The Girl and the Deadly End (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 7)

by A J Rivers

  “I don’t mind,” she insists. “I’m always happy to stay with you.”

  “I know, B,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “And I appreciate it more than I’m ever going to be able to tell you. Which is why I’m telling you now that you need to go on home. I’m not going to be any good tonight. I should be left alone, so I can think.”

  She finally nods and gives me a tight hug. My wrist, wrapped in gauze by an emergency responder, rubs against her back, and pain shoots through my arm. It only makes my anger more intense.

  “If you need anything, call me. I will come here in my nightgown if need be,” she promises.

  “Why do I think you might do that anyway just to say you did?” I ask.

  She smiles and kisses me on the cheek.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sleep.”

  She leaves, and I do my best to calm down. I know she’s right. I eventually need to rest, but the confrontation with my uncle has put me on edge to the point I feel like I can’t even sit down. Much less go to sleep. I keep going over what happened in my head. It almost doesn’t feel real. Like I conjured it all in my sleep-deprived imagination. But the pain in my wrist and the throbbing ache of tension and rage at the base of my skull proves it was real.

  I finally force myself to sit and pull out all the files I brought with me. Spreading them out across the pristine white comforter of the hotel bed, I dive into them again. There’s got to be something here. Something I’ve missed. Something that will mean more to me now that I’ve actually come face-to-face with my uncle and heard from his own mouth his depraved views.

  Eventually, I must have fallen asleep because I wake with a start. I’ve toppled over to the side just slightly, so I rest on the stack of pillows, the light in the room still on. Outside the window, I see the very beginning of morning glowing on the horizon. I get up and step into a blistering shower, taking full advantage of the hotel supply of water to stand under it for what seems like hours. I know there’s an officer guarding my room, but I still bring clothes with me into the bathroom so I can change right out of the shower rather than walking back out into the main room in only a towel.

  A part of me hates myself for doing it. It was already enough at the beginning of all this to realize I felt more comfortable locking the door behind me when I got in the shower. Now I’m hiding even further. The thought of letting him control me with fear makes me sick.

  I walk out of the room twenty minutes later with my wet hair tied up and makeup on. The satchel over my shoulder has everything I brought with me to the hotel last night. I have no intention of spending another night here. The officer guarding the room looks at me strangely when I emerge.

  “Are you alright?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “But you can go off duty now. I’m leaving.”

  “I’m not supposed to let you out,” he frowns. “Not until I get the okay.”

  “Am I being held as a person of interest?” I ask.

  He looks confused and shakes his head.

  “No,” he confirms. “But the detectives wanted me to keep you here until they give approval for you to leave.”

  “She has approval,” a voice says from the elevator.

  I was so instantly defensive about the officer trying to force me to stay in the room I didn’t even hear the doors open.

  “This floor is closed,” the young man says.

  Creagan walks toward us and flashes his badge.

  “I’m authorized. I’ve already talked to the detectives. Agent Griffin is leaving with me.”

  The officer doesn’t argue, and I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder as I fall into step beside Creagan to head back to the elevator.

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “He was going to try to keep me hostage in there.”

  “Considering the circumstances, that might not be the worst idea in the world,” he grumbles.

  “What?” I ask incredulously. “You just told him I’m allowed to go.”

  “You are,” he says. “That doesn’t mean you aren’t in danger. It would be better if somebody has an eye on you all the time. Fortunately, that somebody is going to be me.”

  “Then I hope you’re up for some good old-fashioned pounding the pavement,” I tell him. “I’m going to be searching the city for Jonah.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Not today,” he says.

  “Creagan, I have to do this. He came after me last night and almost got me. I just found out this man arranged for my mother’s murder after attempting to kidnap me and essentially making my family’s life a living hell. I have to find him.”

  “I don’t disagree with him needing to be found. But you’re just going to have to trust the police to do that,” he says.

  “Why should I do that?”

  “Because you have a plane to catch.”

  “A plane?” I ask, confused. “To where?”

  “Florida. The courts approved the petition to exhume your mother’s grave. It’s scheduled for this afternoon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  She’s not in there. She’s not in there. She’s not in there. She’s not in there. She’s not in there.

  I repeat it to myself over and over. Trying to soothe the shaking in my chest and calm the sick feeling that roils through my belly as I watch the imposing piece of machinery carve down into the pristine grass growing over the grave marked with my mother’s name.

  It was a shock to see the gravestone when we first walked out into the cemetery. I knew it was there, obviously. I’d even seen pictures of it. But actually walking across the grass in the hushed silence and walking up to the gleaming white stone made my legs wobble.

  Creagan stands to one side of me, with Bellamy and Dean on the other. She holds my hand as we watch the process in silence. There’s an ominous heaviness in the air. It seems like none of us have been breathing. Hyper focused senses let me hear every bit of dirt drop down from the bucket of the backhoe into the pile forming beside the grave. I have the fleeting, bizarre thought that those buried around my mother’s grave know the plot is a fraud. That the ghosts know the truth.

