by A J Rivers
He offered it to her. Was ready to give it over to her without hesitation. It was all he ever wanted. He knew from the first moment he saw her. The first time he drew breath into his lungs in her presence was the first time he breathed. The first time his heart beat in the same space as hers, blood flowed through previously empty veins. That was the day everything changed for him.
But she didn’t know then. She’d already been swayed by another. All it took was a first glance, and she was misled. He didn’t stop. He didn’t lose hope or give up. He knew what she was meant for. What she could be. He offered himself to her, offered her the life she could have. It was a life she never could have imagined. But by then, she was already too deep. He waited just too long, and the other man twisted her mind. Poisoned her heart. She was his, and one day she would understand it.
It wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t be blamed for the manipulation and deceit of another.
But it had gone too far. He offered her more. He gave fully of himself and ensured she would never truly be without him. But even then, she didn’t understand. The other had taken such full control over her mind and her thoughts that she couldn’t even see the truth. All he wanted was to take it all away and show her the life and love that was meant for her. He wanted to cradle her in his arms, and guard her from the world, protect her from all that changed her and hurt her.
There was never a moment when he wasn’t thinking of her. Even when his hands touched another, he was touching her. When his mouth found soft lips, he was kissing her. When he heard another voice whisper in their sweet mother tongue, it was her words. That woman tried, but she could never give him what he wanted. What was truly his. Just a shallow replica. Now a lingering reminder.
But never enough.
Mariya was everything.
She was meant to be his everything. That night was meant to be the beginning. They were going to rescue her, to save her from what held her and kept her blinded. He would be there to free her and open her eyes. When it was finally done, they wouldn’t have to be apart anymore.
And now he had nothing.
Anger reddened the edge of his vision, blurring everything around him. It was like looking down a tight, narrow tunnel, unable to perceive anything else around him. All he could focus on was the screen in front of him. On it was a shaking image of the house taken from a helicopter because the media couldn’t get their vans close enough. The narrow road leading to the densely tree-lined, well-hidden drive was blocked off by police cars, an ambulance, and a fire engine. He didn’t understand why they sent a fire engine. There was nothing they could do. There was nothing any of them could do.
They sent them anyway. The moment they got the call, they sent out every person they possibly could. As if they thought the uniforms did something or the badges meant something. As if they could make it all go away, reverse time and make it so his heart hadn’t been ripped from his chest and his breath hadn’t been stopped.
The silent sirens told the truth. They didn’t really believe they could do anything for her. Even if they pretended they did. Even if they wanted others to believe they responded to the call with urgency and intention. If they really believed they would be able to do anything for her, the sirens would have cut through the darkness even before the lights did. They were still swirling in their silence. The lights caught attention, but they weren’t urgent. They told that something happened rather than that something may. It was an announcement, not a warning.
But it wasn’t the lights that mattered. It wasn’t even the silence where there should have been sirens or the presence of the fire truck among the ambulance and police officers. It was the flash of a face he saw among the chaos. That one moment, likely not even intended by the photographer, sank into his skin and twisted everything within him. Those weren’t the eyes he was supposed to see staring back at him from the aftermath. They were the right tears, the right look of shock and confusion, but the wrong eyes.
That’s when he knew what happened. As much as he wanted to be there when it happened, he knew he couldn’t. The whole reason he sent the others was to distance himself. Their plan was seamless, but he knew even he could slip through the cracks. It rarely happened. He was meticulous and rarely did something pass by him. But he wasn’t immune. He knew that. There was always the possibility of something unexpected happening, and he didn’t want to be the one to take the fall. Then all would be lost. There would be no purpose behind any of this.
If anyone was to take responsibility, it would be the men who offered themselves to his service. They would willingly give of their freedom to please him, to protect him.
It meant he had to stay away. He could only wait to hear what happened. They wouldn’t come to him. They needed to get as far away from the house as they could. All they could offer him was a simple message. Unassuming, seemingly unrelated. But it told him they had done what they were sent to do. It was his cue to turn on the television in the hotel room at the edge of town. He’d rented out the room several days before and would stay there for a few more to redirect any suspicion.
There had been plans for those days. He’d looked forward to them, had known in his heart they would be filled with the first steps of creating his new life.
He turned on the television and flipped through to the news channel. He wanted the first moments. The reactions and alerts. He wanted to experience everything. Even if he had to be at a distance and couldn’t be there the way he wanted to be, he could at least hear the tension and anxiety in the voices of the people reporting. He could enjoy the scurrying emergency responders. If he was extremely lucky, he would get a glimpse of the gurney as they brought out the body.
He wished he could see her face looking back at him from the aftermath. But she wasn’t there. She was traveling and would only have just heard what happened. He wouldn’t have the chance to see her reaction until he went to her.
