The Secret She Kept (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 5)

by Elle Gray

  Copyright © 2021 by Elle Gray

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Note From Elle Gray

  Also by Elle Gray

  Prologue

  I slip my hands into the pockets of my sweater as I stroll casually down the row of the flea market, ostensibly looking at the goods for sale in the various stalls. Given the number of people in shorts and flip-flops, you’d think it was a hot summer day. And although it’s sunny and clear, it’s far from what I’d consider warm. But I guess mid-sixties weather is what passes for a heat wave in the Pacific Northwest.

  My fingers curl around the small pistol in my pocket. The weight of the .25 caliber Beretta in my hand is familiar. Reassuring. In all my years doing this job, I’ve never had to use it, but it’s comforting to know it’s there just in case. If there’s one thing all my training has taught me, it’s the value of being prepared.

  On the opposite side of this row, Blake Wilder is standing with her boyfriend at a stall selling handcrafted afghans. I keep a surreptitious eye on them in my peripheral vision. My mark is dressed casually in jeans and a white t-shirt. She’s tall and beautiful, and it’s easy to see she’s athletic and fit. My memories of her as a child are sparse, but even with the fragments in my head, I don’t remember ever thinking she’d grow into such a beauty.

  But she’s more than just her looks. She’s intelligent. Accomplished. She’s held in high esteem by her peers and the higher-ups at the Bureau. Blake is a rising star, with accolades raining down on her from every direction. I have to say, she’s living quite the life. And while part of me is happy for her, I’d be lying if I said there isn’t another part of me that hates her for it, too.

  As I watch Blake laughing and talking with Mark, casually laying her hand on him, giving him gentle pecks on the cheek and lips, I quietly seethe. It’s so domestic, so ordinary—I can’t stop the jealousy that washes through me.

  I never got a chance at that kind of life. Normal. Domestic. Ordinary. Those are things I’ve never known. Things I’m never going to know. I don’t get to have normal. I don’t get to have ordinary. I don’t get to have all the things Blake takes for granted.

  Across the aisle, Blake and her boyfriend walk away, hand-in-hand and laughing together. No doubt sharing some inside joke with each other the way couples do. I know she’s not, but it’s as if she’s rubbing in my face that I’ll never have those things. My life just isn’t built in a way that allows for anything like that. Most days it doesn’t bother me, but once in a while, it really does.

  I weave my way through the crowd, never losing sight of them. I grip the Beretta even tighter as my anger flows through my veins. As I do so often, I think about what my life could have been like had things not happened the way they did. I think about what my life could have been like had I gotten the chance to experience a normal, ordinary life. What could I have become? What could I have done with my life? Would Blake and I have been close? Would we have had nieces and nephews who grew up being the best of friends? Those are questions I’ve asked myself a million times, and I’m no closer to an answer now than I was when I first asked them.

  Intellectually, I know it’s not Blake’s fault. Everything I’ve gone through, everything I’ve done—I know she had nothing to do with it. But seeing her out enjoying a day of normalcy with her man….it stings, I’m not going to lie. Seeing her living this amazing life and doing all the things she’s done is like salt in my wounds.

  But I have a purpose. A reason for my sacrifice. I’m making a difference in this world and it doesn’t leave much room for anything normal. My relationships with people are transactional. Surface-level. I can’t afford to let people get too close; I have no choice but to keep them at an arm’s distance. It’s just the way of things in my world. It sometimes feels empty—and I can’t deny I feel lonely now and then—but I take solace in the fact that my life has meaning. That I’m having an impact on this world. The work I’m doing will leave behind a legacy.

  But I’m human, too. Sometimes I want to give it all up and get what she has. Normalcy. Meaningful and non-transactional human contact. It’s a life I can only dream of.

  I follow them through the flea market, keeping enough of a distance that I can melt into the crowd if need be, but close enough that I can live vicariously through her—if only for a little while.

  They stop at a cart selling churros and when Blake’s eyes meet mine, I realize that I’ve allowed myself to lose my cover. I’m standing here totally exposed. The blood in my veins turns to ice when she pauses, and I see a flicker of recognition in her eyes. I don’t know how she could possibly recognize me after all this time, but I see a hint of recollection, making my stomach tighten nervously.

  After a long, painstaking moment, it passes, and she turns back to her doctor boyfriend. She takes a bite of his churro and laughs, seeming to forget all about me. Heaving a sigh of relief, I melt back into the crowd, silently chastising myself for being so careless. In the month and a half I’ve been shadowing her, Blake has never gotten a glimpse of me—until now. Because I was so caught up in my head and in my memories that I was reckless.

