The 7 She Saw (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 1)

by Elle Gray

  That’s what I remember first and most clearly when I think of my family. That and all the blood. There was so much blood that sometimes I feel like I can still smell it. Silly as it seems, one thing it’s done is turn me off to the color red. After that day, I took everything red out of my wardrobe, and my life. I refuse to wear it or have it in my home. I know it’s irrational, but it is what it is.

  If not for what happened, my life might look very different right now. Instead of hunting monsters, who knows what I’d be doing. It’s a question I’ve pondered a lot over the years but have never been able to come up with a definitive answer for. It’s impossible to guess which path I would have taken. As a fourteen-year-old with interests ranging from music to cooking, and parents who supported and encouraged my every whim, I could have been anything from a singer to a chef.

  But because of what happened, here I am. A professional monster hunter.

  After what happened, I came to Seattle to live with my Aunt Annie, my mom’s sister. Annie has a daughter a few years older than me, so we basically grew up together. I still consider Maisey one of my closest friends, and in so many ways Annie is just like a mother to me. We’re as close as sisters, and I might not have gotten through the dark days in the immediate aftermath if not for Maisey and Annie. I am forever grateful to them.

  I went to school at the University of Washington, where I double majored in Criminology and Psychology－with an emphasis on Abnormal Psychology. I knew before I ever enrolled for classes that my goal was to join the FBI. My first preference all along has been to join the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I want to be a profiler tasked with hunting down the most notorious and prolific killers. Before I can join the BAU though, I’ve been told I need seasoning. Experience.

  So I’m here at the Seattle Field Office cutting my teeth. I’m getting results and have been praised for my work. I’ve been here for a couple of years now, and I like to think I’m developing a solid reputation. I’ve taken a few high-profile killers off the board before they could wreak any more chaos and destruction. It’s something I’m proud of, and it’s gotten me a bit of recognition from the brass.

  What I appreciate most about the successes and recognition it brings is that my bosses have started giving me some leeway in my investigations. They’re allowing me to work independently and find cases on my own, rather than wait for one to be assigned to me. Personally, I’d rather be proactive in hunting a killer and preventing another life from being lost, instead of waiting for a body to drop, and only then reacting to it.

  I wasn’t lying to Astra earlier when I told her that I love my job and derive a tremendous amount of satisfaction from it. It’s all true. I just hate that I had to get to this point, doing what I’m doing, because of a horrible tragedy. I hate that my career came at the cost of my family. I hate that no matter how much good I do, how many bad guys I get off the streets, or lives that I save, I will forever bear the scars of my youth.

  No matter what I accomplish in this career, I’m always going to know that it comes on the backs of two dead parents, and one missing sister, who is presumably also dead. Any success I have in my life will have been paid for with their blood. I’d like to think otherwise, but that’s how it is. Being able to forge something productive and good out of such a senseless tragedy is the only silver lining I can take away from it. It’s all I have, so I’m going to hold tight to it and hope that one day, it doesn’t taste so bittersweet in my mouth.

  I get to my feet abruptly and feel myself swaying unsteadily for a moment before I right myself. I’ve obviously had a bit too much wine tonight. The fact that I was feeling so morose and nostalgic enough that I picked up the family photos should have been tip-off enough. But I didn’t think about it too much until I almost went toppling to the floor.

  “Time for bed,” I mutter.

  Depositing the wine glass in the sink, I stagger to the back bedroom and start to get ready to shut myself down for the night and go to sleep. Or maybe more accurately, to try and shut my brain down for the night.

  Four

  Federal Bureau of Investigations, Seattle Field Office

  “Are you even listening to me?”

  I look up from the computer. “Of course I am.”

  Astra gives me a long look and then resumes her story. The truth is, I tuned out shortly after she started telling me about how she and the Detective Sergeant from Barnaby’s got back to her place for a weekend of adult fun and games. And I get to hear all about it. Lucky me.

  Astra is the sort of friend who wants to share everything. In excruciating detail. And I just don’t have the heart to tell her I really don’t need to hear about every last groan and grunt of her weekend sexcapades. While I’m glad she feels I’m the kind of friend she can tell anything and everything to, Astra really needs to learn that having some boundaries isn’t a bad thing.

  It’s strange, because I’m normally confident and assertive, and have no problem putting people in their places. With Astra, though, I can’t seem to force myself to tell her there are some things I don’t want or need to hear. Sharing her life with me is just part of how she shows love. And I can’t help but think if I tell her I don’t want to hear that level of detail, she’ll take it as a sharp rebuke.

  She and I have been open with each other about most everything since the Academy, and I cherish that relationship with her. The last thing I want to do is hurt her. There are precious few people I let into my inner orbit, and I’d rather not damage my relationship with Astra by shutting her down just because I’m uncomfortable.

  Or maybe I’m just jealous of her for having these wild carnal adventures when I’m sitting at my computer staring at crime trends and murder statistics night after night. That’s a disturbing thought that I quickly push away.

  “So are you going to see him again?” I ask when she finally finishes her tale.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet,” she replies. “Life is a buffet and I plan on tasting a little bit of everything before I shackle myself to just one man.”

