The officer led me down a narrow corridor, the walls lined with framed photos of St. Augustine's finest, their smiles almost mocking in the dim fluorescence. He stopped at a door, rapped on it twice, and swung it open without waiting for a reply.
"An Agent Thomas is here to see you," he announced flatly before disappearing back into the hallway.
The office was a claustrophobic den of paperwork mountains and greasy takeout containers. A single bulb flickered above, casting sallow light on the man behind the desk. Detective Mark Larson slouched in his chair, a sneer plastered across his craggy face as if I were the inconvenience of the day. Which I probably was.
"Agent Thomas," I said, pushing the door further ajar. "FBI. I'm here about the Angela Jennings case."
His eyes, bloodshot and ringed with dark circles, barely lifted from the cluttered mess of his desk. He chewed on the end of a pen, a deliberate show of disinterest.
"Jennings?" he grunted, the word laced with derision.
"Working on behalf of Diane Matthews, the victim’s mother. Will Jennings’ arrest—it doesn't add up." My words cut through the dense air, sharp and insistent.
Larson leaned back, the chair groaning under the shift of weight. He flicked the pen onto the desk, where it rolled aimlessly before coming to rest against a mound of files.
"Ah, the grieving mother-in-law," he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. "Got the feds to do her dirty work, has she?"
I ignored the jab. "There are gaps in the narrative. We need to ensure we're not overlooking key evidence."
"Key evidence," Larson mimicked, mockery thick in his tone. His gaze finally met mine, and there was something chilling in its vacancy, the lack of empathy or even basic humanity. "You think I don't know how to run an investigation?"
"Collaboration could benefit—" I began, but he cut me off with a snort.
"Look, sweetheart, save your breath. This is my turf. Your badge doesn't impress me."
Larson’s chair creaked as he leaned forward, the acrid smell of old sweat wafting across the desk. "Now, if you don't mind, I have actual police work to do."
His dismissal was clear, but I stood my ground, refusing to be intimidated or brushed aside. There was more at stake than his bruised ego.
"Detective Larson," I pressed, keeping my voice cool, "I intend to see this investigation through. With or without your cooperation."
I squared my shoulders, the starched fabric of my shirt scratching slightly as I did so.
I was met with a scoff.
"Detective Larson, you can scoff all you want," I said, meeting his dismissive gaze with a steely one of my own. "But this isn't just about jurisdiction. It's about getting to the truth. And I’m not gonna just stand here and watch as an innocent man goes down for something he didn’t do."
"Truth?" He laced his fingers behind his head with an air of ostentatious contempt. "You're out of your depth, Agent Thomas."
"Maybe." My voice was steady, but inside, my pulse raced. "Or maybe I have resources that could help. Diane Matthews is counting on us—on me—to clear her son-in-law's name if he's innocent."
"Resources." He spat the word out like a cherry pit, his sneer deepening. "This department doesn't run on your fancy federal toys."
"Information, Detective." I leaned across the desk, closing the space between us, making it impossible for him to ignore the urgency in my eyes. "That's what I'm asking for."
"Ask away." He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "Doesn't mean I'll give."
"Someone's future is on the line," I said, refusing to blink first. "Justice demands we look at every angle."
"Justice?" His laugh was a bark, sharp and mocking. "You don't get to lecture me about justice in my own town, Agent Thomas."
"Then prove it." I stood firm, unflinching. "Prove that St. Augustine upholds it. Share the case files with me."
"Share?" He snorted, shaking his head as if I had just told a bad joke. "Dream on."
"Fine." I drew back slowly, knowing when to retreat—for now. "But this isn't over, Detective."
"Sure feels like it from here." Larson's grin was all teeth, zero warmth.
