I naturally don’t feel so at ease in the presence of law enforcement. But I’m not the one who has half a mutilated body buried somewhere. Which makes me question if the remains have already been uncovered.

Why else would the FBI show up now?

I try harder to catch Kyrie’s gaze, and notice I’m not the only one vying for her attention. The agent walks behind her, stops to look down briefly before he removes a notepad from his jacket pocket. Very old-school, hardboiled fashion. It almost makes me smirk.

After Hugh gives a brief commentary on our HR rights and asks for a collective agreeance to answer questions for the agency, Agent Hayes targets Brad. “Dr. Thompson, is it?”

Brad’s defenses visibly erect. His shoulders tense. “That’s correct.”

“How long did Mason Dumont intern in your department, Dr. Thompson?” the agent asks.

“Nine months, I believe,” Brad says, then shakes his head. “I’d have to check the records, of course, but I think that’s close. He was a very thorough research analyst. Mason worked primarily with the Bass Fields’ body farm program. Five days is a long time for him to be missing with no word, right?”

Brad sends a guarded glance my way, then blinks and shifts his stare. His thoughts might as well be written on the projection screen, he’s that transparent. Agitation worms into my cool demeanor and I seek Kyrie’s gaze again. All Brad needs is the slightest nudge by this agent, and he’ll implicate me in Mason’s disappearance. He’s already nervously giving away too much.

Law enforcement etiquette 101: never answer a question not asked.

After jotting down a note, Agent Hayes says, “We haven’t drawn any conclusions yet, Dr. Thompson. Did Mr. Dumont ever report any strange findings or inconsistencies in the body farm records to you?”

My heart knocks a beat faster against my chest wall. I refrain from looking at the agent, giving away no noticeable reaction, but internally, my blood is roaring.

Finally, Kyrie makes eye contact with me, both of us seemingly coming to the same conclusion at once.

Not only did Mason bring the body discrepancy to Brad, he shared his worries with an outside source.

The fucking FBI.

Mason is the only one who could have involved them. No one other than Brad—who spooks at his own shadow—knew of the victim with a missing hyoid buried in the research fields.

There’s no other way the FBI could be aware of Mason’s discovery. He had to have contacted them himself.

As Brad does his best to articulate a coherent response to Agent Hayes, explaining how an oversight with a donated body or records could be incorrectly documented by the interns—all while stealing nervous glances my way—I decide Brad was definitely not the one to report it. He’s far more frightened of me than the FBI.

I gauge Kyrie’s behavior, questioning if she knew of Mason’s actions.

No. That would be recklessly stupid. Far too careless even for her impulsive nature.

Killing Mason after he knowingly contacted the feds would be sure to bring the authorities to our doorstep. Something neither of us would want.

“Thank you for your more than helpful input, Dr. Thompson,” Agent Hayes says. “I may need to contact you again should I need further insight on the body farm records.”

My gaze darts to Hugh, the word warrant burning like a branding iron at the back of my throat as I hold it back.

Agent Hayes lines me in his sights. He’s not tall. Five-nine, maybe. He’s roughly mid-fifties and has a pouchy gut from sitting at a desk versus being in the field. His thinning hair is cropped close to his scalp, hinting to some military background. He wants others to see him as being in charge, having the answers, domineering, but he tries too hard to appear intimidating when the lines bracketing his mouth reveal how much shit he takes from his superiors daily.

The agent checks his notepad before addressing me. “Dr. Sorensen,” his eyes find mine, “you have a very impressive career.”

“Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth tics. “Do you recall the last time Mr. Dumont was seen in your department?”

I raise my eyebrows and push back in my chair, releasing a terse breath as I pretend to think. “I don’t.”

The agent waits for me to say more. When I offer nothing further, he nods and pushes forward. “According to the logs Dr. Cannon provided, Mr. Dumont was working on a…” He checks his notes again. “A donation in your department.”

“That seems right,” I say.

“But you don’t recall speaking with him, or seeing him—”

“Dr. Sorensen isn’t big on communicating or even noticing that others work in his department.”

There’s a shared round of snickers to break some of the tension. It’s Kyrie who suddenly speaks up to come to my aid. I hold her gaze across the table, and she gives me the faintest smile.

“Dr. Roth,” the agent says, and moves across the room in order to look at her directly. “It is Dr. Kyrie Roth, correct?”

She licks her lips and frowns at the agent. “Yes, that’s my name. How can I help you, Agent Hayes?”

Kyrie’s ability to mask her expression and blend into any environment is, admittedly, impressive. I should have realized this trait beforehand. So many tiny tells are coming to light as I study her today, and I realize how she even masked herself from me.

It wasn’t hard; my ego did most of the work for her.

Hayes regards her with a curious mix of apprehension and concern, like a father sorely disappointed in their child, but who still wants to shelter them. Could be a side effect of his misogyny; men in his position with his authority often overcorrect this attribute. Or he could have a daughter of his own, which would explain the flash of familiarity I glimpse in the agent’s squinted gaze when he asks her his next question.

“How long have you been employed at the university, Dr. Roth?”

She clasps her hands together on the table surface. “Three amazing years.”

The agent doesn’t take any notes. “You’ve done a lot of amazing things here during your time, as I understand. Expanding the Bass Fields research program, for one. That’s kind of like your baby, isn’t it?”

She only hesitates a beat, then her practiced smile forms. “I just won an award the other night, but I couldn’t have done any of it without the tireless and dedicated help of my colleagues.”

Hayes nods. “There are no accolades being given today, Dr. Roth. Just the facts.”

His derisive remark burrows under her protective armor, and she smiles wider. “Of course.”

“And in your three years here, have you noticed any of the inconsistencies Dr. Thompson was referring to?”

With a tilt of her head, Kyrie says, “Oh, sure.” She keeps her voice steady, pleasant but with a subtle hint of concern for the missing member of our team. “I mean, not to throw anyone under the bus, we have the best grad students in the country in our program, but they’re still in school, still learning. Crunching late hours for tests. It’s human to make mistakes.”

His smile is forced, but he logs a note. “Were you aware of any strife between Mason Dumont and anyone else in the program?”

She blinks, shakes her head. “I don’t believe so, no.”

“What about the bar the students frequent…” He flips a page in his notepad. “Black Rock Distillery. Did you ever hear Mason talking about going there?”

“I’m sorry, no,” she says simply.

From here, it’s a game of ping-pong between them. Gleaning nothing helpful from Kyrie, the agent moves on, traveling around the room and collecting additional information on the missing Mr. Dumont. Mason was well-liked. Not the top of his class, but exceptional enough to be praised by his professors. Nothing alarming is uncovered about him, other than the fact none of his professors, friends, or family have heard from him in nearly five days.