  And yet a part of me wonders if it really is. Ever since that day sitting beside my father on the couch, staring at the urn and not absorbing anything about the memorial service, I’ve just accepted that my mother’s wishes were honored. I never thought to question whether she was actually in that urn. I didn’t even question it when I found out about the grave or the funeral held for her. There wasn’t a single glimmer of doubt in my mind until this moment. Yet, as I wait for her casket to rise up out of the earth, I wonder if there was a reason for my father to lie to me. Could he have only pretended to cremate her while actually having her buried?

  There’s no reason I can think of for him to do that. I can’t imagine him not being at her service. They loved each other more than any two people in existence. Nothing would keep him from honoring her and saying a final goodbye if he wasn’t going to be able to bring her home the way he did with the urn.

  But there have been so many secrets I’ve recently uncovered. What if this was a secret kept from me too?

  I expected the process to take far longer than it did. After only a few minutes, the backhoe moves away from the grave, and another piece of equipment takes its place to actually lift the casket up. It’s so simple but looks in surprisingly good condition for being underground for seventeen years. Bellamy leans close.

  “Are you alright?” she asks.

  I squeeze her hand and nod.

  “I’m fine,” I whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  I don’t say how much I wish Sam was with me. Just thinking about him makes it harder to hold back tears that have been threatening the corners of my eyes since the plane landed. I’ll call him when I know what’s going on.

  “Are you ready?” Creagan asks.

  I stare down into the gaping hole in the earth, then glance over at the casket being loaded into the back of a truck.


  “There’s no other reason for me to be here,” I tell him. “Let’s get this done.”

  “The casket will be brought to the medical examiner’s office,” he explains to me. “I’ve already spoken to her, and she understands the situation. She’s assured me she’ll give you as much privacy as she can, but by law, she does have to be present when the casket is opened.”

  “Even though there’s no body?” I ask.

  “According to the burial records, Mariya Presnykov Griffin is in there. Until there’s proof otherwise, she has to be present.”

  The casket is already sitting on a table as we are escorted into the coroner’s room at the medical examiner’s office. It’s cold and sterile, with tile floors and steel surfaces.

  “Dr. Kelly McCafferty,” she introduces herself. “I’m the medical examiner.”

  “Emma Griffin,” I tell her.

  “I’m so sorry you have to experience this, Emma,” she tells me. “I can’t imagine it’s easy for you.”

  “I’m really fine,” I tell her. “Her body isn’t in there. It’s just a casket.”

  She nods and holds out a mask.

  “I suggest wearing this anyway. Just in case. If you’ve never been around a disinterred casket before, it can get a little intense. The mask will help,” she explains.

  I accept it without answering and attach the elastic loops over my ears. She hands masks to the others in the room and picks up a crowbar.

  “Let me do it,” I say.

  “Are you sure?” she asks.

  I nod. “Whatever’s in there, I need to be the one to see it first.” Dr. McCafferty continues to look at me incredulously, but I reach for the crowbar. “I’m not afraid of what might be in there. “

  She relents and hands me the tool. Creagan gives the medical examiner a look and tilts his head to the side, subtly nudging her over to the corner. When she’s away from the table, I shove the metal teeth under the edge of the lid and pry it up. The wood cracks as the nails release. I move down along the casket to lift the lid at each point that was nailed down. Finally, after what seems like hours but was maybe only one minute, all the nails are pried free. I set the crowbar down on the table.

  I give myself only an instant to brace, then shove the heels of my hands hard against the bottom edge of the lid. The hard hit lifts the lid out of the way. I stare down into it. Rather than a corpse, the blush pink satin lining cradles a series of four metal lockboxes. I lift one out and set it on another table positioned a few feet away, then take out the other three and line them up.

  “Dr. McCafferty,” I say, looking at the medical examiner who is eyeing the boxes curiously. “Now that I’ve proven my suspicions are correct, and there’s no body, I’m sure your professional obligation is fulfilled. Thank you for your time.”

  She gives a single nod, obviously not willing to resist against my crisp tone, and walks out of the room. When she’s gone, Bellamy comes up to me.

  “What are those?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I sigh, exhaling deeply. It felt like I had been holding my breath since the second she handed me the crowbar and didn’t let it out until she was gone.

  Dean comes up to the table, a confused frown on his face. “Things just keep getting stranger.”

  Pulling the first box closer to me, I touch the lock on the front. It doesn’t seem to be engaged, so I lift the lid. Inside is a stack of manila envelopes. I take out the first and fold the little wings of the age-tarnished brad holding the envelope closed. Tipping it over, I let the documents inside slide out.

  “Oh my god,” I gasp.

  “What is it?” Creagan asks.

  I look at Bellamy and then Dean.

