Page 9 of Vicious Behaviors

“Oh?” she mirrors the expression with a raised brow.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “I’m sure you’ll do great there.”

What else am I supposed to say? That Salem’s Creek is the kind of place where agents go to quietly disappear into paperwork? It’s not exactly the front lines, and for someone like Hartley—whose dream was to lead the Behavioral Analysis Unit and take down serial killers—it feels off. Those kinds of monsters don’t usually hide in sleepy towns.

Large cities? Sure. But Salem’s Creek? Yeah… not so much.

It also doesn’t make a whole lot of sense that ASAC would send an agent who was the top of our class to such a small town. Not unless she requested the assignment. But why would Hartley ever want to do that?

I’m just about to voice my suspicions when Hartley’s attention shifts to the television mounted on the wall. President Hamilton is mid-speech, his image commanding the room even from behind a screen.

“Not sure why he’s bothering to campaign,” she mutters, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Everyone knows his second term is basically guaranteed. Both sides of the aisle love him.”

“He’s got my vote,” the secretary all but sighs, dreamy-eyed and one heartbeat away from fanning herself.

I catch the way Hartley’s jaw twitches. She wants to roll her eyes—badly—but holds back, just in case Director Rodrick steps out and catches her mid-gesture. Hartley may not care much for charm, but she does care about protocol.

“Not a fan?” I ask, turning just enough to catch a glimpse of the screen myself.

“I like him well enough. It’s the First Lady I have a problem with,” Hartley says, her scowl subtle but sharp.

“Agreed,” the secretary chimes in, officially inviting herself into what was a private conversation. “Kennedy Hamilton gives off serious mean-girl energy.”

I frown slightly, my gaze drifting to the immaculate figure standing just behind the president. Flawless as ever, Kennedy Ryland Hamilton rests one hand gently at her side, the other clasped just so in front of her, chin high as her husband works the crowd with practiced optimism. She’s elegance embodied. Always poised. Always picture-perfect and camera-ready.

The only fault I can find is that, like her husband, she feels too perfectly engineered for public life. More curated than real.

But that’s no surprise. They were both born and bred in Asheville, raised in a world where image is everything. A certain kind of refinement comes from growing up in places like that. Manners like velvet, smiles like strategy. They never interrupt, never falter, and never, ever let the seams show.

It’s not just how they’re taught to behave. It’s how they survive—grace as currency, charm as defense. But if the country has fallen in love with President Hamilton for those very traits, it feels hypocritical to crucify his wife for also embodying them.

As I’m about to point out the double standard, the secretary’s phone rings.

“Yes, ma’am? Very well, ma’am.” She hangs up the call and turns to me to announce, “Director Rodrick will see you now, Special Agent Graham.”

“Good luck,” Hartley says, a ghost of a smile teasing her lips.

I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and walk into Director Janelle Rodrick’s office, praying this will be my last night in D.C.

The room is sleek and orderly, much like the woman behind the desk. Director Rodrick doesn’t look up as I enter. Her fingers move swiftly across her keyboard, the only sound in the room a soft rhythm of keystrokes. I stand at attention in front of her desk, doing my best not to fidget.

My mind starts to wander as she continues to focus on her screen.

Where will they send me? L.A.? Maybe they’ll throw me into a gang unit. Or perhaps they’ll send me to Boston or New York since I’ve shown my expertise in organized crime. Could it be Vegas? Atlanta? Lord knows I wouldn’t mind warm weather for once.

She finally stops typing and closes the laptop with precision, fixating me with a leveled, measuring look.

“It says here you’re from Chicago, Agent Graham. Is that correct?” she asks, tapping the tip of her fingernail on the closed file in front of her.My file.

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, keeping my posture tight.

She nods once, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Then you’re used to harsh winters.”

I offer a polite smile, assuming it’s a joke. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, good,” she says, folding her hands atop my file. “Because that’s exactly where you’re going.”

I blink, unsure if I heard her right. “I’m sorry… did you just say Chicago?”