Page 29 of Pulling Strings

We walked—Holland following my lead—in unnerving quiet down the carpeted path.

Twenty paces in, she spoke. “I should begin by saying I’m relieved they were able to bring you in alive. We had believed that Hex members would not allow themselves to be taken into custody.”

Like a suicide pact or something? I would never have agreed to that.

My lips curved in a smirk. “Who said I was a Hex member?”

She expelled a long breath. “Regardless, I can’t fault your sense of self-preservation. Better to live and dieanother day.”

Plaques and posters lined the walls as we drew closer to the Investigative Department. My knowledge of the building was admittedly out of date, but I knew that area best. A plan was brewing to ditch Holland and make my way to the employee parking garage on the back of the building. To do that, I would need the investigator’s keycard, easily pilfered from her unconscious body.

I glanced over my shoulder to see Holland walking with her hands in her pockets as though she didn’t have a care in the world. She did have a gun, though, and magical power I’d seen blossom in our youth. She controlled shadows and was able to shift into darkness like Peter Pan’s untethered silhouette. Being naturally sneaky was a skill most useful for stealth situations and reconnaissance, but it had myriad combat applications, as well.

She came alongside me, taking surefooted steps toward the end of the hall. “That said, you being here alive has opened avenues I’d like to explore,” she said. “I’m sure you know this isn’t a typical arrest, and you are no typical felon.”

“Allegedfelon,” I quipped.

She gave a sideways look, and I caught a glimpse of her eyes past the frames of her sunglasses. Smoky gray irises swirled around pinpoint pupils.

“In the course of a usual arrest, you’d be taken for questioning, processing, then jailed to await trial,” Holland began. “Despite finding you at the scene of a crime—or attempted crime—we are more interested in collaborating with you than convicting you.”

So, they bought Grimm’s Jacoby Thatcher impersonation act. Good news for me.

I raised a brow. “Collaborating? You mean like agroup project, or…?”

We came to a stop in a two-story, circular room that housed rows of metal tanker desks surrounded by glass-walled offices. While part of my brain retraced steps from here to the parking garage elevator, the other part felt pulled toward the darkened offices, specifically the one that once bore the nameplate of Thierry Farrow.

I stepped out ahead, giving that room a wide berth as I took the ramp that hugged the outer wall of the room. Holland followed.

“I want to make myself explicitly clear, Fitch. This is a delicate situation. Many people would like to see you punished for the crimes you’ve committed—”

“Allegedly,” I called back.

“But we believe you can be an asset to our cause,” the investigator continued, unfazed. “You possess skills the Capitol could put to good use.”

“What kind of use?”

Last I checked, the Capitol didn’t take applications for mercenary work. More than that, I’d seen press conferences where the powers-that-be called my use of telekinesis “a bastardization of magic.” Either Holland was an outlier in her beliefs about my so-called usefulness, or she was lying.

We arrived on the lower level of the bullpen, then turned. The arching wall now before us boasted something new. A grid of plaques with photos and engraved brass plates spanned from the ceiling to waist level. Pictures of investigators posed in snappy business suits with their names etched above dates.

“Honoring our Fallen” read the decal above the display. I tensed.

I’d been old enough at my father’s death to remember places and the people who frequented them. So, I came into Grimm’s care as a walking, talkingRolodex of state intel. Of the framed tributes staring me down, I could account for my involvement in the demise of at least fifteen of them.

I searched until I found my father’s. His photo showed a confident smile and windswept hair, blond like mine. His skin was tanned from our weekends on his sailboat, and his eyes sparkled with life.

Tightness gripped my chest, and I turned to face Holland, who met me with an almost sympathetic look.

“Allow me to put it simply,” she said at last. “You take orders from Grimm. Have you considered taking orders from someone else?”

“I’m not an attack dog.” I took a step back, but the investigator leaned into it.

“You’ve been exactly that,” she replied, “for many years.”

“I’m not a rat, either.”

Holland looked away, nodding. “You’re loyal to the Hex. I understand that. I respect it. But are you sure they deserve that loyalty?”

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