CHAPTER 222 Miracle Worker

*Marsh*

The FBI office in Bismarck smelled like stale coffee and cheap air freshener, the kind that barely masked the sweat of nervous suspects. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the gray walls of the interrogation room where Dorian Blackwood sat, his hands cuffed to a metal table. I leaned against the wall, playing the part of his attorney, my suit crisp but