Page 52 of Fear of Flames
“That’s kind of creepy.”
Fletch couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re right.”
“You say it like you’ve been stalking me.”
“Watching, not stalking. Let me finish about my evidence.”
Although she felt the warming of her cheeks, Michelle nodded.
“When I say you’re beautiful, it’s not only your outward appearance, which is, in fact, attractive. It’s also the person you are, who I thought I knew but didn’t.” He reached over and laid his hand on her denim-clad thigh. “I’m not going to argue about this.”
Shelly looked down at his hand. “I won’t argue. It’s that I don’t see myself that way. I’m not like the women I write in my books. They’re all in great shape. They run and exercise. I detest running. I sit for hours not realizing that time has passed.” She turned to him and smiled. “And I like snacks. You probably figured that out by the things you bought.”
“The women you write aren’t real. You’re real.”
“But you’re not?”
“We’re getting to that,” Fletch said before he drove up to the screen at the drive-thru and ordered two coffees and two cheeseburgers. As they waited for their food, Fletch searched for the Crime Daily Podcast. “Maybe we’ll learn something.”
To their disappointment, the podcast was a replay from a few days ago.
Once they were back on the road, she asked him again where they were going.
He exhaled. “I want you to listen. You’ll have questions but try to hear me out first.”
She took a sip of her coffee and then removed the lid and blew. “Is this some top-secret operation?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
He watched as her blue eyes widened and waited for her next comment. When it didn’t come, he began. “Remember me telling you that I don’t exist?”
“Is this where I listen or answer?”
Fletch furrowed his brow. “Work with me.”
“I remember. Obviously, you exist.”
“Fletcher Weir died seven years ago. It was declared a military training accident. The helicopter I was in went down.”
“Were you really in an accident?”
“No. Three of my friends were. The flight wasn’t training. It was a special mission. They died. My name was added to the manifest, allowing me to take another position with a different agency.”
“Your family thought you died?” Her voice rippled with emotion.
He shook his head. “Remember, no family. That made me the perfect candidate. I’m also good at what I do.”
“Which is?”
“Whatever I’m told. Until the other night.”
“What is this agency?”
“It doesn’t have a name. We refer to it as the agency.”
“I don’t understand. Is this like the CIA, FBI, or NSA?”
They were now headed northwest on Highway 212. “Those agencies have specific roles. The CIA focuses on foreign intelligence gathering and covert operations. The FBI focuses on domestic law enforcement and counterintelligence. The National Security Agency concentrates on signals intelligence and cybersecurity. There’s also DIA, NGA, NRO, Coast Guard Intelligence, DHS, and more. The agency I work for does all of that and more. We do the jobs that don’t go on the books—no official record. There are no checks and balances for what we do.”
