Okay, so hed had an experienceand not a good onewith a profiler in the past. I took that to mean that the difficulty Id been having getting a read on him was no accident. He liked keeping me guessing.
You wear a different style of clothing every time I see you, I said. You stand differently. You talk differently. You never say anything about yourself.
Maybe I like being tall, dark, and mysterious, Michael replied, taking a turn so quickly that I had to remind myself to breathe.
Youre not that tall, I gritted out. He
laughed.
Youre annoyed with me, he said, wiggling his eyebrows. But also intrigued.
Would you stop that? Id never realized how irritating it was to be the one under the microscope.
Ill make you a deal, Michael said. Ill stop trying to read your emotions if you stop trying to profile me.
I had so many questionsabout the way hed grown up, about his ability, about why hed warned me to stay awaybut unless I wanted him making an intense study of my emotions, Id have to get my answers the normal way.
Fine, I said. Deal.
He smiled. Excellent. Now, as a show of good faith, since Ive already spent a good chunk of time getting inside your head, Ill give you three questions to try to get inside mine.
The puzzle solver in me wanted to ask what kind of clothes he wore when there was no one around to see him, how many siblings he had, and which one of his parents had turned him into the kind of guy who was a little angry at the world.
But I didnt.
Anyone comfortable driving this fast wasnt going to shy away from a few little white lies. If I asked him what I wanted to know, all I would get was more mixed messagesso I asked him the only question I was fairly certain hed answer honestly.
Whats with the Porsche?
Michael took his eyes off the road just long enough to flick his gaze over to me, and I knew that Id surprised him.
The Porsche? he repeated.
I nodded. Im pretty sure its not standard FBI issue.
The edges of his lips curved upward, and for once, there was no dark undercurrent to the expression. The Porsche was a present, he told me. From my life before. Getting to keep it was one of the conditions I gave Briggs for joining up.
Why wouldnt he have let you keep it? I asked, realizing belatedly that Id just burned question number two.
Tax fraud, Michael replied. Not mine. My fathers.
From the tightness in his voice, I got the feeling that keeping the Porsche probably hadnt been the only condition of Michaels participation in the program. Whether hed asked for the government to overlook his fathers crimes or his father had bartered away his son in exchange for immunity, I wasnt sure.
I didnt ask.
Instead, I stuck to safer ground. Whats it like? The program?
Ive only been there for a few months, Michael said. Briggs sprung me to come get you. Good behavior, I guess.
Somehow, I doubted that.
Michael seemed to sense that I wasnt buying it. And also possibly because Briggs needed someone to read your emotions and figure out whether or not youre a secret bottle of rage who shouldnt be granted access to confidential files.
Did I pass? I asked, a teasing note making its way into my voice.
Uh-uh-uh, Michael replied. Thats four questions.
With no warning, he jerked the steering wheel to the left, pulled a U-turn, and then took a fast right. A few seconds later, the two of us slammed into a parking space at what appeared to be some kind of airport hangar.
What, I said, my eyes widening as I took in the sleek hunk of metal in front of us, is that?
That? Michael repeated. Thats the jet.
Let me guess, I said, only half joking. You made getting to keep your private jet a condition of your acceptance into the program?
Michael snorted. Sadly, it belongs to the FBI. When Briggs isnt out roping the young and impressionable into doing his dirty work for him, he belongs to a specialized team that works with law enforcement across the country. The jet cuts down on travel time. For us, its just a perk.
Cassie, Agent Briggs greeted me the second I stepped out of the car. Just my name, nothing else.
Michael hit a button, and the trunk popped open. I went to retrieve my bag, and Michael shot Briggs a very good imitation of Nonnas scowl. You just going to stand there? he asked the FBI agent.
Briggs helped me with my bag, and Michael caught my eye. Amused, he whispered. And also some residual embarrassment.
It took me a second to realize that Michael wasnt interpreting Briggss facial expression. He was interpreting mine.
Ill stop trying to read your emotions if you stop trying to profile me .
Liar.
Without another word, Michael turned and sauntered to the jet. By the time I climbed aboard, he was already lounging in the back row of seats. He looked up, his posture inviting, his eyes telling me to stay away.
Tearing my gaze from his, I took a seat in the row in front of him, facing the cockpit. Wed see how good he was at reading my emotions based on nothing more than the
back of my head.
Tell you what, Michael whispered, his voice loud enough to reach my ears, but not Briggss. If you promise not to give me the silent treatment, Ill give you a fourth question, free of charge.