by A J Rivers
“You’re going to have to petition the court for that,” Bellamy says. “People get squeamish when it comes to digging graves up.”
“I know. That’s why we’re going to ask Creagan to put in the request.”
“Creagan?” Bellamy asks, surprised. “I thought you didn’t want him to have anything to do with the case. You didn’t want the Bureau to get involved.”
“I don’t,” I admit. “But the courts tend to act a lot faster when law enforcement is greasing the wheels. A judge might go a bit slower if it was just me asking them to disinter my mother’s casket because I have suspicions about the burial. But if the Bureau in conjunction with a sheriff were to put in a request as part of an ongoing investigation, we’d save a lot of time.”
“What investigation?” Dean asks.
“My mother’s murder. It was never solved. The official police report says she was shot multiple times, but they never found any leads about the assailants.”
“Assailants? Multiple?”
“Evidence at the crime scene including footprints and inconsistencies with the blood splatter suggests there was more than one person there the night she was killed,” I explain. “And I’m sure a judge will be sympathetic to the FBI wanting to further the investigation, especially with the cooperation of a sheriff who has taken a special interest in the safety of the murder victim’s daughter following a series of unsolved break-ins at her home.”
“And you’re okay with that?” Sam asks.
“Are you?” I ask.
“Of course, I am,” he agrees. “I’ll do anything I can to help you. I just want to make sure you’re ready. You could be tangling up a pretty tight web here, and courts don’t always respond well to skirting the truth so closely.”
“I said I would do what needed to be done. I’m not doing anything that isn’t legitimate. Her case is cold. It does need further investigation. I have no interest in getting Creagan any more involved than he already has gotten, but some quick thinking and fancy footwork will get me what I need and still keep him from taking over control.”
“Alright,” he sighs. “Then let’s go talk to him.”
I look over at Dean.
“You coming?” I ask.
“I think I’ll sit this one out. Get caught up on some work.”
I nod.
“See you back at the house later?”
“Sure.”
I give him a tense smile and start for the door but pause when he calls out to me.
“Emma.”
“Hmm?” I turn back to him.
“What’s his name?” he asks. “You saw his signature. What’s his name?”
My breath slides out of my lungs, and my mouth twitches, not even wanting to say it.
“Jonah,” I finally tell him.
“Jonah,” he repeats softly, nodding.
“It would almost be funny if it wasn’t so horrific,” I say.
“What would?”
“Lotan and Leviathan. Jonah and the whale.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
I didn’t expect my visit to the headquarters to go quickly. It was never going to be as simple as just walking in and having a meeting with Creagan. This used to be where I spent every day working. For a few years, I saw the inside of FBI headquarters more than I did my own home. In fact, there were more nights than I like to admit that I spent on a cot in the barrack-room rather than making the drive back to my house. Especially in the midst of a difficult case, when I needed every second I could possibly juice out of the day to concentrate on untangling the clues or planning operations, it was just easier to be able to drop down for an hour or two then roll right back up than it would be to commute.
Now it’s been so long since I even stepped foot in the building, and my colleagues are eager to stop me and talk. I have to be careful about what I say to each of them. Despite the FBI’s record for secrecy, there’s very little discretion when it comes to sharing case details with your colleagues. It’s kind of an open secret. What I say to one will eventually trickle its way to others, so I have to be sure to give the exact same details and reasoning to each. It’s not quite the same as juggling elaborate lies, but I feel like I’m putting the truth through a sifter. All the fine details fall away, and I offer up only the most prominent, unobtrusive facts.
I don’t mention Greg. I don’t know if word of him waking up has made it here yet, and even if it has, I don’t want to get caught up in conversations about him. That’s not why I’m here. I can’t afford to get distracted. Everything I’m trying to piece together will bring the man who brutalized him to justice. But I have to find him first.
Once I get through all the unpleasant small talk, it’s time to face Creagan. I don’t know how he’s going to react to my request. Particularly after I let him know I’m not requesting the full backing of the Bureau, or for them to get involved in the investigation again. This is all I need from him. Nothing more.
I knock on the door tentatively.
“Come in,” his gruff voice comes. I enter to see him poring over files on his desk. After a second passes, he finally looks up at me.
“Griffin,” he says with a mild note of surprise as if he hadn’t actually seen who I was.
“Creagan, I need a favor.”
“Is this another one of your personal cases?”
I take a deep breath. “Sort of?”
He rubs his temples and sets his jaw. “Griffin, how many times do we have to have this conversation? I can’t use Bureau resources to look into your personal—"
“It’s about my mother’s murder,” I interrupt him.
That gives him pause. I tell him the version of the story I’d rehearsed, doing my best to stick with exactly what will help him grant my request but not an inch more.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, stroking his chin.
“A hundred percent,” I nod. “I’m confident whatever is in that casket will lead directly to the killers.”
I’m not a hundred percent confident, but I don’t have to tell him that.
