Free State of the Onion by Julie Hyzy Page A

the White House grounds.”
    â€œI—”
    â€œIs there anything else?”
    My fingers now uncrossed, I dropped my shoulders. Stopped the anxious pacing. “No. Thank you very much for your time.”
    The logical portion of my brain, which I occasionally suspected occupied less than its allotted half, ridiculed my efforts. What was I hoping to accomplish by talking with Naveen?
    I didn’t know, exactly. I just couldn’t shake the sense that I’d screwed up somehow and I needed to make things right. I certainly didn’t regret playing a part in Naveen’s apprehension, but I did regret cracking him in the head with the commemorative pan. He hadn’t threatened me in any way—in fact, it had been more like he’d been asking for help.
    Resting my butt against my kitchen countertop, I rubbed my eyes. I should just let this go. I knew that.
    But.
    Just a quick Internet search, I told myself. Real quick. If I didn’t come up with anything, I vowed to let it go.
    After inputting countless different combinations of “Naveen,” “White House,” “trespass,” “Secret Service,” “D.C. Jail,” and “Farzad Al-Ja’fari”—the intruder’s name from the newscast—I came up with nothing beyond the broadcast pabulum from the night before. I was just about to try a Google image search when the phone rang.
    â€œI was just thinking about you,” I said as I picked it up.
    Tom made a noise that was half rumble, half laugh. “Good. I was afraid you’d be sleeping.”
    â€œBut it’s not that—” I glanced at the tiny clock at the bottom of my screen. “Holy geez, it’s almost two.”
    â€œYeah, I’m finally off for the night.” He didn’t yawn, but I could hear the weariness in his voice. “Heading home.”
    â€œI should probably get some sleep, too,” I said. “I have to be up in a couple of hours.”
    â€œWhat’re you doing up so late, anyway?”
    I opened my mouth, with no idea how to answer. What could I say? Oh, I’ve been conducting my own investigation—because you won’t tell me anything.
    I hesitated. And, despite being wiped out from his extended shift, Tom unfortunately picked up on it.
    â€œOllie?”
    â€œJust surfing the ’Net. You know how I get sometimes.”
    â€œWhat were you looking up?”
    A clock-tick went by.
    â€œJust…stuff.”
    He made a noise. Frustration, agitation; I couldn’t tell. He knew I was hiding something. That drove me nuts. The few times I’d tried to surprise him—either with a special date or a gift—he always had an inkling of what was coming. Some people might call it a sixth sense, but I knew that Tom was just that good of an agent. He’d been trained to pick up on clues others might miss. Trying to put one over on him was an exercise in futility.
    â€œWhat were you looking up?”
    I pushed out a laugh and said, “You caught me.” Using what Tom always told me was the most effective way to lie—the best spies in the world did it—I kept my answer as close to the truth as possible. “I was searching online for news about the guy who jumped the fence.” I left out the little tidbit about calling the D.C. Jail.
    â€œFor crying out loud, Ollie.” A slight scratchy noise over the phone line told me Tom was rubbing his face in frustration. “That’s done. Over with. Case closed.”
    â€œDid you ever find out what the guy wanted to warn the president about?”
    â€œWe found out everything we needed to know.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIt means that the guy was a loony who jumped the fence just like a dozen loonies do every year. We sent him to the D.C. Jail where he belongs. End of story.”
    I started to protest that Naveen wasn’t in the D.C. Jail, but Tom would want to know how