Hellcat

Chapter 68

The next morning, I was out for a walk, hoping the late fall air would bring some clarity to me. Sadly, that wasn't working, especially with the guy following me. He thought he was slick, but I clocked him about five blocks back.

Deciding to try and catch him off guard, I turned down an alley. He followed me, coming to a halt when I spun to face him. "Who are you and why are you following me?" I growled at him, hands clenched into fists, body shaking with adrenaline. "Allison Drake," he greeted evenly. The way he dressed and how he spoke told me exactly what he was. I scoffed at him. Amateur.

"Yeah, I would hope the FBI knows who they're tailing. Doesn't tell me who you are, though," I responded harshly, relaxing my fists only slightly. He reached into the front of his coat and produced a badge. "Agent Booker. We need you to come with us, please," he said as another man came into the mouth of the alley. I glanced at him for only a moment before returning my gaze to the agent directly in front of me. "Let me guess, you go by T.J.?" I teased him flatly.

"Ma'am, come with us, please. We won't ask again," Booker's buddy called out from behind him. "First off, you can't legally take me anywhere without my consent. Secondly, I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me why." Crossing my arms over my chest, I waited. Booker glanced back at his partner in annoyance before returning his gaze to me. "This is about one of your former employers, Mr. Matthew Murdock."

My blood ran cold, but I didn't let myself react physically. "What about him?" I asked slowly. "Come with us, please," Booker said once more. Sighing in frustration, I knew the only way I would get answers was by going with them. If it were for anything else, I would have dropped it. But this was Matt. And even though I was pissed, I couldn't bring myself to not care about what the FBI had to say.

The FBI agents drove me to Matt's apartment building, leading me up the stairs to his unit. The door was broken down, police tape crossing over the entryway. I didn't say anything as I stared at the unexpected sight. Why in the hell did the FBI break down Matt's door? What did the FBI want with him in the first place?

"You could've asked for the key," I grumbled to the agents behind me as footsteps approached from inside the apartment. "Had we known you'd had it, we still would have busted in," Agent Nadeem's voice reached me before he came into view. "Hello again, Miss Drake. Pleasure to officially meet you," he said, clearly recognizing me from the other morning.

"Is Matt okay?" I asked, forcing myself to keep my voice level and neutral. Nadeem didn't respond. "Wanna tell me what's going on here? Why you had your goons pick me up?" I asked, shooting glares at Booker and his partner. "Miss Drake, I get that you're an... abrasive person by nature. But right now, I need you to cooperate with me and answer a few questions," he responded firmly before lifting up the police tape for me and stepping to the side.

I stepped into the apartment, staying by the door until Nadeem led the way inside. I followed him slowly, taking in the sight of many FBI agents taking pictures of everything. One had even found the closet under the stairs, taking pictures of the trunk that used to hold Matt's Daredevil suit. But what was in the middle of the living room was what caught my attention – a crumpled and bloody suit that hadn't been there yesterday.

"When's the last time you heard from Matt Murdock?" Agent Nadeem asked as he moved around casually through the space. "Months," I responded with a gentle shrug, ignoring the spike of fear that ran through me. Seeing Matt's bloody suit had a bigger effect on me than I would have guessed. Not only was he alive, but he had been fighting. He was hurt and I wasn't there to help him.

"You haven't seen or spoken to him in months?" he asked me. I gave a small nod of confirmation as I moved around the space. I had cleaned it up, but there was one coffee cup that was on the kitchen counter that hadn't been before. The one with my lipstick stain on the rim. Matt had always known which mug of his was my favorite by that stain. Even though he'd washed the mug multiple times, the stain stayed. He never seemed to mind it, though. Once, I'd asked him how he kept grabbing that mug for me. He said he could still smell the lingering wax and the dyes used to make the color.