"In case you change your mind."
I took the card. Looked at it.Dominic Craine, Deputy Director, Federal Bureau of Investigation.A 202 number. An email at fbi.gov.
"That's unlikely," I said. "But I appreciate it. Hope to see you and Special Agent Pleasant out there, Deputy Director. Charleston's a good town for it. I hear the pollen settles in your throat after a couple of weeks, but you get used to it."
I tucked the card in my back pocket.
He watched me as I went to the door.
Mendez was on the other side. I patted his shoulder one last time on my way out, the way you'd pat a dog you were never going to see again.
"Take care, Special Agent. Eat something."
I walked back to my suite.
I closed the door behind me. Locked it. Re-set the chain. Stood there for one long second with my hand flat on the wood.
Then I went to my phone.
Grant didn't answer.
I waited for the voicemail tone.
"It's Tommy. FBI just knocked on my door. Deputy Director Dominic Craine. Said you and Wyatt are under investigation. Real friendly about it. Suggested I get out of town. Call me back when you can."
I hung up.
I stood at the window. Charleston was just starting to come up gold at the edges, the harbor going from gray to silver to something with light in it.
I was supposed to be taking a shower.
Instead, I stood there and watched the city wake up, and thought about how much better the FBI's day was about to get.
And how much worse, probably, mine.
Fuck it. I needed something to eat. Time to walk Charleston.
7
REBECCA
The call came in two hours before the lunch rush.
It was Luis Soto, the manager, and he had his apologetic voice on—the one he used when he needed something and already knew he was going to get it because he was going to make it very hard to say no.
"Our guitarist cancelled," he said. "Last minute. Family thing, I don't know. I need somebody for the lunch set. Two hours, maybe two and a half. Hundred and fifty dollars plus whatever goes in the tip jar."
I was standing in my kitchen in my socks, holding a coffee mug, looking at the window.
"Luis—"
"I know you play. Priya told me. Said you've been gigging around town."
Of course, Priya had told him. Priya talked the way some people breathed—constantly, without deciding to.
"That's different," I said. "That's—those are places where nobody knows me."
"Rebecca."
