Foster chuckles. “You Feds don’t threaten me.”
“If you leak one word of this to the press?—”
“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” I say, glancing between the two men. “This is my testosterone limit for the day. I need to get back to my patients.”
“I was hoping you could give me a statement on your whereabouts the night of the vic’s murder,” Foster says, stopping my retreat short. “There’s a station right around the corner.” He nods past the three-story building. “I’m sure the boys in blue wouldn’t mind loaning me an interrogation room.”
“You have no jurisdiction here, detective. My lawyer and I agree that your obsessive interest in me is now bordering on harassment.” Every chance I get, I bring my lawyer up to Foster. It makes him flinch, being reminded of the way AllenYoung belittled him on the witness stand during Grayson’s trial.
“Let me call an officer detail to escort you,” Nelson says to me in a low tone.
I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. I’m only a few blocks away.”
“Then I’ll take you myself,” he counters.
Defeated, I nod my acceptance. Constant monitoring has become the new norm for my life. The closer they watch me, the further from Grayson I feel.
And now Nelson is keeping the investigation from me. I have to remedy that.
I lift my chin toward Foster. “Call my lawyer if you need a statement. You know who he is.” Then I start out of the alley.
Foster steps into my path. “Some things just don’t line up.”
He’s like a mutt with a bone. I sigh my frustration and check my phone notifications, denying him my full attention.
He taps an unlit cigarette against his hand. “You had contusions around your neck that couldn’t have been from the car wreck. Your father”—he pauses with a snide smile—“I’m sorry,Malcolmsustained a lethal injury to the external jugular vein that was documented incorrectly, as a laceration due to the broken window shield of the vehicle.”
I relax my facial muscles, my expression unreadable. I’ve been up against smarter, tougher opponents before—some of which I faced more recently as I gave my official statement to the FBI. If Foster thinks I’m going to come undone for him in an alley, he’s undeserving of the little respect I hold for him.
“Lawyer,” I pronounce slowly.
He nods his head, then steps aside. “I’ll have my answers, Dr. Noble. Soon.”
“Ignore him,” Nelson says as he guides me past the detective. “His powerlessness on the case is just getting to him.”
I glance over, surprised by his insight. “I know.”
Agent Nelson is mostly quiet as we walk toward my building. The morning noises of the city are a comfort in spite of his relentless hovering. Ever since the day he discovered me cuffed to one of Grayson’s death traps, the FBI agent has inserted himself into my life, keeping a constant vigil over me. When he can’t be present, he makes sure I have a detail. As my friend, I suspect he wants me to believe, or even as a romantic interest. Someone who I can trust.
But the truth of his intentions lie in the guarded looks he gives me when he assumes I’m not paying attention. I’m a person of interest. A possible connection to Grayson. Nelson is quite skilled in the art of duplicity, as he should be in order to carry his badge.
I’m better, though.
My training exceeds the years I devoted to studying human behavior. I’ve been a student of deception from the moment Malcolm Noble swiped me and my sister from our parents.
Humans use each other. I don’t fault the agent for his tactics. I’m using him just the same. He’s my only means to discover any new leads the authorities uncover on Grayson. He’s my only way to know whether or not the FBI will turn on me.
I need him to trust me.
Although there’s nothing damning that Foster can say to tarnish my reputation further, I’m not conceited enough to think I’m above the law. My statement to Agent Nelson and the FBI referenced the accusations the detective leveled against me in detail. Hence why the agent at my side had no reaction to Foster.
I divulged the story as I can recall it:
The man I believed to be my father attempted to strangle me after I discovered the dead girl in our cellar. He locked me in the cell while he disposed of her body, then he forced me to drive us away from our home with the awareness that I was driving toward my own death… Weary and distraught, I wrecked the car into a giant oak.
When I awoke, I had no memory of Malcolm’s victims or his attack on me. The accident masked my injuries as well as his, and the officials documented the entire incident as a tragic accident.
I left Mize, Mississippi shortly afterward to pursue a grant for a college education. Sixteen was young, yes—but as I homeschooled myself and graduated early, I had nothing—no family, no friends—to tether me to that life.
