“Naturally.” Easterby was stealing glances at her, chewing on her lower lip and fidgeting in a way she hadn’t been earlier. “So,” she finally said, “would it be weird and tacky and totally inappropriate to ask for a phone number?”
“Sorry,” said Jamey, “I’m seeing someone.”
“Oh, notyournumber! Your brother’s.”
Jamey blinked.
“No one ever makes a play for him?” Easterby shook her head. “It’s amazing how few people have figured out what should be obvious about empaths.”
Whateverthatmeant. “You’re not getting my empath brother’s number. You work for an empath hunter and Stone Solutions.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Deal-breaker.”
“But—”
Jamey pointed at the house. “My threats look like that.”
Easterby sighed. They were quiet a long moment, and then she said, “I would have taken your number too. Just, you know. For the record.”
Jamey grudgingly smiled.
Chapter Ten
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The elevators opened into the reception area of Senator Hathaway’s former office suite on the fifth floor. Reece hung back, waiting for Grayson, only to have him gesture for Reece to exit first. Reece gave him a dirty look but led the way into the lobby area, hyper-conscious of his gloves.
The reception furniture was a bit nicer than the lobby’s—although still not too nice, striking the perfect balance between elegant but modest enough not to be accused of wasting taxpayer money. An enormous portrait of Hathaway dominated the area while a flat-screen TV on the wall silently played a local news station with subtitles.
Pitney Adams was waiting for them, a sour man with a pinched mouth and red eyes with heavy bags. He glanced between Grayson and Reece, his expression turning even more sour when he saw the gloves.
He turned to Grayson, unsubtly ignoring Reece. “I was told to assist an Agent Grayson?”
He started to offer his hand, then drew it back when Grayson’s arms remained firmly folded over his chest. Adams finally looked at Reece, his mouth pinching farther. And this time, his hand didn’t move. “And Mr. Davies, I presume?”
Reece smiled without humor. “Not even going to pretend you’ll shake my hand?”
Adams’ hostility deepened. “May I ask what an empath is doing here? I would hope you’re not presuming to investigate the death of our nation’s staunchest opponent of empathic influence.”
His generic accent and formal manner of speaking reminded Reece of Liam’s PR persona. But Adams’ voice had an edge of genuine dislike Liam’s had never had, no matter how angry Reece made him.
Reece opened his mouth, but Grayson spoke first. “He’s here because he’s with me. I don’t think we need more explanation.”
Adams’ hostility flickered, momentarily replaced with unease. “I’m sorry, Agent Grayson,” said Adams. “I don’t believe I was told if you’re FBI or...?”
“Or,” said Grayson.
The unease settled on Adams’ face. “How do you know who I am?” Reece quickly asked, trying to drive it away.
“You’re the only empath to ever consult with the police in Seattle,” said Adams, which was true until he added, “I’ve been informed of your work.”
Lie. But before Reece could ask how hereallyknew him, Grayson said, “Or you could admit you saw him throw up on TV.”
Reece looked at Grayson, then followed the other man’s eyes to the TV. “Ohno.”
