Read The Inner Circle for Free Online Page B

over money—which is what that’s got his own really refers to. But right there, as she stood there in the living room, swaying back and forth in the pretend dance she always did with her mom after school, thirteen-year-old Clementine Kaye wasn’t sad about being alone… or having to cook dinner… or even having to fend for herself.
    She was prepared. She was always prepared.
    But more than prepared, she was just happy to hear her mom’s voice.
     
    5
    Today
    Washington, D.C.
    I don’t see what the big disaster is,” Clementine says in the SCIF.
    “Nonono— don’t touch it !” Orlando yells as I reach for the small file folder.
    “What? It’s soaking wet,” I argue, snatching it, now dripping, from the coffee puddle.
    “We could’ve put it back,” he says.
    “It’s soaking. Look. See the soaking?” I hold up the file so he can spot the drip-drip from the corner of the manila folder. “You think I can just shove this back under the chair like nothing happened? We need to report this.”
    “Lando, you there? Vault all clear?” a voice crackles through his walkie-talkie.
    We all turn toward the upended wooden chair and the gaping hollow hiding spot underneath.
    “Y-Yeah, perfect,” Orlando reports back through his walkie.
    “Good, because company’s coming,” the voice crackles back. “Service says ten minutes till departure.”
    From here, the White House is a ten-minute trip. But only three if you’re coming by motorcade.
    “We need to get out of here,” I say, trying to sop up the coffee with my lab coat.
    Orlando stays focused on the chair. On the side of it, just underneath the actual seat, there’s a narrow slot—like a mail slot—cut into the piece of wood that connects the left front leg with the back leg. “D’you have any idea what this—?” He shakes his head, his toothy grin long gone. “You were right. We gotta report this.”
    “I take that back. Let’s think about this.”
    “Beech, if someone’s using this room as a dead drop…”
    “You don’t know that.”
    “A dead drop ?” Clementine asks.
    “Like a hiding spot,” Orlando says.
    Reading her confusion, I add, “It’s a place where you leave something for another person, so you don’t have to risk a face-to-face meeting. Like taping something below a mailbox, or in a hollowed-out tree, or…”
    “… in a chair,” Clementine says, quickly seeing the full picture. With the narrow mail slot underneath the seat, it’d be simple to slide an item into the chair seat, then take it out through the removable hollow bottom. “So if this SCIF is used only by President Wallace, and there’s something hidden here for him…”
    “Or by him,” Orlando points out.
    “Don’t say that. We don’t know that. We don’t know anything ,” I insist.
    “And you believe those words as they leave your lips? You really think this is all just some innocent Three’s Company misunderstanding, Chrissy?” Orlando asks. “Or are you just worried that if I file an official report, your name will be permanently linked to whatever presidential bullcrap we just tripped into?”
    On the corner of the file folder, a single drip of coffee builds to a pregnant swell, but never falls.
    “We should open it and see what’s inside,” Clementine offers, far calmer than the two of us.
    “No. Don’t open it,” I insist.
    “What’re you talking about?” Orlando asks.
    “You ever seen a horror movie? There’s that moment where they hear the noise in the woods and some dumbass says, Let’s go see what’s making that noise! And of course you know right there he’s number one in the body count. Well… we’re in the horror movie: At this exact moment, this little file folder is Pandora’s box. And as long as we keep it shut—as long as we don’t know what’s inside the box—we can still walk away.”
    “Unless there’s a real monster in the box,” Orlando points out.
    “Orlando…”
    “Don’t Orlando me. This is my