Page 16 of Cruel Kiss

I take the card. It's real. Or it looks real, which I've learned this week is not the same thing. The paper is heavy and the seal is embossed and there's a phone number and an email. I don't feel any safer holding it, though. Honestly, it feels more like a lit stick of dynamite.

"You've been watching me," I venture to guess.

She nods. "For a while now, yes."

"How long is 'a while'?"

"Longer than you'd like." She tucks her hands in her blazer pockets. "You stumbled into a web you never saw coming, and I'm afraid that it looks like you're now awfully tangled up in one spider's mess. Maybe a few spiders, come to think of it."

My stomach drops.

She means Ronan, of course.

"I should say," she goes on, "that I was impressed by your performance at the bank. You're a tough cookie. Put on quite a show. And your little doohickey made it all very easy to follow on-screen."

"It's my job."

"I know it's your job." She sighs, almost sadly, like it really is just such a shame that our paths have crossed like this. "Unfortunately, that's actually the problem."

I don't like the way any of this is going. My hand tightens on the doorframe. I'm feeling less and less Dirty Harry by the second.

"You should probably just say the thing you came here to say," I tell her succinctly.

"Alright. Straight shooter, no bullshit. I can respect that." She squares up a little. "The Bureau has opened an investigation. It's real, it's ongoing, and it's a lot bigger than you. It involves the profits from financial crimes moving through legitimate-looking businesses. Front operations. Money that goes in dirty and comes out clean. You understand what I'm describing, yes?"

I say nothing. But duh, of course I understand exactly what she's describing. Like I told her a moment ago, it's my job.

"There are two ways a person ends up in a case like this," Mercer continues, never once taking her eyes off my face. "The first way, you're a victim. Wrong place, wrong time, walked into the wrong web. I see it all the time. Somebody saw your skills and took advantage of you, and you ended up somewhere you never had any intention of ending up. The good news about that version of events is that I can help a person like that. You help me, I keep you safe, and when it's all said and done, you walk out on the other side with your life intact."

I wait. There's more coming.

She pauses. Another sad, sorrowful sigh.

"The second spin of things," she says, "makes you look more like you're a participant. Youknew. Youhelped. You built themachine that moved the money, and you knew what it was for all along." Her dark brown eyes are suddenly hard and unmerciful. "That person, we throw behind bars."

Does the doorframe wobble, or do I?

I think it's the nasty shock of déjà vu.

Because I've heard this before.

From Todd, actually, in this exact place, standing there in his slept-in shirt with his red-rimmed eyes, laying out the exact same dilemma.

One, you're a victim.

Or two, you're a participant.

Word for word. Almost.

"You look like you've heard this speech already," Mercer notes.

Goddamn, she's good.

"No," I lie. "It's just a lot to take in before nine in the morning."

She watches me and nods, but she doesn't believe me. She's like me, this woman—she takes in more than she lets on, and she files it away, but never once does she tip her hand.

"Let me ask you something," she says, changing tactics. "When did you find out what your company's tool was actually being used for?"