by A J Rivers
“No, it didn’t,” I tell him. “And that’s alright. This is everything you’ve ever worked for. I understand why you would immediately jump on the opportunity.”
“Leviathan…” Sam muses, sending a meaningful look to Dean and me.
“I honestly believed it wouldn’t be long before I was able to tell you what was going on and bring your father back into your life. But then I realized there was something else going on. He wasn’t the man I thought he was,” he says.
“How long did it take you to realize it?”
“Longer than I’d like to admit. There are things I did I will never be able to atone for, things I participated in I thought were for good, but I will never be able to forgive myself for doing,” he tells me, his voice dropping even further.
I reach out and rest my hand on his. “You don’t need to be forgiven. All of us have to do things in this career that we regret. That’s part of this life. You have to remember that what you do is for the greater good. Sacrifices need to be made.”
“Not these kinds of sacrifices. The only sacrifice I was fully willing to make, I didn’t have to.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Did you find the signature in the guest book at the funeral home?” he asks.
I’m surprised to hear him bring it up now, but I nod.
“Yes. How did you do that?” I ask.
“I didn’t. But I had someone do it for me. In case…” he draws in a breath. “In case I didn’t get the chance to talk to you again, I needed you to know I tried. I needed you to start searching. Did you get the book?”
“The guest book you signed?”
“No, the one older one. He said he signed it for your mother.”
I shake my head. “No. Bellamy is the one who found the signature. They wouldn’t talk to her.” I feel like we’re sliding away from what’s important, and I can already see Greg getting tired. I lean closer to him. “Greg, what is my uncle’s name? Who is he?”
“Lotan,” he says, his voice dropping down to a whisper again. “I only know Lotan.”
I swallow hard and glance back at Sam and Dean, who nod.
“Greg, I need you to…” I start, but he suddenly takes my hand, stopping me.
It looks like he’s fighting to stay awake, and I’m sure the medication they still have pumping through him to manage his pain doesn’t make that easy.
“Emma, he’s coming for you.”
“When?” Sam demands. “What do you know?”
Greg’s eyes are slowly closing.
“He says it’s time you know the truth. You were taken from him. You can’t let him take you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my heart pounding, so the base of my throat shakes, and bile stings the back of my tongue. “What are you talking about? What truth?”
“He wants you first. You were what he always wanted. Then the other. His children together to reign.”
Chapter Twenty
The words are like ice down my shoulders and into my chest.
“What are you talking about?” I ask desperately. “Greg, what do you mean?”
I stand and lean over him, speaking directly into his face, trying to rouse him again.
“Emma,” Sam says, taking my hips and trying to pull me backwards away from the bed.
“What did you just say?” I demand. “What do you mean?”
Amelia comes into the room, forcing back the curtain and rushing to the bedside.
“Emma, please,” she scolds. “You’re disturbing the other patients. He’s still heavily medicated, and he’s going to need to sleep. He’ll wake up again later, but you’ll have to be more restrained.”
I step up close to the nurse, getting my face to within inches of hers.
“Back off,” I growl.
“Emma,” Sam warns, yanking me back and pulling me to the other side of the room. “You have to stop. If you want any chance at all of figuring out what’s going on, you need to calm down. She could have you removed and not let you back in here. Take a breath.”
“Did you hear what he said?” I ask, lowering my voice so Amelia can’t overhear me.
“Yes,” he says. “I did. But it’s not going to do you any good screaming at an unconscious man. When he wakes up, you can talk to him and find out what he meant.”
“I can’t wait until he wakes up,” I snap. “He said my uncle is coming for me because he wants his children to be together.”
“You need to calm down and think clearly,” Sam tells me. “Think about what you’re saying. You know that isn’t true. You didn’t even know he exists. How could he be your father?”
Realization hits me. My legs suddenly feel like they can’t support my weight. Sam notices my knees buckling and takes hold of my upper arms, leading me over to the couch and letting me sit. He sits down beside me, and I read his eyes.
“He’s not,” I say. Reaching into my pocket, I take out my phone and call Eric. “I need you to put a rush on a DNA comparison test for me. Two people. I need it done as soon as possible. Let the crime lab know it involves a rape.” I take a breath. “And possibly murder.”
“You got it,” says Eric.
Sam is staring at me with questions in his eyes when I get off the phone.
“Rape?” he asks. “Who was raped?”
“My mother,” I tell him. “Think about what we found in her medical records. When she was in Feathered Nest, she went to the Women’s Center at the hospital and got the morning after pill. But a little over than a month later, she was pregnant with me. Why would she take precautions to prevent a pregnancy one month and then happily welcome another just a few weeks later? Unless it was because the first potential pregnancy would have been with someone she didn’t want to have a child with?”
Sam’s face went pale.
“He wouldn’t have even had to attack her,” he muses. “In the dark, it’s possible he could have convinced her he was Ian.”
