“That’s right. You get through it.”

This small agreement between them is calming. Which is good, because at the end of this road there is Beckley, and Emma’s nerves are plucking at her. She reminds herself this was her choice. She chose to do this, and she’s sure the reason why will come clear in time.

For now, the late May air is rushing by her from the open window, the sun warming her face and shoulders, and they’ve got the war-wound talk out of the way.

They’re coming into the outskirts of the town, so there’s more traffic. Emma looks out at the colors in the foliage by the roadside and presses her palms flat onto her knees. “Why do you think Cooper sent us to McMurtry first? I mean, we could’ve seen Gesak, or Campinelli. Their prisons are both closer to Quantico by about a hundred miles.”

Bell reaches to turn down President Reagan’s voice on the radio, his focus not straying from the road. “Beckley is only medium security, with a work camp. McMurtry is one of the younger subjects, and he’s in a more comfortable environment. He might be less hardened, easier for us to talk to. I mean, Cooper said he spent some time complaining about the toilet paper.”

“Mouthy. Great.” Emma grimaces. Not that she’s expecting any of the subjects to be Mr. Personality.

“If he’s talkative, that’s better for us. We just need to direct the flow of the conversation.” Bell lifts one shoulder. “But hey, I’m just spitballing about Cooper’s motivations. Maybe he picked the file closest to his desk.”

“I don’t think he would do that,” Emma says slowly. “He’s particular. And I get the impression he’s reasonably good at his job.”

Bell nods, checks his side mirrors as they come off the interstate. “He knows this assignment is going to be tough. It’s in his best interest to ease us in with a softball subject before we get to the hard stuff.”

“You said you’re a Marshal candidate, but you seem to know a lot about FBI procedure.”

“Like I said, I know the life. My dad used to talk about working with other agencies. He admired the bureau. Said they trained hard.” Bell shrugs again. “I’m used to law enforcement. I guess it must seem weird to a civilian.”

Emma snorts. “My dad is a third-generation farmer and my mom’s a grade-school teacher. They watch The Love Boat, not Hill Street Blues—they’re about as far from law enforcement as you can get. The only time I ever dealt with the FBI was after Huxton.”

“There’s a Waffle House up here on the right,” Bell says, indicating with his chin. “I’m gonna pull over. So did the FBI treat you okay after Huxton?”

Bell seems like a true believer so she doesn’t want to be too critical of the FBI, but she can’t help a certain sharpness of tone. “They were polite. Respectful. But they were still trying to figure out what went wrong. They questioned me pretty thoroughly. And then they kept coming back with more questions when I just wanted to put it all behind me.”