about the same time, I realized that I probably had Agent Brady’s phone number right there on my computer—DB_Profile.doc. The file that the game had sent to me. I wasn’t crazy about going back to my computer—at the moment I blamed it for my predicament—but I didn’t have a choice.
I opened the file and saw that I was right. Everything was there: Devlin Brady’s name, address, phone number, occupation, hobbies, previous employment. Even a photo. A candid shot, with Brady turned slightly from the camera.
We’d met once, and I remember thinking that he was pretty hot, which the picture reflected quite well.
He had dark, unruly hair and a firm jaw. But what really got me was his eyes. Clear and blue.
Very sexy.
At the moment, though, I wasn’t particularly interested in sex appeal. I was much more focused on the fact that Agent Brady had a solid, capable face. And, from what I could tell, he had a decently muscled body under that suit. He looked like a man who could watch his back and mine. And under the circumstances, that was more appealing than a kissable mouth and a sultry grin.
I snatched up the phone and dialed the number listed for his home. The phone rang three times, and as it did, I drummed my fingers on the table, waiting for him to pick up. He didn’t, and I found myself faced with his answering machine and absolutely no idea what to say. In person, I could just tell him the truth.
Page 28
But to leave a message like that on a machine? I guess I was afraid he wouldn’t call me back.
You could have driven a truck through my silence, and just as I was about to speak, the machine beeped and the line went dead.Damn.
I redialed. This time, I was expecting the message: “You’ve reached Devlin Brady. Please leave a message.” I did as asked and said, “Um, hi. Agent Brady? My name is Jennifer Crane. You, um, might
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
remember me because we met once about a year ago. Actually, you confiscated my laptop, remember? I
was Melanie Prescott’s roommate? Anyway, I really need to talk to you. Can you call me back right away? It’s urgent. Thanks.” I left my home and cell numbers, then called his cell phone and the number listed as his direct dial at the FBI. I got dumped into voice mail in both cases. I hate that.
I left my messages, then hung up, feeling (rightly) like I hadn’t accomplished a thing. More, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Should I hang out and wait? Should I go to his apartment? For that matter, was it safe for me to leave my apartment?
I paced from kitchen sink to bathroom, running these questions over in my head. In response to pretty much all those queries, I decided I should give him an hour to call me back. My reasoning was that for all
I knew, he already knew about the game, knew who I was, and was on his way to my place. That’s what FBI agents did, right? Rode to the rescue of damsels in distress?
The other reason was that I wasn’t really a damsel in distress (though I had to keep reminding myself of that). Sure, I was in deep doo-doo, and there was a definite possibility that I wouldn’t get out of this situation alive (with that thought, I had to remind myself to breathe), but I wasn’t the target. This may seem like a technical distinction given the overall fucked-up-edness of the situation, but I was clinging to whatever good news I could find.
Once I hooked up with Agent Brady, not only would I not be the focus of the assassin’s bullet (or whatever), I’d also have the added protection of a Fibbie at my side. I can’t say that I thought this rendered the situation ideal or anything, but having someone else shoulder the burden was a definite step in the right direction.
While I waited, I tried Mel again. Still no answer, which made me concerned about the state of national security. If an NSA employee isn’t answering her cell phone, that seemed to me to be very bad
I opened the file and saw that I was right. Everything was there: Devlin Brady’s name, address, phone number, occupation, hobbies, previous employment. Even a photo. A candid shot, with Brady turned slightly from the camera.
We’d met once, and I remember thinking that he was pretty hot, which the picture reflected quite well.
He had dark, unruly hair and a firm jaw. But what really got me was his eyes. Clear and blue.
Very sexy.
At the moment, though, I wasn’t particularly interested in sex appeal. I was much more focused on the fact that Agent Brady had a solid, capable face. And, from what I could tell, he had a decently muscled body under that suit. He looked like a man who could watch his back and mine. And under the circumstances, that was more appealing than a kissable mouth and a sultry grin.
I snatched up the phone and dialed the number listed for his home. The phone rang three times, and as it did, I drummed my fingers on the table, waiting for him to pick up. He didn’t, and I found myself faced with his answering machine and absolutely no idea what to say. In person, I could just tell him the truth.
Page 28
But to leave a message like that on a machine? I guess I was afraid he wouldn’t call me back.
You could have driven a truck through my silence, and just as I was about to speak, the machine beeped and the line went dead.Damn.
I redialed. This time, I was expecting the message: “You’ve reached Devlin Brady. Please leave a message.” I did as asked and said, “Um, hi. Agent Brady? My name is Jennifer Crane. You, um, might
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
remember me because we met once about a year ago. Actually, you confiscated my laptop, remember? I
was Melanie Prescott’s roommate? Anyway, I really need to talk to you. Can you call me back right away? It’s urgent. Thanks.” I left my home and cell numbers, then called his cell phone and the number listed as his direct dial at the FBI. I got dumped into voice mail in both cases. I hate that.
I left my messages, then hung up, feeling (rightly) like I hadn’t accomplished a thing. More, I wasn’t sure what to do next. Should I hang out and wait? Should I go to his apartment? For that matter, was it safe for me to leave my apartment?
I paced from kitchen sink to bathroom, running these questions over in my head. In response to pretty much all those queries, I decided I should give him an hour to call me back. My reasoning was that for all
I knew, he already knew about the game, knew who I was, and was on his way to my place. That’s what FBI agents did, right? Rode to the rescue of damsels in distress?
The other reason was that I wasn’t really a damsel in distress (though I had to keep reminding myself of that). Sure, I was in deep doo-doo, and there was a definite possibility that I wouldn’t get out of this situation alive (with that thought, I had to remind myself to breathe), but I wasn’t the target. This may seem like a technical distinction given the overall fucked-up-edness of the situation, but I was clinging to whatever good news I could find.
Once I hooked up with Agent Brady, not only would I not be the focus of the assassin’s bullet (or whatever), I’d also have the added protection of a Fibbie at my side. I can’t say that I thought this rendered the situation ideal or anything, but having someone else shoulder the burden was a definite step in the right direction.
While I waited, I tried Mel again. Still no answer, which made me concerned about the state of national security. If an NSA employee isn’t answering her cell phone, that seemed to me to be very bad
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