Page 11 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

Elliot sings the entire way back. I dig my nails into the steering wheel when the perp in the back seat joins him for the bridge.

Back at the office, we file into the interrogation room that smells like metal and sweat. Our suspect slouches in the chair, arms crossed, and eyes squinted. He looks very tough, or at least he’s trying to be.

Elliot hangs out by the doorway letting me take the lead.

I sit across from him, drop the case file on the table. After a minute of silence, my voice is calm and clinical.

“You were seen leaving the warehouse. We have the footage. It’s over.”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t me.”

I hold his gaze for three silent seconds then push back from the table. He can roast in here for a while until he’s ready to talk.

Elliot is next to me in two strides. He leans in close. “Mind if I try something?”

I raise an eyebrow but motion for him to go ahead. If nothing else, it’ll be entertaining. I step into the observation room, and the door clicks shut behind me.

Behind the two-way mirror, I fold my arms and wait to see what dumbass thing Elliot is about to try.

Elliot sits and smiles at the guy. That same stupid look he gave me when I first saw him.

“You ever get that thing,” Elliot says casually, “where you’re doing something really stupid, and you know it’s stupid, but you do it anyway because you’re just so damn angry?”

The perp blinks without a response, but his posture shifts closer to Elliot.

“Yeah,” Elliot continues, tone still light, “like when your older brother gets out of prison and suddenly starts running his mouth about how you’re still his little errand boy.”

The suspect’s eyes widen just a bit, and his fingers twitch.

“I get it,” Elliot says, drumming his fingers on the metal table. “Sometimes people gotta learn the hard way who’s in charge. Take my partner, for example. You saw her, right? Like she runs the place because she’s older.”

I scoff at the mirror. I am not fucking older.

Elliot’s gaze flicks toward the mirror, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

Fucker.

“Which is fucked in its own way,” he continues. “Why people think age should give you more power never made sense to me. It took a while for her to understand what’s up. Because I get shit done. You know what I mean?”

I huff. Elliot can tell a story, that’s for sure. He should have chosen acting as a career. His shoulders stay loose. His voice never changes from a friendly tone. He gives the suspect something to connect with while being funny.

And then the guy breaks.

“Yeah, well, maybe if they didn’t treat me like trash, I wouldn’t have had to show them.”

My jaw has the audacity to drop. I force it shut.

Elliot doesn’t say anything, just keeps nodding, easy and calm. Like they’re bonding over being pushed around, and the suspect is not confessing to felony assault.

The suspect keeps talking, spilling everything he did and exactly why his brother and girlfriend deserved it.

Later, when we’re alone, I can’t stop glancing at him.

“Okay,” I say slowly. “Maybe you’re not entirely useless.”

He winks. “Careful, kid. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”