That happened.
You said you were a cop!I squawked as he yanked me from the car, marched me inside, and dragged me none-too-gently toward this lovely cross-examination chamber I now call home.
No, he retorted flatly.You said I was a cop. I simply failed to correct you.
Before I could do anything — like, say, beam him over the head with my flip flop and make a break for it — he closed the door and disappeared, leaving me locked in here like a common criminal.
Yes,locked.
I tried the knob.
Multiple times.
With colorful language — including, but not limited to, all the dirty Russian phrases Paul’s parents taught me, back in the days we used to spend the holidays with them — I expressed to both the overhead cameras and the mirror wall just how unhappy I was to be detained as a special guest of the FBI without cause.
Yebat-kopat!
Pizda rulyu!
Yoptel-mopsel!
Yobannoe dno!
By this point, they’re lucky I haven’t picked up the chair and attempted to shatter the glass. (Though, I’m pretty sure that would land me behind bars for real.) I’m about ready to risk it — a life of crime has got to be better than dying of boredom in here — when the door finally swings open and Conor walks in.
“You motherfu—Oh.”
My mouth snaps shut when I see he’s not alone. A female agent slips inside behind him before the door clicks closed. She’s annoyingly pretty despite the rather androgynous outfit she’s got on — not a hair out of place in her low blonde chignon, not a wrinkle on her pressed black pants.
I suddenly feel extremely underdressed in my hot pink sports bra ensemble. Sitting up straighter in my seat, I resist the urge to smooth my messy hair.
“So. This is the infamous Shelby Hunt.”
Infamous?
The woman’s voice is a perfect match for her personality — cool, haughty, a bit condescending. I meet her dispassionate ice-blue eyes as she takes a seat across from me at the stainless steel table.
Conor doesn’t sit. He leans against the wall instead, his posture totally casual. Still, I can’t help noticing there’s an edge of alertness in his eyes as they watch his colleague taking my measure.
“Finally, I put a face to the name,” the woman says, smiling without teeth. Her fingers drum an absentminded pattern on the thick file in her hands. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I’d say the same, but you’ve yet to introduce yourself.”
Her smile vanishes. She pulls a badge from inside her blazer and slides it across the table toward me. “Agent Lucy Sykes, I’m with the Organized Crime Division here at the Boston Bureau. I believe you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting my colleague, Agent Gallagher.”
I glance fleetingly at her credentials, then push the badge back to her with a rough shove. “Trust me, there was nothing pleasurable about it.”
Conor scoffs lowly.
Sykes’ jaw clenches tighter. “Mrs. Hunt, do you know why you’re here?”
“I’ll take a wild guess and say it has something to do with the two men who attacked me, yesterday.”
“Right you are.” Her head tilts in contemplation. She reminds me of a cat, sizing up a particularly delectable mouse. “We’d love it if you’d talk us through everything that happened. Starting at the beginning, all the way up to the moment Agent Gallagher arrived at your home. Can you do that?”
My eyes move to Conor. He’s watching me carefully, that dark stare burning into mine with an intensity that makes me shiver. I can’t even begin to decipher that look, so I direct my focus back on his partner, steel my shoulders, and launch into the story with as much detail as I can remember.
The studio encounter after my yoga class.