by Elle Gray
Rebekah nods. “Yeah. I can manage that. Might cost you coffee and a couple more apple fritters though.”
I laugh. “I think I can manage that.”
“Deal,” she grins. “Now, you two had better get out of here before my bosses get in.”
“We’re gone. And thanks, Beks,” I say, then lead Astra out of the autopsy suite.
Four
Wilder Residence; The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments, Downtown Seattle
Ella Fitzgerald’s smooth and sultry voice fills my apartment as I pour myself a glass of chardonnay, then carry it over to my desk and take a seat. As my laptop boots up, I take a drink of my wine and let the soft music wash over me, trying to clear my mind of the mental detritus accumulated over the afternoon. Ordinarily, I’d light some candles and take a long, hot bath, but I haven’t been able to shake the situation with Mr. Corden’s murder and trying to find the link to my parents.
It's been a long, long time since I’ve felt this spark of anticipation about their case. There just hasn’t been any new information to get worked up about. But with everything that’s happened with Mr. Corden, I feel like there’s been some movement. I feel like I have a new lead to follow. But because I can’t crack Mr. Corden’s shorthand, it feels like a dead end. It’s not. The answer is there, I just can’t get to it. Not yet, anyway.
I open the file sitting next to my laptop and look at his notes. His scrawled, chicken scratch handwriting is tough enough to decipher on its own, but his shorthand—his personal secret language or code—makes it almost impossible. The only thing I’ve been able to interpret so far is the name The Thirteen. I don’t know what it is or what it means. I don’t know if it’s a person or a thing. And not being able to figure it out is driving me bananas.
When my computer comes up, I call up all the databases and search engines I can think of and start the hunt all over again. I’ve been running a search for this Thirteen, whatever it is, ever since I interpreted that in Mr. Corden’s notes. But no matter how many times or different ways I’ve run a search, I’ve come up empty.
I take a sip of my wine and stare at the blinking cursor in the search box, trying to figure out a way to run the search that I haven’t yet thought of. I try a couple of things, but the results don’t change, and I let out a growl of frustration. As I sit before my computer cursing up a storm under my breath, I hear the front door open and a set of keys hit the small table in the entryway.
“I’ve got Thai,” Mark calls as he closes the door behind him.
He walks in with a bag from the new Thai restaurant down the street from my place that we’ve been to a few times. Mark sweeps into the kitchen and sets the bag on the counter, then turns and walks over to me. He places a kiss on the crown of my head and then he stops. I feel his body tense up as he takes a step back.
“Are you working on your parents’ file again?” he asks.
I nod curtly, already knowing exactly where this is headed. “I am.”
I turn and see him frowning down at me and immediately feel myself growing irritated. This is a conversation—or rather, an argument—we’ve had before. But we’ve had it even more so since the night out at the RV park when Astra, Paxton, and I were shot at. Since that night, he’s been insistent that I drop the case.
“I thought we talked about this,” he says.
“No, it’s more like you talked at me about it.”
“Fine. But I thought we agreed that things were getting too hot and that maybe you needed to back off. At least for a little while.”
I stand up and walk to the kitchen to refill my wine glass with Mark following close on my heels. Standing with my back to him, I pour the wine, doing my best to keep from exploding.
“Blake? Didn’t we agree that—”
I take a mental five-count, then turn around as calmly as I can. “No, you said you thought I should back off. I never agreed to anything.”
“Somebody shot at you,” he replies, his voice growing tight with anger. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“It means I’m getting close to something. It means somebody thought Mr. Corden had information and they didn’t want me to have it,” I growl.
“Okay, fine. Somebody didn’t want you to have the information. I get it,” he shoots back. “But is it really worth getting killed to solve something that happened almost twenty years ago? Is it really worth damaging our relationship, chasing some truth that isn’t going to change anything anyway?”
I take a long swallow of my wine, mainly to keep from screaming at him. That he’d say something like that not only fuels the anger already burning in me but also hurts me deeply. It’s like he heedlessly ripped the scab off an old wound. It’s about the most thoughtless, most callous thing he’s ever said to me.
“I’m sorry if my parents being murdered and my sister being abducted is inconvenient for you,” I snarl. “But maybe if you’d had somebody you loved brutally murdered, you’d understand what I’m going through.”
He recoils like I’d just slapped him, with a stricken look on his face. But that expression quickly melts away, replaced by one of anger. His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches. Both of us fall silent for a long moment, the unspoken tension between us crackling like thunder.
“I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it,” he said. “I’m just worried about you, Blake. You’re… obsessed. It’s not healthy. I’m sorry if my concern bothers you so much.”
“This isn’t about you or how you feel, Mark,” I spit. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“Maybe not directly, but I have to deal with the fallout. Not only do I have to see what you put yourself through, I have to sit and wonder if you’re coming home that night, or if I’m going to have to go the morgue to ID you,” he shouts.
