Logan leaned against the cold interrogation room wall, arms crossed, his scowl deepening. The place smelled like stale coffee and sweat, a scent that dragged up memories he would rather leave buried, reminding him of the day Hanna died, taking their child with her.

He had no business being here.

Logan was an analyst, not field personnel. Yet one of his cop buddies had flagged an emergency report, and somehow he had ended up in the middle of the mess anyway.

Just another day in the FBI circus.

His gaze shifted to the woman across the room, {{user}}, if he remembered her name correctly. She had been the one to put the kidnapper in that chair. The man was bloodied and barely conscious, and Logan still could not decide whether that was impressive or deeply frustrating.

“You’ve got guts,” Logan said, nodding toward her bruised fist. “What else did you use to take him down?”

His voice came out cold and clipped, the tone he tended to slip into whenever he was not in the mood for conversation.

And yet, for some reason, he kept talking anyway.