“Your loss. If you want to borrow a few seasons, I have them all on DVD. Or you could stream it from iTunes. Whatever your poison.”
“Back to the point. I don’t work with reporters.”
“You know, you keep saying that but you haven’t given me a good reason why. So, what gives? Why don’t you work with reporters?”
Her bald question threw him off guard. The woman was as in-your-face as a stereotypical redhead. Or a cartoon character.
“Because I don’t,” he answered.
“What happened to Mr. Nice Guy? Are you like a Mr. Jekyll and Dr. Hyde kind of person?”
“You have that twisted. It’s Dr. Jekyll—”
“Whatever.” She waved away his correction. “You get my point. You were, actually, pretty amazing with Mrs. Daniels. I thought maybe you had been possessed by the spirit of someone with an actual heartbeat but now I see that was an act for her benefit.”
“It wasn’t an act,” he growled. “And if we’re calling people out, what about you? You manipulated that poor woman into letting you in. So what sensational little story are you going to write about the woman’s grief?”
“I’m not writing about that,” she shot back. “Give me some credit. Why do you hate reporters so much? I have a job to do, just like you. But you seem to think it’s okay to beat me with the guilt hammer because of mine. What gives?”
Quinn settled into the chair and started checking out the contents of his takeout.
“What are you doing?”
“Eating. Duh.” She scraped a few pieces of his garlic chicken onto a paper plate and then went for his rice. “I told you...starving. Try to keep up. I thought the FBI were supposed to be the sharpest of the bunch. So far, you seem to have a problem holding on to details.”
The woman exasperated him but there was something daring about her that intrigued him, even if begrudgingly. Hell, he wanted to toss her out, but something kept him from doing just that.
Maybe because he didn’t trust putting his hands on her. Silas was already suffering the urge to touch that creamy skin. If he accidentally brushed one of those lush, full breasts, hiding his insta-erection would be an embarrassing challenge.
He frowned. Well, if he didn’t grab a plate, there’d be nothing left. The girl could put some food away.
Silas took the seat opposite her and made his own plate, watching her enjoy his food without shame.
“Do you always barge into strange men’s hotel rooms and eat their food?”
“Only on Tuesdays but for you, I’ll make an exception.” When he continued to stare, she added, rolling her eyes, “That was a joke. Look, I get it, you don’t like me. And maybe I’m not terribly excited about you, either, but the fact is we need each other.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that but I don’t see it that way.”
“Let me break it down for you. You’ve been gone a long time. Doors are closed. They don’t trust you. I, on the other hand, am everyone’s trusted local reporter. I’m the one who takes their kids’ pictures for Student of the Month and I write about when little Johnny places at the Science Fair. Yes, stupid stuff, but it paves the way to their trust. You, by comparison, are the big bad FBI agent who is, I might add, mysteriously poking around a local case that should have no federal jurisdiction.”
Silas offered a cold smile. “Just because I don’t share the Bureau’s interest, doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
“Oh, I know your interest. That’s pretty easy to figure out. This is all about your little brother. Don’t look so shocked. You’re not the only one who is capable of poking around. How are you hoping to tie Rhia’s murder with a case that happened twenty years ago?”
Silas shifted, fighting against the urge to shut her down for hitting too close to home. But for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, he answered. “Because they were both found in Seminole Creek, both strangled.”
“Not to be a buzzkill, but strangulation is a pretty common way to die. I mean, no tools required, you know? What else do you have that might lead you to believe they are connected?”
“Good try,” he said, withdrawing as he speared a nugget. “Not interested in sharing.”
“You’re a stubborn little muskrat, aren’t you?”
He nearly choked on garlic chicken. “That’s a new one.”
“Yeah, well, I like to be original.”
“You also like to poke around where you’re not wanted.”
Quinn didn’t take offense. “That’s my job,” she said simply. “No one wants the press to air their dirty laundry. I hardly think politicians are clamoring for the chance to have their secrets splattered all over the New York Times, but that happens and the public is thankful for the information.”
“Politicians are fair game. Little kids aren’t.”
“I’m not trying to capitalize on Rhia’s murder—”
“How do you say that with a straight face?”
Frustration laced Quinn’s voice as she chewed vigorously. “You are impossible. Let me guess, single? You don’t have to confirm. I can tell. You’re rigid as a freaking plank.”
He was single. The job was his life. But hearing Quinn make such an easy and flippant observation pinched.
“I date.”
“Sure you do.”
Was he really going to debate his dating habits with a reporter who was at least ten years younger than him? “Shouldn’t you be getting home? I’m sure there’s a curfew of some sort.”
“Ha ha. You’re hilarious. Not a kid. I’m actually twenty-four.”
“Whoa. Practically an old lady,” he retorted. “What about you? Let me take a crack. Also single, because you’re too damn pushy for anyone to handle on a daily basis.”
He must’ve hit a nerve. But Quinn wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Wrong. I’m single because I choose to be. I don’t need a man to validate me. I have big dreams, and getting hitched and popping out kids are not on my agenda.”
“What is your agenda?” Silas asked, going straight to the point.
“Getting out of this town.”
He saw the hunger, the drive to succeed beyond the borders of her environment, and he recognized that need as something he’d often struggled with in the early days.
“What happened to the Port Orion champion?”
“It’s a good town. But I want more.”
“And you’re going to use the Rhia Daniels case as your stepping stone to bigger and better,” Silas guessed with a wry chuckle. “You may think you’re an original but that’s the tune every reporter has sung in my experience, and they never care about the cases they ruin or the lives they shatter on their way to the top.”
“I care about the people here,” Quinn replied, stung. “I grew up in this town. I have a vested interest in seeing that this story is handled with sensitivity.”
“By the very nature of your job, that’s not possible.”
“You don’t know how to do my job.”
“Sure I do. Go for the jugular...if it bleeds, it leads.”
“Damn, Silas. Who pissed in your cornflakes? Do you hate all reporters, or just me?”
Silas laughed and trashed his empty