He looks at me for a long moment, mulling it over in his head, then sighs.
“I’ll put in the request first thing in the morning.”
I break into a grin. “Thank you so much, Creagan.”
“Don’t mention it. Now get out of here and do what you’ve gotta do before I change my mind.”
I head back out into the snow, feeling like I’m moving forward. But there’s a part of me that aches as I walk to the parking deck. Sam holds my hand tightly between us. He doesn’t want to go back to my house any more than I do. We know when we do, he’ll have to leave. There’s still work to be done in Sherwood, and requesting the exhumation is creating even more work for him. Creagan will present the petition to the court, but having evidence of the break-ins at my house in Sherwood will make it more impactful. I can only hope the process is smooth and quick. I can’t sit around and wait for approval.
We get to the house, and he leans across the car to rest his forehead against mine.
“Are you sure you’re going to be alright?” he asks.
“I don’t really have a choice,” I tell him. “But I will. You do what needs to be done there, and I’ll keep in touch with you.”
“Please, do,” he says. “I’m going to worry about you every second.”
“I know you will. Thank you for that.”
He laughs softly. “So now you’re thanking me for worrying about you? That seems new.”
“I guess I’ve grown,” I tease.
Sam kisses me.
“Be safe,” he says.
“I will have my phone and my gun with me at all times,” I promise him.
“Keep your wits about you, too,” he says. “That’s usually the most important. I know you want this over. But when it is, I want you back home with me.”
I want to promise him I will be, but I stop myself. With no idea of what’s ahead of me or what I might be called on to do, I can�
�t promise that. All I can do is kiss him again.
“I do, too,” I whisper.
The lights aren’t on inside the house, so Sam insists on checking everything before he goes. He says it’s so I will feel safe being there alone, but I know it’s just as much for his peace of mind. I wave goodbye to him with a knot in my throat. Not because I’m afraid, but because the uncertainty ahead makes me want him with me.
But this is the life I’ve chosen. I walked away from Sam once to pursue my career. I did it so I would never feel torn between what I needed to do for my career and the lifestyle I had at home. Now that I’ve gone back on that and made the decision to share my life with Sam again, I have to accept the balance. There will be times when duty will call both of us away. It just means we have to give everything we can while we’re working, then make the most of every moment we can be together.
The house feels empty and quiet. When I turn on a light in my kitchen, I notice a piece of paper stuck to the front of the refrigerator with one of the random assortment of magnets Dad and I collected over the years. Seeing it puts me on edge. I grab hold of my phone as I approach it. My shoulders relax when I see Dean’s name scrawled across the bottom.
“Won’t be back tonight. See you tomorrow.”
I immediately open my phone and call Bellamy. She stayed at headquarters after I left to help Eric, but she should be done by now. If I catch her fast enough, I might be able to rope her into an impromptu sleepover. The call is on its fourth ring when I hear a key in the front door.
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now,” Bellamy says into the phone as she walks in carrying a massive bag of Thai food.
“Too bad, I was going to ask you to come over,” I say.
“Should have acted faster. I have a hot dinner date.”
We end the call, and I cross the room to hug her.
“Thank you,” I smile. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for my brain to be alone tonight.”
“I’m familiar with your brain,” she replies. “Which is why I’m here. But it might be happy to know Creagan has already started the paperwork, and as soon as Sam gets him the information from the break-ins in Sherwood, they’ll be able to submit the petition for the exhumation.
I let out a long slow breath and nod as we walk into the living room. She starts unpacking the food, and I go into the bedroom to change into pajamas, then the bathroom to wash my face.
“Is it ridiculous I almost feel guilty about wanting to dig up her grave?” I ask as I sweep a warm cloth over my skin. “I didn’t even know there was a grave, much less a casket to dig out of it. But it still feels strange to be sitting around, hoping a judge is going to give me permission to have a backhoe wrench her casket out of the ground.”
“She would rather have you figure out what happened and put all this behind you than have a fake grave,” Bellamy offers when I get back into the living room. “Not a sentiment I ever envisioned myself saying, but it stands.”
As soon as the rich aromas of the food fill the living room and I have chopsticks between my fingers, we stop talking about everything looming over me. It’s not gone from my mind. Nothing is going to take it out of my thoughts, but I can push it to the back of my mind and let it churn while I take some time away from it. We stay up talking late into the night, chasing away the darkness, and filling minutes I know will torment me otherwise. I’m in a holding pattern, and I hate it. I want to do something, to make progress, but for now, I wait.
Finally, I climb into bed, and seconds later drop into sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bellamy wakes me up to say goodbye before heading into work. Even with the heat on in the house, there’s a distinct nip in the air. I’m tempted to roll over and create a cocoon with my blankets so I can just stay in bed for a few more hours. But I can’t sleep. The second she wakes me up, my mind is jostled into full speed again, and after a few minutes of trying unsuccessfully to muffle it with my head stuffed under the pillow, I get up.