  I laugh and shake my head at her. “You are truly one of a kind, Astra.”

  “I shouldn’t be. I’m simply a woman who is in control of my own sexuality and there is nothing wrong with that.”

  “No, there’s nothing wrong with that at all,” I reply.

  “You know, I think if you－”

  “Oh, would you look at the time? I’ve got a meet with Rosie in ten minutes,” I cut her off.

  She gives me a knowing smile as I gather up all of the papers I’ve been putting together and stuff them into a file. After that, I grab my tablet and return her smile as I head for the door.

  “This isn’t over, Wilder,” Astra calls after me.

  “It never is,” I shoot back as I close the door.

  I stop in the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee before heading for my meeting with Assistant Special Agent in Charge, Rosalinda Espinoza, aka Rosie, my direct superior. Rosie is a tough, no-nonsense kind of woman who’s had a long and illustrious career. After she very nearly single-handedly took down a notorious drug cartel, Rosie’s ticket was punched. Astra thinks I’m going to be the first female Director, but even though her career arc seems to have stalled a bit here in Seattle, my money is still on Rosie getting to that chair long before me.

  Not that I have any grand designs on it anyway. I’m not much for politics and would much rather remain where I am, doing the work I’m doing. Taking bad people off the streets is what I do, and I’m good at it. Far better than I am at the politicking necessary to sit in the Director’s chair. It could be why Rosie is still stuck at ASAC after all this time. She’s not the type to kiss people’s butts. She’ll tell them the hard truths, rather than give them empty platitudes. It’s something about her I’ve always respected and admired.

  I get to her office and go inside. On my left in the anteroom is Rosie’s receptionist, a bookish looking guy named Stephen－not Steve or Steph, always Stephen, or he�
��s likely to cut you. To my right are two plush wingbacks and a small table set between them that make up the waiting area.

  “Good afternoon, Agent Wilder,” he nods, his tone as clipped as always.

  “Good afternoon, Stephen. How are you today?”

  Rather than actually using his words to answer me, Stephen merely gives me a smile that’s about as warm as an ice cube and picks up the phone. He quietly murmurs into it as if he’s passing along state secrets. It’s hard for me to not roll my eyes. I used to wonder what it was I did to make him hate me so much, but then I realized he’s like this with everybody and stopped taking it personally.

  “You may go in now,” he says curtly.

  “Thank you, Stevie.”

  A devilish grin on my face, I quickly open the door and step into Rosie’s office, practically feeling the laser beams that are undoubtedly shooting from Stephen’s eyes and into my back. Closing the door behind me, I find Rosie sitting back in her seat, an eyebrow raised, a small smile on her lips.

  “Stephen seems exceptionally pleasant today,” I note.

  “Why do you antagonize my assistant?” she asks.

  “He makes it so easy. Besides, maybe if he didn’t act like such a jerk, I wouldn’t take such satisfaction out of tweaking him a bit now and then.”

  “Ever think that’s why I keep him around? It’s kind of nice having somebody who everybody thinks is a bigger jerk than I am acting as my human shield,” she says with a small smile. “Have a seat.”

  I drop down into one of the large, comfortable chairs situated in front of her desk, my file and tablet sitting on my lap.

  “You’re not a jerk, Rosie. You’re just blunt, and most people can’t handle it when somebody’s that direct,” I tell her.

  She whistles low. “That’s as close as you’ve ever come to kissing my butt, Wilder. You must have a big ask.”

  “Oh, I don’t think asking to do my job is a big ask.”

  “No, but asking me to sign off on one of your wild theories is.”

  I lean back in the chair and arch an eyebrow at her. “And haven’t my wild theories always panned out? How many times have I been wrong?”

  “Touché,” she replies, pursing her lips as she considers me.

  Rosie knows better than anybody that I don’t go solely off gut feelings, or wild hunches. My cases are all data driven. But I also know that what I do isn’t exactly standard FBI protocol, so Rosie, and by extension, SAC Potts, are going out on a bit of a limb for me. But they do it because I get results, and when I have success, it shines on them as well.

  Not that Rosie is truly all that interested in taking credit in much of anything. She’s all about the job. It’s probably why she hasn’t made a big stink about being stuck as the ASAC when she had more seniority, and an arguably better track record when Potts was named the SAC over her. The difference is that Rosie doesn’t play politics anywhere near as well as Potts. For her, it’s about doing the job, completing cases, and serving her country. She’s a genuine believer in the mission, and I respect the hell out of that.

  Potts has gone from solid field agent to bureaucratic administrator in record time. For him, it’s less about what’s going on out on the streets, and more about what’s going on inside the ivory halls and towers of the Bureau, back in DC. He’s a climber and wants to be in a position of power and authority, whereas Rosie couldn’t care less about that. Personally speaking, I think it’s made Potts less aware of what’s actually happening out there in the actual world.

  That’s not to say that Potts isn’t a capable and solid SAC, or that I don’t respect him. I do. It’s just different. He can be a bit predictable, and a little too rigidly by the book sometimes. But the one thing I can always count on with Potts is that he’s got my back. He always looks after the agents under his command, which is why he’s earned the loyalty of so many within the field office, as well as with some of the command staff back in DC.

