“Are you disappointed?”

 She shrugs. “It is a nice car,” she says as she buckles herself in and crosses her legs, resting her hands on her knees. “But I don’t think it’s government-issued.”

 I laugh. “It’s not. Does that disappoint you?” I ask, starting the car and merging into traffic.

 “I guess it’s okay.” Another shrug.

 I take a right onto the Schuylkill and ask if she’s learned any new knock-knock jokes since I last saw her.

 She turns her head and gives me a look. “Funny.”

 “I’m genuinely curious,” I say. “You were killing it the other night.”

 “No. But speaking of killing, did you know that at any given time, there are between twenty and fifty serial killers in the United States? Did you know that?” She turns in her seat to look at me, her eyes wide with interest.

 “That’s quite the transition, from knock-knock jokes to serial killers,” I comment while turning on the ramp to the I-676.

 “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I just thought it would be fewer.”

 “Uh-huh.”

 “Like ten. I thought it would be ten. Maybe fifteen.”

 “One would think.” I nod. Not really. Who thinks about this shit?

 “What department do you work in anyway?”

 “I’m almost sorry to tell you that it’s not the BAU.”

 “That’s probably a hard department to get into.” She says it reassuringly and with a small nod and I fight not to laugh.

 “Cyber crimes,” I answer.

 “Also very important,” she says.

 “Right,” I agree, with a small nod. I imagine she’s thinking I investigate credit-card fraud or piracy. She’s cute.

 “So do you have a gun?” she asks, and glances over at me like I might have one strapped to me that she didn’t notice.

 “Not on me, but yes. And it’s government-issued,” I add. “Does that make up for the car?”

 “It does a little. Wait, where are we going?” she asks, throwing her hands up and glancing out the window at the expressway flying by.

 “Dress shopping,” I answer, already knowing the vague response will buy me all of five seconds.

 “Why are we on the highway? Ohh, are we going to the outlet mall?” Her face lights up.

 “New York,” I answer.

 “New York! That’s a two-hour car ride!” I can see her looking at me from the corner of my eye like I’m an idiot and her voice is a little panicky. “Each way, Boyd. Two hours each way. This is going to take all day,” she adds, stressing the word all. “Are there no stores in Philadelphia that meet your approval?”

 “Did you have somewhere else you needed to be?” I ask, deflecting the question.

 “Yes,” she says. But it’s lacking truth and comes out a little sullenly.

 “Where? Is there a murder marathon on TV this afternoon, safety girl?”

 “No!” she says. But she says it too quickly and fidgets in her seat.

 “Holy shit, there is, isn’t there? You’re so weird.” She’s amazing.

 “It’s a Criminal Minds marathon, jerk,” she retorts and this conversation starts to make sense. I’m competing with a fucking television show.

 “So you wanted to get home to watch reruns, is what you’re telling me?”

 “Fine,” she huffs. “I guess I can watch reruns another time.”

 “Thanks,” I say drily. “That’s big of you.”

 “You’re welcome,” she replies and I’m honestly not sure if she’s being snarky or serious.

 “Who’s your favorite?” I ask. “On the show.” Clearly I’m still stewing about competing with actors. It’s probably the muscle guy, Agent Morgan. Which is fine, because she hasn’t seen me naked yet. I can kick in a door when necessary too. Real ones, not stunt ones.

 “Dr. Reid,” she responds and I swear to fuck her voice is a little breathy when she says it.

 “The nerd?”

 “He’s a genius, Boyd. And he’s so cute.” She’s smiling.

 “Fictional, Chloe. Fictional genius. No one has an IQ that high in real life.” Fine. I’ve seen a few episodes. At least that fictional fucker never gets the girl.

 “Hey, can I see your badge?”

 Yeah, definite agent kink, I think as I reach into my back pocket and pull out my wallet and toss it to her. She flips it open and, seeing my official ID there as well, holds it close to inspect it, running her finger around the edge of the wallet as she does. She makes a little noise of approval as she flips it shut and hands it back to me.

 “So can I ask you a question?” She wraps a strand of hair around her finger and examines the end of it before dropping it to look at me.

 “Sure.” I pass a slow-moving BMW and get comfortable, glancing at her to continue.

 “Does the FBI monitor Google searches? Like, um, randomly? For normal people?”

 “Normal people?”

 “Non-criminal people.”

 “What kind of a question is that?”

 “It’s a real question!”

 “But why are you asking it?”

 “Because I Google some weird shit,” she says, blowing out a breath and shaking her head. “I keep expecting someone to show up on my doorstep and ask what the heck I’m doing, but I’m just a really curious person and all the answers are right there, you know? Just click, click and there’s your answer.”

 “I think you’ll be okay,” I assure her.

 She nods and kicks off her sneakers and folds her legs up onto the seat, wrapping her arms around her bent knees and angling herself in my direction. “What are we going to talk about all day?”

 She asks it casually, but her posture, while comfortable, is protective and the question itself tells me she’s not the most comfortable in social situations.

 “Am I making you nervous?”