I KNEW AMARA WAS HIDING SOMETHING.
Normally, she lied with the confidence of a politician standing in front of a burning building and insisting the smoke was part of an innovative heating strategy. This morning, however, she kept glancing away from the camera, smiling at nothing and touching the drawer beside her bed as though it contained either classified documents or a severed hand.
With Amara, both possibilities deserved consideration.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
On my phone screen, she froze in the middle of reaching toward the suspicious drawer.
"Nothing."
"That looked remarkably like something."
"I was adjusting the furniture."
"At six in the morning?"
She glanced at the drawer, then back at me. "It seemed uneven."
