Amy took a deep breath and settled into the opposing chair. She kept a tight control over her own features not wanting to give anything away. She looked over Pendergast. He appeared relaxed, but there was a tightness in his face and his back was rigid as he waited for her to begin.

"OK," said Amy. "Let's start with something fairly simple. You were in the military. Definitely not the Navy as you lack the gait that sailors get and never seem to lose. Not the Air Force – you seem too inclined to physical encounters. I would hazard a guess that it was the Army and furthermore that you were not a run of the mill soldier, but part of an elite unit."

A slight rise of the eyebrow encouraged Amy to explain. "You naturally stand and parade rest. A wealthy scion of a wealthy family has a much more indolent way of carrying himself. Your wealth would have given you opportunities to give orders, but you know how to command." Amy looked at Pendergast and cracked a smile. "I would even wager that you have a tattoo commemorating your service. Somewhere where is not visible usually; a bicep perhaps or between the shoulder blades." When she realized that Pendergast would not comment, Amy went on.

"You have created an entire persona for yourself. You are successful partly because you are great at misdirection. People think that you are a weakling; a rich boy not used to action. You cultivate this as carefully as people grow orchids." A steepling of the fingers was Pendergast's only response.

"Looking at you, I estimate you to be about six feet and 3 inches and you weight about 210 or 2015 pounds. You have kept fit and you are strong. However, your height and the fact that you wear only black gives the illusion that you are slight. I would suspect this is a useful tool when you need to move unobserved or when you need to intimidate a suspect. I think you are a lethal weapon even without your Les Baer."

"Shall I continue? Very well. You are a widower. You have been one for a while." The look of shock and pain on Pendergast's face stopped her for a moment, but she was committed now, so she went on. "You do not have a wedding ring, yet you still look at your hand as if checking for it. Your hand has no tan marks which tells me that she has been dead...," Amy never had the chance to finish her thought.

"That will be quite enough," Pendergast's voice was cold as ice and just above a whisper. Chills ran down Amy's spine. For the first time she was actually frightened of him. "I do not know how you knew what you purport to know, but I will not listen to anymore. Instead, let me tell you about you. I am not a Profiler," he filled that one work with scorn and hatred, "but I can still tell you about you."

Eyes blazing with a cold light, Pendergast stood up and walked over to look into Amy's eyes. He began in a dangerous whisper that dripped with disdain. "You are from Louisiana, although you have tried to hide your accent. I suspect that you are what is commonly known as "new money," he spat those words as if they were a curse. "Your mother and father had your life arranged; they had even selected a suitable, wealthy doctor or lawyer for you to marry, but you decided to be a rebel and ran away to make your way in the big bad world, although you still have your trust fund which you frequently access. This is a passing fancy for you a diversion until you find something better." Pendergast stopped speaking, his chest rising and falling with emotion as he continued to look at Amy.

Amy for her part was completely transfixed. Her eyes had filled with tears, but she would be damned if she would let Pendergast see her cry.

"Alright, Agent Pendergast," she said very quietly. "My turn for the truth. My name is Ameline Devereaux. I was born in a village called Bayou Gauche. There was seven of us – I was the second oldest. Don't know who my Daddy was and I doubt my Mama did either. The only new money that we ever saw was what Mama got from the government." Her voice had gained strength and vehemence as she spoke and it was as if its force pushed Pendergast away. He no longer lowered over her, but stepped back to eventually assume his seat in the armchair.

"Shall I tell you the rest, Agent Pendergast?" Her voice now assumed the full depth of the low country accent and was as hard and cold as his had been. This was not a story she liked to tell, but for some reason, she could not stop telling it.

"My most current step daddy, had a friend. And he gave me to him. I was fifteen. That drunk bastard wanted only one thing – I will leave it to your imagination. As long as I obliged, he let me go to school. Until one day, he got really drunk and decided that I'd had enough schooling. He would not let me go that morning and when I argued, he gave me this." Amy raised her shirt and showed Pendergast a puckered scar that ran across her abdomen from the right side of her ribcage to the left. Pendergast's eyes opened wide in shock.

"How? What?" He whispered.

"He used his gator knife on me. Split me open. I had to hold on to my insides."

"What happened," whispered Pendergast, his voice oddly soft and gentle now.

"I shot the Son of a Bitch with his own rifle. It was the last thing I remember. My sister found me the next day. I was almost dead and it's a miracle that I did not die for either the blood loss or the infection. But after three months in the hospital, I ran. I ran as far away from Louisiana as I could. I ran to New England. I lied about my age, got a job, got a GED. I watched the wealthy people who came into the store where I worked and I learned to imitate them. The better I imitated them, the more doors opened to me. I got into college and then grad school in Psychology and Anthropology." She took a deep breath. She could not believe how much she had told him. She was embarrassed and she was angry that he had made her open up as much as she had.

She closed her eyes for a moment to try to regain some sense of control. "Agent Pendergast. It is clear that this will never work. I will be on the next flight back to New York. In the meantime, I hope you will excuse me. I think I would like to rest, if Maurice can show me where it is."

Her back straight, the young woman, followed the elderly servant up the creaking stairs. It was not until the door to the guest bedroom had shut that she leaned up against a wall and wept.

Pendergast watched Amy climb the stairs. His emotions were a mix. He knew he had been cruel. Unforgivably cruel for no reason other than she had been right. She had not deserved to be hurt like that and he knew that he had hurt her deeply. He also admired her strength. She had fought off her attacker and she had fought for her life. There would be worse people with whom to partner.

Pendergast sighed. He knew had to make amends. He knew he was in the wrong and Noblesse Oblige would not let him do anything less. He reached for his cell phone and dialed a well-remembered number. "Madame Angelique? Yes. This is Aloysius Pendergast. Yes. It has been quite a while. I need to make a purchase. Would you be able to have it delivered to Penumbra? Splendid. What I need is..."