“We may be able to help you with that,” Wren assured her. “Knowing what the message is will help us figure out why the journals are so important.”
“Not all the journals. Just one.”
“And the guy who grabbed the ones on the shelf realized he didn’t have the right one. You and Sam were back in town. The FBI has shown up. And suddenly, The Organization is really desperate to destroy any evidence that might prove their crimes,” Wren added. “So, if you can’t find the book, burn down the place you think it’s hidden.”
“I know it sounds far-fetched,” Ella began, but Wren raised a hand, stopping the words.
“No. It sounds feasible. Especially if The Organization owns this property, and I suspect it does.”
“I asked Adam to check into title records,” Sam offered, and she nodded.
“Good. We’ll get that information and move on from there, but first, we’re going to have to explain things to the local PD.” She gestured to a man who was striding toward them, his crisp blue uniform and badge visible beneath his jacket.
“Good morning, folks,” he said, his gaze landing and remaining on Sam. “I’m Sheriff Eli Johnson. Damariscotta Police Department. Looks like you were inside the house when the fire started.”
“That’s right,” Sam responded, since the question seemed directed at him.
“You were fortunate to get out,” the sheriff noted. “The fire marshal said there were probably ten minutes between the start of the blaze and total consumption of the property.”
“It happened fast,” Sam agreed, trying to figure out what the guy’s game was.
“I guess I should assume you had good reason to be in the building?”
“My cousin has an apartment there,” Ella offered. “Or had.”
“Right. Ruby McIntire, and you’re Ella. We met a few days ago.” He offered his hand and a sincere smile, then switched his gaze back to Sam. “You’re Sam Rogers?”
“Sheridan.”
“That’s not the information I have on you.”
“I’m surprised you have any information.”
“You work for the medical clinic, right?”
“Actually, I’m with the FBI.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
“We got a call about a computer system theft. Someone grabbed a couple of servers from the server room and took off with them. The name Sam Rogers came up when I asked about suspects and motive. Apparently, he worked there for a month and was fired yesterday for being intoxicated on the job.”
“You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told, Sheriff,” Sam said. “I did work at the clinic, but I wasn’t fired, I didn’t steal computer servers and my name isn’t really Sam Rogers.”
“Like you said, a person shouldn’t believe everything he’s told. How about you come on down to the station? We’ll see if we can get things straightened out there.”
“It looks like you have your hands full with the fire,” Wren said, pulling her badge out and holding it up for him. “I’m Special Agent Wren Santino. Boston field office. Sam works for me, and I can assure you, he’s telling the truth.”
“Good.” The sheriff’s gaze dropped to her badge, then rose to her face. “But I still want to discuss this at my office. There are a lot of people around. I don’t know about all of you, but I’d rather them not be privy to this conversation. Do you have a vehicle?”
“We were parked in the driveway,” Wren said. She didn’t argue with him. She didn’t try to bandy her authority around. She liked to play nice with local police.
“Let’s get you all checked out by the paramedics, then I’ll take two of you in my cruiser. The other two can ride with my deputy. We’re parked at the end of the street. The drive won’t be long. We’re across the Main Street bridge in Damariscotta about six miles outside town.”
He strode away, obviously expecting to be followed.
“Thoughts?” Sam asked Wren, and she shrugged.
“Might as well see what’s on his mind. I don’t think it’s those missing servers. You take Ella and ride with him. Radley and I will bum a ride with the deputy.”
“And if we don’t end up at the sheriff’s office?” he asked. He agreed with Wren—this wasn’t about missing servers.
“You can handle yourself. I’m sure of that. And if you get driven out into the middle of nowhere again, Honor will be able to find you.”
She tossed a smile over her shoulder as she walked away.
Radley followed, and then it was just Sam and Ella standing near the dock. A breeze had picked up, ruffling the hair that had escaped her ponytail. He tucked it behind her ear, letting his fingers linger against her cool skin.
She’d been through enough, and he didn’t want to put her through more. If the sheriff was on the up-and-up, a trip to his office was fine. If he wasn’t, Sam didn’t want Ella anywhere near him.
“I’m thinking I should call Honor and have her give me a lift to the sheriff’s office. She can take you back to her place when she’s done,” he said.
“She’s teaching a class, remember?”
“She’s working a case. That takes precedence.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Sam. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I’m pretty good at it.”
“Good to know,” he said. “But being good at taking care of yourself isn’t the same thing as being excellent at staying alive. In situations like this, you’re going to want to want to be both. Come on. Let’s get moving before the sheriff comes back and cuffs me.”
He took her hand. Not because she needed help navigating the flat terrain. Because he wanted to. Because keeping her close to keep her safe had become keeping her close because he enjoyed having her there.
He’d done a lot of things wrong in his life.
He’d planned his course, thinking he had control of it. He’d set a path for his life with Shelly, and when that hadn’t panned out, he’d switched direction to follow his career.
