The Girl and the Secret Society (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 9)

by A J Rivers

  “Is that all?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “Unless you've uncovered something else.”

  I start to tell him about Millie but stop myself. What Dean and I witnessed was strange, but it didn't really mean anything. We don't even know who the man was or what they were talking about. The last thing we need is for the detective and his officers to go back into the bank and raise the alarm even more. For now, I'm keeping that information to myself.

  “Not yet,” I say. “But, I'm hoping I find out something today.”

  “I do have to warn you,” he says. “Xavier Renton is not your average person. You told me you looked up his story and know what happened. It's important for you to go into the meeting with him knowing it's not going to be just a normal conversation. Take it from somebody who tried to do an interview with the man. He's incoherent. You think you know what he's saying, but in two seconds he's going to flip, and you realize you had no idea. He's not going to be any help. I don't even know how they considered him capable of standing trial.”

  “Because the law doesn't see normal, Detective. Just because he thinks differently than you do doesn't necessarily mean there's anything wrong with Xavier Renton. From what I understand, he was examined by three separate doctors. All of them considered him perfectly fit for trial. I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt and think that was compassion and not just that you would want him tossed away into a padded cell somewhere and forgotten about,” I say.

  “Of course, not. I'm just saying, don't get your hopes up about getting any useful information from him. He's been in prison for a long time, and his interactions with Lakyn were minimal. You're probably not going to get anything from him.”

  “I appreciate the warning,” I tell him. “But my partner already gave me all these warnings.”

  “Your partner?” he asks.

  “Life, not law enforcement,” I say. “Sam Johnson. He's the sheriff of Sherwood.”

  Noah nods slowly, then gestures to the door. "If you're ready, I'll take you to the jail."

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The jail where Xavier Renton is being held is less than an hour away. It occurs to me this is probably why Lakyn got involved with his case. She said it was close to her heart. He's literally close to her home.

  Noah takes me inside and speaks to the warden for a few moments. We go through the process of being checked in, and I hand over my weapon. As always, it feels strange to be without my gun. For a time, I didn't have one. When I was on mental health leave from the Bureau, my service weapon sat in a drawer in Creagan's office.

  During that time, I got used to living without the daily process of readying my weapon and strapping it to my body, then the nightly routine of dismantling it and putting it away. The circumstances leading up to my holding a weapon again weren’t good. They were brutal and horrifying and put me in a situation in which I shouldn't have bought a new gun and carried it around with me.

  But it was that same sequence of events that brought me back to where I was supposed to be. Now I keep my weapon with me all the time when I'm working, even unofficially, and I notice its absence when I'm not carrying it. Especially if I'm going into a situation that isn't normal, such as walking into a jail to look into the eyes of a man convicted of murdering the person supposedly closest to him.

  At the same time, I appreciate the precaution of having to surrender it. Not only is it safer, but it puts me on more level ground with the man I'm going to meet. Walking into the room with him with a gun on my hip would be intimidating him again. It would be saying I wasn't open to hearing what he had to say, that I automatically believed what I'd heard about him. That would defeat much of the purpose of being here.

  I'm expecting to go into an interrogation room or even to a regular visitation cubicle where a piece of glass will separate me from Xavier. Instead, I'm led to what looks like a family visitation room, complete with overstuffed furniture and vending machines on the walls. I wonder how much of this is Noah's pull, and how much is mine.

  I'm under no delusion I actually have any privacy in this room. There are cameras everywhere, recording my every movement and likely every word that's said. As I always do when I'm in a room I know is being monitored, I have the compulsion to talk to the people inevitably watching the footage.

  There's no time to start up a one-sided conversation with the corners of the ceiling before the door opens. I look over and see an officer escort Xavier Renton into the room. I've already seen a picture of him, so I know what to expect, but he looks different. Thinner. Paler. There’s no fear in his eyes. Or anger. It's more as if something has faded. Maybe that he has faded. He's gradually ceasing to exist.

  “Can you take him out of his handcuffs?” I ask.

  The officer looks at me with slightly raised eyebrows.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  "I'll be right here," he says. It sounds like a warning, but I'm not sure which one of us he's warning.

  Xavier rubs his wrists as the handcuffs fall away, and the officer takes his place beside the door. He stands there like a sentinel, his eyes focused directly ahead, and his hands clasped in front of him. Xavier stands there watching him, his head slightly tilted to the side as he seems to evaluate the man, trying to understand exactly what he's doing.

  “Don't worry about him,” I say. “You can pretend he's not there.”

  He turns to me with a blank expression, and my smile falters.

  “I already do,” he says.

  “My name is Emma,” I start, holding out my hand toward him.

  He looks at it but doesn't take it. He walks over to the vending machine and looks into it, evaluating the packages inside as if he’s never seen them before.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “If one of these snacks was a person, which one of them would be you?” he asks.

  “I'm sorry, what?" I ask.

