Page 41 of The Pleasure of Panic

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - ISSY

The problem with this night is… some of it was fun. I mean, I’m pretty disappointed that this isn’t a game. Unless he’s lying, but I really don’t think he’s lying. He can’t be that good an actor. And we really were down at the Federal Building and I really was locked in an interrogation room, and he and his partner really did question me.

So what the fuck is going on?

And, more importantly, why the fuck is this happening to me? I mean, I was just minding my own business, doing my thing, and then wham. Bullshit everywhere I turn. It’s bad enough that Chella talked Jordan into a game for me. I mean, that’s a little bit humiliating all by itself. But then to be turned down?

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” I say, looking out the window as the world whips by. We’re on I-70 now, heading back towards Denver, and I can just see the glow of city lights peeking over the top of the mountains. There’s no traffic, so we should be back in downtown in like twenty minutes.

“OK,” he says. But it’s one of those OK’s that really means, You’re full of shit.

“I didn’t.”

“Fine. I’m agreeing with you.”

“But your agreement is really just placating me.”

“If you say so, Issy.”

I huff out a breath of air and decide to drop it.

“But you don’t make sense. And you know that. Your background is… well, spotty.”

Yup. It is. But there’s no way he could find out about my past. Like, literally, no way. That girl doesn’t exist anymore. So I don’t agree or disagree with his initial assessment.

“Which means it’s either completely made up or you’ve somehow erased parts of it. So which is it?”

I ignore him.

“I’m gonna figure it out.”

“Why?” I say, turning my body to face him. I’m angry now. “Why do you need to figure it out? Why can’t you just drop the whole fucking thing?”

“Because you’re somehow involved in a terror threat.”

“Says you,” I spit. “That’s probably bullshit. You guys probably made that up to make me vulnerable. To make me cooperate. And it’s not gonna work.”

“We didn’t make it up.” He laughs. “This is the fucking FBI, Issy. We’ve got better things to do than play sex games with you.”

“Could you just shut up?”

“Fine,” he says, pressing a button on the navigation panel. Music starts to play, something beat-y, and hypnotic, and dark, which does nothing for my already dark mood. But he stays silent all the way into downtown. All the way to my house.

I open the door as soon as the car stops, just trying to get away from him as quickly as possible, but then he shuts the car off.

“No,” I say, shaking my head, one leg already out the door. “No, you’re not coming in.”

“Fine,” he says, shrugging. “But I’m not leaving either.”

I get out, slam the door, walk up to my house, keys already in hand, open the door, slam it closed behind me, and flick on the light.

And then I do most of that backwards. I open the door back up, slam it behind me, skip down the porch stairs, run down the walkway, and open the car door back up.

“Forget something?” he asks, while texting on his phone.

“Someone was in my house.”

He stops texting. “What?”