But he’d learned a lot working in law enforcement.
He’d learned that time was fleeting, that life was fragile and finite and brief. That opportunities lost couldn’t always be regained.
What he’d learned most of all was that God’s plan was best, and that faith was the thread that wound shattered hearts together again. People who had it possessed superhuman strength. Not the kind that lifted cars off little kids or stopped a bullet with a bare hand. The kind of deep emotional fortitude that kept them going when others would have given up.
He saw that in Ella. In the way she moved from one crisis to another and didn’t crumble. The way she’d navigated the steep slope despite her fear. The way she’d loosened her grip on his hand and trusted that she would fall into safety.
She didn’t need him.
He knew that, but he was going to stick around anyway. Until The Organization had been stopped and her cousin’s death had been ruled a homicide and she was safe again.
NINE
Ella had been to the sheriff’s office several times to discuss Ruby’s death, but she’d never been driven there in a squad car. She’d have liked to think of the new experience as an adventure, but she was sitting in the back with Sam, the leather seat reeking of saddle soap and disinfectant. Both odors were faint compared to the strong smell of smoke that clung to her skin and hair.
She wanted to ask the sheriff to open a window, but he was busy navigating through the crowd of onlookers who’d gathered on the street outside the house. The apartment building was iconic. It had been standing in the same spot for over a century.
Now it was gone.
Nothing left but singed support beams and a wet and steaming pile of ashes.
It wasn’t surprising that people had questions or that they were eager for answers. Several tapped the s
heriff’s window as he rolled past.
He waved but didn’t stop.
“If you want to talk to some of these people,” Sam said, “we can wait.”
“I’ve got a deputy getting ready to do that. She’s better at the public-image thing. Me? I prefer to stay behind the scenes as much as possible.” They’d finally reached the end of the crowded road, and he turned left, heading for the bridge that connected Newcastle to the neighboring town. “Hopefully, Victor has good insurance on that place. It can’t be replaced, but it would be nice if he could recoup his losses.”
“Is Victor the owner?” Sam asked, his hand wrapped around Ella’s the way it had been when he was leading her to the squad car.
“His company is.”
Sam’s grip tightened just enough for Ella to feel his tension. They’d been speculating about The Organization’s connection to the apartment building. Maybe he thought he was about to find out the truth.
“What company is that?” His palm pressed against Ella’s so firmly she couldn’t not notice how warm his skin was, how calloused. She wanted to weave her fingers through his and hold on tight.
She’d told him that she didn’t need him to keep her safe, and she’d meant it.
But having him around? It was a lot nicer than she’d expected and a lot more addictive.
“You’re asking an awful lot of questions for someone who’s sitting in the back of a squad car.”
“Is there a reason you don’t want to answer?”
“Just making a comment.” They’d reached the bridge, and he turned onto it. Ella could see tendrils of smoke still drifting up from Ruby’s apartment building. If she hadn’t fit through the window, if Sam hadn’t insisted she do so, if she hadn’t seen the chair and pulled it away from the door...
So many things could have gone wrong, but somehow all of them had gone right. She had to trust that would continue. She had to believe that God’s plan was being worked out. Despite the trauma and the difficulty.
Despite Ruby’s death.
That was the harder one to think about.
A young, faithful, wonderful person had had her life snuffed out, and no matter how much Ella tried, she couldn’t think of a purpose for that.
At least, not one that made sense.
God was good all the time. That was one of Ruby’s mantras, but it was hard to see good amid such tragedy.
“You were going to tell me the name of Victor’s company,” Sam said quietly. Calmly. But she heard a hard edge in his voice.
“I don’t recall saying that.”
“You didn’t. I did. You’re a county officer, Sheriff. I’m a federal one. Presumably, we’re on the same team. If that’s the case, you’ve got no need to withhold information from me.”
“I wasn’t planning to. I’m just curious as to why you want to know.”
“We’re working on a case, and we have an informant who told us this is the place to look if we want to solve it.”
“What kind of case?”
“I’ll leave it to my supervisor to explain.”
“Does it have to do with missing teens and young adults?”
The question made Ella’s heart skip a beat. She wanted to shout “yes” at the top of her lungs, but she hadn’t been included in the conversation.
“That’s right,” Sam said.
The sheriff nodded. “That’s what I thought. Victor is one of four investors in Medical Properties Incorporated.”
“Who are the others?”
“Larry George, Ian Wade and Debra Murphy.”
“Ian?” She wasn’t sure why she was surprised. Maybe because Ruby had never mentioned that her boyfriend was a major investor in the medical clinic.
“Wade was Ruby’s boyfriend, right?” Sam said. “How long had they been dating?”
