And right in the middle of all of that is the newspaper article that I know Cressida probably never wants to see again. One with a giant headline that reads “MBI Deputy Director Killed in Witch Bombing.”
I’m sure she doesn’t need the article there as a reminder. Surely she remembers every detail about the day her captain and mentor was killed—along with nine civilians—in a bombing at a coffee shop just down the street from the office. She’d been at the coffee shop with her mentor, after all, had just slipped off to go to the bathroom when the attack happened. I know Cressida well enough to know the what ifs run through her head daily—what if she’d sensed The Witch before she attacked? What if she hadn’t gone to the bathroom at that very moment? What if I’d been able to save her?
I was a brand-new agent then, all fresh-faced and sure that the MBI was capable of tracking down any bad guy it set its sights on. I was too green to be involved in the investigation, but I’ll never forget Cressida packing up the contents of her desk in the bullpen, face grim, hair streaked with soot and smelling of smoke and death, in the moments after she was promoted to deputy director.
The next day, the article about the attack was pinned to that wall.
So I can’t blame her for looking just a teeny bit excited—bordering on manic—at the thought that we might finally have a lead in chasing down The Witch.
“We got a warning about her next attack. In code, as usual.” She pulls a plastic bag out of her top desk drawer and slaps it down on the desk in front of me. Inside the bag is a piece of parchment, on which words crawl about, appearing and disappearing as if they were playing hide-and-seek with us.
“It’s really from her,” I breathe. We haven’t had a confirmed message from The Witch in nearly a year. A few copycats, sure, but no one spells a message like The Witch.
“Looks like it, yes. I had our codebreakers take a look at it. You won’t believe her next target.”
I try to make sense of the flashing words, but they’re moving too fast, and it’s in code, and I’m too close to my own near-death experience to be in top form. I catch one word, though. “Pageantry? A beauty pageant, maybe?”
“Close. It’s the North Mountain Pig Show, held annually in Farrowville, West Virginia.”
I don’t like the spark in Cressida’s dark eyes. She looks…pleased. Smug.
Kind of like she’s about to get back at the person who blew up the Granny Annie investigation.
“We need to get someone in there undercover.”
She’s looking at me pointedly, and I finally realize what she’s saying. “Me?”
She almost-but-not-quite rolls her eyes. “Yes, you, Jensen.”
Well, that isn’t what I’d been expecting. She’s actually going to let me go undercover again? Despite the mess I made of things with Granny Annie? And here I thought she’d never trust me again.
Cressida snatches the letter back, disappearing it into her desk drawer. “Believe me, I’m not thrilled about this, but I need an agent The Witch doesn’t know. We assume she’ll target the show itself—believe it or not, it draws quite a crowd—so we’ll have you go down a few days early to meet the other pig handlers and get a feel for the place.”
The other handlers. “Wait. Will I be…handling a pig?”
Now she really did roll her eyes. “It’s a pig show, Jensen. What else would you be doing there besides showing a pig?”
“Maybe selling concessions? Or working security?” Surely there were other tasks that wouldn’t involve dealing with pigs.
“You’ll need to be a handler to have access to the entire show area. But don’t worry. We’re not sending you in alone.”
Oh, good. I could let my partner handle the pig. “Who’s going with me? Diehl? Peters?”
Cressida snags a pen from her pen holder and rips a sheet of paper from the notepad by her elbow. “You’ll be working with Grayson Michaels,” she says, writing quickly as she speaks. She pauses for a moment to look up at me. “Do you know him? He’s a medical examiner with Beacon Hills.”
I shake my head.
“No matter.” Cressida begins writing again, her script large and loopy. “He’s a pig shifter, so the two of you will fit right in.”
I blink. “What?”
Cressida looks up at me. “He’s the only pig shifter in anything close to a law enforcement capacity on the Eastern Seaboard. You’ll be going undercover as a pig handler, and he’ll be going undercover as your pig. Got it?” She drops the pen and shoves the sheet of paper at me. On it is everything I need to know about the Eastern Pig Show.
She leans back in her chair, one elbow propped casually on the armrest. “And, Jensen? This is your last chance. Screw this up, and you’re done with the MBI. For good.”
Okay, then. I swallow. “I understand, Captain.”
It looks like I’m about to get a crash course in pigs.
