Confidential [ON HOLD]

8. Coaching Relatives

Towers of bricks raced past as Carson's old Chevrolet, speeded through the urban neighborhoods of New Brunswick. They were just about a minute away from the Simpson household and Benjamin could not be happier.

"Pull over in the next lane," C.J said from the front seat. It had been decided that he was better sat in the back seat, away from Carson and C.J's eyes. Benjamin would have argued for the front seat, but he was smarter than that. C.J and Carson were already not pleased with the sudden trip to Jersey. Benjamin didn't need two rabid FBI agents breathing down his back. It was an unnecessary problem he didn't need right now.

The car came to a stop at the edge of the road, parked behind a line of cars crowding the road. Benjamin couldn't help but see the differences between the two neighborhoods he had been to in the past week—C.J and James Simpson's.

The neighborhood he found C.J in was dull and gloomy and smelt of hostility coming from the community. And here he stood, in front of a raked lawn with perfectly cut green grass and a bed of roses. Benjamin supposed any family of Colby Simpson could only be found in dark and dingy areas but, here he stood proven wrong.

The car door was sharply opened as C.J bent down under the roof, coming face to face with him. When he saw the scowl on her face, Benjamin had the urge to smile. "You made us drive, all the way to New Jersey, Braxton. Don't tell me that you're scared—"

"Relax, relax," he put his hand to move C.J out of the way and stepped out of the car. "I do not get scared, C.J. I am—"

"Oi, you two!" Carson called out, already standing on the house porch. "Are you coming or are you going to make me do this alone?"

C.J rushed to meet him there—but more likely to get away from Benjamin. He shut the car door and joined the two in front of the front door. Carson looked at C.J and when she nodded—almost as if in confirmation, he rang the doorbell.

Benjamin briefly looked at his shoes as the clicking sound of an opening lock sounded. When he lifted his head again, Benjamin was looking directly at James Simpson. Though, in his late fifties the man stood tall and stronger than what Benjamin thought he would be. He wore a nylon sports shirt, tucked neatly into his dark track pants. A matching sports jacket hung on his shoulders. He had thin eyebrows and sharp features, which sharpened even more with the hard expression he wore.

"Yes?" he questioned. His voice was raspy and heavy from all the yelling he did from coaching college football. And even though Benjamin had never met this man before, he was sure he had met someone like Simpson. There was something about the way his face was morphed into a scowl that reminded him of someone.

But Benjamin worked in the Blind Spot Agency. Scowling was a part of the job specification.

Carson looked to him and nodded, indicating for him to speak up. Clearing his throat, he took out his badge out of my pocket and held it up. "I'm Agent Braxton with Blind Spot Agency."

Normally, the badge and name 'Blind Spot' wasn't recognizable or impactful with getting things done. But James Simpson was familiar with the agency—Benjamin didn't know how, but Agent Harley told him 'that's all you need to know'. The skeptic in him was suspicious. Harley's voice was harsher than usual and Benjamin was sure it wasn't aimed at him. James Simpson and Andrew Harley had history.

But this was an order from a senior agent. And Benjamin didn't question orders.

According to the instructions Harley had given him, James Simpson should let him ask questions about the case after he showed his Blind Spot badge.

If he was relaxed with that piece of information, Simpson certainly didn't show it. His gaze shifted from the badge in my hand and landed on the two people beside him. He raised a skeptical eyebrow, "Three agents from Blind Spot? What did I do, Officer?"