Title Threes, known to Hollywood and the general public as phone or wire taps, made up a large portion of my function at the Bureau. Recordings were created, and then I would listen, translate, and write a report—also known as the infamous FD-302. But the Title Threes typically given to me were in Italian, Spanish, or my mother’s language, Japanese. If the recording were in English, the OST—the squad secretary—would transcribe it.

Something told me that Val thought something was off about an analyst interpreting a Title Three, because curiosity—or maybe suspicion—was flickering in her eyes. But she didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell. As far as I knew, Maddox was the only agent who knew about my true purpose in San Diego.

“On it,” I said.

She winked at me and smiled. “Want me to show you around later? Anything you didn’t get to during the orientation tour?”

I thought about that for half a second. “The fitness room?”

“I know that one. I frequent there after work—right before I frequent the bar,” she said.

“Agent Taber,” a woman with a tight bun said as she walked by.

“Fuck off,” she said again.

I arched an eyebrow.

She shrugged. “They must love it, or they wouldn’t talk to me.”

My mouth pulled to the side while I tried to suppress a laugh. Val Taber was refreshing.

“We have a squad meeting first thing in the a.m.” She pondered that for a moment. “I’ll show you the fitness room after lunch. It’s sort of off-limits between eleven and noon. The boss likes to focus,” she said, whispering the last bit and making a show of putting her fingers to one side of her mouth.

“Twelve thirty,” I said with a nod.

“My desk,” Val said, pointing to the next cubicle over. “We’re neighbors.”

“What’s with the stuffed bunny?” I asked, referring to the gangly white rabbit with Xs sewn on for eyes, sitting on the corner of her desk.

Her slight triangle of a nose wrinkled. “It was my birthday last week.” When I didn’t reply, her face screwed into disgust. “Fuck off.” A grin slowly stretched across her face, and then she winked at me before rounding the corner to return to her desk. She sat in her chair and turned her back to me, opening her email on her laptop.

I shook my head and then unzipped my headphones case before placing them over my ears. After connecting them to my laptop, I opened the unlabeled white binder and pulled a CD from a plastic sheath before slipping it into the drive.

As the CD loaded, I clicked New Document. My pulse fluttered as my fingers curved over the keyboard, ready to type. There was something about a new project, a blank page, that gave me a particular enjoyment that nothing else could.