The safe house is a two-bedroom apartment in Fishtown, owned by a shell company that traces back to Argus Corps through four intermediaries. I've used it twice before. Neither time involved a city councilwoman in the back seat of my car, but the protocols are the same: secure the perimeter, check the sight lines, wait for the situation to clarify.

  The situation is not clarifying.

  Maya Richardson - or the woman wearing Maya Richardson's face - sits on the couch with her hands folded in her lap. She's been performing calm for the past twenty minutes. Concerned but composed. Shaken but resilient. The kind of affect a politician practices in front of a mirror until it becomes instinct.

  She's good. I'll give her that.

  "I need to make some calls," she says. Not demanding. Reasonable. The voice of someone who understands that security protocols exist and is simply asking when they'll be relaxed. "My staff will be worried. The press is going to have questions about why I disappeared in the middle of a crisis."

  "Cell service is down," I say. "Storm took out two towers in the area."

  This is true. It's also convenient.

  "The landline, then."

  "Official use only. My discretion."

  She doesn't argue. That's interesting. A real politician would push harder - would invoke her office, her constituents, the optics of keeping an elected official incommunicado during a weather emergency. This woman just nods, accepts the constraint, recalculates.

  I settle into the chair across from her. The hazmat suit crinkles when I move. I've been wearing it for six hours and I'll wear it for six more if I have to. The smell is my problem, not hers, but courtesy costs nothing.

  "Let me explain the situation," I say. "Two unknown capes attacked you in the street. They claimed to be delivering a message from 'management.' They referenced the Inquirer article. They called you a liability."

  "I remember. I was there."

  "The question is: why would a criminal organization send enforcers after a city councilwoman who's been publicly advocating for metahuman emergency response legislation?"

  She meets my eyes. Maya's eyes, brown and sharp, set in Maya's face. "I assume you have a theory."

  "Several. The most likely is that you're not Maya Richardson, and that this whole thing was a farce for the cameras. For Argus Corps, specifically, but any civilians that see it are useful too."

  No reaction. Not even a flicker. She just looks at me with that same composed expression, waiting for me to continue.

  "The second most likely," I say, "is that you are Maya Richardson, and you've made enemies I don't know about. The third is that this was theater - a staged attack designed to generate sympathy or justify increased security. There are other possibilities, but they're less probable."

  "And which theory are you operating under?"

  "I'm keeping my options open."

  She shifts on the couch. Recrossing her legs. A small adjustment, nothing dramatic, but I notice that her hand drifts toward her pocket. Toward the phone.

  "Before you do that," I say, "consider the implications."

  Her hand stops. "The implications?" She replies, cool as ice, eyebrow raised. It certainly looks like Maya's eyebrow raise. Does her power come with muscle memory? Or does she just practice like a motherfucker? Fascinating.

  "If you're Maya Richardson, then making calls is fine. Inconvenient for me, but fine. You'll contact your staff, your lawyer, whoever you need. We'll sort out the miscommunication and I'll apologize for the overcaution. Maybe get fired," I explain. "But that's okay. I've got stuff waiting for me back in Boston."

  I lean forward slightly. The chair creaks. "If you don't get blacklisted," she comments dryly.

  "I've done worse than this, don't worry," I comment back. "If you're not Maya Richardson, then every call you make on her phone is another charge. Identity theft. Wire fraud. Impersonating a public official. Conspiracy, depending on who you're calling and what you're coordinating." I pause. "How deep do you want to dig before you start climbing out?"

  Her hand withdraws from her pocket. Slowly. Deliberately.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "That's a serious accusation," she says. "You're suggesting that a sitting city councilwoman has been replaced by - what? A shapeshifter?"

  "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm outlining possibilities and their consequences," I reply. "I don't do subtext or implicature. Not on purpose, at least."

  "On what evidence?" She challenges.

  "On the fact that two capes just tried to abduct you while claiming you'd become a liability to their organization. On the fact that you accepted my security protocols without the pushback I'd expect from someone in your position. On the fact that there's been an ongoing investigation into the possibility ever since a shapeshifter escaped from police custody two weeks ago, after having taken Maya Richardson hostage. You wouldn't happen to know her, would you?" I lecture.

  That lands. I see it in the way her jaw tightens, just slightly, before she smooths it away. If she was Maya, she'd be demanding a phone, not politely requesting one.

  "I'm in shock," she says. "I'm processing. Not everyone reacts to trauma the same way."

  "True."

  "You're making assumptions based on your expectations of how I should behave."

  "Also true."

  "So maybe you should wait until you have actual evidence before you accuse me of being an impostor."