I nod. “Exactly. But she would have figured it out. And as soon as she realized what happened to her, she would do anything she could to avoid giving birth to a child that would inextricably link her to her husband’s brother. That picture we found of the two of them. We both thought it was my parents, not just because of his appearance, but also the way he was looking at her. He was obsessed.”
“But who is the second person?”
“Dean,” I tell him.
Sam looks over at Dean, who turns widened eyes to me.
“Me?” He furrows his brow and takes a step closer. “Why me? Why would you need my DNA?”
“Do you have that picture of your mother you showed me at the cabin?”
“I don’t have the paper, but I can find it.” He searches through his phone for a few seconds, then shows Sam the image of his mother smiling. “That’s her.”
Sam looks at me, and I give a single nod.
“You see it, too, don’t you?”
“See what?” Dean asks.
“Have you ever seen a picture of my mother?” I ask him.
When he says he hasn’t, I do a quick search through my phone and show him.
“They look so much alike,” he notes.
“Which is exactly why I always thought I was having a nightmare about walking into that apartment and finding my mother dead. It was your mother. Like I said, that man is obsessed with my mother. When she wouldn’t run away with him, he had to find a substitute. From the moment I saw you, I thought there was something familiar about you. But now I realize it’s not that you are familiar, it’s that you look like someone who is. Will you take the test with me?”
He nods but doesn’t say anything. A few minutes later, Eric calls back and gives us instructions for where to go to get the test. The swab itself can be done right here in the hospital, then a tech from the crime lab will come to collect the samples and run the comparison test.
Dean and I go to the appointed room. The test itself only takes a few seconds, and as we walk
out, he looks at me.
“What now?” he asks.
“Now, we wait.”
Bellamy calls as we’re making our way back up to Greg’s room.
“Are you still at the hospital?” she asks, sounding breathless.
“Yes. I was just heading back to Greg’s room. Why? What’s going on? Is something wrong?” I ask.
“No. I just need to see you. You’re not going to believe what just showed up at my house,” she says. “I’ll be up there in twenty minutes.”
My head spins as I make my way back to Greg’s room, where Sam waits for us. I didn’t want to risk Greg waking back up and us not being there. He stands up from the couch when we walk in.
“So?”
“The results could take a little while. They’ll rush it as much as they can, but the labs are notoriously busy,” I tell him.
“Then what’s wrong?” he frowns, coming up and taking my hands.
He squeezes them, and the warmth of his skin against mine makes me aware of how cold mine are.
“Bellamy just called. She says she got something in the mail today and needs to show it to me now. She’s on her way over here.”
The expression on his face exudes the same anxiety I’m feeling. I can’t imagine what she could have gotten that would be so urgent. Unless she’s become the next unwitting player in Catch Me’s game.
“I’m going to get coffee,” Sam says. “Do you want some?”
I nod and sit down on the couch. He offers some to Dean, who nods, but it seems like he doesn’t quite hear Sam. When Sam leaves the room, Dean walks over to the window and stares out over the city. I want to say something to him, but I don’t know what. It’s impossible for me to guess or even begin to understand what he might be thinking or feeling right now. I’m already struggling with my own thoughts. The new level of pure disgust and hatred I have for the man who shared my father’s childhood and at least part of his adulthood.
Sam comes back, balancing three cups of coffee and hands them out. We sip in silence. It feels like far longer than twenty minutes when Bellamy finally comes through the door. She’s carrying a large padded white envelope, and her face is bright and wind-chapped. I realize I didn’t even pay attention to the weather when we were running in after Greg called. A quick glance toward the window tells me the thought I had when I saw the white sky was right. Snowflakes have begun to drift down.
I get to my feet and cross the room to her.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I didn’t tell you because I thought you already had enough going on, but a few weeks ago, I got in touch with the funeral home again.”
“The one in Florida?” I ask.
She nods as we make our way back over to the couch. “I told you the guy working there seemed like he was willing to talk to me but was stopped for some reason. So, I tried again. I explained I wasn’t a rival or disgruntled family member. This had nothing to do with them or their business practices. But if they happened to be covering up for the mob and dabbling in money laundering and human trafficking through the use of fraudulent funeral services, my friends at the Bureau might end up wanting to pay them a visit.”
“Damn, Bells. Creagan should start sending you undercover,” I comment.
“We’ll see. It might not have actually come to anything. But I got this in the mail today, along with a letter saying he got this out of storage. He said I could compare it to local obituary notices to prove they weren’t doing anything wrong. Seems a bit sketchy in the whole personal privacy scheme of things, but I’m not going to argue with it,” she tells me.
She reaches into the envelope, and the breath leaves my lungs as she pulls out a guest book.
“How did he know?” I murmur.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I told him the date of your mother’s supposed funeral,” Bellamy says. “I’m sure funeral homes keep things labeled in storage.”
