The Naturals (The Naturals #1)(4)

But not yet. Right now, she’s still sleeping. Beautiful—but not as beautiful as she will be when you’re done.





CHAPTER 3


It took me two days, but I called the number. Of course I did, because even though there was a 99 percent chance this was some kind of hoax, there was a 1 percent chance that it wasn’t.

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until someone picked up.

“This is Briggs.”

I couldn’t pinpoint what was more disarming—the fact that this “Agent Briggs” had apparently given me the number to his direct line or the way he answered the phone, like saying “hello” would have been a waste of breath.

“Hello?” As if he could read my mind, Special Agent Tanner Briggs spoke again. “Anyone there?”

“This is Cassandra Hobbes,” I said. “Cassie.”

“Cassie.” Something about the way Agent Briggs said my name made me think that he’d known before I’d said a single word that I didn’t go by my full name. “I’m glad you called.”

He waited for me to say something else, but I stayed silent. Everything you said or did was a data point you put out there in the world, and I didn’t want to give this man any more information than I had to—not until I knew what he wanted from me.

“I’m sure you must be wondering why I contacted you—why I had Michael contact you.”

Michael. So now the boy from the diner had a name.

“I have an offer I’d like you to consider.”

“An offer?” It amazed me that my voice stayed every bit as calm and even as his.

“I believe this is a conversation best had in person, Ms. Hobbes. Is there somewhere you would be comfortable meeting?”

He knew what he was doing—letting me pick the location, because if he’d specified one, I might not have gone. I probably should have refused to meet with him anyway, but I couldn’t, for the same reason that I’d had to pick up the phone and call.

Five years was a long time to go without a body. Without answers.

“Do you have an office?” I asked.

The slight pause on the other end of the phone told me that wasn’t what he’d expected me to say. I could have asked him to meet me at the diner or a coffee shop near the high school or anywhere that I would have had the home court advantage, but I’d been taught to believe that there was no home court advantage.

You could tell more about a stranger by seeing their house than you ever would by inviting them to yours.

Besides, if this guy wasn’t really an FBI agent, if he was some kind of pervert and this was some kind of game, I figured he’d probably have a heck of a time arranging a meeting at the local FBI office.

“I don’t actually work out of Denver,” he said finally. “But I’m sure I can set something up.”

Probably not a pervert, then.

He gave me an address. I gave him a time.

“And Cassandra?”

I wondered what Agent Briggs hoped to accomplish by using my full first name. “Yes?”

“This isn’t about your mother.”

— — —

I went to the meeting anyway. Of course I did. Special Agent Tanner Briggs knew enough about me to know that my mother’s case was the reason I’d followed the instructions on the card and called. I wanted to know how he’d come by that information, if he’d looked at her police file, if he would look at her file, provided I gave him whatever it was he wanted from me.

I wanted to know why Special Agent Tanner Briggs had made it his business to know about me, the same way a man shopping for a new computer might have memorized the specs of the model that had caught his eye.

“What floor?” The woman beside me in the elevator was in her early sixties. Her silvery blond hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck, and the suit she was wearing was perfectly tailored.

All business, just like Special Agent Tanner Briggs.

“Fifth floor,” I said. “Please.”

With nervous energy to burn, I snuck another glance at the woman and started piecing my way through her life story, as told by the way she was standing, her clothes, the faint accent in her speech, the clear coat of polish on her nails.

She was married.

No kids.

When she’d started in the FBI, it had been a boy’s club.

Behavior. Personality. Environment. I could practically hear my mother coaching me through this impromptu analysis.

“Fifth floor.” The woman’s words were brisk, and I added another entry to my mental column—impatient.

Obligingly, I stepped out of the elevator. The door closed behind me, and I appraised my surroundings. It looked so … normal. If it hadn’t been for the security checkpoint out front and the visitor’s badge pinned to my faded black sundress, I never would have pegged this for a place devoted to fighting federal crime.

“So, what? You were expecting a dog-and-pony show?”

I recognized the voice instantly. The boy from the diner. Michael. He sounded amused, and when I turned to face him, there was a familiar smirk dancing its way through his features, one that he probably could have suppressed if he’d had the least inclination to try.

“I wasn’t expecting anything,” I told him. “I have no expectations.”