Page 1 of Girl, Accused

PROLOGUE

December in D.C. was a special breed of misery, and FBI Director William Edis was choking on it. He stepped out of the J. Edgar Hoover Building and breathed in the midnight air. He had a cell phone in one hand and a packet of cigarettes in the other. Ten years without a hit of nicotine in his system, but having one of the Bureau's top agents locked in a conference room on suspicion of homicide had a way of testing a man's willpower. Some situations demanded chemical assistance, and this qualified if anything ever had.

It was a few weeks until Christmas, but festive spirit was in short supply – as was his roster of field agents. Twenty-four hours ago, things had been manageable, but three sudden crises had left him with zero soldiers on the ground. Half of his tactical teams were in Montana dealing with a militia situation that had gone sideways. The other half were neck-deep in a hostage crisis in Arkansas that the press had already dubbed ‘Little Rock's Christmas Massacre.’

And that was just the tip of the iceberg. There’d been a rash of coordinated bank robberies in Florida, three separate abduction cases spanning the Midwest, a bioterror threat in San Diego, and the ever-present terrorism watch lists that demanded constant attention. Thousands of agents spread across fifty states, each crisis demanding resources that Edis couldn't spare.

And here he was, standing outside his own building like a teenager sneaking a smoke, while Ella Dark sat confined seven floors above him with two uniforms watching her every move.

Edis unwrapped his cigarettes and stuck one between his lips. The lighter refused to cooperate. His hands shook too much to get a steady flame. Edis swore under his breath and tried again. The third attempt caught, and he pulled smoke into lungs that had forgotten how to process anything stronger than Washington's ambient pollution. The nicotine hit his bloodstream like an old friend coming home to roost – the kind of friend who reminded you why you'd stopped hanging out in the first place.

What the hell was a director to do? Ella Dark was his ace in the hole. The agent he’d turned to when cases got too weird for anyone else to touch. And now – what? She was a murderer? A psycho hiding in plain sight?

No. The rationale part of William Edis told him that someone was framing his star agent, because God knew that she’d made some enemies over the years. But field work wasn’t ballet. This was a full-contact sport, and one too many head injuries could send even the most level-headed person crazy.

Something was going on here, and Edis needed to find out what.

But sending Ella Dark off to pursue a personal issue was asking for trouble. More than trouble – protocol violations, legal issues, probably a few dead bodies if the past was anything to go by.

He needed answers before this situation metastasized. If word got out that an FBI profiler's DNA was found on two murder victims, the press would have a field day. The vultures would circle, hungry for any hint of scandal. Then the oversight committees would start asking questions, and before Edis knew it, his entire directorship would be under review. The President himself might get involved, and that thought alone made Edis reach for a second cigarette before he'd finished the first.

Ten years was the maximum that an FBI director could serve, and today marked Edis’ ninth year and ninth month. So, he had three months left until he had to give up this position for good. Three months to wrap up a decade of service with something resembling dignity. He'd planned to spend them mentoring his replacement, maybe writing his memoirs. The kind of victory lap every career civil servant dreamed about. But now this mess threatened to become his legacy - the FBI Director who let a killer work under his nose. The man who failed to spot a predator hiding behind a badge.

Unless.

Edis glanced at his phone screen. The names in his missed calls log read like a who's who of people he didn't want to deal with: three from the Attorney General, two from Homeland Security, one from the Vice President's chief of staff. They'd all want answers he didn't have.

He ignored the little red receiver icons and scrolled through his contacts. Past the official numbers, past the political connections, down to where the old ghosts lived.

A name stared back at him. One that represented a nuclear option. The kind of help you only asked for when all other avenues were exhausted. When protocol and procedure had failed, and you needed someone who understood that sometimes justice wore a darker face than the law allowed.

Edis took a final drag of his cigarette and ground it out beneath his heel. The nicotine overdose hit him hard, and for a moment he regretted ever quitting. He had that sudden clarity that came with the smoke-induced headrush, and it gave him that little push he needed to tap his phone screen and make the call.

He’d be damned if he was going to leave the Bureau in a worse state than he’d found it, and if Ella Dark couldn’t fix these problems, someone else had to.

Edis held the phone to his ear. Would the number even work anymore? For all he knew, this person might have flung their cell into the Atlantic and never looked back. Hell, Edis expected exactly that.

But the dial tone came alive.

One ring. Two rings.

It might have been after midnight on a Wednesday night turned Thursday morning, but this wasn’t the kind of call you waited to make.

Three rings.

Part of him prayed it would go to voicemail. The other part knew that this conversation needed to happen, no matter how much he dreaded it.

Then itdidgo to voicemail.

Edis exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He started to lower the phone, ready to chalk this up as a sign from whatever god watched over desperate bureaucrats.

Then his screen lit up with an incoming call.

The same name.

Edis answered before the first ring finished. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat had gone desert-dry. The words wouldn't come.

The caller spoke first.

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