signals, and the specific problem of adversaries who were disciplined enough to let you expose yourself by trying to expose them. He asked questions that slipped beneaththe obvious layers of my work and found the places nobody bothered asking about.

Judgment.

Risk.

The cost of following a pattern no one else could see yet.

At one point, I realized I had told him more about my methodology in six minutes than I had told my last three clients combined.

He did not seem impressed, which was the most impressive thing about him. Instead, he seemed interested. Deeply, unequivocably interested, like what I said mattered because I had said it, not because he could use it to prove he was smarter.

I did not trust that. I wanted to though, and I didn’t know what to do with that.

Finally, the hallway began emptying as people drifted toward the next session. A conference volunteer stepped around us twice with increasing passive-aggressive energy. Ivan noticed before I did.

“You have a workshop in twelve minutes,” he said.

I went still.

“I do?”

“You mentioned it at the roundtable.”

No, I hadn’t. Had I? Maybe during introductions. Maybe in passing when Mara asked what sessions I was attending. Perfectly reasonable.

Stop being dramatic, Calloway.

Still. A cold and electric feeling moved beneath my skin.

“You remember that?”

“I remember relevant information.”

“And my schedule is relevant?”

His gaze held mine and for one beat, the hallway noise seemed to recede.

“It is if I am about to make you late.”

A clean answer. A little too clean. I could not decide whether I wanted to smile or back away, so I chose neither.

“Very considerate.”

“I have my moments.”

“Do they hurt?”

“Less with practice.”

This time I did smile, and I hated that he saw it before I could pull it back. He did not comment. Another point in his favor. Or against him. I had lost track.

Mara reappeared at the end of the hallway, saw us still standing together, and raised one eyebrow. It was the most academic expression of ‘I told you so’ I had ever seen.

“I should go,” I said.