Free Home of the Braised by Julie Hyzy

out? The two agents I didn’t know edged me toward a small upholstered wooden chair. The taller of the two men spoke. “Sit down, Ms. Paras.”
    He was built like a football running back, muscular and lithe. Dark skinned with black hair clipped close to his scalp, he had a slightly misshapen mouth that told me he’d been born with a cleft lip. His surgeon must have been skilled because the narrow, pale scar that ran vertically to his left nostril barely marred his chiseled good looks. His eyes were so dark I couldn’t tell where the pupils ended and the irises began.
    I’d been in enough of these situations over my White House career to know how disconcerting it was to be seated when a person in authority loomed above. “I’d prefer to stand, thank you.” I gave a quick, perfunctory smile as if to say that I wasn’t afraid.
    “Sit down,” he repeated. “That is not a request.”
    All of a sudden it hit me. “It’s Gav, isn’t it? Did something happen to him? Where is he? Is he all right?” I sank onto the hard cushion of the antique chair, my legs no longer sturdy enough to hold me up.
    The agent stood directly in front of me, hands clasped by his waist. At my question he blinked, but otherwise his expression didn’t change. His associate had taken one step back. Neither of them seemed particularly willing to answer.
    The room was quiet, save for the sounds of the gardeners buzzing across the expansive south lawn outside the window. The air was still as a placid pond, making me believe I’d cause a ripple if I moved even a little bit. I sat frozen in place, afraid that one of those ripples could result in bad news for Gav.
    With my hands clasped tightly in my lap, I asked again. “Please.” Surely if I was polite they’d see I meant no harm. That all I needed to know was that Gav was safe. I kept my voice low to keep from sounding harsh. “Where is he?”
    The agent before me didn’t unclasp his hands, but he did raise the fingers of one, silencing me. “You will answer my questions,” he said. “If you are forthright and truthful, you’ll be free to go.”
    Tension sharpened my words. “And if I’m
not
forthright and truthful?”
    So much for politeness.
    “Ms. Paras, I don’t believe you know the gravity of your situation.”
    “Wait.” I turned to one of the PPD agents, then the other, but both studiously avoided me. Collecting myself as best I could, I tipped my head up to make direct eye contact. “Who are you?” I asked. “Before I answer a single one of your questions, I deserve to know who’s asking them.”
    He sniffed in deeply. “You can call me Agent Tyree.” He unclasped his hands long enough to gesture to the side. “This is my associate, Agent Larsen. We—”
    “Tyree?” My exclamation came out reedy and high. “You were the agent at . . .” His sharp glare and a sudden realization on my part allowed me to catch myself before finishing the thought. Tyree had been the man in the gas mask who’d accosted us at the murder scene. The leader. I shot a glance to the two PPD agents, still standing sentry at the doors. I was about to ask if I was free to speak in front of them, but Tyree was way ahead of me.
    He lifted his chin toward the PPD agents. “Thank you, gentlemen. We have the situation covered here.”
    The two men left. Doors closed behind them with mournful, solid clicks.
    My stomach churned. When I’d last seen Gav, he’d been intent on returning to talk to Tyree. I was sure this man knew where Gav was, but it was clear he wasn’t willing to share that information. Or even let me know that Gav was all right. Determined to find out, I attempted to get to my feet, but Tyree was standing too close for me to be able to make it all the way up.
    “Last night, Ms. Paras,” he said very quietly, “you saw something that you were not supposed to see.” When he spoke this time, his voice was different. Cold, clinical. Between Gav’s response to this man and