"To meet my mother for dinner."
"In this car?"
Jordan kept his voice even. "Yes, sir."
Whitmore lifted the registration. "It says Marcus Hayes owns the vehicle."
"He is my father."
"Your father owns a McLaren?"
"Yes, sir."
Whitmore leaned closer to the open window. "What does he do?"
Jordan paused. He remembered what he had told Marcus less than an hour earlier: For once, I want people to see me before they see your title.
"He works for the federal government," Jordan said.
Whitmore's expression changed—not into belief, but amusement. "Of course he does."
Behind him, Cole typed Jordan's information into the tablet. The screen returned clean: valid license, valid registration, no alerts, no warrants, no stolen vehicle report.
Cole stepped closer. "Daniel. Everything matches."
Whitmore kept his eyes on Jordan. "People borrow documents. People switch plates. People lie."
Jordan felt his pulse quicken, but his hands remained still. "You can call my father."
Whitmore ignored the offer. Instead, he looked through the windshield at the scholarship certificate resting on the passenger seat, the family photograph beside it, and the sealed federal envelope partly visible beneath Jordan's jacket. His suspicion sharpened.