  “So lay it out for me, Wilder.”

  I nod and open up the file in my hand and start to pass some of the articles I’ve printed across the desk to her. Rosie picks them up and glances at them.

  “And what am I looking at?” she asks.

  “Briar Glen. It’s a town a few hours southwest of here, along the coast, and sits near the Oregon border,” I start my pitch. “Current population is two hundred thirty-five thousand people, and yet they’ve got a murder rate of just about eighteen per hundred thousand.”

  Rosie leans back in her seat, steepling her fingers in front of her. Her eyes flick to the papers on the desk in front of her and a small frown pulls the corners of her mouth down. Cities have spikes of violence now and then, but it isn’t always indicative of a larger pattern. But those numbers are out of whack.

  I pull up the file on my tablet and push it across the desk to her. “Going back fifteen years, you can see the escalation and see that Briar Glen has been well above the state’s average murder rate. And within the last four years, things have escalated even further. If this rate holds for another four years, they’ll be looking at nearly twenty-three per hundred thousand. That’s almost to the level of Chicago.”

  Rosie picks up the tablet and starts to scroll through some of the data I’ve pulled up, which to me seems pretty black and white: Briar Glen has a murder problem.

  “So, you think a serial’s been operating in this city for the last fifteen years? Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “Not necessarily. Details are a little thin at this point, but I think the fact that their murder rate is so out of whack with the state and national average that it warrants a closer look.”

  Rosie rubs her chin, her frown deepening. I can tell she’s bothered by the murder rate but turning me loose on Briar Glen－or perhaps more specifically on Briar Glen’s Sheriff－seems to be troubling her a bit more. It’s true that historically, relations between the Bureau and local LEOs have been strained, and we’re reluctant to intervene when we’ve not been invited.

  But I tend to operate below the radar and try to show the locals that I’m there to help. That I’m raising issues they may not be aware of and working with them to resolve the problems. It’s always dicey, given how territorial locals can be, especially when it comes to the Feds, but we usually find a way to make it work. It helps that I’m usually solo and don’t have a battalion of Bureau suits at my back.

  “There are plenty of small cities around that rate well above the national average,” Rosie points out. “Off the top of my head, Pittsburgh and Indianapolis－”

  “The difference is, Briar Glen has a fraction of their population and yet, their murder rate has exceeded the state and national average for a decade and a half,” I counter. “This isn’t a big major metro area, nor is it central to a lot of interstate commerce. This is a sleepy little beach town hours away from everything else.”

  She pauses, seeming to be thinking it over, the silence lingering for a long moment. She finally gives me a nod.

  “Talk to Potts,” she tells me. “You’re good from my end. Just… tread lightly down there. We don’t want a repeat of Pine Valley.”

  “In my defense, Sheriff Bagins was a sexist pig who doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground.”

  “Be that as it may, it wasn’t a good look for us, so let’s just go easy on the locals. We’re trying to keep things smooth and easy, yeah?”

  A small grin curls a corner of my mouth up. “I got this, ma’am. I mean, that’s what I do best.”

  As I get to my feet and head for the door, I hear her groan and mutter under her breath behind me. I laugh to myself as I close the door, earning a dirty glare from Stephen.

  Five

  Federal Bureau of Investigations, Seattle Field Office

  The following morning, I stop by my office, sifting through my messages and emails. Astra’s not at her desk and I wonder where she is briefly before recalling that she’s part of a big drug raid today. After saying a silent word for her safe
ty, I lean back in my seat and enjoy the quiet in the office for a minute before my meeting with SAC Potts.

  I run through all of the data in my head again and think about what I’m going to say. Though he’s willing to back me up, he demands a little more convincing than Rosie does. He’s got more on the line than she does, so he’s a lot more cautious than Rosie, and wants to be absolutely sure there’s something there before he turns me loose. I get it, but it doesn’t make the bureaucratic red tape any less annoying.

  I’m normally a pretty patient person, but when I’ve got the scent of something bigger, I hate the waiting. And although I don’t know what it is I’m looking at exactly, and can’t quite see the shape of it yet, I’m positive there’s something there that’s worth looking at. In my experience, brief though it might be, smaller cities don’t have a murder rate as high as I’m seeing in Briar Glen without something darker and more nefarious going on.

  It’s time to go, so I get up and check myself over, then grab my things and head out the door. As I head down the hall, I’ve got my head down, lost in thought. If I’d been paying attention to my surroundings, I would’ve heard him coming up from behind long before he was walking next to me; he’s got a very distinctive walk and an annoyingly loud way of breathing.

  “Golden Girl looks like she’s on a mission,” he cracks.

  Determined to say nothing, I grit my teeth and walk on. If I were a superhero, Grant Bryant would be my arch nemesis. He would be the villain I’d find myself locked into mortal combat with for eternity. But I’m definitely not a superhero, so here in the land of mortals, Grant is just another irritating jerk I have to deal with. I’m not entirely sure why he seems to take such bitter resentment to me, but it’s escalated well beyond workplace rivalry and into actual enmity.