When I walked into Mr. Hale’s office, the first thing I noticed was the way he was standing by his desk, his expression as unreadable as ever. The man had mastered the art of looking perpetually serious, like he was about to declare war or drop the world’s worst news.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hale,” I said, trying to sound composed, even though my stomach was doing flips.
He didn’t reply immediately, just turned and walked toward me with a slow, deliberate movement. His eyes met mine, and there was something in them—something I couldn’t quite place—that made me freeze.
Then he lifted his hand.
“Touch it,” he said simply.
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Touch it,” he repeated, as if that cleared anything up.
My brain short-circuited. Was this some kind of test? I stared at his outs
