Something in her tone made me straighten.
“You know?” I asked.
“He panicked,” she snapped. “He was told to wait.”
Told.
Not asked.
Not advised.
Told.
My pulse slowed.
“By whom?” I asked.
Linda breathed into the phone, and I could almost see her standing in my kitchen, one hand pressed against the counter, her face composed into that martyr’s mask she wore whenever she wanted the world to believe she had suffered more than anyone else.
“You’re not as clever as you think, Emily.”
“No,” I said. “But I’m patient.”
The line went silent.
Then Linda said, “There are things you don’t understand. Things that were set in motion before you ever put on that uniform.”
“Then explain them.”
“You always did love giving orders.”
“I learned from professionals.”
Her breath hitched, anger cracking through the polish.
“You think that uniform makes you untouchable,” she said. “But uniforms come off. Titles disappear. A woman can be made small very quickly when the right people decide she has forgotten her place.”
