“Ryan, this is Natalie. Her mother was Lydia Singh.” Each word drips with self-importance, like he’s curating some big story in real time.
The dark-haired woman offers me a stiff, tired smile. “Hi,” she says. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” My throat is so tight I can barely get the words out.
“Natalie’s been seeking answers for years about where her mother is,” Zed tells me, one eyebrow raised.
I hate the way he’s looking at me, expectant, as if I might be able to answer that question. Ugh. This guy is so nosy and obsessive. Determined to be part of this story, whether the people who wereactuallyaffected by it like it or not.
Not for the first time, I have to wonder if Zed is the one sending those texts, but I can’t imagine why he would want me to stop looking for clues. His entirelifeis searching for clues.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell Natalie, wishing I was anywhere but here. “It must be torture, not having any answers.”
I can’t look her in the eye. The guilt is too strong. I rememberhow Chase said he never feels guilty about anything, and I envy him right now, I really do.
Natalie nods. “It’s hard, for sure. Not knowing if I’ll ever get to bury her.”
My stomach twists, a painful knot forming. I want to flee, but all I can do is stand there, gulping down the shame burning in my chest.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this.” I don’t know what else to say, and I pray it sounds sincere.
“Thanks.” Natalie’s expression doesn’t change. She looks resigned. It’s a look I’ve seen on my own face in the mirror.
“Anyway, I, uh, have to go.” I give the most awkward wave on the planet and dart into the diner.
When the waitress leads me to a booth in the back, I practically hurl myself into it, overcome with relief.
That was awful.
I knew returning to Starling came with the risk of encountering my father’s victims, but it’s even worse than I anticipated. That bone-deep guilt.
I place my breakfast order, then sip on a coffee while I wait for either my food or Agent Foster, whichever arrives first. Foster wins. The bell over the door dings a few minutes later, and he strides inside. He kept his promise, leaving his federal agent getup at home. In a baseball cap and University of Nashville sweatshirt, he makes a very convincing college boy. Even his stride is less business and more swagger as he joins me in the booth.
“Hey,” Agent Foster says. “Thanks for agreeing to meet.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Polite, huh? What, are we playing good cop today?”
He chuckles. “I deserve that. Look, I know I was tough on you the other night. I apologize if I’ve made this any harder.”
I blink, feeling more thrown off by his apology than I ever was by his questions.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Honestly, I’m still finding my footing here. This is my first real case. Four months ago, I was still training at Quantico, trying to prove I belonged there. Not an excuse for being rude. Just a reason. So, to sum up, I’m sorry, and thank you for meeting me on a Sunday to let me apologize.”
“Okay. Thanks, I guess.” I hesitate, remembering the reason I’m up this early. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Have you guys disclosed my identity to anyone? Because I’ve received a few texts from someone claiming to know who I am.”
He gives me a sharp look. “Show them to me.”
“Um. Well, I only have this latest one.” I unlock my phone and push it toward him. “I deleted the other ones, but they were basically the same as this one.”
Foster reads the message, a deep groove appearing in his forehead. “I can see why this would alarm you. My gut says it’s just a prank or a fishing expedition. You know, new girl in town, a bunch of nosy people asking questions. I suspect the number is a burner, but if you want to give me your phone, our tech guys can poke around and see if they can trace it.”
“I’m keeping my phone,” I say stubbornly.
“All right. Then forward me the message and we’ll investigate. In the meantime, I’d advise you to change your number.”
