I fill my lungs with a deep breath, still astonished at how fast I moved to reach the outside. Not a stitch of pain to hinder my getaway. I arch my back and suck in another fresh breath, just to test my lumbar.
The mind never ceases to amaze. One moment I’m suffering acute back pain that has plagued me since the accident, the next it’s as if I can’t recall what that pain ever felt like.
Am I free, or is this sweet glimpse of liberty a prelude to my end? Like the brief reprieve you’re given before death, when all pain receptors shut down.
“They’re not getting any easier, are they?”
I close my eyes at the sound of Agent Nelson’s gruff voice. “No,” I answer simply, honestly.
“I wish I could say this was the last press conference,” he says. “But the public is intrigued with your story. They’re curious.”
A sardonic laugh slips free. “Appalled is more like it.” The number of enraged emails and letters I’ve received since my initial press conference announcing the buried dead girls that I—suddenly—recalled in my childhood home backyard has garnered me a lot of negative attention.
I’m accustomed to being despised for what I do; my career isn’t a glamorous one. But I’ve never before been loathed with such vitriol on a national level. The narcissist in me wants to set the record straight, but my lawyer has smartly kept me from engaging in any more conferences myself.
I turn and face the agent. “Has there really been no updates on Sullivan’s whereabouts?”
His expression shutters. That expert close-off agents are so skilled at. “You’re not in danger.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He drives a hand through his shaggy, dirty-blond hair. His slight rebellious act against the FBI. And it’s his tell. Whenever he means to misdirect me, he goes for the hair. A clear sign that it’s worked for him on other women in the past.
“What about the murder in Rockland?” I hedge. “The press seem to believe there’s a connection. Sandow didn’t even dance around it—he deliberately ignored it. To me, a blatant omission like that is very revealing.”
“Always analyzing,” he mutters.
“Occupational hazard.”
His nostrils flare. “You shouldn’t be following the news, London. You, above all, know how reporters distort the truth.”
It’s risky, my own methods of misdirection. Nelson is intelligent, and the more time we spend together, the more he’s learning my tells. But I need some shred of information from him. A hint as to whether or not he’s looking into the murder of one Larry Fleming in connection to Grayson.
When the stakes are high enough, you go all in.
As Grayson doesn’t do anything halfway, I’m sure he left his calling card with Larry. His DNA, or another decisive marker the FBI will uncover soon, if they haven’t already.
Why else would Agent Nelson be here?
“There’s some speculation that Sullivan has left the country,” Nelson says, stuffing his hands into his suit pockets. “But I’m not giving you those details. It’s not confirmed, and anything I might tell you could put you in danger. The less you know—”
“The better,” I finish for him. He’s lying. I cross my arms. “You do understand what my specialty is. There’s no one else that can help you get inside Sullivan’s mind like I can. I’m an asset, agent. Not a victim.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Detective Foster interrupts. “Does that mean you’re ready to confess your part?”
My attention shifts to the bulky detective exiting the back door. Detective Foster has been the loudest conspirator against me, citing publicly that I was Grayson’s accomplice in helping him escape.
The fact that certain unfavorable details from my past have come to light only adds fuel to his fire.
I push my glasses up, getting a better look at him. He’s gained a considerable amount of weight since the trial. “Detective Foster, should I schedule a session soon in regards to stress eating? You know it’s not healthy to eat your weight in disappointment.”
A mock smile stretches his ruddy face. “Thanks for the offer, doc. But truth be told, I’m a little terrified to be under your care. Or should I say, influence?”
Agent Nelson huffs his frustration. He’s not a particular fan of the New Castle detective, either. “You’re not required to attend the press meetings, Foster. Why are you here?”
The detective adjusts the dipping waist of his cheap slacks. “I like to stay in the loop firsthand. It’s interesting that Sandow didn’t state anything about Rockland.” He reaches into his inseam for a pack of cigarettes. “Don’t you find that interesting, Agent Nelson? With Sullivan’s DNA having been found on the vic…it’s like the FBI are trying to conceal the evidence. Why is that?”
Disbelief snatches my breath. My shocked gaze swings to Nelson. “Is this true?”