"Mr.Cross?"She stopped at the edge of his booth, angling herself so she could see both him and the blonde woman without turning her head."I'm FBI Special Agent Rivers.This is Special Agent Sullivan.We'd like to ask you a few questions."
Cross's companion straightened in her seat, her earlier ease evaporating."Nathan?What's going on?"
"I have no idea."Cross's voice was controlled, measured, but Isla caught the edge beneath it—the careful modulation of someone working hard to appear calm.He didn't stand, didn't offer his hand, didn't make any of the accommodating gestures that innocent people usually made when confronted by law enforcement.Instead, he leaned back in his booth, creating distance, his hands resting flat on the table in plain sight.
"FBI?"He let the letters sit between them like an accusation."And you thought the best time to approach me was in the middle of lunch?In public?"
"We went to your studio first," James said evenly."They told us you'd stepped out."
"So you tracked me down."Cross's jaw tightened."I don't appreciate being ambushed, Agents.Whatever this is about, it can wait until I'm back at my place of business.You can meet me there in—" He glanced at his watch, a gesture that felt performative."—thirty minutes."
"I'm afraid it can't wait," Isla said.
"Then make an appointment."Cross's eyes met hers, and for a moment she saw something flicker there—not fear, exactly, but awareness.The recognition of a threat being assessed."I have rights, Agent Rivers.Including the right not to be harassed during my personal time."
The blonde woman was looking between them now, her confusion giving way to concern."Nathan, maybe you should just talk to them.If it's nothing—"
"It's fine, Sarah."Cross's voice softened when he addressed her, a shift so abrupt it felt almost calculated."Just a misunderstanding, I'm sure.Why don't you head back to the studio?I'll handle this and meet you there."
Sarah hesitated, her eyes moving from Cross to Isla and back again.Whatever she saw in the exchange made her gather her purse with more haste than dignity.
"I'll see you later?"It came out as a question, uncertain.
"Of course."Cross smiled at her—a warm, reassuring expression that didn't quite reach his eyes."This won't take long."
Isla watched her go, noting the way Cross's attention followed her until she'd pushed through the restaurant's front door and disappeared into the parking lot.When he turned back to face them, the warmth had evaporated entirely.
"You just cost me a date," he said flatly."I hope whatever this is about is worth it."
"Is she a student of yours?"Isla asked."Sarah?"
Cross's expression flickered."That's none of your business."
"Everything's our business right now, Mr.Cross."Isla kept her voice level, professional, but she let him see the steel beneath it."We can have this conversation here, or we can have it at our field office.Your choice."
"My choice."He laughed, a short, humorless sound."Right."His pale eyes moved around the restaurant, taking in the other diners, the waitress refilling coffee cups two tables away, the general hum of ordinary life carrying on around them.When he spoke again, his voice had dropped."Fine.You want to talk?We'll talk.But not here.Not with half of Duluth watching."
"Then where?"James asked.
"My studio.It's five minutes away."Cross was already sliding out of the booth, his movements controlled and deliberate."Whatever this is about, I'd rather discuss it somewhere private."
"We'd prefer to keep things official," Isla said."The field office—"
"No."The word came out hard, sharp-edged.Cross stood at his full height now—taller than she'd expected, maybe six-one, with the lean build of someone who practiced what he preached."I'm not going to your field office to answer questions about—" He stopped, a muscle working in his jaw."What is this even about?You show up at my lunch, you scare off my companion, you make demands—and you haven't even told me what you want."
James glanced at Isla.She gave him an almost imperceptible nod.
"Monica Hayes," James said, his voice pitched to carry in the quiet restaurant."And Amanda Pierce."
The names landed like stones dropped into still water.Around them, Isla was aware of heads turning, of conversations pausing, of the particular quality of attention that came when people sensed drama unfolding nearby.
Cross had gone white.
Not pale—white.The color drained from his face so completely that for a moment Isla thought he might faint.His hands, which had been hanging loose at his sides, clenched into fists and then deliberately unclenched.His mouth opened, closed, opened again.
"Monica and—" His voice cracked.He cleared his throat, tried again."They're students.At my studio.What about them?"
"They're dead, Mr.Cross."Isla watched his reaction with clinical attention, cataloguing every micro-expression, every flicker of the muscles around his eyes."Murdered.And we'd very much like to talk to you about that."
