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The guy behind the desk gave me some serious side-eye, his expression some combination of skeptical and disgusted.

Just fucking ducky.

Smith was either oblivious or deliberately ignoring the guy’s rather obvious distaste.

“You need him?” the man asked Smith.

“I would not have brought Mr. Hart all the way to Green Bay with me if he were superfluous to this investigation,” Smith retorted, and I caught a hint of annoyance in his already-rough voice. I also appreciated his casual use ofsuperfluous.

Desk guy grunted, then picked up a phone and dialed. “A detective from Shawano and some elf are here to see you,” he told whoever answered. There was barely time for a response before he hung up again.

A quick glance at Smith’s face told me he appreciated me beingsome elfonly marginally more than I did.

“Agent Olsen will be down to get you.” Desk guy rooted through a basket, then handed each of us a little plastic visitor badge on a clip. “Make sure these are somewhere visible.”

Neither one of us thanked him when we took them. It’s petty—I know it is—but it made me feel just a tiny little bit better. We also didn’t wait by the desk, instead, Smith wandered back over by the doors, looking out at the snowy-but-plowed streets.

I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my parka and waited.

“Detective Smith?”

The woman who approached me looked like she’d stepped out of some sort of Swedish bikini team poster—sans bikini, obviously, and wearing a sensible navy pantsuit. She was tall, with skin almost as pale as mine, light blonde hair, and big blue eyes. What the fuck she was doing in a federal office in Green Bay, I had no idea. I pointed at Smith. “He’s the detective. I’m ‘some elf.’”

She blinked. “I wasn’t expecting a… second person.” It was either a good catch before she said something rude, or she was trying really hard to not be offensive.

I held out my hand. “Hart.”

She shook it without hesitation. “Nice to meet you… Hart what?”

“Just Hart,” I told her.

“Like Cher?”

I laughed, deciding she couldn’t be that bad. “I used to work homicide and got used to people barking my last name at me.”

“Used to?”

“I left the force about a year ago after one of my colleagues shot at me.”

Her eyes got wide. “Oh, my God.”

“Hart likes to get himself into trouble.” Smith had noticed Agent Olsen and joined us. “Detective Gale Smith.”

“Agent Melanie Olsen. Why don’t you join me upstairs?”

We followed her into the elevator, then down a hallway to a cramped office space with a dozen or so agents in grey fabric cubicles. Not unlike the office in Richmond, actually.

“So,” she said, when we’d settled ourselves in chairs in front of her desk—one of which she’d had to steal from someone else, because I wasn’t supposed to be here. “What do you have for me?”

Smith walked her through the case and the evidence, scrolling through photos—the ones I’d sent him—on his tablet as he did. By the time he finished, she was leaning forward on her elbows, swiping back and forth through the images, a deep frown on her face.

“So you think that all these shifter deaths are connected to the same group of three?” she asked, finally.

“We think it’s very possible,” Smith replied.

I kept my mouth shut. I wasn’t supposed to be here, and I wasn’t about to jeopardize that by saying something that would get me thrown out.

“And what does this have to do with Virginia?” she asked, then. “Because the call that suggested we look into this came from Richmond.”