CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
“So,” Reid said as he entered the kitchen. He held his arms out at his sides and asked, “How do I look? Like I’m ready to meet a president?”
Maya looked him up and down, her arms folded. Reid wore his black suit—the same suit he had worn to visit Thompson’s grave—with a crisp white shirt and a dark blue silk tie. “It’s good,” she said pointedly, “but isn’t President Pierson a Republican?”
Reid frowned. “You think I should go with a red tie?”
His daughter grinned. “I’m kidding, Dad. You look great.”
“Thanks.” He looked around the kitchen and into the adjacent living room of their home in Alexandria. “Where’s Sara?”
“She’s upstairs,” Maya noted. “Getting ready for school.”
“Really,” Reid said blankly. It was only the second morning after he had returned from Israe