I manage to bite back the scathing reply that’s sitting on the tip of my tongue. But just barely. His concern is sweet but it’s also annoying at the same time. No, actually, it’s infuriating. He’s not only turning this around on me but is also somehow making it all about himself. But my main issue is that I feel like the fact that we’re dating makes him think he’s entitled to tell me what to do, or guilt trip me about how my career choice makes him feel. It’s a bad habit I need to break him of. Either that or we’re going to need to re-evaluate our relationship.
“You do realize I’m a federal agent, right?” I ask. “And that once in a while, I’m going to get shot at. It’s an occupational hazard. I can’t deal with you freaking out every time things get a little intense, Mark.”
“A little intense? No. Arguments in a grocery store parking lot can get a little intense,” he raises his voice even louder. “Getting shot at is something else entirely. It’s insanity.”
“It’s my job!” I shout back.
“This isn’t. Correct me if I’m wrong, but what happened to your parents is not an FBI case. It’s your personal obsession,” he fires back. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to them. I really am. But you getting killed to avenge a twenty-year-old memory isn’t going to bring them back. It’s only going to get you as dead as they are.”
I stare at him in a stunned and furious silence for a long moment. The fires of rage building inside of me burn out of control, scorching through my veins and leaving me to see red. His words not only infuriated me, they cut me to the quick.
“How dare you,” I hiss. “How dare you say something like that to me.”
Mark’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open as if he’s only just realized what he said. He runs a hand through his hair and shuffles his feet, seeming to be trying to find his footing again. He knows he screwed up. I can see him trying to find a way to mitigate the disaster this evening has become. But so far as I’m concerned, there’s no coming back from something like that. His words were cruel and stung me deeply.
“I’m sorry, Blake. I didn’t mean it that way,” he attempts, his voice soft.
“Really? Because it certainly sounded like you me
ant it that way.”
“Listen, I—”
“No, I think I’ve heard enough,” I cut him off. “I think you need to leave.”
“Blake—”
“No. Please leave. Now.”
He sighs heavily and rubs his chin, the stubble on his face making a dry, scratchy sound. Mark frowns, a pained look etched upon his face.
“Can we talk about this?” he asks.
“I think you’ve said enough,” I hiss. “Now leave. Go. Get out of my house.”
He opens his mouth to object, but closes it again without saying anything. He stares at me for a long moment, pleading with his eyes for me to give him a reprieve. But I can’t even stand the sight of him right now.
He frowns when I don’t say anything or offer him another chance and nods to himself. He turns and walks out of the kitchen, and I stand there listening in my silent fury until I hear my front door close.
When I’m alone again, I down my glass of wine and pour another, fighting back the tears. Getting blindingly drunk seems like a good idea to me right about now.
Five
SSA Wilder’s Office, Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office
“You had a fight with Mark, huh?”
I look up at Astra, who saunters into my office and drops down into the chair across from me with me a smile of feigned innocence.
“What makes you say that?” I ask.
“Because when you’ve had a fight with him, your brow is usually furrowed, and you get that little crease between your eyes.”
“I get that when I’m concentrating on something.”
She shakes her head. “Actually, you don’t,” she replies. “You only get that little crease between your eyebrows when you’ve had an argument with Mark.”
I laugh and drop my pen on my desk as I sit back in my chair. “You’re so full of it.”
“Sometimes,” she admits. “But in this particular case, I’m simply a keen observer of people and the world around me.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she replies. “So, what was the fight about?”
I roll my eyes and let out an exasperated breath. I’ve been doing my best to avoid thinking about it all morning. Not that I’ve had all that much success, but I’ve been trying. Astra is staring at me expectantly, legs crossed, hands folded in her lap—the epitome of patience. Or stubbornness. I’m not entirely sure which it is with her.
“Would it matter if I said I didn’t want to talk about it?” I ask.
“Not even a little bit.”
The memory of our argument scrolls through my mind like some horrible highlight reel and makes me wince. For a man supposedly so concerned about me, he certainly knows how to get under my skin, and not in a positive way. And judging by how steamed I still am some ten hours later, he’s still under my skin.
“Out with it, Wilder,” she presses. “Keeping all that angst and anger stuffed down inside will kill you. It’s poison in your veins.”
“I think it’s more a case of you being nosy as hell.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, it could be that too.”
We share a laugh as I rub my temples. If there’s anybody I’m going to talk to about this, it’ll either be Astra or Maisey. I might as well purge now. If I emotionally vomit all over her and get it out of my system, maybe I’ll be a functioning human being by the time we get to Paula Kennedy’s house.
“Okay yeah, we had a fight last night,” I finally admit.
“Duh. You say that like I didn’t already know that.”
I self-consciously rub that spot between my eyes where she says I carry a crease when I fight with Mark. I don’t feel anything, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s wrong. Astra is one of the most observant people I know. Her ability to pick up on stuff like this is sometimes frightening. Other times, it’s creepy as hell. The one thing that’s certain is that Astra usually doesn’t miss a thing.
