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Hunt gives Northcutt his card, just in case she wants to follow up with that lawyer.
    I see her face as we leave. Northcutt’s not calling anyone.
    Someone should warn her never to play poker.
    They bundle me into the backseat of a black Buick with dark tinted windows. My mind is running through all the bad things this could be about. Clyde Austin’s credit card and my hot laptop come to mind. Plus there’s all the hotel employees who let us slide. And God only knows what else Mom has done.
    I wonder if the Feds would believe that Austin assaulted me, although the bump on my head is nearly gone. I wonder if there’s a way to convince them I’m the one who’s responsible for whatever crimes we’re talking about. I’m still underage. At seventeen I’d probably get sentenced like a kid. Most of all, I wonder what I can give up that will make them leave my mother alone.
    “So,” I say experimentally. “Where are we going?”
    Agent Hunt turns to me, but with his sunglasses on it’s impossible to read his expression. “We have some confidential materials to share with you, so we’re taking you to our resident agency in Trenton.”
    “Am I under arrest?”
    He laughs. “No. We’re just having a little chat. That’s all.”
    I glance at the doors. It’s hard to tell if I could flip the lock myself and jump. Trenton’s a big enough city for traffic. Stop and go. Red lights. They can’t take the highway straight to the building. If I could get the door open, I could probably run for it. Use my phone. Warn someone. Grandad, probably. He’d know what to do.
    I shift closer to the door and snake my fingers toward the lock. I press the window button instead. Nothing happens.
    “Do you want the air turned up?” Agent Jones asks, amusement in his voice.
    “It’s stuffy in here,” I say, defeated. If the window controls don’t work, there’s no way a lock will.
    I watch the scrubby landscape slide by until we come to the bridge. TRENTON MAKES, THE WORLD TAKES, it says in big block letters. Then we go over it. We take a couple of turns and park behind an innocuous office building. We go in the back way, one of agents standing on either side of me.
    The hallway is tan-carpeted and sterile. All the doors have keypads above the locks. Otherwise it looks like a dentist might rent space here. I don’t know what I was expecting, but not this.
    We go into an elevator and come out on the fourth floor. The carpet is the same.
    Agent Jones punches in a code and twists the door-knob. The con artist part of my brain thinks that I should be memorizing numbers, but I’m not that good. His finger is a blur of movement, and all I get is that he might have hit the number seven once.
    We go into a windowless room with a cheap table and five chairs. There’s an empty coffeepot on a sideboard and a mirror—probably two-way—on the wall.
    “You’ve got to be kidding,” I say, nodding toward the mirror. “I watch television, you know.”
    “Hold on,” says Agent Hunt. He goes out, and a moment later the lights go on in the other room, turning the mirror to tinted glass. The room beyond the mirror is empty.
    Agent Hunt comes back. “See?” he says. “It’s just the three of us.”
    I wonder if he’s counting anyone listening to us via whatever recording devices are in the room, but I decide not to push my luck. I want to know what’s going on.
    “Okay,” I say. “You got me out of class. I appreciate that. What can I do in return?”
    “You’re a character,” Agent Jones says, shaking his head.
    I study him as best I can, while trying to look bored. Jones is built like a barrel—short and solid, with thinning light brown hair the color of bread. There’s a scar at the edge of his narrow upper lip. He smells like aftershave and stale coffee.
    Agent Hunt leans in. “You know, most innocent people get upset when they get picked up by the Feds. They demand to see their lawyer, tell us that we’re violating their