Page 6 of Shadow Burn

“With respect, Ms. Townsend, that’s not how I work.”

“With respect, Mr. Perault, that’s the contract I’m offering.”

They glared at each other across the kitchen table. Priss yawned at their feet.

“Hmm,” Jasper said.

“Hmm?” she echoed with no small amount of annoyance. She’d tried. She really had, but he was asking too much.

“You’re going to be a difficult client.”

She smiled ruefully. He had no idea how difficult she could be. “I prefer the word thorough.”

“Hmm,” he said again, but this time with a hint of amusement.

“If you were in my shoes, wouldn’t you be?” she asked.

Jasper unfolded his arms. He drained the last of the coffee. “Here’s what I can tell you,” he said. “The pattern you’ve described is consistent with the kinds of cover-ups I’ve heard of, and the speed of your reassignment after the flag tells me whoever buried it is high up in the intelligence ranks. It appears they’re also sufficiently exposed to be worried, which makes me curious. I think you’re probably right about most of what you suspect, but I don’t take cases based on speculation.”

“What do you take cases on?”

“Facts and my gut. You’re light on facts. Dates are often wrong because of a typo. Personal notes are unreliable. People’s memories are unreliable.”

She knew that all too well. “Vance was in his later years, but he had no signs of dementia, so if your suggesting this last letter was simply the output of a declining mind⁠—”

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying, your facts are circumstantial.”

“But your gut says you know I’m on to something.”

He gave her a nod. “The date of the last letter coinciding with Vance’s death is…suspicious.”

She toyed with one of her earrings, a rush of hope swelling in her chest. “So you’re not saying no.”

“I’m not saying yes either.” He gathered his things and stuffed them back into the bag. Priss let out a chirp, as if she knew he was leaving and was unhappy about it. “I’ll call you within the next few days and let you know my decision.”

Anxiety slipped under her skin. “You understand that I’ve shared classified information with you that could⁠—”

“I signed your NDA, Ms. Townsend. The information is safe. I just need to think.”

She stood, panic snuffing out the hope. “About what?”

“Whether your final-decisions clause is something I can live with. And whether you’re going to listen to me when I tell you you’re wrong about something, or when I disagree with your decisions. I need to know if you’re the kind of client who can respect feedback and heed warnings.”

She was more annoyed than she’d been since confirming her suspicion that she’d been quietly exiled by her own employer. “I can take feedback.”

Jasper stood and hooked the bag over his shoulder. “One more thing,” he said.

This ought to be good. “Yes?”

“Your notation system—the provenance order, the source codes in the margins, the way you’ve numbered your cross-references rather than re-lettering them?”

She glanced at the stack of notebooks. “What about it?”

“Whoever your supervisor is at the History Staff is lucky to have you. It’s good work. I can see you’re right to insist you’re good at what you do.”

Words failed her. He’d read over her notes in less than a minute and identified the philosophy behind a system she’d spent ten years refining. Not the color coding or the neatness. The logic. The bones of it.

An unwelcome sensation shifted into her chest. She was used to others noticing her credentials, her clearance, her mistakes, her inconvenient questions. She was not used to anyone noticing how she cared.