Mean Streak

“My, my. Connell was a fount of information, wasn’t he?”

“He referenced a soccer coach. A priest. Others in addition to Norman and Will Floyd.”

“I take that back. He was a babbling brook.”

“All related to that shooting in Virginia.”

His eyes turned cold and hostile. “You should go to bed, Doc. Get some sleep.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Okay then, I’ll turn in.”

He made for the hallway, but she quickly placed herself in his path. “Tell me what all this is about.”

“I’m sure you’ll find out, in time.”

“I want to know now. I want to hear it from your own lips, not from someone else’s.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise I’ll never believe you were involved in something so heinous.”

“Well I was.” His tone was curt, matter of fact. “There. That’s all you need to know and all you’ll get from me. It has nothing to do with the here and now.”

“Agent Connell thinks it does.”

“Agent Connell can go fuck himself. What happened then doesn’t pertain to you.”

“But it pertains to you.”

“It’s not my life I’m trying to save! It’s yours.”

“I don’t need you to save me,” she said, warming to the argument. “I can go to Connell myself, to Knight and Grange, and—”

“What?”

“Accuse Jeff.”

He gave a stern shake of his head. “Not a good plan.”

“Why?”

“You don’t have any evidence to support your allegations.”

She opened her hand, showing him that she had the zipper pull, then quickly snatched her hand back.

He shrugged with indifference. “Useless. Where you got it and when, your word against his, remember?”

“But it and the rock together would—”

“You don’t have the rock.”

“But you do.”

“That’s right. I do.”

“You’d hold it hostage from me?”