In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) by Irene Hannon Page A

She should
be able to dispense with the interruption quickly and get on
with her evening.
    Pasting a smile on her face, she pulled open the door. "Hi.
Can I help you?"
    "Rachel Sutton?"
    "Yes"
    "My name is Claudia Barnes. I'm with St. Louis Scene" She
held out a business card. "I was hoping you might give me a
few minutes:"

    Responding by reflex, Rachel took the card. "I'm sorry. I don't
think I'm familiar with that publication"
    "Not enough people are, I'm afraid. It's only been around for
two years. But the circulation is growing. Scene is a free, weekly
news magazine. It's distributed at restaurants, grocery stores,
and various other places of business. I'm a reporter."
    The logo on the card was vaguely familiar to Rachel. "I think
I've seen it. At the coffee shop I go to, maybe. It's a tabloid, isn't
it?"
    "Yes"
    Puzzled by the visit, Rachel tipped her head and gave the
woman a quizzical look. "How can I help you, Ms. Barnes?"
    "I'm hoping you'll let me interview you for a story I'm working on about paranormal phenomena"
    The request caught Rachel like a left hook-and left her reeling. Several seconds ticked by before she could find her voice.
"Excuse me?"
    The woman's poise wavered for an instant, her smile flickering the tiniest bit. Clearing her throat, she hitched her shoulder
purse a bit higher. Her smile steadied. "I'm working on a feature
on the paranormal. A story like that is always more interesting
when it has a local angle, and I understand you had an experience recently that falls into this category. With a Raggedy Ann
doll?"
    Stunned, Rachel stared at her. "Where did you hear that?"
The question came out strained and hoarse.
    "I'm afraid I can't reveal my sources. That goes against press
protocol. It's true, then? You have psychic abilities?"
    "No"
    "What about the doll?"
    "That's the only time I .." Rachel stopped. Clamped her lips
shut. But it was too late. For all intents and purposes, she'd
confirmed her experience with the doll.

    "It's a fascinating story, Ms. Sutton. I know our readers would
be interested in it. Even if the FBI wasn't"
    The woman's eyes narrowed, and Rachel suspected she was
fishing now. That she didn't know what the FBI's reaction had
been. But how did she know about Rachel's visit to the field
office in the first place?
    Only one answer came to mind. Someone at the FBI had
leaked her story to the press. Perhaps not with deliberate
intent, though that didn't matter at this point. It was out
there.
    But who could it have been? She'd told her story to no one
at that office except Nick Bradley, and somehow she couldn't
imagine him being that indiscreet. He could have shared the
story with other agents, though, and one of them might have
commented on it to someone with connections to the media.
How else could this woman have gotten the information?
    "You know, Ms. Sutton, whether they admit it or not, law
enforcement agencies do use psychics in crime solving. I've
been researching the subject, and back in the 1970s there was
a woman in St. Louis who-"
    "Ms. Barnes" Gripping the edge of the door, Rachel cut her
off. "I don't know where you got your tip about me, but I'm not
interested in your article or in participating in any way" She
started to close the door.
    "That's your choice, of course" The woman raised her volume
slightly. "It's just that I wanted to give you a chance to tell your
story in your own words rather than have me paraphrase it with
a `no comment' from you:'
    Rachel's hopes for a quiet, peaceful evening-make that a
quiet, peaceful life-disintegrated. The reporter might be bluffing, hoping that last comment would spur her to cooperate,
but if she wasn't, Rachel would face public humiliation. It had
been bad enough talking to one person at the FBI. If this was splashed across the pages of a tabloid and read by tens of thousands of people, she'd never shake the loony label.

    A wave of panic swept over her.
    Clutching at straws,