“Which committee?” Cole asked, his head tilting slightly.

“The Senate Armed Services Committee,” I said.

“I sent an encrypted summary of the logbook to Senator Vaughan’s chief of staff an hour ago from the diner down the road.”

“The hard copy is going to his office tonight.”

Cole’s posture went rigid.

The cigarette in his fingers snapped in two, the white paper tearing to reveal the brown tobacco inside.

“You didn’t,” he whispered.

“They don’t care about the Army’s recruiting numbers, Cole,” I said.

“They care about oversight.”

I threw the window open, the wet night air rushing into the musty study, smelling of damp earth and car exhaust.

I scrambled over the low sill, my boots finding the wet wood of the porch railing.

Behind me, Cole lunged toward the window, his hand reaching through the dark.

My phone, tucked into the outer pocket of my jacket, began to vibrate against my ribs.

The screen lit up through the fabric, casting a blue glow against the wet leaves of the ivy.

My boots hit the muddy lawn with a dull, wet thud.