Legacy (Sociopath Series Book 2)(27)

My hand goes numb around the phone.

“Is this—is this about the new victim?” I choke out. “Do I know her…?”

“I’m not at liberty to explain our case, ma’am. But I understand that you’re head of the SilenWitn3ss program, and we need to get a hold of some of your footage ASAP. I was told I’d need to speak with you personally. Your assistant passed on your number. I hope that’s okay.” He has that weary tone, like he’s trying to sound warm but can’t really be bothered. “How soon can you get to your office?”

“How soon are we talking?”

“This is an issue of a very time-sensitive nature.”

I squint toward the alarm clock. Nearly 5:30 a.m, “I can be there in an hour.”

“We’ll be waiting.”

Dial tone.

No thank you, notice. Great. Just what I need in my life right now—another ungrateful alpha. I am so not in the f*cking mood for this.

“Aeron?” I call, dropping the phone on the bed and heading back to the doorway. “Aeron…?”

“What?”

“Phone call was from the FBI.”

A second later, the TV chatter cuts out and Aeron’s heavy footsteps grow louder as he approaches. His brow is furrowed, his mouth set in a thin line.

“What the f*ck do they want?”

“They want some SilentWitn3ss footage. They wouldn’t say what it was for,” I explain, still grasping at the sheet wrapped around me. “I need to go meet them at the office.”

He blinks several times in quick succession. “Fuck.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about Blood Honey. We’ve never had them on our doorstep before.”

“You think he might be on one of our clips?”

“Or one of his victims, maybe.” He rubs a hand through his hair. “They’ve got a suspect, Leo. A f*cking suspect. Let’s mince this out of them before we hand over anything.” He grabs a handful of my sheet and begins tugging it toward the bathroom, utterly unbothered that he’s unravelling me in more ways than one. “I’ll come in with you. Shower, now.”

“Aeron.” I stand rigid. “You don’t think they could be here about other stuff?”

He turns to me slowly. Bites his bottom lip. “I guess we’ll find out when we get there, huh?”

***

A long time ago, I learned that appearances mean nothing—should you decide to look beyond them, that is—so I had to up my game a little. When I meet a stranger, I treat him like a machine.

Machines all look the same on the outside, generally speaking. So do humans; two arms, two legs, a head in the usual place. The fascia might be a little more pleasing on some, but only if you’re thinking with your next orgasm, and not with the last shred of logic clinging to its rough edge. Today, despite minimal sleep and not enough caffeine, I’m doing my best to think with my brain, and since the only way to figure a machine out is to take it apart, that’s how I’ll play Agent Chen.

This whole thing is like a macabre parody of Gwen’s interview last week, but instead of rounding the corner to my office to meet pleasant, polite Gwen, I’m met with the bulk of Agent Chen, FBI, who obviously played college football at some point and now likes to Hulk-Smash out of suits for funsies. He appears young and oddly creased at the same time; dark hair mussed up as if it’s fashionable, dark eyes mussed up because all the sleep got sucked out. When he stands to proffer his badge, I can practically hear him creak.

“Sorry to keep you.” I rummage around in my tote bag for the office keys. “I came as quickly as I could.”

“Much appreciated.” He comes up behind me, blocking half the fluorescent corridor light in the process. “I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”

I shove the door open, usher him in. “Have a seat.”

It’s barely six thirty, and the sunrise is still in watercolor, threatening to burst through gold-edged clouds. The walls are lit faintly with a distant glow.

I probably shouldn’t stare at the way he’s maneuvering himself into the plastic chair, but then I’m hardly trying to make him comfortable. “I thought FBI types were meant to be inconspicuous.”

He cocks an eyebrow, and his face warms with a half-smile. “Is that a compliment, Miss Reeves?”

“An observation.”

“I can give chase with the best of ‘em.”

“Huh.” I smooth my skirt down before taking a seat behind my glass desk, dipping sideways to switch on the computer. “So what exactly can I help you with?”

He fishes around in his pockets—no mean feat, since his pants are pulled tight across mammoth thighs. Eventually, he produces a crumpled piece of paper and pushes it into my hand. A date is scrawled across the center in blunt black handwriting, along with JFK and an email address.

“I’m informed that you have footage from said location on said date,” he says. “Is that correct?”

“We have a lot of footage from a lot of places.” But I remember this one.

Of course I do.

This was Ash’s big homecoming, and Aeron is on the clip.

“I’ll have to look through our database,” I tell him. “This could take a few minutes—we have thousands of clips uploaded every day.”