“Yes. I mean, no, not with me. I haven’t been home yet. I’ll check when I get there.”
“Okay, let me know.” He leans back in his chair and sighs, as if to say,What the hell do you want me to do?
I give a slow blink as if I can wipe it all away. My mom always said this tic ran in the family, that our grandmother on her side used to do it, too. That Jess and I both do it when we want to clean something out of our minds. If that’s true, it’s a heavy dose of annoyance I want to flush.
“Ewing,” I say. “I know you’re not going to order up a protective detail for me. I can take care of myself. We’re just here to give you the information, to get it in a report. If something does happen to me, which I doubt it will, you’ll at least have some info.”
He nods in slow motion, studying me as if he thinks I might be setting a trap. God, this guy. Sitting in his office makes me realize how I’ve come to relish my autonomy as a PI and how much I value not being scrutinized and told what to do, even if I am worried about my ever-increasing debt.
“Okay, great,” he finally says. “Thanks for that.” He tosses his pen onto his desk to signal that we’re done. “I’ll file the report and notify the FBI, although they’re swamped with these. You know that, right, Mitchell?”
“I know.”
I stand. Wallace does not.
“Wait,” says Wallace. “Is that it? I mean, isn’t there some kind of protocol to set up? Shouldn’t you give her some guidance? Direction? Should she confess something like they’re demanding?”
I clench my teeth. I’d squeeze my eyes shut like a child, too, to try to make it all go away if I could, if I knew I wouldn’t look like a complete fool in front of Ewing and Wallace.
“I don’t know.” Ewing stands, too. Gives me a quizzical look. “Should you?”
“No.” I stare back. “Shouldyou?”
An actual childish reply, but I couldn’t help it.
“Not me in that sketch.” His eyes lock on mine.
“What is the FBI advising?” Wallace says.
“Wallace,” I say, making it clear in my tone that I want him to zip it. “I can answer that. Nothing. They’re not advising anything. Right, Ewing?”
Ewing’s eyes stay on mine, half lidded, as if opening them all the way would show me too much respect. Why couldn’t it have been him in the sketch?
“Is there anything they’ve shared with you at all?” And here I am, talking to him again. Forcing a polite tone. “Something I should be aware of? Like, what this guy might look like? What he drives? What part of the country he might live in? Have they located an IP address?”
I need to chill. The station has gotten under my skin. So has Ewing’s cocky stare. He’s savoring the fact that I’m no longer a cop, that I couldn’t hack it, that I won’t have the decency to take this opportunity to confess to the world that I was wrong to report Hartley.
That I overreacted.
“They don’t have much,” is what he says. “If they do, they haven’t shared anything on the network. There are no descriptions. At this point, if someone ends up dead, the local department with jurisdiction investigates as usual and shares what they find with the FBI. And it’snot a two-way street. But if anything comes up, we’ll be in touch. And if you change your mind, you know, about anything?”
I say nothing.
Ewing is already sitting back down, but his glare stays on me.
“Thanks,” I bite off and grab Wallace’s arm, past ready to be out of this place.
Chapter 13
Randal
Randal Askens sat in traffic on the main drag and waited for a group of smiling, excited Chamber folks to move boxes of Christmas decorations across the street so they could decorate the town.
In a few weeks, they’d have the annual tree-lighting ceremonies, transforming the tall pines to bright greens, blues, and golds.
Randal picked up his phone off the passenger seat when the screen lit up.Damn phone,he thought. Even though he had the ringer turned on, it never made a sound, so he ended up missing calls.
He listened to the voicemail, waiting for the last pedestrian to carry her box across the intersection. The message was from Principal Hopkins, asking him to come in for another meeting. Coach Lawry would be there, too.
