Page 75 of Savage Seduction

I freeze. The way Bretton says it, sounds more like a law enforcement officer, rather than just some guy working at a museum. “It crossed my mind.”

“Damn,” Bretton says. “Have you gone to the police?”

“Spoke to them after the break-in and attack, but didn’t give them every detail,” I say. “They already think I’m crazy.”

Bretton cocks his head to the side. “Why’s that?”

Damn it, just cracked open another can of worms. “I’m sure you know I used to be a cop?”

Bretton nods.

“Well, I had to leave the force.”

“Like forced to resign?” Bretton asks. “Did you do something against regulations?”

The way he asks his questions makes me feel like he already knows the answers to the questions. I eye Bretton for a moment, contemplating what to say. “No,” I say. “I resigned of my own volition because I couldn’t get back into a healthy mindset.” I pause and then cross my arms. “There was an incident.”

“Don’t they have counselors for that sort of thing? I’ve heard of some crazy stuff happening to you guys. Can’t imagine processing it all without help.”

I nod. “I went… for a while. Didn’t really help much so I changed my career. Followed the path my heart was leading me down.”

Bretton sips his margarita and nods. “I admire you for following your heart. Not very many people can say they’ve done that.”

The waiter delivers our food. It smells delicious, and I dive into mine, eager for the break in conversation. “This is great.”

“Wow, my enchiladas are spicy too.” Bretton coughs, and we both start laughing.

An awkward silence falls between us, and I search Bretton’s eyes for a moment.

“It’s your turn to come clean,” I say.

Bretton’s eyes go wide. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not telling me your whole story. There’s much more to you than some guy working at the museum.”

“What makes you think that? Because I can assure you…”

I hold up a hand. “If you can’t tell me, it’s fine, but I’m starting to feel like you’re a cop. The way you asked me questions… it was like you already knew the answers. What gives?”

Bretton takes another large draw of the margarita and eyesme. He remains silent for a while, simply looking around the restaurant. I recognize the indecision in his body language. There were many times as a cop I would be interrogating a witness and they would want to tell me, to come clean about whatever it was they’d been arrested for but were too scared to admit to anything.

“You’re right,” Bretton says. “I’m not who I say I am, and I could get into a heap of trouble for talking to you about this.”

“In that case,” I say, leaning forward, popping a chip into my mouth. “Tell me everything.”

“In a nutshell, I’m an FBI agent.”

“I knew it,” I say. “Well, I mean you’re in law enforcement and I figured that much. What are you doing at the museum then?”

“Watching you.”

“Me?” I ask, confused. “Why the hell would you be watching me? I’ve not done anything wrong.”

“The thing is, Max. You’re being stalked, as I’m sure you already know by the bruises and cuts on your face. The FBI has intel that the serial killer Viktor Fedorov somehow survived. How? We aren’t sure, but our profilers have indicated that he will not rest until he’s finished what he didn’t get to do a couple years ago.”

“Kill me,” I say. “He’s really not going to stop until I’m dead.”

Bretton nods.

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