Serial

Chapter Seven

"Somebody got away," I whispered, thinking about what this meant. "How could you not mention this before? You guys have an actual witness. Well, there's your case right there! She's gotta have all the answers. Case closed."

"We thought the same thing," Agent Walker said. "And don't get me wrong, she's the reason we have any details at all, but she's so damaged and traumatized that we're not sure she'll make it through a whole trial. For some victims, just the idea of being in the same courtroom as their attacker is enough to make them clam up for good."

"Maybe if you made her feel safe," I blurted out harshly, before softening my tone, "and were sympathetic to what she was going through, she wouldn't be so hesitant."

"What are you implying?" he asked, frowning.

"Come on, Agent Walker," I said, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. "If you guys interviewed her the way you interviewed me, then I could see why she'd be less than helpful. You guys aren't exactly—comforting."

"We're not here to comfort people," Agent Walker said. "We're here to catch killers and keep the public safe."

"They don't teach you how to have a good bedside manner over there at the FBI, do they?" I said, sarcastically. Then I deepened my voice and leaned forward in my chair intimidatingly to mock him. "You know this guy? You know what he did with this ice pick? Hey, guess what, you're being stalked! By a serial killer! Okay, well, good luck!"

"That's not accurate," Agent Walker said, looking up at the ceiling warily. "Besides, when you see the stuff we see—you sort of lose your ability to coddle. You get straight to the point, because you don't have the luxury of time when you're trying to solve a case."

I folded my arms. "It takes just as long to be pleasant as it does to be crotchety," I said.

"Crotchety?" Agent Walker repeated, then snorted loudly. "Actually, that's a perfect way to describe Landon," he said, shaking his head before moving on. "Would you rather us be nice or solve the case?"

"Why can't you do both?" I asked.

"Life's not fair," he retorted. "You can't always get what you want."

He was almost as stubborn as I was. Now I could see why Zhara got annoyed with me sometimes.

I got up from the stool to stretch my legs, rising up on my tippy toes and then back down again, working out my calves which were tight from class.

Agent Walker noticed the movements and pointed at my feet. "Your feet better now?"

"Huh?" I asked, absently.

"Your feet were pretty banged up when we came by the other day," he said, shrugging.

"You noticed that?" I said, surprised.

"I'm FBI. I notice everything," he said seriously. Then he loosened up and smiled. "Besides, it was kind of hard to miss. You were practically bleeding all over the floor."

"It wasn't that bad," I said, thinking about how I'd had worse wounds over the years.

"I could smell it when we walked in," he said in a strange voice.

I was suddenly embarrassed. "That's what happens when you dance for five hours a day," I said defensively. "Your feet stink from the sweat."

"Not that," Agent Walker said, though he laughed at the misinterpretation. "I meant, I could smell the blood."

"That's a creepy little trick," I said, raising an eyebrow. "I wouldn't go telling strangers that."

"Trust me, I don't," he answered, sarcastically.