Free In Deep with the FBI Agent by Lynne Silver Page A

felt like sixteen-year-old Casey again. “They were typed notes, Sam. No other teenager typed locker notes.”
    His wide grin flashed and then was replaced with a look of concern. “Case, what’s wrong? Tell me, please. Why do you think you’re going to be fired for telling me? As your friend, even if you weren’t always a friend to me. I’m here for you.”
    She took a deep breath and then decided, What the hell? Who better to trust with your secrets than someone who’s known you since you wore a training bra? “The head of school and the board think the parents will freak out if they find out about the security breach, so they’re keeping it totally secret. They had us all change passwords, but they’re not telling us anything else.”
    She glanced over to see how he was taking that bit of info. He looked thoughtful. “I wonder if there are other schools doing the same thing,” he said. “Is it possible I’m missing a huge chunk of data?”
    “I think it’s wrong of them,” she said, “and I tried to tell my boss, Nancy, that I knew an FBI agent who could help. She did not take me up on my offer.”
    “Got it,” he said and swiveled to face her. “I appreciate it a lot that you trusted me. I won’t betray you. I’ll figure out a way to look into it without cornering you.”
    She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I appreciate it.”
    He squeezed her bare knee and a shiver crept up her spine. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you ran out of the restaurant? You were worried about your job, but not enough to make a scene like you did.”
    She folded her arms protectively across her chest and tried to loosen the knot that had tied her empty stomach into a hard ball. She’d already spilled one big secret, so why not go two for two tonight? “I freaked out about what you said when you made the joke about me having an eating disorder, because it’s not a joke to me. I’m anorexic, Sam,” she said. “Actually a recovering anorexic,” she corrected.
    “Shit. Oh, shit,” he said, then fell silent.
    When he remained silent, she swiveled even more in her seat. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
    “Yes,” he said, but still remained silent a lot longer. Finally, when she was about to scream his name, he said, “I never realized how many jokes people make about eating and starving themselves until now. Me included.”
    That was not the response she’d been expecting.
    “That’s what set you off, isn’t it?” he asked. “When I joked about you having an eating disorder.”
    Slowly she nodded and wrapped her arms tighter around her torso.
    “People say that kind of shit all the time, not realizing that it’s not funny, that there are real people struggling with a real disease. I’m sorry—I’m incredibly sorry—I made a joke like that.”
    Her lips parted to say—what, she didn’t know—but he kept talking, halting her.
    “Had a buddy back in college. He suffered from depression and anxiety. Took meds for it, something he shared with me privately one day in a weak moment. After that, whenever I was with him in a big group, I noticed how insensitive people were about mental illness. Like during exams, they’d joke that they need Prozac to get through it. Or they’d say something like the professors needed therapy if they thought they could hand out that much work. As if Prozac and therapy were jokes.”
    “I’m not mentally ill, Sam,” she said sharply, but kept silent about the fact that her mother suffered from depression. One personal revelation in an evening was enough. If Sam was smart, he’d run from her messed-up life.
    His palm pressed on her thigh, and she looked down at his hand, much larger now than it had been in high school.
    “I’m not saying you are. I’m saying I apologize for joking about something that’s not at all funny. Tell me about your anorexia.”
    She laughed, slightly hysterical that he’d asked as casually as