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“Oh, ought you.”
“I’m trying.”
Alex waved a hand. “Don’t worry. Mystery writer, remember? I like puzzles.” And attractive FBI agents, he nearly said. But didn’t. Self-control. Practicing it. “I have a present for you.”
Agent Forrest now appeared profoundly baffled, as if this were not the script he’d had in his head. Up close, and somewhat perplexed, he became younger: Alex’s age, or a couple of years older, maybe late thirties or just barely forty, and confronted by new information. “When did you…how…you shouldn’t even…you almost died, yesterday…”
“I didn’t get out of bed. Is that concern? You look concerned. Sit down for this, it’s fun. Would you like the names of all the new organizing committee members, and their official convention-related emails, and, this is the big one, the email one of them sent to an external address, containing financial account information? With some interesting transfers?”
Agent Forrest stared at him more. And then, slowly, sat down. The chair creaked in protest.
“See,” Alex said. “A present.”
“How?”
“I know a lot of the volunteers from previous years, and most of them weren’t happy with this weird takeover by a whole new group of organizers, claiming to have new ideas and all. And one of the previous committee members, someone who worked with the convention finances, still has account access.”
Agent Forrest leaned forward. Intense, alert, poised, and—protective? “You investigated. On your own.”
“I made a call or two. Not dramatic. I thought it might help. Does it?”
“Yes. You should be recovering.” He actually moved as if planning to take Alex’s hand, and then visibly seemed to think better of it. “I don’t want you hurt.”
“Neither do I, so we’re in agreement.”
“But you were investigating.”
Alex raised both eyebrows at him: yes, obviously.
“You…” Agent Forrest exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair. Muttered something under his breath that sounded like, “Humans.”
“My great-grandmother was a siren, I’ll have you know.”
This time the grumble sounded like, “Of course she was.”
“What was that?”
“I said,” Agent Forrest snapped, “of course she was. Luring people into trouble.”
Alex grinned. “You think I’m trouble?”
“I think—” Agent Forrest stopped, exhaled, scrubbed the hand through his hair again. In golden afternoon light, small lines lingered around his eyes. “I also brought you something. Here.”
It was a book. A paperback. Clearly used. “Unsolved Mysteries of Victorian London.”
“I thought you might be bored. And writers like…books. I didn’t realize you’d be attempting to give me a heart attack.”
“Because you care so much?” Alex looked back at the book. At ruffled pages, and warmth, as if it’d been left lying someplace in the sun, on a table or in a car, just this afternoon—“Is this yours?”
“No. It’s yours.”
“You gave me your book. That you were reading. While you were waiting to talk to someone?”
“I thought,” Agent Forrest said, stiffly, “that I owed you an apology. For suspecting you.” His shirt was just on the right side of too tight, Alex decided. The tempting side. And his tie was loose. Drawing attention.
And the room felt warmer. Because an irritable werewolf agent had glared at Alex and accused him of some sort of crime, and then had fretted over him and worried for him and given him something personal, something real.
He said, “Thank you.” He meant it.
