Page 16 of The Pleasure of Panic

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because,” she says, “it… he… we were… never fucking mind why, OK? It just doesn’t. There’s no such thing as a mid-winter holiday!”

Declan and I exchange a glance. He picks it up from there. “So… you can either find another law firm and spend the night being booked and violated as your internal cavities are searched for drugs while we get another warrant and seize the contents of your house”—he stops to smile and spread his hands wide, like he’s about to offer a gift—“or you can just make this easy. Make it all go away by being cooperative.”

I chuckle, mostly at the aghast look on Issy Grey’s face at the mention of a cavity search. But also because Declan plays bad cop pretty well.

A knock at the door makes all three of us look at it. Declan walks over, has a whispered conversation with whoever is on the other side, and then nods and takes a file folder from the visitor. He turns back to us and closes the door behind him.

“Well, this might be your lucky day, Ms. Grey. Seems like we’ve picked up some chatter about your case. Come with me, Finn. We’ve got news.”

I take one more look at Issy Grey, whose wide blue eyes are darting back and forth between us with equal parts curiosity and fear, and leave the room with my partner.

Back inside the observation room I say, “What the hell was that?”

“For real,” Declan says, easing himself into the chair in front of the monitors. “We’ve got chatter. Seems like she might be telling the truth. The DC office just sent us an alert about a terror cell using unsuspecting female-owned businesses as fronts for a massive campaign.”

I can’t stop the laugh that bursts forth. “You’re joking, right?”

“Why would I joke?” Declan asks.

“Because that’s… a little convenient, don’t you think?”

He shrugs. “I’m just doing my job, Finn.”

“So we’re just gonna let her go?”

“No,” he says. “No. You’re going to take her up to the Silver Springs safe house and keep her there until we figure out what’s going on.”

“Is that legal?”

Declan smiles. “It is if she agrees to go. Just make her agree.”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. Go on, I’ll text you directions to the safe house and meet you up there later. And don’t underestimate this one.” He slaps the file onto the desk, opens it up, and points to something.

I read the paragraph and yet another guffaw comes out in response. This tiny woman might be the most interesting thing to happen to me since I came to Denver. Because Issy Grey has the rank of seventh-degree black belt in Jujitsu. That’s like ten years of serious, disciplined study.

“Who the fuck is this chick?” I ask.

“That’s what we need to find out,” Declan says. “She might not be a terrorist, but I’ll bet you a hundred bucks right now she’s not who she says she is. Find out, Finn. And then call me. Because DC is all up in our shit about this new threat and we need to figure out her connection quick or lots of people might get hurt.”

He leaves me there to figure things out. I study her file a little more. Mother was a veterinary technician, no father listed on the birth certificate, no college education, an assortment of odd jobs since age eighteen—including a Burger King in Waco, Texas, one Nate’s Auto Repair in Escondido, California, Hialeah Racetrack in Florida, and then a short stint as a cab driver in New York City.

All of which is weird in and of itself. Her job history reads like a classic runaway, except she was already eighteen… so not a runaway. At least not an underage one. But the really curious thing is that her juvenile record was sealed. Not just sealed, but absolutely sealed. Meaning even the FBI can’t see it without a court appearance and permission from a judge.

Which is unusual.

You have to read between the lines a little to get it. You have to know what the empty spaces mean. You’d have to’ve been there yourself.

Issy Grey isn’t who she says she is.

Issy Grey is lying.

CHAPTER THREE - ISSY

Finn Murphy is lying.