Meeting one on one inspired little reason for concern. Those who found their woes leading them immediately to the FBI either felt such crippling insecurity in their current state that worst case scenario was tattooed irremovably from their thoughts and flesh —
—— or, less favourably, the danger was so steep that the middle man would result in spilt blood.
Regardless, every file had been labelled, arranged — cup of coffee adjusted twice from nine thirty — and files reviewed, and organized alphabetically, and of immediate relevance.
Now, all that left was the meeting arranged for eleven, which predicted both mentally, and on a spare notepad, to come to a close around noon.
Busied fingers toyed idly with a mechanical pencil. Tapped against his chin, clicked, and retracted. Take time, absorb it, breeze throughout until —
❝Ah,❞ The instrument was replaced on his desk, straightened subconsciously, and he leaned forward on both elbows, ❝—- You’re my — special guest for this morning, right? Take a seat — anywhere — on the one chair I have set out.❞
Being around cops always made Andy uncomfortable, but she had to pushed those uncomfortable feelings away as she walked through the building. Her hands were shoved so far into her pockets she was afraid her jacket was going to rip. Breathing in and out slowly, she thought things over.
The only reason she was there was…why was she there again? Shit, she was blanking, her nervousness had gotten to her as she reached the room she was searching for. Taking a quick breath as she listen to the man speak she couldn’t really open her mouth to say anything. So, she just did as she was told and sat in that one chair.
Her hands quickly removed themselves from her pockets and she began numbly, twiddling with her thumbs. God, she felt like a child and she hated that feeling more then anything.
“—-” Her words were still failing her, so she decided to wait until the male spoke again. This was going to be a long day wasn’t it?
Expertise lay not in the actual conversations he maintained, but the disposition of the other party relaying the words. Tucked lip – a sign of anxiety, unwillingness to proceed verbally. Hands, like his own on occasion, indicated both introversion and hesitance. A reluctance to divulge information, or even disclose the thoughts currently clouding one’s mind.
Reading people, reading books – all relatively simple. Many bore their print plainly on their face, and some below their skin. Either way, literature served as an ample distraction from reality when the buzz and blood of society grew too much.
Speech trailed quietly into observational silence. Interviews were rarely performed alone, especially in a case left so vague. No names, barely a conflict to work forward from. All that could be extrapolated were the words he could only hope she would provide.
Knuckles knocked against each other, laced into a loose fist, and then rocked in a hover above the face of his desk. Take it slow – taking her current complexion and behaviors into account, one wrong move might fracture the ice he walked upon.
Lips parted, remained so, but his eyes fell to the hurriedly organized files splayed out on his desk.
❝Miss Andy Crew –❞ His brows furrowed thoughtfully between his eyes, and he weighted his chin against his recently freed right hand – index tap, tap. ❝Says here you’re – eighteen?—- Eighteen’s a difficult age… Filled with plenty of things that might and do go wrong.❞
