Through the glass on the door, I see a tall Black man with an erect posture that screamsofficialand a white woman with short reddish-orange hair stand waiting. The guy wears a blue button-up shirt, the woman a black blazer. Both are in jeans.
FBI. But not from the office in Kalispell. I know the agents there.
Detective Ewing.The thought is instantaneous. He relayed my story about the earrings. It’s the only reason two special agents from out of town would fly in.
When I open the door, the woman pulls a badge from her inside pocket and flips it open, revealing an FBI shield with an ID. “Crosbie Mitchell?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Special Agent in Charge Greene, and this is Special Agent Alderson.” Alderson flashes a smile, but Greene doesn’t alter herexpression. I perfected the same neutral gaze. Women in the business hone the poker face, clear and blank. Not warm, not incriminating, not cold, but not bitchy or conceited.
“So quick,” I mumble.
“Excuse me?” Alderson says.
“I didn’t think Ewing would notify you that fast,” I clarify. “But I’m very happy he did.”
“We took the first flight from Salt Lake, the local team provided a vehicle, and here we are, all in record time.” He announces this like he wants a Cub Scout pin for the effort, but it’s not obnoxious. There’s something calming and uncomplicated about his manner.
I’m feeling relieved at their arrival. I’m not gonna lie—even though I’m not entirely convinced it’s me—the looks I got at lunch freaked me out a little.
“Can’t say it wasn’t a little hectic,” he says. “That little airport sure is crazy.”
“Yeah, we’re on the map thanks to Glacier.”
“Your place isn’t far from the airport, though. That was a pleasant surprise.”
“It’s convenient,” I agree.
I usher them into the nook beside the kitchen. I’m suddenly conscious of my bright T-shirt with the minuscule flecks of blood. I wished I had changed it, even though the spots are too small for others to notice. I offer drinks but they decline. My ice water—now just water—and phone are still on the table, and they leave that spot for me.
After the preliminaries, Greene asks to see the earrings.
“I want to see them again, too,” I say. “I flew in today. From Dallas. And the first thing I did was look everywhere and I came up empty.”
They both look at each other, some secret communication—the connection I’d always hoped to have with a partner on the force if I’d stuck with it.
“You can talk with the guy who gave them to me. Wallace Scott. He went with me when we filed the report and spoke to Detective Ewing.”
“I see,” Greene says. “Your significant other?”
“At one point. We’re friends now.” Something about my quick declaration sets off a twinge of unease in me, like I’m just as coldhearted as I was when I broke up with him or, yesterday in the bar, when I thought negatively about his piano playing, like I’m somehow trying to dismiss him. But that’s ridiculous, I scold myself. I’m just stating the truth.
“Have you checked everywhere?”
“I turned the house upside down.”
“When was the last time you wore them?” Greene asks.
I wonder if she’s on a level playing field with the men of the FBI.
“I’ve asked myself the same question. Maybe out to dinner with Wallace.” I squint, thinking. Over the holidays we went out several times: to the local high-end golf club restaurant, to a nice place near the ski resort, to a bougie new place on the outskirts of town. “I usually only wore them when I was around him. And that was months ago. We broke up last winter, in February.”
“Have you searched your car?”
“I don’t think they’d be in my car.”
“Do you have a place where you keep valuables? A safe?”
