S.A.S.
Jack entered, and the door thudded closed the way expensive doors do.
“You wanted to see me, ma’am?”
Gale didn’t turn. She muted the anchor mid-syllable and froze the frame—yellow tape, white suits, a cul-de-sac pretending nothing had happened. “Yes. Sit down.”
Jack took the leather lounge, which did not creak. He kept both feet flat, hands open on his knees, thumb ring tapping once against bone.
“Have you seen the news?” Gale asked.
“Caught some of it this morning,” he said, which was true enough.
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