Chapter Thirty-Two
After one last peek at the man outside my apartment, I made sure the chain was in place and opened up. Frankly, the chain was a joke and could easily be kicked in. Thus, the need for my gun.
“Erica Jensen?” The stranger asked. He appeared benign, but you can’t be sure of such things.
“Who are you?”
“Agent Phipps, FBI.” He reached inside his jacket.
“Careful,” I said. “Move your hands slowly.” I pulled out the gun, letting it hang at my side.
Agent Phipps held a hand palm forward, placating. “I’m just getting my ID.”
“Right. You should have had that out before you knocked.” I started to close the door on him.
Phipps pushed back. “We need to talk.”
“On a Saturday?”
“I’m sorry to ruin your weekend,” he said. “But FBI agents are like the Pinkertons. We never sleep.
