The Art of You

“I think I should let you two finish the conversation. I’m going to check in with the others.” Hudson nodded at Adelina, avoiding eye contact with me. He started for the hall, only to pause in the doorway. Lifting his good arm, he set his palm inside the doorframe. “What drug was he on?”

I set a hand to my stomach at the gnawing-like pain there. “Fentanyl. His mom told me that was what he’d become addicted to.”

His back muscles tightened, and he bowed his head ever so slightly, then he walked away.

It took me a few seconds to gather myself before facing Adelina. “I’m sorry about all of that. You probably feel like you third-wheeled a heated exchange between two friends. But trust me when I say Pablo isn’t guilty. Not of this, at least.”

Adelina motioned for me to sit. Instead of acknowledging my opinion about Pablo, she said, “That conversation couldn’t have been easy.”

“Easier for me to say than for him to hear. He’s overprotective like my brothers.”

“Not sure if that’s all it is, but . . .” She let that “but” hang there like the echo of a bell, and she couldn’t continue until it was done. “I may not work for BAU at the FBI, but I can still profile someone from a hundred feet away.”

Finally planting my ass back on the stool, my legs like rubber, I pressed, “And that means?”

“That you’re not just a friend to him, and he’s lying to both of you if he says you are.” She’d stepped right in it. No holds barred. No hesitation. “I only bring this up because, as I told him earlier, someone may be jealous of your relationship.”

Well, as of thirty or forty minutes ago, Hudson made it clear there would be no relationship. He gave Constantine his word. And he’d never go back on that. But I didn’t need to unburden my thoughts on her.

“I have a few more questions, and then we can wrap this up.” She was waving the white flag, choosing not to push a stranger into divulging more.

Thank God.

The next thirty minutes were a blur as I went back through my history. She was thorough, wanting to know pretty much everything about my life, worried that even the least significant detail could be important. From my rebellious years in high school to the moment I found my sister murdered on her apartment floor, up until yesterday—all of it.

Once we were done, I was more exhausted mentally than physically. “I just don’t think I have a stalker. And that woman’s date really could’ve just happened to be looking out the window Friday night at that exact moment I went outside, yada yada yada, right?”

She arched her brow as if surprised I’d make light of the situation. Maybe the triple yadas were a bit much. “Possibly.”

“This still could be Kit’s doing. She’d have expected I’d tell Hudson about the picture and that someone photoshopped him from the background. Then when we bumped into her at the party, I’d assume she sent it, and she’d been trying to screw with us, then she’d get the spicy headline she wanted,” I rambled, hoping it all made sense. I needed it to be her. “Kit would probably know my reputation, and I call shit out when I see it. I lack a filter, if you haven’t noticed. She was hoping for a scene.” Only it didn’t come, because we were on an op.

At Adelina’s second, “Possibly,” I pushed at my forehead as if I could physically force the answers to our problems to surface.

I was anything but zen after this morning. More like the antithesis. My hand plummeted to the counter when my brain cells fired up, circumventing the exhaustion. “Zen as fuck.”

“Excuse me?” A slight smile of confusion tugged at her lips.

“That agent, Clarke, right?” At her nod, I continued, “He’s itching to throw charges at Hudson for something, even if he has to make up a crime.” Well, at least it felt that way based on our conversation. “He’s in league with the AG, who’s planning to run for governor against Hudson’s dad.”

Adelina’s brows shot together, and I could see the wheels turning.

“Could Clarke be working with this reporter to help create problems for Governor Ashford?” Was that too much of a stretch, or just the right amount of leaning into the idea? Please say yes.

“He could be Kit’s inside source about the guest list, as well as the one to get her included in the press pool at the last minute.” Good. She was saying what I’d hoped to hear.

“Hudson never goes to these things, so when Clarke saw him on the list, he may have seen this as an opportunity to take a shot at him to get to his father.” I stood as more and more came together.

“The reporter may not know about the photo sent to you. Clarke could’ve arranged for it to be sent to keep everyone’s hands clean. He just planted her at the party knowing she’d make waves,” she suggested.

“And while they were both clueless about why we were really there, we gave them a headline they never saw coming.”

That night felt like such a blur. I had to untangle the web of memories before landing on one important “point” of the overall picture.

“Kit seemed genuinely surprised when I confronted her about the photo. Well, I didn’t outright mention it, but she was taken aback when I accused her of targeting me. As much as I don’t like her, she may be a pawn in a bigger game, and you’re right, she didn’t know about the photo.” The lengths people would go to for a campaign was sickening. “Of course, it may not even be Clarke, and I just want it to be because he’s an easy target to pin this on after how he treated us yesterday.”

“These are all theories,” she reminded me but kept her tone optimistic. “Good ones, but I still have to do my due diligence and bark up every tree and see what I can turn up. From Pablo to my colleagues.”

“I need it to be this theory, okay?” I wasn’t above begging for her to pull some magic out of her FBI hat and prove my hypothesis correct.

“The game of politics is ugly, so it’s possible,” she said in a somber tone as I took a seat. “But for now, I think we stick to the plan to keep an eye on this reporter’s next moves before we question her. See who she talks to and what she does. Probably a good idea to tail Clarke, too.” She stood and circled the counter, then sat next to me.

“What does your gut say?” Was hers right like Hudson’s often was?

She peered up at the ceiling before dropping words I didn’t want to hear. “If all evidence points to this theory, it’s because someone wants us looking one way when we really should be looking another.”