But that’s when he saw those eyes looking back at him. Among the officers and EMTs. Among the men in suits who arrived so much faster than he ever would have thought they could. He saw eyes he shouldn’t have seen.
Then he knew. He knew the mistake that had been made.
He didn’t have to hear it from anyone. No one had to confirm it to him. In that instant, everything within him turned to dust.
But he wasn’t going to let it destroy him. At least, not all of him. The moment she died, he died along with her. All that was left was the pure, searing hatred of the ones who had caused this, and the need to get his revenge.
Chapter Thirteen
Now
The end of January has never been a particularly important milestone for me, but this year it feels different. By the end of January, most people have put away their reminders of the holiday season and are looking ahead to spring. That means I don't think as much about Sarah and the chaos she created in my life. Sam and I are recovering together, piecing our lives back together as much as we can with lingering questions still hovering over us. I wonder if it will ever really not be that way. Will there ever be a time in my life when I don't have questions? When everything has been answered for me and I can just… live?
For now, I'm choosing to take pleasure in the little things that distract my mind from what I don't know and what I'm aching to find out. Today that means Game Night with Janet and Paul across the street. It's less uncomfortable now to go over there, just a fence and an empty plot of land away from the house that became the epicenter of my torment last fall. With those questions answered and the walk through the empty room complete, it's gone back to being just a house.
But even more importantly, Game Night means snacks, and I've been called on to create my signature treat to fuel the four of us through the challenges of Pictionary. The house smells warm and cozy with the richness of butter and cinnamon, and I poke through a cabinet in search of actual sustenance to stop me from eating half the pan of cinnamon rolls before tonight.
"Have I told you recently how beautifu
l you are and how happy I am to have you in my life?" Sam asks from the table behind me.
I look over my shoulder at him and laugh as I close the cabinet.
"Are you talking to me or to the cinnamon roll?"
"Is it wrong if I say both?" he asks.
"Not at all. I feel pretty happy to have them in my life, too."
Sam gets up and comes over to me. He wraps one arm around me and feeds me a chunk of cinnamon roll with the other hand. It melts on my tongue and makes my belly feel warm.
"And I am extremely happy to have you in my life," he grins. "I don't know if I can ever tell you that enough."
I lick away some of the cinnamon and icing from the corner of my mouth and watch his eyes trace the movement of my tongue.
"Well, I don't mind hearing it. You can say it as much as you'd like."
"I am extremely happy to have you in my life," he whispers again.
He's slowly backing me toward the hallway to the bedroom when the doorbell stops him. He looks at me strangely.
"Are you expecting someone?" he asks.
It's not a possessive or jealous question, but a practical one. Mine isn't exactly the house people just show up at. Everybody I spend any time with is either in Quantico, at work, or standing here kissing me.
"No," I frown.
He leaves me where I'm standing and goes over to the window to peer out at the front porch. A quizzical look on his face, he crosses to the door and opens it. The storm door is locked, another of the habits he's gotten me into when I'm at home. I don't have to brace for someone rushing us, but my curiosity creeps up even higher when I realize Sam isn't talking to anyone. Instead, he unlocks the door, bends down to pick something up, and then leans forward to look up and down the street. He's staring at an envelope in his hand when he comes back into the house and locks the door behind him.
"This is all that's out there," he tells me, holding out the envelope. "I don't know who left it. The mail carrier isn't out there."
"You didn't see anybody?" I ask. He shakes his head.
"It's possible it ended up in the wrong mailbox, and one of the neighbors just swung by and dropped it off."
I take the envelope and look down at it. My breath catches slightly when I read the return address. "It's from Feathered Nest," I tell him.
"What is it?" he asks, stepping closer so he can look at the letter.
I open the envelope and pull out a piece of paper folded once down the middle.
Emma, it's urgent I see you. I'll meet you at the station when you arrive.
I reach back into the envelope and pull out what's left. I hold it up for Sam to see.
"It's a train ticket."
"A train ticket?" he frowns, taking the ticket from me to examine. "Who is the letter from?"
"Marren Purcell. I met her when I was on assignment in Feathered Nest last year," I explain.
"Do you know her well?"
I shake my head, staring down at the letter and trying to process the strange message.
"No. I mean, I spoke to her several times while I was there, but we didn't become close friends or anything. We haven't even kept in touch since I left. To be honest, I haven't even thought about her until right now."
"Then how did she get your address?" he asks.
"I have no idea." I look at the envelope again and point to the upper corner.
I head for what amounts to an office in one of the spare bedrooms, and he comes after me. "Where are you going?"
"I'm calling Marren."
A bank of filing cabinets holds all the papers and folders from my previous cases, and I pull open a drawer. Sam steps up beside me and watches me dig through the contents.
"Leave it to you to actually keep hard copies of everything," he chuckles.
