My smile wavered and I handed her a chart, my original reason for finding her. “I need a full battery work-up on this patient. And, yes, Alex and I are dating.”

Her lips pinched and twisted to the side. “You know I never stick my nose in unless….”

“Ha!”

She ignored me. “Unless it’s serious and I’m worried. But, Sandra, by your own admission, you don’t know anything about this guy.”

“That’s why we’re dating. So I can get to know him.”

“Federal prison? Hun, I know he’s a hot cup of coffee, but this is so unlike you. All the guys you date are normal; they wear polo shirts and play golf. Alex looks like the guy who beats up guys who play golf.”

I rubbed my forehead because I was getting a headache. I had an entire harem of platonic polo-wearing golfers, and I needed to set aside some time to reestablish contact with them. But it wouldn’t be today.

I loved Ashley, knew she meant well, but didn’t need anyone else to tell me that I was making irrational decisions. I already knew how far out of my depth I’d ventured.

“I’ve never met a normal person in my life. No one is normal, Ashley.”

“Dr. Fielding?”

Both Ashley and I turned at the crisp sound of my name. Brown ponytail, brown eyes, moderately priced suit. I almost groaned at the sight of Agent Bell.

She stared at me. Even her stare looked official.

“I need you to come with me, please.”

My eyebrows lifted on their own. I glanced behind her, then behind me, searching Ashley’s face for some friend-telepathy. Ashley looked bewildered, curious, and concerned.

Instead of following Agent Bell, I widened my stance and leveled her with a searching gaze. “How did you get access to this floor? These patients are very sick.”

“We can discuss the particulars elsewhere. I’ve already informed your department head that I need your assistance on a case, and you’ve been released to my custody for the rest of the day.”

I tempered my reaction so that I appeared merely irritated instead of Darth Vader force choke mad. “Released to your custody? You do realize that I have patients who require treatment.”

My eyes flickered away from the agent, distracted by the sight of a mother holding the hand of her daughter in one of the nearby hospital rooms. This was not a good place for a scene. These patients and families deserved better.

Bell nodded curtly. “Yes. The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you can return to your patients.”

Ensuring my face was devoid of emotion, I shrugged. “Lead the way.”

Her gaze swept over me once, perhaps searching for trickery, then she promptly turned and marched down the hall. I followed about four paces behind, my hands in my lab coat.

As I watched her ponytail swing, I was struck by how not-parole-officer-like she appeared. Like Agent Dumb Ass, she wore a suit—but hers, even though plain, looked more businessy. She looked like she belonged in an office behind a computer, not in the field checking on convicts.

She led me to the stairwell door, and we descended the three flights of stairs to the hospital basement where there were two chairs waiting. Agent Bell gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs, so I did. She didn’t sit.

Classic interrogation tactic.

Definitely not a parole officer.

She withdrew a recorder from her pocket, set it to record, and spoke into it, saying, “This is Agent Victoria Bell, recording on…” and preceded to log all the details of the date, who I was, where we were, and—lastly—“…speaking on the subject of suspect Greene.”

Suspect Greene.

If I’d been free to do so, I would have sighed.

She set the recorder on the empty chair across from me, leveled me with her official stare, and asked, “What is your relationship with Quinn Sullivan?”

I allowed myself to show mild surprise. “Uh, he’s the husband of my friend Janie Morris.”

“What were you doing in his building last night?”

“Looking at an apartment I’m considering renting.”

Something like concern passed behind her gaze. “Why do you want to rent the apartment?”

“It’s nice.”

“Nothing to do with the enhanced security? Soundproof windows?”

I shrugged, shook my head. “Nothing at all. But I do like the bathtubs and the granite in the kitchen.”

She grimaced, appeared disbelieving. I used this short moment to mentally high-five Quinn. Leave it to Quinn to make his building spy proof.

“How long have you known Alexander Greene?”