I make breakfast and catch up with Sam on the phone as I drink coffee and stare out the window at the thick layer of snow outside. I’ve never been a particularly big fan of snow in February. Not that it’s not beautiful, but it always strikes me as out of place. By February, it seems we should be coming up on Spring, not still hiding under a frozen blanket. But there is something lovely about the morning sunlight sparkling on snow that hasn’t yet been disturbed, and I choose to enjoy that about it. Sam and I talk for as long as he has time, then I bring my dishes into the kitchen and head for a shower. I’m not sure how long I stand in there, letting the hot water seep down into my bones like a protective layer to keep me warm for when I finally do face the outside. But when I get out, Dean is in the living room.
“You’re back,” I observe.
“I am,” he replies, reaching for the coffee cup he has sitting on the table in front of him.
“Should I chalk up your ability to break into my house as one of your many illustrious private investigator skills?” I ask half-serious.
“No,” he shrugs, continuing to scroll through something on his tablet without even looking at me. “You should chalk it up to Bellamy making me a copy of her extra key this morning.”
“Perhaps not the most responsible thing to be out doing while I’m trying to avoid a serial killer,” I point out.
This makes him lift his eyes to me.
“Do you think I have anything to do with it?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him.
His eyes sink back to his tablet screen.
“Then you don’t have anything to worry about,” he says.
There are several fallacies in his thought process there, but I choose not to point them out. The truth is, I trust Dean. That was far from my mind when I first met him on the train, and again when I encountered him in Feathered Nest, but he’s proven himself both reliable and valuable. And I can’t overlook everything we have in common and the scars we both share. It’s something other people can’t understand, no matter how much they want to, and that makes me want to keep him close. I go into the kitchen and pour another cup of coffee from the fresh pot he brewed when he came in.
“Where were you last night?” I ask as I walk into the living room.
“In a hotel,” he says. “There were some things I needed to get done, and I didn’t want to be in your way or keep you up. I tend to get very little sleep when I’m invested in something.”
I let out a short laugh and settle into the chair next to the couch, pulling my legs up, so I’m curled against the back with my cup cradled between my palms.
“That sounds so much like my father,” I tell him. “I can remember when I was younger, my mom having to try to force him to sleep. He’d be up all night working on cases, and she would go into his office, take his glasses off and pull him out of the chair to bring him off to bed. Sometimes he would tell her he wanted a drink of water or forgot to turn the light off and sneak back in for another few minutes. She would tell him he was worse than a toddler.”
Dean offers only the slightest hint of a smile. I’m about to ask him what he was working on last night when my phone alerts me to a message. It’s an email from Eric with a subject line that just says ‘test’.
My heart skips slightly. Sliding my legs down, so I’m sitting facing Dean, I open the message. An attachment shows the side-by-side comparison of our DNA profiles.
“The crime lab must have put a serious rush on our test,” I say. “I just got the results.”
“And?” He raises an eyebrow with anticipation.
I set my phone down and go for my tablet instead. The bigger screen will make it easier to see the attachment. Opening it, I turn the screen so both of us can see it. My eyes sweep over the explanation several times before I feel like it’s really sunk in.
“The mitochondrial DNA is different, obviously, but we knew that. We have different mothers. But the other half shows similarities. That’s exactly what I was
expecting.”
“What do you mean?”
“To somebody else reading these results, it would look like we’re brother and sister. Like we have the same father. But we don’t. We just happen to have fathers who share their DNA. Your father is my father’s identical twin,” I explain.
“We’re cousins,” he says.
I nod. “But Jonah is convinced he’s father to both of us.”
“Well,” Dean says, setting his tablet down so I can see the screen. “He’s apparently also dead.”
I don’t even know how to process what he just said. The words jumble up in my mind, and I can’t force them into anything that makes sense.
“What are you talking about?” I ask. “Obviously, he’s not dead.”
“According to the government, he is. Jonah Griffin is legally dead. After you told us your theory yesterday, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I spent my entire life wondering who my father is, and what happened to him. Following you had nothing to do with that. I didn’t know I was tracking down my family. It was really hard to wrap my head around it all, just trying to make sense of it. Suddenly I wasn’t just finding out more about my mother and possibly getting an answer about her death; I was finding out about my father. And he’s not exactly someone for me to be proud of.”
“I’m sorry, Dean,” I tell him.
He shakes his head.
“Don’t be. It’s a question I’ve always had, and if you hadn’t found the answer for me, I would have just kept wondering. You got an answer for me. It might not be exactly the type of answer I thought I’d find, but it means I don’t have to ask anymore. But, of course, I can’t just let it go that easily. I’m a private investigator. Digging deeper is what I do. So last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I started looking into Jonah Griffin, and I found this,” he says, gesturing toward the tablet.
He shows me a scan of a death certificate.
“It says he died in 1998,” I frown. “How is that possible? Could this belong to someone else with the same name?”