  “It’s Mama’s records,” I explain. “All the women she rescued. They didn’t bury her body here; they buried her history. So, no one can ever know what she did.”

  “Or track the women she saved,” Dean notes.

  I pull out envelope after envelope, looking through the pages, whispering names and trying to fathom the sheer enormity of what my mother did. All these names. All these women and children she risked her life to save. So many lives saved. So many given another chance because of her.

  “This is incredible,” Creagan mutters in amazement.

  “Yes, it is,” I say under my breath, staring dumbfounded at the record in my hands.

  “Look at this one,” he says. “The date on it is from the week before she died.” He glances down at the closed envelope, flipping it over in his hands. “This must have been the last time she was in Feathered Nest.”

  His voice softens as he says it. Almost like he’s not realizing the words are coming out of his mouth. But they sink deeply into me.

  “What did you just say?” I ask.

  Creagan looks up at me.

  “What?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  I take the envelope from his hand and look at it carefully.

  “It doesn’t say Feathered Nest anywhere on here. All it has is the date.” My breath becomes shallow, and spots dance in front of my eyes. “You knew.”

  “Emma, listen to me,” Creagan starts.

  “You knew,” I repeat more loudly, taking an advancing step toward him. “This envelope has nothing on it but the date, but you said it was the last time she was in Feathered Nest. You knew. From the very beginning. Before you ever sent me undercover there, you knew my mother spent time in Feathered Nest. You knew she worked there and that I was born there. You knew all of it.”

  “Emma, I need you to listen to me. Yes, I knew.”

  I slam the reports down on the table and stomp toward him.

  “You knew my family had links to that town, and you sent me there as bait,” I seethe.

  “That’s not what I was doing. Yes, I knew about the link between your family and Feathered Nest. There’s information about it in the sealed investigation files from your mother’s death. The rescue organization she worked for has protected status. The mission wasn’t available in the publicly accessible files.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You were a minor when she died, so you were never given fully unredacted information. When the murders and disappearances started happening around there and it was evident Bureau involvement was needed, I was reminded of your mother being there so frequently. She was there the week before she died. I couldn’t pass up that opportunity to create a continuous link.”

  “So, you just offered me up?” I sputter. “Without giving me all the details I needed to have, you just threw me into it. Knowing I had no idea. Knowing you were lying to me.”

  “Emma, that’s not what I was trying to do. I thought having you there could be a major benefit. I thought I could help to draw out the killer.”

  “How comforting,” I fire back sarcastically.

  “I thought it was LaRoche,” he continues. “His father was known for being crooked, and some rumors circulated around that he was violent. I thought maybe his son was following in his footsteps. But you did too. You suspected him right from the beginning.”

  I glare directly into Creagan’s eyes.

  “But I didn’t try to feed anyone to him,” I say in a low, threatening tone.

  “She was there, Emma. Right before she died. But nobody could figure out why. She hadn’t been to the safehouses there in many years. None of them had. But a witness saw her in Feathered Nest for three days the week before she died. She stayed in the same cabin you did. According to people familiar with the town, she and LaRoche Sr. didn’t always see eye to eye. There was some friction there. He was even briefly considered a person of interest in her murder.”

  I see red, but I force myself to stay calm.

  “I was told no one was ever considered,” I say, biting off each word.

  “The information was withheld to protect the integrity of any future investigation,” he tells me.

  “Until people started d
ying again, right? Then you just couldn’t resist dangling me in front of the man you thought was responsible. I suppose that would be pretty poetic. Father and son police chiefs knock off mother and daughter nearly two decades apart. You couldn’t wait for that headline, could you? Did you have your press release prepared?”

  “Emma, it’s not like that.”

  “Screw you, Creagan.” I snatch up two of the envelopes and look at Dean and Bellamy. “Make sure these are packed back up and brought to the hotel for me.”

  I head toward the door, and Creagan comes after me.

  “Griffin, where are you going?”

  “You might not know what my mother was doing, but I know someone who does.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Looking a little rough, Emma. You should be taking better care of yourself.”

  I settle into the blue painted metal chair and glare across the table.

  “I haven’t slept in almost thirty-six hours. I have flown from D.C. to Florida and back to Virginia. I don’t need to hear any of your shit, Jake,” I answer.

  “Lovely to catch up with you, too,” Jake says. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here. You haven’t come to visit me once.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not jumping back into the arms of the man who tried to kill me and dress up my corpse like a doll.”

  “Fair enough. So, what brings you here today?” he asks, clearly amused.

  I set the envelope on the table and slide it over to him. He picks it up and looks at the papers inside. The bemused smile that’s been on his face since I walked in the room disappears, and he shoves the envelope back to me.

  “Did you know?” I ask.

  “Do you mean, did I know your mother stole my mother and sister from me?” he asks. “Yes, I knew.”

  “She didn’t steal them,” I say. “She rescued them. She is the one who took them out of a horribly abusive household.”