“I’m not asking, I’m telling. It’s for your own good,” he said, and before she could respond, Lucas had turned around and left her cubicle. He went back to his own desk and sat down like nothing had even happened.
Ivy turned back to her computer and realized that Xavier’s email was still up on her monitor. She quickly closed out of it and deleted it from her email inbox.
Her heart was pounding hard in her chest and she felt tears threatening behind her eyes. Ivy shivered, feeling simultaneously cold and clammy but also sweaty.
More than anything, she wanted out of the little box she was sitting in, trapped by the cubicle walls and the quiet humming of her co-workers computers on all sides. She felt like a little rat in a maze, needing to climb the walls to escape.
She left her cubicle and went to the bathroom, and luckily it was empty. Running cold water over her hands, she washed her face and tried to catch her breath.
Calm down, Ivy. Cullen Sharpe isn’t a murderer. He isn’t going to jail for anything. That email didn’t really say much, just a bunch of innuendo and gossip between people who don’t like Cullen. That’s all it was.
But she couldn’t quite escape the feeling that there was more to that email than just bad blood and gossip.
It hurt. It hurt as if someone had just punched her in the stomach. And now, to make matters even worse, Lucas was trying to intimidate and confuse her too.
Was she really going to meet him outside and listen to whatever crap he intended to try and force-feed her about Cullen?
Ivy didn’t want to talk to Lucas, but then again, she was feeling like maybe it was easier to just face the jerk head on.
She’d look Lucas in the eye and tell him to go to hell.
It had been about five minutes since Lucas had come to her cubicle, so he was probably out there waiting for her.
Just try me, Lucas, she thought, her hands clenching as she imagined his surprise when she fought back against his accusations and showed some backbone.
She walked out of the bathroom, down the hallway and out of the Biomatrix lobby. She looked across the street and saw Lucas buying two hotdogs.
Ivy shook her head in annoyance, realizing that Lucas had just assumed she’d be joining him.
He thinks I’m a total pushover--that’s why he assumed I’d come outside and talk to him. Whatever he’s going to try, I’m not letting him get away with it.
She walked across the busy street, head held high, eyes set and determined to tell her “friend” where he could stick his hotdog and his conversation.
When she reached Lucas, he was handing the vendor a few bills. “Keep the change,” Lucas said, as the vendor thanked him profusely.
“What do you want?” Ivy said, as she got closer.
Lucas held one of the hotdogs out to her. It was wrapped in plastic and it actually smelled quite good. Her stomach grumbled, but she shook her head and folded her arms across her chest.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “I’ll eat ‘em both.” He walked over to a nearby bench and sat down, taking a large bite of one hotdog.
“Just say whatever you want to say so I can get back to work,” Ivy told him.
He glanced up at her. “Sit down.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. And if you don’t start talking, I’m going back in.”
“Ivy. Sit.” He gestured next to him.
“Screw this. I’m going back inside, Lucas. I only came out here to tell you—leave me alone or I’ll make sure you’re fired. I can do it, too.”
Lucas put one of the dogs down on the arm of the bench, where it balanced precariously. He held up one finger as if requesting her patience, then reached in his pocket and pulled out his wallet, and flipped it open.
Ivy saw that there was a large picture ID staring up at her from inside the wallet. It was unmistakably Lucas in that picture, and on the ID in large letters it read FEDERAL BUREAU of INVESTIGATION, with a very legitimate looking seal of the U.S. Department of Justice embossed next to that.
A cold shot of fear went through her entire body, completely stopping her in her tracks.
“Now why don’t you sit down,” Lucas said, smiling in a way that was friendly, while also seeming to be threatening at the same time.
“That’s probably a fake,” she said. “You don’t work for the FBI, Lucas. You’re my age.”
He took a large bite of the first hotdog, then another and another, finishing it entirely and crumbling the wax paper in his hand. He tossed it into a nearby trash barrel and then closed his wallet and put it back in his pocket. “Okay, Ivy,” he said, as he finished chewing. “What I want you to do is take out your phone and look up the FBI Boston Field Office. Google it, and call the main number. Ask for Assistant Director Ratner, and then tell him you’re standing here with me. My real name is Special Agent Lucas Hogan.”