Page 68 of The Wild Card
“Hi, Mom.”
“Don’t ‘hi, Mom’ me.” Linda Marshall crosses her arms. “I have to find out from social media that you’re dating someone? You couldn’t pick up the phone?”
“I’m telling you now.”
“Now is three weeks too late.” Her eyes slide past Emmie to me, curiosity winning over irritation. “And you must be the mysterious boyfriend.”
I step forward, extending my hand. “Crew Jensen, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”
She ignores my hand, looking me up and down as if scanning for defects, cataloguing weaknesses.
I’ve been assessed by drill sergeants, FBI psychologists, and hostage negotiators trying to read my tells.
None of them were as terrifying as Linda Marshall in a floral apron.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty, ma’am.”
She nods—neither approving nor disapproving—just… collecting data. “Full-time job?”
“Uh, yes.” I resist the urge to stand straighter. “I work for the FBI.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad. “Steady income?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Benefits?”
“Full medical, dental, and vision.”
She hums and steps slightly to the left, circling me like a shark. I track her movement in my peripheral vision because that’s what you do when something’s circling you.
“401k?”
“Matched contributions.” I clear my throat. “Ma’am.”
“Do you drink?”
“Rarely.”
“Smoke?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Drugs?”
“Never.”
She stops directly in front of me again, arms crossed. “Any prior marriages? Kids? Outstanding warrants?”
“No, no, and no. Ma’am.” I’m sweating. I’m actually sweating. I’ve had easier conversations with terrorists. Fuck.
“Mom.” Emmie appears at my elbow, and I resist the urge to grab her hand like a lifeline. “He’s not a job applicant.”
“I’m being thorough.” Linda doesn’t take her eyes off me. “Do you own or rent?”
“Own. Two-bedroom condo in Uptown.”
