Demon Forged

Wren noting it.
    And despite Taylor’s prediction, Wren wasn’t defensive. She simply stood with her hands clasped behind her back, delivering her answers like she was reading from a report.
    “How long have you been working for Representative Stafford, Ms. Wren?”
    “Eighteen months.”
    “How were you made aware of the position?”
    “Through the academy where I received my training.”
    “And your duties are . . . ?”
    “I manage the household, including the daytime staff, and provide security.”
    “What form of security?”
    “If someone threatened either of them, I would neutralize the threat.”
    “Has it ever happened?”
    Failure weighted Wren’s psychic scent. Her face was unmoved. “They were threatened yesterday. I did not neutralize it.”
    Taylor considered that. The detective seemed the more impatient of the two women. She doesn’t like going over old ground , Irena thought. Wren didn’t either, but she gave no indication of it.
    “You drove them to the protest yesterday. Is that typically part of your duties?”
    “Only when Mrs. Stafford accompanies him.”
    “Do you think he loved her?”
    A jolt of surprise went through Wren’s psychic scent, but she didn’t hesitate to answer. “It is not my place to judge that. I can tell you she was my priority. He made that clear from the first.”
    “You didn’t remain in the car yesterday after delivering them to the courthouse?”
    “The crowd was large, and Stafford asked me to join them.”
    “Did he relay to you any specific concern?”
    “Only that the crowd might be unruly, given the controversial nature of the protest.”
    Controversial? Would that fit in with Rael’s politics? She would have to ask Olek.
    And, she thought, it was time to find out if Wren knew what Rael was.
    Irena waited for Wren to blink. When she opened her eyes, Irena stood at the opposite end of the window.
    Though Wren had been still, only her gaze moving, now even that froze. After a long second, she looked at the spot Irena had been standing, then over at Irena again. Doubt and confusion swirled in her psychic scent.
    “Where were you standing when the Staffords were shot?”
    Wren didn’t look away from Irena. “At the south end of the steps, where I had a view of the crowd. When I heard the rifle fire, I went up to attend to Mrs. Stafford and provide cover if it was needed.”
    As she spoke, the confusion slowly ebbed. In its place was humor. Either Wren was calling herself silly for imagining Irena’s impossibly quick movement—or she had realized what Irena was, and thought it funny.
    The humor vanished when Taylor asked, “How do you know it was a rifle?”
    Wren’s gaze snapped back to the detective. Her voice cooled. “Trajectory and damage. For the bullet to hit both the congressman and Mrs. Stafford, the sniper must have been on the roof of one of the buildings six hundred or six-fifty meters north. A bolt-action, probably similar to a FN SPR or an M40. They’re the most accurate from that distance.”
    “Why bolt-action?”
    “Because he missed, but didn’t fire again. A semiauto allows for marginally faster repeat fire. If he’d had one, he’d have gotten off a second shot before the congressman collapsed.”
    Taylor pursed her lips. “What exactly did you do for the CIA, Miss Wren?”
    “I worked for them.”
    “As what?”
    Wren blinked; Irena moved again. This time, the doubt was stronger and tinged with worry. A tiny line formed between Wren’s pale brows.
    “Miss Wren?” Taylor prompted. “You worked for them as what?”
    “As . . . an employee.”
    “Are you avoiding the question because you can, or because your work was classified?”
    “You need to ask them, detective.”
    Taylor nodded. “We will. Do you live here?”
    “Yes.”
    “Does the rest of the staff?”
    “No.”
    “Are they here today?”
    “I have given them the day off to grieve.”
    “But you’re not?” When Wren didn’t answer, Taylor let it go. “Have the Staffords ever argued in front of you, Miss Wren?”
    “No.”
    Taylor let her doubt show. “You’ve lived with them for eighteen months, and they’ve never argued in that time?”
    “Not that I have seen or heard, detective.”
    Taylor paused, looked her up and down. “You’re an attractive woman, Miss Wren. Has Stafford ever made advances?”
    “No.”
    “Have you made advances on him?”
    “No.” Humor shook through Wren’s psychic scent.
    Taylor couldn’t sense