Page 17 of The Saint

“Ms. Stone,” Agent Fitzgerald said, interrupting her tragic spiral. “Take a deep breath. It’s okay.”

Liar. Nothing would ever be okay again.

“Can we come in?” He offered an understanding nod that she didn’t trust.

Warning bells rang. She wished someone else were home with her. Why had she ignored her friends? What about the man on the phone? Did Camden know these men? Did they work for the same agency? Even if they did, she would feel more comfortable if Camden the Mystery Man had vouched for them or, better yet, had accompanied them.

“Ms. Stone, can we come in?” Agent Fitzgerald asked again.

Amelia bit her lip. “Do you know—” A fierce, instinctive wave of distrust cut her off before she said Camden’s name aloud. “Please tell me if you found Hailey.”

“We have not.” Agent Bennett shifted his stance and leveled a hard, cold stare at her as though he and Agent Fitzgerald were trying to force their way into her condo without touching her. “We’d like to ask you a few more questions about the man who followed you into the Callaghans’ home.”

Agent Bennett was the bad cop to Agent Fitzgerald’s good cop. They were playing roles. Amelia tried to appreciate that, but no matter who played what role, they didn’t bear news on Hailey. Her shoulders slumped. She reminded herself that no news was partially good news. Hailey wasn’t dead—at least, not that they knew of. Tears burned the back of her throat. “Sure.” She stepped back and turned so they wouldn’t see her wipe her eyes. “Come in.”

She led them into her small condo. The lemon-yellow walls and bright white trim had always made her happy. Right then, they were too much to stand.

“Would you like something to drink?” She switched the electric kettle on. “Tea?”

“We’re fine.”

Amelia gestured to her living room and took a seat across from the men. Their dark suits were like a uniform: generic yet uncommon, as though they would stand out in a crowd but be impossible to describe.

“Who do you work for?”

“The federal government,” Agent Fitzgerald answered. “An interagency task force.”

If she’d had the energy, her eyes would have rolled hard enough to knock her over. “Well… yeah. But specifically?”

“What do you know about Hailey and Jonathan’s employer?”

Why couldn’t she get a straight answer from these two? “Their employer? As in they worked for the same place?” She stared at the agents. They wanted to know what secrets she knew. Truthfully, she didn’t know any, but she was starting to have guesses that didn’t make much sense. “My sister worked for a college in DC, and Jonathan?” She shrugged. “He worked for himself and contracted with auction houses.”

They waited with practiced silence for her to continue.

“But I’ve guessed recently that I didn’t really know who my sister was.” She bit her lip, which was already chewed and chapped. “I didn’t. Did I?”

They were unreadable. She’d always touted her talent for decoding emotion. After all, as an event planner of corporate schmoozefests and decadent weddings, she had to be able to foresee emotions a mile away. If the mother of the bride was getting ready to happy-sob like a rhinoceros with allergies in the middle of the ceremony, Amelia could see it coming and head off a scene-stealing nose-blowing sob session. If the groom was having cold feet the night of the rehearsal dinner, Amelia sensed it before the groomsmen did. If players in a hostile corporate takeover were trying to work over an overworked assistant and milk information, she could tactfully move the corporate henchmen along and save someone their job without so much as breaking a sweat.

But right then, Amelia was scoring zero out of two on Agents Fitzgerald and Bennett. Neither man gave her anything to work with. “Are you going to tell me anything, or do I stay in the dark and keep guessing?”

“We’re not authorized to share information on their employment.”

That was as much of a confirmation as she would get out of those two, but a nonanswer was something. “Gotcha.” Though the kettle signaled the water was hot enough for tea, she didn’t bother to make herself a cup. “Can you tell me why news reporters are dragging Hailey’s name through the mud?”

Bennett shrugged as though he hadn’t a clue.

Fitzgerald added, “It’d help to stay focused on this conversation.”

Her molars ground. “What do you want to know about the man who tried to find me?”

“We’d just like you to tell us everything again. In case something slipped your mind—”

“Nothing slipped my mind. Every minute detail has been permanently carved into my brain.”

They offered understanding nods. “Let’s go through the exercise anyway,” Bennett suggested.

A lilt in Bennett’s voice sent an eerie feeling up her spine, as if they weren’t looking for more information but rather testing her story.

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