  I walk on, losing myself among the throng of people. I don’t look back.

  “I’ll see you soon, Sis,” I mutter. “Soon.”

  One

  SPD Interrogation Room Four, Twenty-First Precinct; Downtown Seattle

  “Did you kill Gina Aoki?” he seethes.

  “That’s a really dumb question,” I reply. “If I had killed her—which I didn’t—do you really think I’d just admit it?”

  “Did you kill Gina Aoki?” he repeats.

  I chuckle to myself. “You must think really highly of yourself and your presence, Deputy Chief,” I reply. “I told you that day you threatened me on the side of the road that I’m not intimidated by you. I’m not afraid of you.”

  Torres’ eyes flick to the camera in the corner of the room. No doubt he’ll have his AV techs edit that bit out. Still, it was worth the attempt to get it on the record—if for no other reason than to irritate him. Which, judging by the look on his face, I managed to accomplish well enough.

  “Your smart mouth and wild imagination aren’t helping you, Wilder.”

  “That’s Supervisory Special Agent Wilder, Depu
ty Chief,” I snap back. “I’m here as a courtesy to you because I know you have some questions concerning my involvement with Ms. Aoki’s murder because I saw her that day. The very least you can do is show some respect.”

  “Respect is earned,” he fires back. “And right now, you’re running in the red with me.”

  I smirk and take a look around the small, cramped interrogation room. Acoustic soundproofing tiles that used to be white but are now gray and cracked line the walls, and a two-way mirror is set into the wall to my right. The chair I’m sitting in is a metal folding job that’s about as comfortable as sitting on a bed of nails. The rest of the precinct has been updated. It’s sleek and modern. It’s almost as though they intentionally made the interrogation rooms as uncomfortable as possible. I turn back to Torres but say nothing, waiting for him to go on.

  He glares at me. “Also, you’re here because you’re a person of interest in a homicide.”

  “Because she had my business card?”

  “Because according to her calendar, you were the last person to see her alive,” he growls.

  “No, I was the last person she had written down on her calendar,” I clarify. “That doesn’t mean I was the last person to see her alive. That’s a sloppy assumption. I’m sure even a rookie would be able to make the distinction. What was her TOD?”

  Torres glances at the folder sitting on his side of the table, but I can tell he doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction of referring to his notes. I reach for the file, but he snaps it up before I can get my hand on it. His face is stony, and he does nothing but hold the file for a moment, satisfied that he beat me to it. I sit back and fold my hands in my lap, content to wait for him to stop acting like a child. Then, with a dramatic sigh as he opens it, Torres scans the pages inside for a moment then snaps the file shut again, his expression sour.

  “The ME estimates her time of death is around six or seven that evening,” he finally admits.

  “Uh-huh. Well, I met with her several hours before that, as I’m sure her calendar confirms. It was a brief meeting,” I tell him. “So, you’ve got a pretty wide gap in your timeline.”

  He scoffs as he paces the room on the other side of the table. His expression is dark, and a frown pulls the corners of his mouth down. Torres turns and glares at me.

  “And where were you during the time she was killed?” he asks.

  “I was working at home,” I offer. “Where I stayed until I arrived at the field office the following morning.”

  “Can anybody verify that?”

  I laugh softly. “You can track my phone. It’ll show you I was at home all night.”

  He gives me a condescending look as if he thinks I’m an idiot. “You aren’t really trying to pin your alibi to your phone, are you? It’s easy enough to leave it at your home and slip out.”

  “Then track my car’s GPS.”

  “Could have taken an Uber for all I know.”

  “You sure are making a lot of suppositions, but do you have any actual evidence, Deputy Chief?” I ask. “I mean, I know it’s been a while since you came down from your ivory tower to run an actual investigation, but having physical evidence is still a thing.”

  I sit back in the seat, doing my best to ignore just how hard it is on my backside. I fold my arms over my chest, returning his contemptuous glare with a blank stare of my own. The air in the interrogation crackles with tension as we study each other from opposite sides of the table.

  “Tell me something,” I start. “Why exactly have you come out from behind your desk to run point on this investigation?”

  “I need a reason to investigate a murder in my city? I’m the Deputy Chief,” he scoffs. “I take all murders seriously. I do everything I can to solve them and bring the offenders to justice. I take the safety of every single Seattleite very seriously.”

  “I’d heard rumors that you were toying with the idea of a run for mayor,” I reply. “Your stump speech needs some work, though. It lacks warmth—and the feeling of competence.”