  He turns away from the machine and looks at me with the same still, unchanging expression. There's an energy around him. He's a presence, a force, but I don't know in what way.

  "If one of these snacks was a person, which one of them would be you?" he repeats.

  I shake my head, shrugging slightly. "I don't know."

  He turns to the machine again. "It's all in how you think about it, you know? All of us have been asked what we’d be if we had to change ourselves. Which animal. Which color. Which flavor. Which amusement park ride. Always trying to find a definition in something else."

  He runs his hand down the side of the machine. "But what if you think about it the other way? How would those things perceive us? How would they define themselves in our being? We say that we're salty, sweet, terrifying, proud, full of unexpected turns. Do those things know that about themselves? Do they know they are salty? Do they know their turns are unexpected? We are asked to transform ourselves into these other things and try to claim the abstract. So, why should they not be able to do the same?"

  His voice is calm and steady, not at all weak or tremulous. There's nothing uncertain in anything he's saying. There's an almost lyrical quality to his words that draws me in. I take a couple of steps toward him.

  “The snacks?” I asked.

  He nods. “Yes. And the animals and the colors and the flavors and the rides. How would they see you, Emma? Which one of them would see itself in you?”

  I've made it up beside him now, and I look into the machine along with him. I can see our reflections in the glass, and I watch his eyes move from one end of a row to the other, then down into the next end, then down again into the next. He traces each row, then rises back up and does it again. After a moment, his eyes stop. They slide slowly over to the reflection of mine.

  In the reflection, I can also see the officer behind us. His posture has changed, becoming more tense as he seems to prepare himself. I'm not afraid.

  "I'm an only child. When someone hears where I come from, that person probably thinks
one thing about me, but then finds out something different. The most interesting things about me aren't what's on the surface. And…" I draw out the word, trying to find one more comparison. "I look good in red."

  Pressing A09 releases a bar of milk chocolate with puffed rice inside. I hold it up for Xavier to see, and he nods.

  "The only one of its kind from its company and not what people expect when they hear the brand. Well done."

  "And you?"

  He looks back at the machine and draws in a breath, letting it out slowly. He presses the buttons deliberately, and the curved wires inside spiral, pushing his selection forward. It drops down, and he pulls it up from the slot at the bottom of the machine.

  "Peanuts," he says, displaying them to me on his outstretched palm.

  "Peanuts? Why?"

  "I love baseball."

  He walks over to the couch, and I turn to watch him sit down. He opens the plastic bag of peanuts and dumps a few of them out into his hand.

  “You love baseball?” I ask. “So, do peanuts love baseball?”

  “Sure, they do,” he says.

  I walk over to the couch and sit on the other end of it.

  “Why?”

  “Because they're the center of attention. When you're singing about going out to a game, what's the first thing you want?” he asks.

  “Peanuts,” I say. He nods and tips the handful of peanuts into his mouth. "How about you? Do you like to be the center of attention?"

  "Does it matter? I will be anyway."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Dragon

  Six years ago…

  He was on untested ground.

  Everyone around him told him he shouldn't do this. Not in their words, but in their actions. He could tell just by looking at them they disagreed with him, that they thought he was venturing too far. He didn’t mind that. Let them wonder. But they would never question him.

  He wouldn't dare to admit it, but part of him also wondered if he was venturing too far. He had never done this before. He enjoyed the spoils of his lifestyle. He lavished them on the people close to him. But few were close to him for long. Not new people he met, anyway. The people he considered close to him were already in his life before he’d become the Dragon. Before he’d built the world around him.

  The only exceptions were the men who worked under him. They came as the money did. But they weren't surprised by anything. They knew what they were getting themselves into. It was a life they already knew, even if from the outside. Like looking in through a window.

  But he couldn't expect to stay like that forever. Alone in his glass dome. One day, he would find someone worthy of being there beside him, enjoying the spoils of his life. It would be like walking a tightrope to find her. A dangerous game that could end in a disastrous, brutal plummet.

  This was the first time he would play that game. The first time he would take the risk. He didn't know what it was about Ariella that made him willing, but he couldn't stop thinking about her. They were each grappling for position, testing each other. Now it was time to prove themselves. She to him. He to her.

  He brought her along with him that night without telling her anything. She needed to experience it without preparation, without being able to form any preconceived notions. If she was given the time to wrap her head around it, she might be able to talk herself into being able to accept something she wouldn't normally.

  So far, she hadn't hesitated. There was no fear in her. As good as she looked alongside his custom suits and in the back of his chauffeured car, she fit just as seamlessly into the unfolding of the night. She followed without question, watched without flinching. There was a fascination in her eyes, an excitement. There was hunger in her kiss when they stole moments alone. His life was drawing her into it.

  Now she sat in his lap as he held a knife in front of her. She leaned forward and ran the tip of her tongue along the blade, gathering up the powder and letting it dissolve. It was only a tiny bit, enough for her to taste it. He wanted her to know the quality he was offering, that it was worth the money offered up for it.