"They're more reliable than computers a lot of times," I point out.
"What are you looking for?"
"The notebook I used when I was in Feathered Nest. If I wrote down her phone number, it would be in there."
"You wouldn't have put it in your phone?" he asks.
"It's possible, but I hope not. That was a burner I only had when I was undercover. I don't have it anymore." I find the notebook and yank it out, sitting down on the oatmeal-colored carpet. "Here it is."
Flipping through the pages of notes makes my head swim. I haven't looked through them since I shoved them out of sight in the filing cabinet. Not that I haven't had to face pieces of them. Scans and copies of many of the pages have shown up in the trial. But actually seeing my handwriting change, the way the words became more erratic and strangely placed across the pages, is an uncomfortable reminder of what I was going through during that time.
Part of me still questions why Creagan chose me for that assignment in the first place. It was my first time going undercover in six months after a slip of judgment and loss of control wrenched me out of the field and sent me to desk duty. I was eager to get back out there, but he tossed me into the deep end with little to buoy me. Looking back, I know I wasn't in the right state of mind to be crawling through the depraved depths of a serial killer's thoughts. Not when it hit so close to home.
"Are you alright?" Sam asks, resting his hand on my back.
I realize I have no idea how long I've been staring at the notes in my hands. I clear my throat and flip the page.
"Fine. It's like looking into someone else's life in a lot of ways, you know? I lost myself so much during that case," I say.
"You didn't lose yourself," Sam replies, lowering down to sit on the carpet, one leg tucked under him and the other bent behind me so I can lean back and rest against his thigh.
"It felt like I did. Everything I knew and believed in. All my training. I let myself get to a place where none of it mattered. Something got under my skin, and all that went right the hell out the window. That investigation was completely messed up in so many ways."
"And yet you brought it to a close. You did what the police in that town weren't able to do. You solved the disappearances and murders, and you brought the perpetrator to justice," Sam points out.
"But I did it based on instinct and emotion. I didn't go through the process or do what the Bureau would have expected of me."
"Listen to me, Emma,” he starts, “your instincts are the strongest I have ever known. It’s your instincts that allow you to be as incredible at your job as you are. But what you need to remember is you are a human first, an agent second. It might have been Emma the human who solved that case, but it could have been Emma the agent who destroyed it. If you followed every bit of protocol, it might have ended a very different way. Because you didn't hesitate, because you didn't hide behind regulations and expectations, because you didn't shoot first and think later, because you did what you believed you needed to do at every moment, you stayed alive. You were able to follow the trail that brought justice to all those people. Any other choice and they might still be there in that basement. There might be more. You did exactly what you should have done, Emma. Don't second-guess yourself."
I turn over my shoulder and touch a kiss to Sam's lips.
"Thank you," I say softly, resting my forehead against his.
Chapter Fourteen
"Any luck?"
We’ve been searching my notebook for nearly an hour with nothing to show for it. Flipping through the rest of the pages, I let out a sigh and shake my head.
"I don't see it. I kept the contact information I gathered close together so I could reference it easily, but it's not on any of those pages. I don't see it on anything else, either."
"Is there a phone book for Feathered Nest? A directory or something that may have her number listed?" Sam asks.
A quick scroll through my phone pulls up the sparse websites for the tiny town.
"This was apparently a passion project for the mayor about ten years ago," I tell him. "He wanted to increase tourism to the area and thought having an internet presence would accomplish that."
"Well, having a
serial killer certainly did it for him," Sam points out.
I nod and scan the site. It's mostly a listing of businesses and local events. I point to the screen.
"The Valentine's Day banquet," I say. "One of the victims didn't make it home from that two years ago."
"Did you see this?" Sam asks, pointing higher on the list to events earlier in the year. "Halloween ghost tours of the woods."
"With a stop at Cabin 13. That's not disturbing at all," I comment.
"Directory," Sam says, pointing at a tiny link toward the top of the screen.
Clicking on it brings up a list of the residents of Feathered Nest, conjuring images of their faces as my eyes scan down the names. I don't recognize all of them. It's a small town, but not small enough for me to have come in contact with everyone who lives there in just the few months I lived there. But a good percentage of the names bring up memories. I can see them sitting on the tall stools at Teddy's and roaming among the shops in the village. I see the looks of suspicion and others of kindness.
My time in Feathered Nest is the only undercover assignment that gave me any feelings of guilt. Assuming the identity of another person was a basic part of my job as an agent. I’ve gone undercover in many different situations, among different people. Being a different person lets me meld into the surroundings and assimilate myself with the people involved in the case so I can bring it to a close. That never means anything more to me than a means to an end. Sinking down into the crime means seeing it from a different angle and dissolving it from the inside. Every time I walk away from those investigations, the only people I carry with me are the victims. How I impacted everyone else I encountered is always far from my mind.