The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel by Taylor Stevens

interruptions and questions as long as she could, but having him in the seat next to her overnight would likely find him murdered in the morning.
    “I’m sitting with Heidi,” she said.
    In a moment of quiet confusion, Heidi looked to Logan for assurance. Logan hesitated and then nodded, lips drawn tight. By way of rapport, Munroe gave his shoulder a playful jab, and his eyes returned gratitude.
    She stepped aside. Heidi slipped beyond her to the window, and Munroe moved out of the aisle to let Gideon pass. The boys continued toward the rear of the plane, and as Munroe stared after them, her original suspicion that Logan was withholding something turned to certainty.
    Luggage and paraphernalia stowed, Munroe tossed a thick manila folder onto the open seat tray, all of it overnight reading.
    Heidi said, “You don’t sleep much, do you?”
    Munroe opened the folder, an assemblage of documents that Logan had handed her shortly before boarding, and said, “You noticed.”
    Heidi smiled, radiating warmth. “It’s hard to miss, and it always seems that brilliance accompanies lack of sleep. Being one of those eight-hour-a-night people, I envy the extra hours of living.”
    At five-foot-six, Heidi was a brunette with baby blues, a few extra pounds, and a magnetic personality that belied her thirty-six years. She also had the ability to articulate complex ideas with concise simplicity, and although this surely made her an excellent project manager, to Munroe, this capacity was a portal to be tapped—a temporary window into life as a child of The Chosen.
    Munroe paused at the subtle compliment, tried to discern flattery, felt only sincerity, and said, “Don’t envy it too much. Sometimes the price isn’t worth it.”
    Heidi pulled a book from her purse and creased it open. “Logan says you were raised a missionary kid, kind of like us.”
    Munroe nodded. “Born in Cameroon,” she said, “West Africa.”
    “Is that why you have a guy’s name?”
    “In a roundabout way,” Munroe said. “When I was seventeen, I bribed my way on board a freighter headed to Europe—didn’t want to invite trouble by looking like a woman, so I shaved my hair, bound up my chest, and wore boy’s clothes. I needed a name to go with the look, and that’s where Michael came from.”
    “Did it work?”
    “The name?”
    “The look.”
    Munroe gave Heidi a sideways glance. “If I did it again today, you’d think I was a guy.”
    Heidi raised a chiding eyebrow, and Munroe didn’t begrudge the disbelief. You had to see it to understand.
    “Why’d you choose Michael?” Heidi said.
    Munroe said, “It seemed appropriate. She was King David’s wife in the Bible, and she couldn’t have children.”
    Heidi smirked. The Bible was familiar territory. “The spelling was different,” she said.
    Munroe nodded. “And she wore girl clothes.”
    “So do you,” Heidi said. “So why the guy’s name?”
    “I spend more time out of girl clothes than in them,” Munroe said. “Work takes me to some pretty rough places, and quite like boarding that freighter, it’s easier to get what I want done as a guy. My clients don’t expect me to be a woman either, so the name fit, and it stuck.”
    “What’s your real name?”
    With a lengthening grin, Munroe said, “Vanessa.”
    As if sharing a secret, Heidi tipped closer. “My real name’s Bathsheba,” she whispered. “I hated it so much I had it changed after I got out of The Chosen—adopted my middle as my first.”
    “Michael and Bathsheba,” Munroe said. “We should find us a David.”
    Heidi laughed and returned to her book, and Munroe to the papers in her hands. She removed a paper clip, shuffled pages, and phased from one mode into the next.
    In the world of information, life depended on accuracy. Assumptions and familiarity were treacherous, and it was a far different perspective standing here on the precipice of infiltration and kidnapping than it was glimpsing snapshots of