Page 38 of Aftermath
“I didn’t need a file on someone I knew better than anyone.”
“I-“ she started.
She took a step back. I reached up and pulled the question mark off the wall. I didn’t need it.
I had her.
“You are the Jane Doe. You don’t need a file on yourself. You already know everything you need to.”
She shook her head.
“No,” she insisted, but I pushed and held firm.
“I don’t believe for a second that you’ve done such thorough work, but this key piece, you’ve left blank.”
“It’s a dead end,” she argued.
“Because you’ve made it one,” I countered. “You’re smart, Len. You’re clever, more so than most initial recruits I meet in week one at Quantico. You can’t expect me to believe you cast aside this one key piece of the story as useless.”
“I-“ She stopped, her words failing her. “I have to go,” she said quietly and grabbed her laptop quickly off the table.
She made for the door as fast as she could. I tried follow, but the second she was out the door, she jogged off.
I couldn’t force her to admit it. Chasing her was no use. I was observant enough to know when to stop. If I continued to push, she’d bury herself behind endless walls I would never break through.
I sighed.
Maybe I had pushed too hard. We needed this piece of the story more than anything. This couldn’t be the last I saw of Lenore.
* * *
“Mags,” I said, a smile already growing on my face.
“Stone, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Mags chimed through the phone.
The nickname stung like a bullet lodging itself into my chest. Memories were surfacing, ones I preferred to keep buried.
“I need a favor,” I said.
“What type of favor?” she asked, and I imagined her leaning closer to the phone I knew sat on her desk.
“The type where you don’t report it to Grey.”
“Oh, is the Agent Beck finally abandoning doing everything by the books?” she gasped dramatically into the phone.
“Mags…” I warned.
“I’m teasing,” she assured me. “Anything for you, Stone. Lay it on me.”
“I need you to look into a bar and find me information on it.”
“A bar? What’s the name?” she asked, and I heard her long fingernails tapping against her keyboard.
“High Tide Pub in Briarport, Maine,” I answered quietly, like if I spoke any louder, Grey would somehow learn what I was doing.
“Briarport? As in, the Coastal Killer?”
My heart raced, and I could feel my cellphone slipping in my hands, slick with sweat.
