Vivian Caldwell had a theory about powerful men.
They were never as unreadable as they wanted you to believe. She had spent fifteen years as a tech consultant to some of the most formidable corporate entities in California, and in those fifteen years she had developed an infallible ability to read the specific frequency of a man's calls. The way they held their phone when a call mattered. The half-second delay before they answered a question they had already decided the answer to. The precise calibration of eye contact when they were managing you versus when they were actually seeing you.
Lucian Knight had the best poker face she had ever encountered. She would give him that without reservation.
But he had three tells.
The first was the scar. When he rubbed it, the rhythmic, unconsciou