“Eight or nine months.” She remembered Ruby’s excited text about the dinner cruise she’d been invited to and the gushing follow-up text saying she’d been asked out again. Ruby didn’t do deep relationships, but she’d loved easy romance—dinner and movie dates, hikes through the woods together, bike rides or bowling. Anything that was fun and easy and didn’t require too much commitment.
“I think when we’re finished this, I’ll make a trip to the medical clinic and ask Wade a few questions about his relationship with Ruby,” Sam said.
“I’m sure Wade will appreciate that,” the sheriff responded, the sarcasm in his voice unmistakable.
“He doesn’t have to appreciate it. He just has to cooperate. Do you think he won’t?”
“He will as long as it’s in his best interest. Otherwise, he’ll demand to have an attorney with him. My office has communicated with him several times regarding missing-persons reports that were filed by local businesses who were worried about employees. He was the physician of record in three of the four cases. He was willing to share what he knew, and we were able to gather information without difficulty. But last year we had an anonymous tip that the clinic was dealing in narcotics. Ian wasn’t as willing to discuss that.”
“He lawyered up?”
“Yes. In the end, we found no evidence that the accusation was true, but it took us four times longer than necessary to determine that.”
“Are Wade and the other three investors local to the area?”
“No. I met Ian seven years ago. The town needed a larger medical facility. A local landowner offered a city lot to build on, and the county council accepted bids from a few different companies. Medical Properties had the best plan at the most reasonable price. They broke ground six years ago, and they’ve been here ever since.”
“Are people around here happy about it?” Sam asked.
“That depends on who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Most people are happy. We needed the clinic, and it offers sliding-scale services for patients who don’t have medical insurance.”
“But?”
“In the past two years, we’ve had fifteen people go missing.”
“Citizens of the town?”
“No. Transients. Runaways. Explorers. Adventurers. Whatever name you want to put to them, they’re mostly living off the grid and disconnected from whoever they were before they showed up in our town.”
“If they’re transients, how do you know they disappeared?” Ella asked, taking out Ruby’s journal and flipping through it. Her cousin had said something about a kid missing from the rehab group that met on Tuesdays.
“Because they were here one day and gone the next.”
“That is what transients do,” Sam pointed out. “They stop somewhere for a day or for a month. Sometimes longer. And then they leave. As far as I’m aware, they don’t provide forwarding addresses or tell everyone goodbye.”
“Exactly. We’ve always had our share of wanderers moving through town. It’s a beautiful place, and in the spring, summer and early fall, it’s easy to forage for food in the woods or on the river. But in all the time I’ve been living here—and I’ve been here every one of my thirty-seven years—I’ve never known a transient to come to town and leave without his stuff.”
“Without his things?” Ella asked, flipping through the pages of the journal.
“Bedrolls. Sleeping bags. Duffel bags. Backpacks. I’ve had all those things brought to my office and turned into lost and found. I found IDs tucked away in everything that was collected. State IDs or driver’s licenses. There was some cash hidden between layers of sleeping bag padding and in the lining of backpacks. Sometimes just a few coins. Old photos of people I couldn’t identify. Clothes. Toiletries. Lots of things we’d probably take for granted but that a homeless person would never leave behind. The biggest red flag came from two local business owners who’d reported employees missing when they hadn’t shown up for work or collected their last paychecks.”
“I’m sure they would.”
“What about the things that were found and turned into your office? Where were they discovered?” Sam asked.
“The public dock. Parks. Playgrounds. The side of the road.”
“I’ll admit the abandoned paychecks are suspicious, but things are left behind or tossed out car windows all the time,” Sam commented.
“Trash might get left behind. The occasional sweater or coat. Banana peels are tossed out windows. Gum is tossed out windows. Fast-food wrappers are tossed out windows. I’ve even seen shoes tossed out windows, but no one throws a filled backpack out. Not when it contains their ID, their cash, their clothes.” The sheriff was adamant, his certainty making the hair on Ella’s nape stand on end.
This was what the FBI had been suspecting—The Organization preying on a population no one cared about and that no one would miss.
Only, the sheriff obviously cared, and Ruby had obviously missed at least one person who’d disappeared.
Ella skimmed one page after another. Finally, she found it—close to the end, the note scrawled haphazardly at the bottom of another beautifully written passage.
“Did you keep the items that were turned in?” Sam pulled out his phone and began typing a message to someone.
“No, Sheridan. I took it to the dump, tossed it into the trash pit and washed my hands of it,” the sheriff answered sarcastically, his irritation obvious.
“Okay. So you kept it, and I’ll assume you used the IDs you found to plug names into the national database of missing persons?”
“I did. And I came up empty. I have fifteen people gone, but apparently not one of them is actually missing.”
“Did one of the IDs belong to Eric Bellow?” Ella asked, reading and rereading the name and the three sentences Ruby had written about him.
Eric Bellow. 17 years. Arrived in town September 1. Gone October 30th. Still have the bank info he asked me to keep. Scanned and saved in file.
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