“Her face was flushed, her hands were shaking, agitated, and she stared holes in her.”
“Sounds like Sudafed, or whatever else she’s on.”
“Now I’m wondering,” he says. “Now I’m really wondering.”
“It could be Lucy, too. She might have been reacting to Lucy,” I consider, as I get eggs from the refrigerator and begin cracking them in a bowl. “People aren’t always one thing. Almost never, if they’re honest about it. I’m not aware they really know each other, beyond Lucy making a point to avoid her and every other FBI agent if possible.”
“Could be something conflicted there.” Benton refills his cup and checks mine. “She’s asked me about her.”
“She’s asked you about Lucy?”
“She’s curious about Lucy’s FBI past. Why she left the Bureau. Why she left ATF.”
“What did you tell her?” I turn on the stovetop.
“Nothing.”
“She’s just curious, or are her questions an attempt to be critical? Maybe she wants to find out information that might make her feel superior to Lucy.”
“Doug’s competitive.”
“You probably don’t know the half of it.” I open a cabinet, deciding on cookware.
“I don’t talk about us, don’t confide in her, never have and wouldn’t.”
“I’m not surprised. You barely confide in me.”
“I know Doug takes all sorts of stuff, has real problems with allergies, but I’d never really given it a second thought.”
“Have you seen symptoms and behavior like this from the beginning?” I whisk eggs and melt butter in a saucepan. “What about when you first started working with her closely?”
“On and off and then on. These past few months? On all the time. Revved up like an overspeeding engine.” He drops English muffins in the toaster. “I thought it was her mood, her problem.”
“Her problem with you. There should be chopped asparagus and fresh basil on the top shelf. Refrigerator one. Fig preserves are in the door of refrigerator two.” I am overly diligent about having plenty of food in the house.
If I have a compulsion, it’s making sure I don’t run out of anything I might need for cooking, especially if the weather is taking a turn for the worse.
“When I finally realized what she felt, by then it was pretty bad, and I attributed it to her being anxious, stressed, when she was around me.” He sets the jar of preserves, the basil, and the asparagus on the counter near me. “Cheese?”
“Parmesan is already grated. And you’re in charge of the preserves.” I slide the jar back in his direction. “It will be good on the muffins.”
I need to get to the store today. There probably won’t be time. I uncover Parmigiano-Reggiano I grated late last night and asparagus I chopped while I was waiting for Benton to come home. I whisk the eggs, adding salt and pepper.
“Pseudoephedrine is structurally similar to amphetamine and has been used for performance enhancement.” I tear the basil leaves and mix them in. “It’s commonly abused by athletes, for example, causing euphoria, boundless energy, and people can get dependent, taking it three or four times a day or even more. Some use it to lose weight because it’s an appetite suppressant.”
“She certainly doesn’t need to lose weight.”
“Maybe that’s why.”
“I’m suggesting she request a transfer to a different field office.”
“You suggested it or you’re going to suggest it?” I turn the heat down very low. “And how did the moment of enlightenment happen after you’d gone all this time supposedly assuming she’s gay?”
“When we went to Quantico together in August.” He checks the muffins and presses the levers back down. “She wanted to come into my room, and it became quite apparent what her interest was, and I made it very clear it wasn’t going to happen.”
“And last night?” I open the oven door to make sure the broiler is heating up. “When she dropped you off to pick up your car and you didn’t get home until some two hours later? By which time I’d gone through half a bottle of wine by myself and dinner was ruined.”
“We sat in your parking lot talking,” he says, and I believe him. “She can’t get over it.”
“She can’t get over you.”
“I guess not. No.”
“I guess even an FBI agent can have a personality disorder. Narcissist? Borderline? Sociopath, or a little dash or all three? What is she? Because I know you know.”
“I don’t expect you to feel sorry for her, Kay.”
“Good.” I grab potholders. “Because I don’t.”
I lift the stainless-steel saucepan off the induction stovetop and place it inside the oven on the top shelf.