  Not that the man meeting him would ever get a chance to savor it. He was at the end of a hook he hadn't even realized had caught him, lured to be captured. He thought he was smart. He thought he could rule over the Dragon.

  And tonight, he would die for it.

  That night he held her in his arms. He kissed soft, sweat-damp skin until the smell of citrus and sugar replaced the blood and gun smoke in his nose. He would take care of her now.

  When she was weak and spent, sprawled uncovered on the silk of his bed, he ran his tongue along her spine and whispered in her ear.

  "My name is Darren."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Now

  “You never told me your name,” I say.

  Xavier eats another palmful of peanuts before he speaks.

  “You know my name,” he says. “You wouldn't be here if you didn't.”

  “I guess it's true. But I know what other people call you. I'd rather know what you would want me to call you.”

  “Xavier,” he says simply.

  “Alright,” I nod. “Then, I'll call you Xavier.”

  “Do you know why my parents named me that?” he asks.

  I tear open the package of the tiny chocolate bar and shake my head.

  “No,” I answer. “Why?”

  “I don't know either. I was just asking.”

  There's no humor in his voice. I'm feeling unbalanced, like the ground I'm standing on is gradually tilting, and I need to find something to hold onto.

  “You already know why I'm here, don't you?” I ask.

  “You want to know about Lakyn. Everybody does.”

  “Actually, I want to know about you. You caught her interest, and I want to know why.”

  “Are you looking for her?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I tell him. “I am.”

  “People think she's dead,” he says.

  I nod again. “Yes.”

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “I don't know.”

  “I don't know either,” he shrugs. “Do you believe me?”

  “I believe you,” I say.

  “So did she,” he says. “That's why she came to see me, why she talked to me.”

  “What did she believe you about?”

  He suddenly turns, so he's lying on his back, his head rested on the arm of the sofa.

  "The log flume." My tongue wants to question him. I can feel the words pricking at the end. But I bite them down and let him talk. "That's what would choose Andrew. Steady. Not intimidating. Predictable, but the word ‘dependable’ is preferred. Like a roller coaster but smoothed out. No anxiety. Well, until the end. People don't know. People never know. Steel will never drown you. Water can batter you to the ground."

  He's talking about his best friend, the man he was convicted of murdering.

  “Xavier,” I start.

  One hand sticks straight up in the air, a finger extended.

  “Don't ask me if I did it,” he says. “You can't ask me that. You know I can't tell you. The court wants me again. They're gonna drag me back in and make me tell my story. It's not enough. It'll never be enough. It's a story without an ending. Forced to finish before anyone was ready. But I can't tell you. They want me again, so I have to tell you no. It's the only thing I can say. But you know that. You know I have to tell you I didn't. Which means you will never trust me. So just listen.”

  “I am,” I tell him.

  He looks back up at the ceiling. Flattening one hand, he moves it slowly across the space, as if he's smoothing something onto the surface about him.

  “Sometimes people talk about how what's above is below, what's below is above. The floor is a ceiling, ceiling a floor. But it's not. There's space in between. Separation. Air. It is what it is and nothing more. Until there's more. Until there's something else. And there's always something else. If you know. Andrew knew."

&
nbsp; He suddenly swings his legs around and sits straight up in one, sharp movement. "Don't you see? He knew. He always knew. He knew there was more. He knew there was nothing. He knew what was above was below, and what was below was above, but that neither was true. That there was space. Separation. Air.”

  He stands up now, as if he's getting riled up and unable to stay still. He starts to pace.

  "Hey," the officer warns, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

  "Don't you see? He knew. I knew. He knew because I knew. But he didn't know. He could never know. He tried. He tried so much. Every day. He tried. But he could never know. But I did. And so he did. And if they knew, then they would understand it couldn't have been me."

  "Who?"

  Xavier stops. He takes a step closer to me and crouches down to make our faces even.

  "What jellybean would choose you?"

  He leans a little closer, and the officer steps forward.

  "Get back," he demands, but again, I hold my hand up.

  "Stop. He's fine." I think. A cascade of jellybeans on the backs of my eyelids makes my throat tight. "Lemon. Bright. Sharp. Often watered down by people who can't handle me."

  "Yellow," Xavier nods, easing forward on his knees and looking into my eyes as if his focus alone can reach behind them and draw out my thoughts strand by strand so he can recreate them in front of me and force me to look. "Are you afraid?"

  I don't blink.

  "No."

  He bursts to his feet and starts pacing again.

  "Lakyn wasn't either. She looked like cinnamon and talked like cherry. Imagine being black licorice. Outcast. There by expectation, hated on sight. When someone does love you, it's a spectacle. An accomplishment. They don't understand. You're not that strange. Pushed aside, put in a box. But it's right there. With apples. In salads. With main dishes. Even in dessert. Right there. Completely accepted. Even coveted. Fennel. So which? To be what you are and hated for it. Or to be admired, but only because you're hiding in plain sight?"