Chapter 5: Fitzgerald

"Why not him?" I asked.

Harker frowned at me across the desk.

"Why not who?"

I'd said it out loud.

"Nothing, ma'am. Sorry. Friday."

"Friday," she said, and went back to her papers.

Echo didn't answer me that night, or the next.

Sterling Hall sits on a hill above the capital, white stone and old glass.

Every House on the coast has sat at its long table at least once to be told no.

On Friday I stood against the wall of the Blue Room in Vanguard grey, three yards from Tobias.

We had earpieces and no weapons.

Harker's rule: if you need a weapon in Sterling Hall, the Vanguard has already failed.

The Harbor Authority came in first. Three tired men and a lawyer.

Then the doors opened again.

Lachlan Fitzgerald walked in.

He was tall and pale, with red-gold hair slicked straight back.

Charcoal suit. A signet ring on his little finger.

Four people walked behind him carrying his files.

He didn't sit. He waited for his chair to be pulled out.

A young server came around with water.

She was maybe nineteen, nervous, hands shaking.

A few drops splashed onto his cuff.

Fitzgerald looked at the cuff.

Then he looked at her.

"Look at me."

"I'm so sorry, sir."

"Sorry." He took the glass from her tray and poured the whole thing slowly into her shoe. "Now we're even."

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