you’re used to the basement -- quantico kept you chained to the coffee machine on the lower levels, books either side that pile up in your office. wind gap, missouri, is a little nowhere-town that stares back at you and doesn’t blink without watching your every move. (you won’t stay long -- a county jail isn’t somewhere-enough to keep a brewing serial killer with a thing for teeth. you figure she’ll chew her way out if they’re not careful.) wind gap, missouri, is a tumbleweed lull of midwestern niceties that sound an awful lot like the scrape of an empty beer can scuffed across the middle of town under the heel of a worn-out converse boot.
you lean back against the chair, your leg folding over the other. (you have a notepad resting against your lap and a pen you click every so often in your free hand.) there’s a buzzer that sounds, loud, hostile, and in she comes.
“good afternoon. my name is doctor carr, and i work with the fbi. what would you like me to call you?”