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ARUNA SAT IN FRONT of the muted television biting his thumbnail, an old habit from childhood that it had taken him eight weeks of hypnosis to cure, back when he was an undergrad. Tonight he made himself stop at one thumbnail and then hunted for a file to smooth out the damage he had done. If he left any rough spots at all, he’d be back to biting in no time. He didn’t want the FBI agent to notice anything at all that might make him stand out. Fingers ending in bloody quicks tomorrow where today there had been only neat trimmed nails—that would be the sort of thing a good interviewer might notice.
And she was good, the FBI agent. The CDC guy, not so much. But the woman, her eyes had seemed to pierce his schooled expression and drilled right into his brain.
No. She didn’t know a thing, couldn’t know a thing. He’d been careful. All he had to do was think like an innocent man, and he’d be able to act like one.
Besides, he wasn’t guilty of anything, he reminded himself. Except for being a hero. He’d never get the recognition for it that he deserved. But he knew—and Jarri knew—that he was a hero. History would acknowledge it. One day, people would name their kids after him.
