Rampage looked at the map. At the lines connecting city to city, at the circled points that represented places women had disappeared, at the single point in Grand Ridge that represented a woman sitting at his kitchen table coloring botanical flowers in wisteria pencil because it was the first thing in weeks that had made her feel safe.
"Set up the meeting with the federal contact," he said. "Day after tomorrow. Here, not their office." He paused. "Emily's going to hear all of it."
Irish raised an eyebrow. "Everything?"
"She's not fragile." He pushed off the table. "She's going to hear what they found and she's going to give a statement and she's going to do it from somewhere she feels grounded. Not a federal office. Here."
"Does she know you are making these decisions for her?" Savage asked.
Rampage looked at him.
Savage looked back, unbothered.
"Set up the meeting," Rampage said, and went back inside.
She was still coloring when he came in.
Head down, hair falling forward slightly, the wisteria pencil traded out now for something blue-green. The page had filled in while he'd been gone, the flower was finished, the leaves detailed, and she'd started on the border pattern, careful and deliberate.
She didn't startle this time when he came to the table. Just glanced up, read his face, set the pencil down.
"Tell me," she said.
He sat. Told her the parts she needed to know. Delling as a collector, the network, the corridor east. Left out the two months of targeted contact for now. She'd get the full picture from the federal agent in two days, and he wanted her to have solid ground under her before that conversation.
She listened without interrupting. Her hands stayed flat on the table.
"Day after tomorrow," she said when he finished.
"Here. My terms, not theirs. I can stay with you. If you want, we can have Savannah on standby for after. Or Makenzie."
"Both," she said immediately.
"Both." He nodded.
She looked at the coloring book. At the finished flower. "He was building a profile on me."
"Yes."
"And I didn't notice."
"People don't." He kept his voice level. "That's why it works."
She pressed her lips together. Nodded, slow and deliberate. It was the way she processed things. He'd been watching her do it all week. It was the way she met hard information with a moment of stillness and then decided what to do with it.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"I'm angry," she said. "I'm really angry. But I’m okay."
"Good." He meant it. "Anger is useful."
She looked at him. "You're not going to tell me to calm down?"
"Why would I do that?"
"Because anger is—" She stopped. Seemed to hear herself. "Most people don't like it when women are angry."
