“What do you want?”
Static crackled. He was enjoying this.
“Your story, Agent Quinn.”
“What story?”
“Oh, we’ll get to that.” He sounded almost indulgent. “I like that you don’t flinch.”
Silence stretched.
“You took cover when I fired at you and Scout,” he went on, conversational. “You moved him first, even bleeding, you pushed Scout toward cover. Just like when the fire burned your shoulder.”
She went still.
Heat flickered along an old scar under the cashmere. That case was buried in sealed reports and a line in one medical file. Not in press, not in interviews.
“How do you know about that?” she asked. “That was years ago.”
“All my characters are researched. And you, Agent Quinn… you’re disciplined.”
A beat.
“I can see why Scout is so taken with you.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t give him anything back.
“What do you want from me?” she asked. “Specifics.”
He sounded almost amused. “Honesty. On the page. Begin with Lauren. You’ve read some already.”
Her gaze slid to the desk.
A journal lay open there, leather worn from use. Lauren’s namemarked the front page in a hand Tessa now knew as well as any case file.
“Write, Agent Quinn,” he said gently. “Your story is the one I’ve been waiting for.”
Static sighed, and he was gone.
Tessa stood very still.
And then?—
From somewhere beyond the frosted glass, a train whistle sounded.
Low. Distant.
Her gaze flicked to the analog clock on the shelf.
10:00 a.m.
Right on time.
Tessa walked to the desk, picked up Lauren’s journal, and flipped through pages of neat, increasingly frantic script—dates, punishments.
Profile work. He’d profiled her. Now she profiled him.
On the shelf above, blank journals watched her like unopened case files.
