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‘That's me. Who mightyou be?’ Frank's voice boomed, dwarfing the distant clank of weights beingracked by the remaining gym patrons.
'I'm Agent Dark, andthis is Agent Ripley. We're with the FBI.' Ella met his gaze squarely, notingthe minute twitch in his jaw, the only betrayal of any unease. 'We need to askyou some questions.'
Frank's eyebrows rose,a ripple of surprise on an otherwise placid lake. ‘FBI, huh? What're the fedsdoing in this old fishing town?’
‘Therapists,’ Ellasaid crisply, cutting straight to the chase.
‘Therapists?’
‘Specifically, DonnaShepherd and Rebekah Holden,’ Ella clarified, watching him closely.
‘Rebekah?’ The nameseemed to strike a chord, and Frank's posture stiffened. His face was a canvasof shock, painted with broad strokes.
‘Yes, Rebekah Holden,’Ella persisted, her gaze narrowing as she observed the tremor that ran throughFrank's hands—hands that could easily wield lethal force.
‘Last I saw her was...a few months back,’ he muttered.
‘Only occasionally?’Ella pressed.
‘Only occasionally.'
‘Care to share whatyou were seeing her for?’ Ella asked, stepping closer, invading the space heseemed to fill so effortlessly.
‘None of yourbusiness.’
Ripley steppedforward. 'It's military-related, right?'
Frank arched aneyebrow in her direction. 'Come again?'
'You're ex-military.It's written on every inch of you.'
Frank tensed up as helooked down at his torso. 'Is it now?'
'Yes, it is. Navy ifI'm not mistaken.' She gestured towards Frank's gold earrings. 'That isn'tjewelry in your ear. That's currency. Should you die at sea and wash up ashore,those earrings could pay for your funeral. Old habits die hard, don't they Squid?'
Frank's response was aslow, broad grin that spread across his face, transforming his features fromstone to warmth in a heartbeat. 'Not bad,' he said.
'And when youdismissed your class, you used a military hand signal. You've also got twosparrow tattoos on your hands. That means you've clocked over ten thousandmiles on the sea.'
Frank burst intolaughter. 'Jeez. Anything else?'
'Don't even get mestarted on your thumb.'
'Okay, okay,' Franksaid as he raised his palms, 'but what's this got to do with my therapy?'
'You don't clock upten thousand miles of military work without seeing some action. And thatweathered skin under your eyes - someone with your muscle fatigue should sleeplike a log, but something's been keeping you up for years. One conclusion.PTSD.'
The muscles aroundFrank's mouth relaxed, his stance eased, and for a fleeting moment, theformidable persona of the gym instructor gave way to the human underneath.
‘Alright, you got me,'Frank grinned. ‘Who'd have thought the cops were so attentive.'
Ella, who had beenobserving quietly, had to give the old dog her due. The woman might be on winddown until retirement, but she could still deduce a man's favorite toothpastefrom the flakes in his beard. She knew that once Ripley got started, it was bestto go until she got it all out.
‘Well, PTSD isn'tsomething to handle alone,’ Ripley offered, her words a bridge extended towardsempathy. ‘Therapy was for that, wasn't it?’
A moment passed wherethe air seemed thick with unspoken truths. Then, the mountainous man beforethem nodded. ‘Yes, it was.'
Ella felt a twinge offrustration at herself for not catching the signs herself. She looked at thesigns Ripley pointed out: haggard skin, sparrow tattoos, gold earrings. Godhelp the first case she had to tackle without Ripley by her side, she thought.