  His face darkens and he glares at me as if he’d enjoy nothing more than turning off the camera and having a go at me. I know I shouldn’t antagonize him, but I can’t seem to help myself. Everything about this man irritates me. It’s not just his annoying arrogance that gets to me, though that’s bad enough. It’s his lack of compassion. His incompetence as an investigator. It’s the fact that he’s risen so high through the ranks of the SPD on the backs of the men and women who are actually doing the hard work to keep the city safe. As I said, it’s everything about him.

  Torres is where he is because he’s a good-looking man who’s connected. He knows the right things to say and the right people to say them to. He’s the Deputy Chief and has an eye on either becoming Chief or the city’s next mayor, because he knows which rings to kiss and is politically deft enough to know just how hard to kiss them. He’s a political animal, not a cop. He hasn’t been a cop for a long time—if he ever was.

  Guys like Torres make the city less safe. And I think that’s what I hate the most about him. He’s in a position of power and influence. He’s in a position to do some terrific things and actually make Seattle safe. But he’s too busy accruing and consolidating power. The only thing he cares about is doing what’s in his own best interest. He never sees a situation and fails to ask, “What’s in it for me?” I hate people like that. Hence, my problem with Torres.

  On top of that, of course, he has not-so-subtly harbored a grudge against me personally for a long, long time. Even to the point of issuing extremely thinly veiled threats. But if he doesn’t want me to show him up case after case, maybe he could actually get his own behind in gear and actually do something to make this city safe instead of just resting on his own laurels.

  “I’m here as a courtesy,” I tell him. “You know I didn’t kill her.”

  “Do I? At this point, I don’t know anything. I’m just trying to conduct a thorough investigation,” he says. “You know, something you always accuse us of not doing?”

  I give him a wry grin but say nothing. My opinion of the SPD’s performance is pretty well known. I believe the department has a lot of dedicated, talented, and passionate officers and detectives. They’re unfortunately handicapped by a command structure that’s best epitomized by the man standing in front of me.

  “What did you meet with Ms. Aoki about?” he asks.

  “It was personal and irrelevant to your investigation,” I say.

  What I don’t say is that it’s perhaps because we met that he’s investigating her murder, to begin with. If not for my poking around and looking into something it appears others would prefer I walk away and forget, Gina Aoki might well be alive right now. Although I’m drowning in guilt, I keep my face carefully neutral. Torres is a lot of things, but he’s not stupid, nor is he completely unobservant. I have no doubt if he sees the culpability I feel written upon my face, he’ll pounce on it.

  “I’ll decide what’s relevant to my case, Agent Wilder,” he spits. “Now, I’ll ask again—what was your meeting with Ms. Aoki about?”

  “It was personal and none of your business. It has no bearing on your case,” I repeat. “All you need to know is I was at home during the time she was killed.”

  “That’s actually not all I need to know—”

  “It is. Ms. Aoki worked with my parents and I can assure you that my childhood has no bearing on your investigation.”

  Not exactly true, but true enough for him. The last thing I want is for Torres to go poking around into my childhood and the murder of my parents. He doesn’t have the authority—not to mention the security clearances—required to delve too deeply, so I’m not too concerned about his gathering sensitive information. But I don’t like taking chances. The less he knows about me and my life, the better.

  “I’ve tried to be helpful. I’ve given you my whereabouts during the time Ms. Aoki was killed. I’ll leave it up to you to do your due diligence,” I shrug. “So, unless you have
any other questions, I think we’re done here.”

  He leans forward, planting his hands on the table. His expression is dark, and his face is a twisted mask of rage.

  “I’ll tell you when we’re done,” he snarls.

  I flash him a grin. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Some small-time crook you think you can bully into saying what you want?” I say as I get to my feet. “So, unless you’re going to charge me with something and throw me in a cell, then yeah, we’re done here.”

  Torres stands up again and folds his arms over his chest, glaring at me balefully. He and I both know he’s got nothing to charge me with. He and I both know I didn’t do this. And I know it’s burning his ass that he can’t arrest me for anything. But I’m sure it’s burning his ass even more that he can’t rattle me. He’s made a point of trying to do just that for a long time now. I don’t know what touched off this feud between us.

  It could be that he doesn’t like Feds. Or it could be my close friendship with Paxton Arrington—Torres’ arch-nemesis. It’s probably likely that each of those things plays a factor in his dislike of me. It probably hasn’t helped matters that he thinks I take every opportunity to show him up and make the SPD look bad. Although I think the fact that he can look at what I’m doing and believe competent investigative work makes him and the SPD look bad, says a lot about him and his way of doing business.

  “No?” I ask. “I thought not.”