“Most people are when talking to the FBI.” “It’s not that different from talking with—” She bites her chapped lower lip, winces at the beads of blood that seep through the cracked skin. She takes another sip. “With?” he prompts gently. “Him,” she answers. “The Gardener.” “The man who held you—you talked with his gardener?” She shakes her head. “He was the Gardener.”
