Already drunk? Perfect. Jane all but leaped over Beau to get closer to Mr. Miller. “Define love.”
“The biggest mistake anyone anywhere can make,” he grumbled, then tossed the rest of his drink down the hatch. He focused on her while swaying in his seat, frowned and pointed. “You’re familiar to me. Why are you familiar?”
Rather than admitting they lived in the same small town, she said, “Hi, I’m Jane.”
“Tony,” he muttered.
Beau urged her into her chair and ordered sweet teas for the two of them—teas she would be paying for.
“I gotta say, Tony, your definition of love is, um, unique,” she said. “Are you having relationship troubles?”
Beau arched a brow at her, all you did not just blurt that out. What? She’d cut straight to the heart of the matter.
“Oh, I’m having troubles all right.” Tony ordered himself another round. The dirtiest martinis they had. “My soon-to-be ex-wife cheated on me with her boss. Someone killed the guy. I hope they made it hurt.” His beverage arrived, and he downed it, too.
Okay. Wow. He’d answered so swiftly and eagerly, as if the words had been poised at the end of his tongue for ages and he’d only awaited a listening ear. Or he’d realized who she was and brilliantly laid a foundation to fit his innocence.
“You know what we should do for revenge?” she said. “Spray-paint something on your wife’s car.” She winced inside at her poor and abrupt delivery. Oh, well. Onward and upward. “Do you happen to have any cans of spray paint handy? We can help you.”
“Nope.” He belched into his fist and laughed. “Do you smell that?”
No, he wasn’t laying a foundation for anything. Was he guilty of being disgusting? Yes. But he might not be guilty of murder. Emma maintained the number one spot.
Maybe the doctor had ended things with her, and the rejection fueled a rage. Or maybe the reason was something else entirely. Maybe Emma wasn’t even involved. But either way, Jane wished to talk to the nurse again.
Looked like she’d be paying the clinic another visit.
Chapter Eight
William King
What matters? My foes died first.
Plot 211, Garden of Memories
The next day, Jane followed an older, no-nonsense woman through GBH headquarters in Atlanta. People milled around a maze of desks, some in uniform, some not. The scent of coffee infused every breath. Phones rang constantly. A big white board with bullet point descriptions and photos dominated half a wall, just like she’d seen on TV.
She bit back her excitement as her guide stopped in front of a closed door.
“Here you are. The office of Special Agent Conrad Ryan. Good luck,” the woman added in a murmur before striding off.
Was the agent in a foul mood because of Jane’s conversation with Mr. Miller?
Nerves twisted her stomach. She knew beyond any doubt the coming meeting would either rock her nonexistent socks off or knock her for a loop.
He’d called her bright and early this morning to ask if raising his blood pressure was a new game she played. She didn’t want to believe Beau had snitched on her but...she kind of believed Beau had snitched on her. The two were clearly allies now.
When she’d asked straight up, Conrad had redirected the conversation, telling her nothing. While she’d had him on the line, however, she’d invited herself to his office for a tour. Even though it was Sunday, the Lord’s day, he’d agreed.
“Are you planning to stand outside or come in?” Conrad called from inside the office.
“I’m debating.” Had she made a mistake coming here? She might have scored a tour and a scolding.
Finally, she turned the knob. Her hand trembled. Head high, she swept into the room. The door closed behind her, sealing her within the agent’s private domain. He sat behind a nondescript, government-issued wooden desk, but she didn’t face him. Not yet. She examined the bigger-than-expected space instead. A large window overlooked the parking lot, where a Georgia state flag rippled in a mild wind. Only a few framed certifications decorated the walls. Or photos. None on the desk. Or anywhere. Huh. Not of his family and friends. Not of anyone.
What did this mean? She’d seen personal photos on the desks she’d passed, which meant displaying of mementos wasn’t against governmental policy. The lack was by Conrad’s choice. But why?
He’d mentioned a rough childhood. Was he alone now? She didn’t mean to, but she flattened a hand over her chest. Was Conrad lonely? Her gaze zoomed back to him, and she gulped. He watched her with more intensity than ever.
Her heart leaped. He wore a dark suit and a fierce scowl. The imposing man rose to his feet and looked her over. Perspiration glazed her palms. For today’s mandatory meeting, she’d chosen a short black-and-white dress. Her favorite. Maybe she’d taken a little extra time with her hair. And actually applied makeup. Mascara. Blush. Lip gloss. What did he think?