12
When we arrived at our vehicles, a woman in black tactical clothes—cargo pants, shirt, boots, the works—strode up to us. She was tall and willowy, and I felt like I should double-check that she even cast a shadow. She wore her straight dark hair in a tight bun and projected an air of barely contained pugnaciousness.
“You Magnusson?” she asked.
I glanced to Gabrielle and Buddy, both of whom shrugged, before turning back to her. “Who’s asking?”
She pulled a folio out of a pocket and opened it one-handed to reveal a badge and photo ID. “Special Agent Edwina Burke. Hauser said you’d lead me to her.”
I so wanted to ask how she came to be named Edwina in the twenty-first century, but she probably had enough childhood trauma from her name that I didn’t need to add to it. In the end, I shr
