Maddox’s office was made up of mahogany and lush carpets, but his shelves were bare and pathetic like mine, missing family photos and personal trinkets that could lead anyone to believe he had a life outside of the Bureau. The walls displayed his favorite memories, including plaques and awards along with a photo of him shaking hands with the director.

Three frames sat on his desk, staggered and facing away from me. It bothered me that I couldn’t see what was inside of them. I wondered if they held pictures of her.

Maddox was standing in his navy suit, one hand in his pocket, staring out his beautiful corner office view. “Have a seat, Lindy.”

I sat.

He turned. “I have a dilemma that you might be able to help me with.”

A hundred different statements could have come from his mouth. That wasn’t one I’d considered. “I’m sorry, sir. What was that?”

“I had a meeting with the S.A.C. earlier, and he feels you could be a solution to a recent issue,” he said, finally sitting in his chair.

The blinds let in the full light of the afternoon sun, creating a glare on the desk’s already glossy surface. It was large enough to seat six people, and I guessed it would be too heavy for two men to lift. I raised my toes to fit snuggly beneath the space between the wood and the rug. I let out a breath, feeling anchored enough to keep whatever unexpected thing Maddox was about to drop on me from blowing me away.

He tossed a file on the desk, and it slid toward me, stopping just short of the edge. As I picked it up and held the thick stack of papers in my hand, I was still too sidetracked by Maddox’s previous statement to open it.

“Special Agent Polanski, the S.A.C., thinks I’m a solution,” I said, suspicious.

Either I had seriously underestimated my value, or Maddox was full of shit.

“Just read it,” he said, standing up again and walking toward the window. Gauging by his stern expression and stiff posture, he was nervous.

I opened the thick card stock to the first page, and then I continued to look over the numerous FD-302s, surveillance photos, and a list of the dead. One report contained charges and court transcriptions of a college kid named Adam Stockton. He was an organizer of some sort, and he had been sentenced to ten years in prison. I skimmed over most of it, knowing that wasn’t what Maddox wanted me to see.