  "I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm sitting in a room with you, waiting for the storm to pass, having a conversation about possibilities." I spread my hands. "You're free to make calls. I've explained the potential consequences. The choice is yours."

  She doesn't reach for the phone. "That's fascinating," I quip. "If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear, right?"

  "Those who would give up essential liberty to purchase a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety," she quotes back to me, coffee smooth.

  "Nice. Very local," I reply.

  We sit in silence for a while. Outside, the wind is picking up again - a second surge of the storm, or maybe just a lull ending. The windows rattle. Somewhere in the building, a pipe groans.

  I pull out a book. Erta Ale, by some Ethiopian geologist I'd never heard of until Belle recommended it. Dense, technical, exactly the kind of thing that requires enough attention to keep me focused but not so much that I can't track movement in my peripheral vision.

  "You're just going to read?" she asks.

  "The situation will clarify eventually. I'm patient."

  "And if I'm telling the truth? If I really am Maya Richardson?"

  "Then I'll apologize. I'm good at apologies. I've had practice."

  She laughs at that. It's a good laugh - warm, self-deprecating, exactly what Maya Richardson's laugh would sound like. But I've been doing this long enough to know that a good performance doesn't mean a true one.

  I read. She sits. The storm howls.

  Forty minutes later, the phone rings.

  Not my phone. Hers. Maya's phone, in Maya's pocket, playing Maya's ringtone - some classical piece I don't recognize.

  She looks at me. I look at her.

  "Answer it," I say. "Speaker."

  She hesitates for just a moment. Then she pulls out the phone, accepts the call, and sets it on the coffee table between us.

  "Maya." A man's voice. Calm, professional, with just enough warmth to suggest familiarity. "Are you secure?"

  "I'm in protective custody," she says. "Argus Corps. There was an incident."

  "I heard. Are you injured?"

  "No. Shaken, but fine."

  "Good. That's good." A pause. "Listen, there's been a development. The situation is more fluid than we anticipated. Some of our partners are concerned about exposure."

  I watch her face. She's listening intently, but there's something else happening - a layer of communication I can't parse. The words are innocuous. The meaning, I suspect, is not.

  "What kind of exposure?" she asks.

  "The article this morning created complications. Some of your donors are looking for answers."

  "What does that mean for me?"

  "You're going to need to come up with a good explanation for them, I bet," he says, laughing like it's a natural conversation. I'm 100% sure this is spy speak, though. I'm not stupid. "Another presser, I'm betting. Need me over later tonight to help you handle your speech?"

  Her expression doesn't change, but something shifts in her posture. A tension releasing, or maybe a new tension forming. Hard to tell.

  "No, I think I can handle it from here," she says. "You're sure, though? Aren't people getting sick of my pressers?"

  "People could never get sick of your voice, Maya," he says, and I almost believe it.

  "You're telling me," she replies, chuckling softly.

  "Maya." The voice softens slightly. "This isn't how we wanted things to go. But it's the best path forward. For everyone."

  "I know. I'll handle it."

  "Good luck."

  The call ends. She picks up the phone, turns it over in her hands, then sets it back down.

  I wait.

  "That was my chief of staff," she says. "Checking in after the attack."

  "I gathered," I answer.

  She's lying. She knows I know she's lying. But she's committed to the performance now, and she's not going to break character unless I give her a reason to.

  I could push. Could point out the inconsistencies, the coded language, the obvious subtext of that call. But I'm not sure it would accomplish anything. She's a professional. Professionals don't crack under pressure; they adapt.

  So I try a different approach.

  "Let me tell you what I think just happened," I say. "That call was from your handler. Not your chief of staff - your actual handler, whoever's running this operation. They told you the cover is blown, the situation is unsalvageable, and you need to execute whatever exit strategy you've prepared."

  She doesn't respond.

  "Here's the thing," I say. "I don't actually care who's running you. I don't care about the larger operation, the political implications, any of it. I care about one thing: confirming that the woman sitting in front of me is or is not Maya Richardson."

  I lean back in my chair.

  "So. Would you like to start over?"

  She looks at me for a long moment. Weighing options. Running calculations.

  Then Maya Richardson's face does something Maya Richardson's face has never done in any photo, any video, any public appearance I've ever seen. She grins, ear to ear, exposing every tooth her lips could expose.

  "You're smarter than you look," she says. "No offense."

  "None taken. The mask helps manage expectations."

  "If I'm going to tell you anything, I have some conditions," she says.

  "Nice to finally meet you, Alice," I answer.

  "Alice?"

  "You know, Alice and Bob. Cryptography," I answer again.

  She laughs again. "My name is Elena Morales. Not Alice."