The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

“I’m not ready.”

“Lang told me you believed The Poet wouldn’t commit suicide. If that’s making you doubt yourself—”

“Lang’s full of shit,” I say. “He didn’t kill himself, Wade. The passenger door was open when I got there. He didn’t open the passenger door to kill himself. Lang covered it up. He said I’d be accused of the murder.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “I’m asking you to join the FBI. I clearly trust your judgment. Who do you think killed him?”

“Someone who wanted revenge, but my point is that the truth didn’t matter. Everyone involved did a little CYA. The truth should be the truth, but it’s not. I’m not ready for the red tape bureaucracy of it all again.”

“The truth should be the truth and it will be with me. You’ll find that out. I believe that. That’s why it’s a consulting offer. A chance to get your feet wet. You can pick your cases. You’ll have the freedom you never had before.” He winks. “And me.”

“You’d be my boss.”

“You betcha, baby.”

I snort. “Then it’s a no.”

He laughs because he knows we get along far too well for that to be my reason to say no. “Then let me give you a few reasons to say yes. The pay is excellent. The cases are interesting. And one day you might even walk into Captain Moore’s office and claim jurisdiction over one of his cases.”

“That’s bad.”

“And it would feel so good. You know it would.” He hands me a folder.

I accept it with a curious look. “What’s this?”

“Three open cases. Pick your flavor. All are hot and new.”

“You’re not going to give me time to find something else, are you?”

“Not a chance, and why would you with three puzzles in that file?”

The man does know me, it seems. Really curious now, I tab through potential serial killers, both originating in different states, and one Houston, Texas ransom kidnapping case. The kidnapping is an odd case for him to offer me. “I don’t do kidnapping and ransoms,” I remind him.

“Why not? It’s a puzzle. And who better to help than a ten-year-old?”

I know what he’s doing. He’s offering me a way to make peace with killing that little boy. Proving this point, he says. “Save the ones we can save.”

I inhale a heavy breath and flip to the photo of a pretty blonde girl with blue eyes. Eyes that stare right into my soul. I shut the file. “I’ll take the kidnapping case. Now what?”

He reaches in his bag yet again and hands me a badge. “You’ll need this.”

“I thought I was a contractor.”

“You are. It’s a pilot program I’m running with a handful of consultants. I can’t promise it lasts forever, but for now, it’s your start. There’s paperwork to do in the morning, a weapon to issue. The basics.” I stare at the shiny badge that reads “FBI.” It’s the future that might have been mine had I not followed my father, and I don’t know why I continue to resist. That will take some self-analysis, but in the meantime, I’m not going to turn down the consulting job. I need a purpose. I need a puzzle.

I stand up and walk around the table.

“Where are you going?” Wade calls after me as I head toward my bedroom.

“To pack and get on a plane to Houston,” I call over my shoulder. This is what I need, I think, as I grab my suitcase. This purpose helps someone in need and gets The Poet out of my head.

Chapter 91

Agent Jazz.

It takes me seven days to get used to people calling me this because of the badge, though I’m not technically Agent Jazz. Consultant Jazz, but I do admit that doesn’t have quite the ring that Agent Jazz does. The idea of working for the FBI is growing on me.

It also takes me seven days in Houston to find the little girl, who wasn’t kidnapped at all. Her parents were trying to get more from a rich grandparent. Returning home with a sense of accomplishment, and no contact with anyone at the Austin PD but Chuck, I’m also returning to the news that my apartment has been sold and the closing will be in three weeks. The time to hunt for a house is now. Therefore, my first day back in Austin is spent house hunting, which, not intentionally, leads me to a cute little white two-story stand-alone home not far from Wade’s house.

It’s near nine when I finally finish up at the grocery store and head home, where Wade will soon join me to discuss my future over takeout food. While I wait for his arrival, I open a bottle of red wine, fill a glass, and I’m not sure why, but I find myself drawn to the computer by the door connected to my security camera. I disconnect it and carry it with me to the couch to offer it a quick perusal, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps because this is the first time in a week that I’m back home and in the aftermath of all things The Poet.