I look over at her and have to think for a second about what she just said for it to make sense, then shake my head.
“No,” I say. “That’s not what I mean. I meant Greg. How did he know the guest book was coming?”
“He said it was coming?” Bellamy asks.
“Not exactly. But he mentioned it. He asked about the signature,” I say.
“Of course he did. He left that for you. He wanted to make sure you found it.”
I make a sound of acknowledgement, but there’s a little voice in the back of my mind that tells me there’s more to it than that. That man at the funeral home didn’t just suddenly change his mind. Bellamy’s somewhat legally ambiguous threats aside, I feel like someone’s helping me.
“Or maybe my mother is just ready for this to be over and gave him a little push,” I muse.
Bellamy gives me a sad smile and wraps her arm around my shoulders for a hug.
“What did Greg say about the book?” she asks.
“He asked if I found his signature, and then if I found the older book, the one my uncle signed.”
“The one your uncle signed?” she tilts her head. “He was there?”
“Why ‘supposed funeral’?”
I look up at Dean, almost startled by his voice.
“What?” I ask.
“Bellamy said your mother’s ‘supposed funeral’. What did she mean by that?”
“My mother was cremated,” I explain. “In a different state. I went to the memorial service and saw her urn. But it wasn’t a funeral. As far as I ever knew, there was no memorial service for her in Florida. But Bellamy went down there a few months ago to look into a couple of leads for me and found an announcement for a funeral for my mother. My father and I never attended it. I don’t know why there was one in Florida.”
Bellamy chimes in with her half of the story. “So I went to this funeral home and tried to get some information about it, but they wouldn’t talk. The only info they gave me was that someone else had been in there just the week before asking about the same service, and he’d insisted on signing the guest book.”
“That’s what you were talking about when Greg asked about his signature in the other guest book,” Dean acknowledges.
“Yes. We knew it was a message but couldn’t figure out what it meant. Especially because he signed it with the middle name Ron. Now I know Greg didn’t actually sign it, but someone he trusted did. He wanted to get my attention and make me look into her service more.”
“Why would there be a grave and a casket if she was cremated somewhere else?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Especially considering her urn is in my house. She was never interred in any way.”
I flip through the pages of the guest book, looking at the names. Dozens pack the lines of every page, representing the lives of so many people lost. It’s like looking at the charred beams left behind when a barn burns. You can still see what used to be, but it isn’t there anymore and can never really be again.
“A couple of these names look familiar,” Bellamy notes, running her fingertips down one of the pages.
“Look, this is the date that was on the announcement,” I tell her, pointing to the top of the page. “It looks like someone had used a felt-tip pen to write the date in small numbers at the top of each page to keep it organized. I know some of these names. They’re people my mother knew when I was younger. I don’t remember much about any of them, but I know I’ve heard their names.”
“Friends of your mother were invited to a fake funeral?” Dean asks.
“That’s what it seems like happened.”
“Maybe it was like people who elope and then go home and have a big wedding ceremony for their friends and family so they can feel like they witnessed the ceremony,” Bellamy suggests. “Your father wanted to bring your mother to be cremated and have a smaller service, but he knew your mother’s friends would want to give their respects.”
“Only in a second wedding ceremony the bride and groom are actually there. They don’t just prop up a wedding dre
ss and tux and let everybody pretend,” I reply. “There was a casket, and there’s a grave. That’s a lot to go through just so people can feel like they paid their last respects.”
I scan through the next few pages, and Bellamy suddenly grabs my arm.
“Emma, look,” she says, pointing at the book. “Griffin. But it’s on the wrong day. He was there, but four days after her funeral.”
I look at the signature, then glance at the date at the top of the page. She’s right; it’s marked days after the funeral service held for my mother. But there’s something that stands out against the other signatures on the page. I flip back to the page with the correct date.
“No, look. Here are the signatures from the day of the funeral service,” I flip back to the other page. “And these are the ones from the day he signed it. The ink is different. The ones from the day of my mother’s service are blue. Every other one on the page with this signature are black. The pens are different. This is him. He signed it, but for some reason, he turned to another page.”
“So no one would notice?” Bellamy offers. “Maybe he didn’t want anybody seeing his name in the guest book.”
“Why would it matter if anybody saw his name if he was there?”
“He left before anybody could notice him,” she points out. “Don’t you think her friends might find it odd to see someone who looks just like your father when they know he isn’t there?”
“We know Catch Me was there,” Dean muses.
“How do you know that?” Bellamy asks.
“One of the clues he left in Feathered Nest,” I say, suddenly remembering it. “It was talking about Marren’s roses. He said the flowers at my mother’s funeral were beautiful, but he wondered why the casket seemed so light.”
“They did bury a casket,” Bellamy says. “The people in Florida thought they were at a real funeral.”
“So, what were they burying?” Dean asks.
“I don’t know, but I think we need to find out. That casket needs to be exhumed.”