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Bell’s biting delivery hits me like the crack of a whip. He and Hays watch, hawk-like, awaiting my reaction.
"That’s…I happened to run into her," I hedge, scrambling for solid ground in this exchange turned quicksand. "She's been trying to take down a trafficking network—"
"Is this FBI protocol now?" Bell snarls. "Cozy private dinners with suspects? What information have you been feeding her, Miller?"
My mouth opens but no words form. There's no explanation to give, after all. I knew my actions were wrong. Reckless. Stupid.
And I did it anyway, because I wanted the truth. Not just an outcome, a statistic to make the Bureau look good, but actual justice.
"No need to fabricate more stories, Miller." Bell’s acid tone etches the air between us. "We have all the evidence required."
I jerk my gaze up, pulse stuttering. Hays’ cool stare bores into me. These colleagues I trusted now study me as if I'm the enemy. And perhaps…yes, perhaps now I am. A wave of dizziness overtakes me, the floor seeming to sway beneath my chair. I grip the seat hard, knuckles blanching bloodless white.
"Natalie..."
Hays' gentle tone slices through the tension. I jerk my gaze to her familiar face, my name a lifeline.
"Rumors have persisted about inappropriate relations between you and Alessa de Luca." Hays clasps her hands, radiating false sympathy. "As your psychological assessor, I had a duty to report any suspicions of misconduct, as I'm sure you understand."
Her words send me reeling all over again.
"You told them that?" I rasp out. "Based on gossip? You know how agents speculate—"
"Oh, my dear." Condescension drips from her tongue. "We have movedwellbeyond speculation now." She looks at Bell and nods. He pushes a button on his phone.
"Send him in," he says into it.
Before I can try to weave an apology or explain again, the door opens and Sam Wright strides in. His entry feels rehearsed, timed for maximum effect—the culmination of this perverse act.
"Good morning, sir." Wright strides forward, cocksure and smooth. He's cleaned up since this morning, I note wryly, though his eyes are still red and bleary. His smile remains but his eyes turn glacial as they rake over me.
Red flashes across my vision. The Sam Write I once trusted with my life has become an unknowable menace. Has everyone here fallen into insanity?
Sam stands beside Bell, smugness shrouding him like a tailored suit.
"Take a seat," Bell snaps, and Wright grins at me when he hears the tone in our Captain's voice. "Wright, would you like to make your report?"
Oh, boy, would he.
Sam Wright spins it out, every single time he's seen Alessa and me together, and some times that I know are complete horseshit, too. But I'm too cautious to speak up. Not yet. I want to hear it all, know what I'm up against.
"None of those surveillances were mandated by you, were they, sir?" I ask Bell at last, when the recitation stops.
For the first time, Bell looks uncomfortable rather than furious. "No. But—"
"Then I'm not sure they're admissible in any disciplinary action."
"Natalie," Hays says, leaning in with a fake-sad smile. "We have the photographs. You can't deny them. If Sam here happened to run across you in his civilian life, while you were bringing the Bureau into disrepute, it was hisdutyto follow you. To photograph you. To keep an eye on you…"
"Quite," Bell says shortly. "In any case—"
But Wright can't help himself, interrupting the boss. "So now that we’ve all stopped pretending Miller’s still on our side, maybe we should discuss how to handle her mafia bedmate."
Rage whites out conscious thought. I half-rise from my seat but Bell’s bark cuts through the roaring in my ears.
"Sit down, Miller! You're not helping yourself. Give me one reason I shouldn't slap cuffs on you this instant."
I think of Elena Martinez sailing off to her new life. In contrast, I'm a ship adrift in a tempest with no safe harbor in sight. Wright and Hays loom like circling sharks awaiting blood.
