M Sellars - Miranda

“I’ve never kept that a secret, but by the same token I’ve never expected anyone to understand it. If you did you’d know Miranda is exactly what I say she is. Besides, that doesn’t answer my question. What I personally believe doesn’t explain why you are so intent on me going back in there and talking to her. What more do you think you’re going to learn?”

“Actually, Mister Gant, that’s what we were hoping you were going to tell us.”

“Well then, we’re both screwed,” I replied. “Because in case you missed it, right now Miranda is the one with all the answers, not me. And, she’s in no big hurry to hand them over.”

“…So, there you have it. Apparently I’m in the process of being recruited by the FBI,” I said while dipping the end of a wedge-shaped French fry into a puddle of catsup on the edge of my plate. “What I really don’t get is why all the cloak and dagger about it.”

“Good question,” Constance replied while attacking her much healthier lunch selection with a fork.

“And why was Jante so worried about anyone else knowing?”

“Actually, that’s easier to answer. It’s probably a by-product of the overall secrecy. Like you said to her back at the office, she’s covering her ass. And, she’s doing so because she and whoever else is involved in this are violating bureau protocols left and right. She might even be covering for someone higher up the food chain. It’s hard to say. In any case, she probably didn’t want anyone who would realize this is all out of bounds to be a witness to what she was saying.”

“It’s that big a deal, huh?”

She shrugged. “It really depends. The fact that she mentioned your business being slow tells me you’re being looked at pretty hard. That information may well have come from the prior criminal investigation when Felicity was confused with Annalise, but it shouldn’t be applied here. Technically, it still equates to an unauthorized background check.”

“Which isn’t good, I take it?”

“No, it’s not. It isn’t the end of the world, but it would most likely be enough to get her censured. Although, I really doubt much more would come of it than that, unless it could be proven that your constitutional rights had been willfully and intentionally violated and that you had suffered harm because of it. Other than that, it could definitely open the FBI up to a lawsuit.”

“Well, I don’t know about that. I do feel pretty manipulated though.”

“I can understand that,” she agreed. “And speaking of being used, just so you know, I came pretty close to violating your rights myself, and you would have had bruises to prove it.”

“Yeah, for a couple of minutes there you didn’t seem very pleased with me. Sorry about that.”

“I understood where you were coming from, but just do us both a favor-don’t put me in that position again, or I will hurt you,” she said, then flashed a wry grin.

I nodded. “I promise.”

We were parked across from one another in a booth at the restaurant connected to our hotel. It was late enough that the lunch rush was over but still far too early for dinner, so we had the place almost completely to ourselves. We’d been dropped off here less than an hour ago after officially declining the earlier lunch invitation we’d received. I don’t know if the food would have been any more upscale, but in my opinion the company would have been almost intolerable. Given all that had transpired, by the time my conversation with Doctor Jante ended, I’d had more than enough of her for one day; and I was fairly certain the feeling was mutual. Sharing a meal with her really wasn’t an appealing option as far as I was concerned.

However, since Constance and I were both running on coffee and the quickly waning benefits of an overpriced airport breakfast back in Saint Louis, sustenance was definitely in order. Therefore, we checked in, dropped our luggage in our rooms, and headed straight back down here.

I had begun telling her what transpired behind closed doors back at Carswell as soon as we sat down, pausing only long enough for us to place our orders. I hadn’t actually told Doctor Jante I would keep her secret; therefore I wasn’t particularly worried about violating a confidence to which I’d never agreed. I came here for answers, not more questions, so I wasn’t about to play her game.

I mulled over Constance’s earlier comment while chewing the mouthful of potato, then swallowed and asked, “So the FBI isn’t allowed to recruit?”

“Sure we are,” she said. “We do it all the time, but not like this.”

“Well, apparently you do.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I do.”

Stabbing at her salad, she commented, “I know I’m changing the subject, but I have to say you sure seem to be in a lot better mood now.”

“Actually, yeah, I am,” I said while turning my plate in a slow semi-circle as I looked for a suitable angle at which to attack the oversized cheeseburger that was competing for space with the equally massive pile of fries. “Not euphoric by any stretch of the imagination, but way better than I was. Don’t know why. I suppose just getting out of there helped.”

“I’ve had days like that,” Constance agreed.

After a quiet pause I confessed, “I’m actually feeling a little guilty about it.”

“Why?”

“It’s not like this is done,” I said. “Miranda is still looming over us. I still need to make a decision about tomorrow. And, Felicity…”

“Didn’t she say she was fine though?”

“Yeah. Yeah she did…” I admitted. I had called her again while we were being driven to the hotel, and she had assured me everything was back to normal. In fact, she had sounded as relieved as I now seemed to be feeling.

“Then let yourself relax for a change, Rowan,” Constance said. “You live under that dark cloud way too much. It’s not good for you.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed. “I just hope this isn’t some sort of calm before the storm type of thing.”

“There you go again. The eternal pessimist.”

“Sorry. It’s become a bit of a habit.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Not without good reason,” I reminded her. “Look at my track record.”

“I know.” She looked up from her meal and watched for several seconds as I visibly struggled to figure out how I was going to get my lunch from the plate to my mouth without ending up wearing some of it. Finally, she shook her head and commented, “I still can’t believe you ordered that thing.”

“Yeah, I’m beginning to feel the same way,” I replied with a chuckle. “But I’m really hungry and it looked good in the picture on the menu.”

“So your mood is obviously better. What about your headache?”

“Down to a dull roar. Actually, it’s even better than it was earlier this morning on the plane,” I answered while smashing down the top of the burger with my hand in an attempt to make it flat enough to fit my mouth. “So, still there, but much better than it was a couple of hours ago.”

“Well that’s a good thing, right?”

“Yeah, about as good as it gets for me. I’ve gotten used to living with the pain I guess. Unfortunately, the lull is just another one of those red flags that makes me wonder when the piano is going to fall on my head.”

“I thought we were trying optimism this time?”

“It’s kind of a foreign concept for me, but yeah, you’re right.”

She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe food will help.”

“Maybe. If I can ever manage to actually eat it.”

She glanced at the monstrosity on my plate and raised an eyebrow. “I’m really thinking a knife and fork are in order for that thing.”