frothy, and dumped them in a nonstick pan. He toasted a couple of slices of sourdough, poured a coffee big enough to dock a yacht, slid the scrambled eggs on the toast, and squirted sriracha on top of that.
“—culminating in an opening ceremony at two o’clock this afternoon. Developed to be impregnable to individuals like Mr. Epstein, the new Leon Walras Exchange will function as an auction house. Instead of the former NYSE’s real-time trading of every stock, company shares will be offered in daily auctions with descending bid prices. Final prices will be locked in according to the average at which they are purchased, thus removing the possibility—”
He’d overcooked the eggs a little, but the hot sauce made up for it. Hot sauce made up for most everything. Cooper finished the last bites, licked his fingers, and glanced at the clock. Just after seven in the morning. Even with traffic, he’d be at headquarters early enough to review the highlights of the phone taps before the weekly target status review meeting.
Cooper set his plate in the sink, dusted off his hands, and headed out. He skipped the elevator and took the three flights to the ground. It really was a lovely morning. The air was warm and rich with that ionized smell he usually associated with thunderstorms, but the horizon was clear and bright. As he reached the car, his phone rang. Natalie. Huh. His ex-wife was many things—sincere, clever, a wonderful mother—but “morning person” was not on that list. “Hey, I didn’t know you could manage to dial a phone at this hour.”
“Nick,” she said, and at the sound of her voice and the sob that cut her off, all light vanished from the morning sky.
And that was before he heard what came next.
CHAPTER TEN
Cooper’s apartment in Georgetown was eight miles from the house he and Natalie had shared in Del Ray. Like most DC drives, it had moments of grandeur set among long stretches of drab ugliness, all divided into agonizingly short blocks with lights at every damn one. Add city traffic, and the eight miles usually took twenty-five minutes, thirty if you skipped 395 and stuck to surface streets.
Cooper made it in twelve.
He opted for the Jefferson Davis, a distinctly unpretty street, but four lanes each direction. The transponder in his Charger broadcast a signal that marked him as a gas man to every cop within a mile, and so he treated speed limits as jokes and red lights as suggestions. When a cascade of brake lights bloomed before him, he downshifted to third and bumped the car up on the median.
He slowed when he pulled down her street—lot of kids on the block—parked, flipped off the car, and climbed out all in one motion.
Natalie was already coming out to meet him. She was dressed for work, in boots, a gray skirt to the knee, and a soft white sweater. But even though her eyes were dry and her mascara unsmudged, to his eyes she was bawling. He opened his arms and she came into them hard, threw her own around his back and squeezed. There was a humid sense to her, as though tears were coming out her pores. Her breath smelled of coffee.
Cooper held her for a moment, then stepped back and took her hands in his. “Tell me.”
“I told you—”
“Tell me again.”
“They’re going to test her. Kate. They’re going to test her. She’s only four, and the test isn’t mandatory until she’s eight—”
“Shhh.” He ran his thumbs across her palms, squeezed in the center, an old gesture. “It’s okay. Tell me what happened.”
Natalie took a deep breath, then exhaled noisily. “They called. This morning.”
“Who?”
“The Department of Analysis and Response.” She put a hand to the side of her head as though to brush her hair back, although none had fallen. “You.”
His belly was cold stone. He opened his mouth but found no words eager to come out.
“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing away. “That was shitty.”
“It’s okay.” He huffed a breath of his own.
“—culminating in an opening ceremony at two o’clock this afternoon. Developed to be impregnable to individuals like Mr. Epstein, the new Leon Walras Exchange will function as an auction house. Instead of the former NYSE’s real-time trading of every stock, company shares will be offered in daily auctions with descending bid prices. Final prices will be locked in according to the average at which they are purchased, thus removing the possibility—”
He’d overcooked the eggs a little, but the hot sauce made up for it. Hot sauce made up for most everything. Cooper finished the last bites, licked his fingers, and glanced at the clock. Just after seven in the morning. Even with traffic, he’d be at headquarters early enough to review the highlights of the phone taps before the weekly target status review meeting.
Cooper set his plate in the sink, dusted off his hands, and headed out. He skipped the elevator and took the three flights to the ground. It really was a lovely morning. The air was warm and rich with that ionized smell he usually associated with thunderstorms, but the horizon was clear and bright. As he reached the car, his phone rang. Natalie. Huh. His ex-wife was many things—sincere, clever, a wonderful mother—but “morning person” was not on that list. “Hey, I didn’t know you could manage to dial a phone at this hour.”
“Nick,” she said, and at the sound of her voice and the sob that cut her off, all light vanished from the morning sky.
And that was before he heard what came next.
CHAPTER TEN
Cooper’s apartment in Georgetown was eight miles from the house he and Natalie had shared in Del Ray. Like most DC drives, it had moments of grandeur set among long stretches of drab ugliness, all divided into agonizingly short blocks with lights at every damn one. Add city traffic, and the eight miles usually took twenty-five minutes, thirty if you skipped 395 and stuck to surface streets.
Cooper made it in twelve.
He opted for the Jefferson Davis, a distinctly unpretty street, but four lanes each direction. The transponder in his Charger broadcast a signal that marked him as a gas man to every cop within a mile, and so he treated speed limits as jokes and red lights as suggestions. When a cascade of brake lights bloomed before him, he downshifted to third and bumped the car up on the median.
He slowed when he pulled down her street—lot of kids on the block—parked, flipped off the car, and climbed out all in one motion.
Natalie was already coming out to meet him. She was dressed for work, in boots, a gray skirt to the knee, and a soft white sweater. But even though her eyes were dry and her mascara unsmudged, to his eyes she was bawling. He opened his arms and she came into them hard, threw her own around his back and squeezed. There was a humid sense to her, as though tears were coming out her pores. Her breath smelled of coffee.
Cooper held her for a moment, then stepped back and took her hands in his. “Tell me.”
“I told you—”
“Tell me again.”
“They’re going to test her. Kate. They’re going to test her. She’s only four, and the test isn’t mandatory until she’s eight—”
“Shhh.” He ran his thumbs across her palms, squeezed in the center, an old gesture. “It’s okay. Tell me what happened.”
Natalie took a deep breath, then exhaled noisily. “They called. This morning.”
“Who?”
“The Department of Analysis and Response.” She put a hand to the side of her head as though to brush her hair back, although none had fallen. “You.”
His belly was cold stone. He opened his mouth but found no words eager to come out.
“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing away. “That was shitty.”
“It’s okay.” He huffed a breath of his own.
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