This was definitely an interrogation. If I hadn’t already decided to keep my emotions to myself, I definitely would have done so now. If she were hoping to elicit an unintended reaction from me, she was going to be very disappointed.

Therefore, my voice was very calm and reassuring when I responded honestly, “I believe about two years.”

Her eyes bulged. She gripped the back of the chair holding the recorder. “Two years?”

“Actually, it’s been over two years—closer to two years and nine months.”

Her sigh of disbelief was audible. “But how…?” She seemed to be reining her thoughts, collecting them, ordering them. I detected the precise moment she considered that I was lying. “There is no way you’ve known Alexander Greene for two years and nine months.”

“I assure you, I’m telling the truth.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“At Taj’s—the restaurant.”

She glared at me. “How long have you been involved with Mr. Greene?”

“I don’t know what you mean by involved.”

“How long have you two been engaging in sexual relations?”

I paused, considered her. She was likely expecting some kind of reaction to the question—perhaps delicate flower hysterics. I decided in that moment that—as a game—I would obtain from her all the information I sought without asking a single question. “We haven’t been having sex.”

The muscle at her jaw flexed, her gaze sharpened. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying to you.”

“I’ve seen the letter. We know the nature of your relationship is intimate.”

“The letter.” I stated—frowning my confusion.

“Thoughts of you will keep me warm... I burn. I hurt.” The quoted words were flat. “Sound familiar?”

I didn’t grimace. Instead I held her gaze, gave her nothing.

Alex had been right. I should have destroyed the letter. But I loved it. Just contemplating destroying that letter made me feel slightly nauseous. However, knowing that his sweet and sincere words had been pilfered also made me nauseous.

Basically, it was a no-win, all-barf situation.

Her eyes narrowed with scorn as she pressed, “What has he told you about his involvement with the creation of the electronic currency, bitcoins?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Dr. Fielding,” she growled, apparently trying to control her tenor and volume. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re Agent Bell.”

“Yes.” She waved her name away, treating it as something inconsequential. “But do you know who I am?”

“You’re Agent Bell.” I repeated.

She scowled. “I’m from the NSA, Dr. Fielding.”

Outwardly, I merely shrugged at her revelation and said, “Okay. And…?” Inwardly my brain felt like it was on fire.

NSA? NS freaking A?

His parole agent was from the NSA. Except, I suspected she wasn’t a parole agent. These were the people listening in on everyday conversations between US citizens like it was their right. I braced myself for her personality type—which I was sure would include a sense of entitlement and superiority.

Her jaw set. I noted that her hands gripped the back of the chair with enough force to turn her knuckles white. “Alexander Greene is a dangerous person, Dr. Fielding. I don’t know what he’s told you about himself, about his past, about his interactions with us, but—let me assure you—there are two sides to the story.”

I nodded at her, let my eyes drift to the right, and then glanced at my watch. “If the story is long, then we may have to postpone it until after my afternoon clinic.”

“I can see that you think you already know him.” She sighed again, as if she felt sorry for me. Some of the tension in her fingers and shoulders released. “He is not who you think he is.”

I nodded once and sat back in my chair, a cue that I was ready to listen.

“When we became aware of him, it was after he’d hacked three of our four high-performance computing centers—how much do you know?”

I blinked at her once. “Just that. Just what you’ve told me.”

“Did he tell you what he was doing? Why he hacked into our systems?”

“I can guess.” It was the first untrue thing I’d said. I had absolutely no idea.

Her mouth hitched to the side. “Yes, well, we could guess too. Of course we found him, but only after he’d successfully mined thousands of bitcoins using our CPUs.”

“So you seized the bitcoins.”

“Is that what he told you?” She waited for me to respond. I shrugged because it was one of those gestures that people interpret however they want. “He lied,” she said. “There is no way for us to seize bitcoins. Well, there is no current way for the federal government to seize bitcoins at will; in order to do that we’d need one of the creators of the currency.” She paused and watched me very closely for a reaction.