CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHTJessica
“We’ve been over and over this,” I said. “I don’t know his
name.”
Homeland Security, the FBI, and God-only-knows who else had
debriefed me for hours at the FBI headquarters office in D.C. So much for
asking only a few questions.
I’d been through two books of photos and recognized Lucius, but
I didn’t see the nameless man with the black holes for eyes.
“Can you describe him?” a ferret-faced man asked.
“Again,” I said, pausing for emphasis. “He was reed thin,
tall—maybe close to six feet—with tanned skin, wrinkled like he worked
outdoors. His eyes were pitch black—beady, ugly.”
“The hair. Dark brown? Light?” George asked in a softer voice.
I tried to remember. “I . . . medium brown,
maybe? It’s hard to recall. The light blinded me. And mainly, I remem