So, I tell her all about my ever so fun evening. She settles back in her chair and her eyebrow rises a couple of times, but she says nothing as I tell her my story. And when I finish, I flop back in my seat like I just exerted myself. I’m already ready to go home and have a glass of wine or two. The fact that it’s just after nine in the morning doesn’t matter. It’s got to be happy hour somewhere, right?
“Ho-lee crap,” she whistles. “I imagine kicking him out didn’t go over well.”
I shrug. “Haven’t spoken with him yet today.”
“Yeah, he’s probably still asleep on a park bench somewhere.”
“Give me a break,” I reply with a laugh. “It’s not like he doesn’t have his own place.”
“Does he?” she asks, arching one of her perfectly detailed eyebrows. “I just figured he was living with you now.”
“Yeah, that would be a big no. I’m not ready to share a space with somebody,” I tell her. “Anyway, that’s what the blowout was about.”
“So, on one hand,” she starts, “I understand that he was concerned about your safety.”
“Seriously? That was your takeaway?” I sputter. “Did you like, not listen to anything I said?”
“Hold on there, firecracker,” she holds a hand out to settle me down. “I’m not done. Look, on a certain level, he’s right. Your job does put you in dangerous situations, and that can affect him. In a relationship like that, you have got to give him space to express himself. He’s got to be allowed to share his concerns with you. The fact that you are sometimes put in life or death situations… he’s going to have a feeling about that. And if you two are together, he’s got a right to his feelings.”
“But—”
“Oh my god, I said I’m not done,” she interrupts.
I relent, giving her back the floor.
“I already know what you were gonna say, and I agree fully. Even with all that considered, he doesn’t have a right to put his feelings on you the way he does. Nor do his feelings give him a right to try and make decisions about your life and career, and they especially don’t give him a right to cross the line like that about your family.”
“I seriously can’t believe he went there,” I sigh. “I’ve never seen that kind of cruel streak from Mark.”
“I have.”
“What?”
“Don’t you remember? The last time you kicked him out. Back during the Suban case. It was pretty much about this same thing, right?”
“Sort of? It was more about privacy in relationships. Because I blew up on him about his phone, and he blew up on me about my therapist,” I say. “I’d gotten the call from Mr. Corden about my parents and didn’t want to tell him what it was about.”
“Exactly. He didn’t even know what was going on and he went out of his way to mock you. Pretty cruel, if you ask me. You deserve to feel heard in your relationship, not… dismissed.”
I sigh. “It’s just sensitive for me. It’s like he wants me to put both my career and my parents’ case aside to prioritize my relationship with him, when I’m not necessarily sure if that’s a thing I can even do.”
“Bingo,” she says. “And do you want that? If you intend on being with him for the foreseeable future, this argument will never go away. It’ll just be the thing you argue about. Both your parents’ case and your general safety. Is that something you want to deal with?”
“I told him when we got together that my job will always come first,” I tell her. “How am I supposed to do my job if I have to hear his voice in the back of my mind telling me not to do this or do that because Mark is afraid I might get hurt?”
“You were an FBI agent before you met him. Unless he’s a total idiot about what it is we do here, he knew going into things with you that your job entailed some risk. Hell, the two of you met while we were recovering from gunshot wounds after that Briar Glen case. So, while he has his right to express his feelings, he needs to understand not to center himself in these discussions. It’s you who’s putting yourself in danger. It’s your life and
your family you’re dealing with. Not his. It’s not his place to prioritize himself over that.”
I run my fingers through my hair and stare at her. I remember a time not all that long ago when Astra was taking random guys home from the bar and now, after a few months with Benjamin, she’s dispensing relationship advice and wisdom like she’s Oprah.
“Who are you?” I ask. “And what did you do with my best friend?”
She smiles. “I’m just a girl who feels heard in her relationship.”
“I don’t buy it. You’re like a pod person or something.”
“For what it’s worth, I do think it’s genuine. He cares about you. And he’s scared for you,” she says. “I don’t know. Communication is hard in relationships. But you guys have some serious challenges you need to deal with.”
I take a sip of my coffee then set the mug down. “You kind of sound like you’re hedging your bets here. He either cruelly crossed the line, or he just can’t communicate his feelings properly?”
“That’s not hedging. That’s just the truth. But I know you; you’re not going to change. This is who you are and always have been,” she responds. “So, what I’m saying is that Mark has some major life decisions to make. If he can’t handle the fact that you’ve got a dangerous job, maybe you’re not the right fit for him.”
I drum my fingers on my desktop. “That’s a thought I’ve been having more and more lately.”
“Does he know this?”
I shake my head. “No, not yet,” I reply. “I’m just trying to get my head on straight. I need to figure out what’s going on in my brain.”
“That’s a good place to start,” she nods. “I think these are all basically symptoms of the bigger picture. Your career, your parents’ case, your safety—basically, it seems like the thread running through all of it is that you don’t know if this relationship with Mark is worth putting all those aside for. And the first thing you need to do is figure out what you want. It almost sounds like Mark is going to reach a point where he makes you decide between him and your parents’ case.”