Halfway up the stairs, however, she heard Fisher say as an aside to someone, “She’s hot when she’s bossy, isn’t she?”
“Spare us the details of your kinks, Fish.” There was laughter in Samantha’s voice.
Any other woman would’ve been charmed by Fisher’s compliment. But Eliza knew he tossed honeyed words out like float riders tossed beads in a Mardi Gras parade. So all she felt was tired.
And hollow.
I thought love was supposed to fill a person up,she thought dejectedly as she jogged up the stairs to the third floor.Turns out loving someone who’ll never love you back does the opposite. It carves out your insides until you’re left with nothing but a shell.
16
Fisher donned his biggest, brightest, down-home, aw-shucks grin when he opened the door to the three federal agents.
Even without Rafer’s warning, he’d have pegged them for G-Men based on their loafers alone. And why couldn’t they spice things up with a colorful tie or a swaggy pocket square? Why did they always look like pallbearers at a funeral?
And yes, as a man whose closet was full of black clothes, he appreciated the irony of his own thoughts. But the difference between him and the feds was that he dressed in black as a reminder he’d once been a coward and now he’d spend the rest of his life in mourning.Theydressed in black because they were trying to…what? Imitate Tommy Lee Jones?
Someone should tell them no one pulls off a black suit like Agent K.
The icy breath of February whispered in through the open door, and he was struck by the utter silence that cloaked the night outside.
In Louisiana, even in the dead of winter there was still life. Birds chirped. Gators growled. The sound of the mighty Mississippi rumbled.
Not so in the upper Midwest where winter wasn’t simply a reprieve from the heat of summer but was instead a frigid fuckingforceto be reckoned with. Anything with blood and breath had long since found a burrow to hide in. The Chicago River, running along the back of the property, had been frozen over for weeks. And it’d beenmonthssince he’d seen anything moving around outside what wasn’t a random brown leaf or a piece of refuse pushed by the relentless winds that swooped down from Canada.
At times like this, he missed home. Missed the sway of Spanish moss in the moonlight. Missed the soft sounds of the people when they spoke. Missed the taste of sweet tea and the smell of Cajun cooking.
But only at times like this.
Because, for the most part, home had only brought him heartache.
Heartache and horror and death.
“Come in.” He ushered the agents inside. “It’s too cold to be standing out there.”
“Thank you,” the tall, dark-haired fed said, flashing his badge while Fisher firmly shut the door. “I’m Agent Mulder with the Federal Bureau of Investigations.”
“Mulder, huh?” Fisher turned to the blond man standing next to Mulder. “Please tell me that makes you Agent Scully.”
Either the agents had heard the joke one-too-many times, or they’d left their senses of humor back at FBI headquarters. The second agent, whose high-and-tight haircut made Fisher wonder if he and Boss patronized the same barber, didn’t so much as blink.
“I’m Agent Waller.” Blondie flashed his own credentials.
“And this is Agent Moretti.” Mulder indicated the last man, a short, dark-eyed gentleman who seemed to shrink into the background compared to the other two.
“Pleased to make your acquaintances.” Fisher bobbed his chin. “You boys are out kind of late, ain’t ya? What brings ya to our neck of the woods?”
Playing the part of the affable Southern gentleman came as easily to him as falling into bed at the end of a long, hard day. Which was a boon when he wanted to trick uptight Midwestern types into assuming that he had a slow way of talking that translated into a slow way of thinking.
“Justice never sleeps.” Waller’s tone was arrogant. Something about the pinched look in the dude’s eyes told Fisher the man could probably benefit from having the stick removed from his ass.
“I reckon that’s true.” He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, unconsciously curling his fingers around his harmonica. “So what can we do ya for, gentlemen?”
“We’re looking for this motorcycle.” Mulder pulled a glossy 8X10 from inside his long, wool coat.
Fisher leaned forward to study the photo like it was the first time he’d seen the image, even though he’d gotten a good gander at it when Ozzie had blown it up on his computer screen.
“Mmm.” He frowned at the blurry image. “Could be one of ours. It’s definitely a Harley with some custom modifications. May I?” He gestured toward the photo, and when Mulder nodded, he took the image and squinted down at it. “No way y’all could clear it up?”
