“It’s all good,” I tell her. “Why don’t you call it a day? I know you need to pick up Quinn from hockey practice.” Her boy has recently picked up the sport, thanks to her NHL-playing boyfriend, West, and I know she treasures the time she gets to watch him.
She nibbles again, clearly torn between wanting to go hang out with her kiddo and her responsibilities here, especially when things haven’t been going well today…or any of the last days.
And now the FBI.
So, with two FBI agents in my office, responsibility wins out in Jo’s internal battle. “I can?—”
“Go,” I order softly. “Tom and the guys will be right behind you.”
“I—” he begins to protest.
“You have that dinner with Matt tonight, remember?” I remind him. “You don’t want to be late.”
“I—”
I cut my eyes to Jo, thankful when she reads my unspoken words and comes over, taking Tom’s arm.
“I’ll get us out of here,” she assures me.
I smile at her, inclining my head as she ushers Tom out.
I know it won’t be long before the rest of the team is following suit.
The door to my office swings closed silently behind them.
I bite back a sigh and turn to the two agents. “How can I help you both?”
The woman whose tight brown curls remind me of Marie’s steps forward, extending her hand toward me. “Athena Phillips?—”
“Jackson,” the woman, older with a tight blond bun corrects slyly.
“Agent Phillips,” the first woman says dryly with a roll of her eyes. “Forgive my colleague. I’m a newlywed and Agent Robins thinks it’s hilarious to remind me of that fact.”
“Well, Agent Phillips—or Jackson,” I add, earning a smile from the older woman. “How can I help you?”
“Sandra, please,” she says, stepping forward and shaking my hand. “And we think it’s best if we sit down and chat for a few minutes. Is now a good time?”
To sit down and “chat” with the FBI?
I have the feeling that it will never be a good time for whatever conversation is about to come my way.
But I round my desk and plunk down in my chair anyway.
I’ve never shied away from the hard shit.
And I’m not going to start now.
Seventeen
Marie
“So,”Attie—excuse me,Agent Phillipsasks. “Gonna clue me in on the sweatshirt?”
I roll my eyes at the other woman, but I know this is my own fault.
Once, I could have gotten away with wearing it, having rushed from home to the office (aka having rushed from Jace’s place where he’d banged my brains out) to meet with her about Angela and her special brand of chaos.
But this is twice now.
