I wait, picking at the seam of my bag, trying not to look like I’m about to bolt. The waiting area is all neutral colors, echoing with footsteps and the low murmur of agents coming and going.
After ten minutes, a man in a suit calls my name. “Carrie?”
I follow him past a heavy security door, down a carpeted hallway to a glass-walled interview room. He gestures to the table, closes the door behind us, and sits across from me. There’s no badge on his lapel, but he moves with the confidence of someone used to being in charge.
“I’m Special Agent Gates. You said you had information about the Reaper case?”
I nod, clutching my bag to my chest.
The glass-walled interview room is cold and sterile, the hum of an old vent the only sound when Agent Gates closes the door behind us. He sits, straightens a folder, and studies me with practiced calm. I try to mirror it, but my hands shake as I pull out my battered folder.
I place the folder on the table between us. “I’ve been gathering information for someone on your task force—Special Agent Frank Rodriguez. He’s been my point of contact for months.”
Gates raises an eyebrow, pen hovering. “Rodriguez? He’s not assigned to the case anymore.”
I frown. That can’t be right. “I didn’t know that. He told me to bring anything important directly to him or the task force. So I’m here. Special Agent Rodriguez—Frank Rodriguez—told me Jinn had already left the country. But I have proof that’s not true. My sister was with him in Youngstown just two days ago.”
“Hold up,” Gates interrupts, suddenly all authority, palm lifted. “Rodriguez isn’t authorized to work with witnesses. He’s not on this case. He’s on leave and shouldn’t be sharing or collecting information from anyone.”
His words land like a punch. “What?”
Gates leans forward, tone serious. “If you’ve been giving evidence or information to Rodriguez since he left the task force, that’s a violation of protocol. He shouldn’t have contacted you at all.”
I stare at him, stunned. “I didn’t know. He made it sound like I was helping—like it was urgent, that everything depended on me.”
Gates sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You did the right thing coming here. From now on, anything you have comes straight to me or my team. If Rodriguez contacts you again, you let me know immediately. Understood?”
He starts gathering the files, already shifting into action. “You’re not in trouble, Carrie. But we need to get clear on everything you’ve shared—and with whom. If you remember anything else, call me right away.”
I nod again, numbly, clutching the card he slides across the table.
I leave the interview room in a fog, the agent’s card clutched tight in my hand. The hallway is quiet, lined with closed doors and humming fluorescent lights. I’m just about to take a shaky breath and head for the exit when I hear hurried footsteps coming around the corner.
Rodriguez appears, moving fast, jaw set and eyes searching until they land on me. His mouth twists—not quite a smile, more like a warning. He approaches, lowering his voice as he steps right into my space.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” he mutters, trying to keep his tone level, but I hear the anger simmering underneath. He takes me by the elbow, steering me just out of sight of the main lobby. “I told you—you come to me with everything, remember? Not the rest of the task force.”
Before I can answer, Agent Gates’s door opens again, and both men’s eyes meet. Gates’s expression is unreadable, his posture relaxed but watchful.
“Everything alright out here?” Gates asks, voice even but with an edge.
Rodriguez’s fingers tighten on my arm. “She’s fine,” he says smoothly, “but honestly, you shouldn’t waste your time with her. She’s…not a reliable witness. I’ve worked with her before. She’s mixed up, jumps to wild conclusions, half the time doesn’t even remember what she’s told us.”
Gates doesn’t bite. “I’ll be the judge of that. Frank, can I see you in my office a moment?”
Rodriguez lets go, his jaw twitching, and follows Gates inside. The door clicks closed, but I can hear the low rumble of their voices—Rodriguez more heated, Gates’s tone lower, more professional. The words blur, but I catch enough. “…chain of custody…and misleading a…inappropriate contact.”
And then, clear as day, Rodriguez’s voice: “She’s not credible. She’s a junkie, she’s delusional. She’ll say anything for attention.”
I freeze, humiliation and anger knotting in my stomach. He’s trying to discredit me, make me sound like I’m losing it. He wants them to doubt every word I’ve said, every piece of evidence I’ve brought.
I glance at the exit, every instinct telling me to run, but I know it’s useless. If I disappear now, he’ll make me look even guiltier. I have to stand my ground—play along for now. Because if I don’t, the men I love are doomed.
Back at the motel,I sit on the edge of the bed and open my banking app. The numbers glare at me—barely enough to cover groceries for the week. I push down the panic, knowing I have no choice. I transfer what little I have onto a prepaid card and buy Marcy a ticket home online. It’s not much, but it’s enough to get her out of Youngstown, enough to give her a shot at starting over.
When I call Marcy back, my voice is flat with exhaustion. “I bought you a ticket. It’s waiting at the counter, just show them your ID when you get to the station. That’s the best I can do, Marcy. I don’t have anything left.”
There’s a pause, then a shaky “thank you” on the other end—her voice so small I almost don’t recognize it. I hang up, too tired to offer comfort, and drop the phone onto the bed.
