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

by Elle Gray

  “You’ve been busy. Added a lot since I last saw this wall of crazy,” he starts.

  “Wall of crazy?” I snarl.

  He frowns. “Sorry, maybe ‘wall of obsession’ is the better descriptor.”

  I let out a frustrated breath and ignore his jabs. We’ve been over this before—multiple times—and I don’t feel like hashing it all out again.

  “How did you get in here?” I ask.

  “It was open.”

  I silently chastise myself for apparently not locking the door. When I left this morning, I was in such a rush—and half out of my mind from sleep deprivation—that I didn’t think to double-check the door to my war room. It’s a stupid oversight after going through all the trouble of putting a new lock on the door. But I’ll deal with that later. Right now, my focus is on the man who shouldn’t be sitting in my chair.

  “So, is that what we’re doing now?” I ask. “You’re just snooping around where you have no right, then criticizing me for what I’m doing?”

  He shakes his head and mutters softly to himself. “You’re playing a game with powerful people, Blake. They could kill you—”

  “And yet, they haven’t.”

  “Not for lack of trying,” he snaps. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing.”

  I lean against the doorway and take a couple of beats to tamp down the anger that’s rising perilously high inside of me right now. I don’t feel like going over this again, but apparently, I don’t have any say in the matter.

  “Blake, this is getting to be an obsession with you—”

  “Damn right, it’s an obsession!” I roar. “My parents were murdered, and I want to find out who did it. Why are you having such a difficult time understanding that?”

  “I’m having trouble with the toll it’s taking on you—and on our relationship.”

  “Oh, so your objection is based on you and what you want,” I snap. “Good to know. And here I’ve been thinking that my happiness, or maybe just my peace of mind, mattered to you.”

  He opens his mouth to reply but lets the words die on his lips—which is probably wise. I’m quickly approaching a point when I’m going to say something I might regret. But then, maybe I won’t. In my current mood, it’s hard to know for sure.

  “Blake, I’m having trouble with the fact that doing all of this,” he waves to the wall behind him, “could get you killed. Will probably get you killed, eventually.”

  “Thanks for having such confidence in my abilities,” I growl. “You seem to forget that I’m a trained federal agent.”

  “I haven’t forgotten, and it has nothing to do with my confidence in your ability,” he says softly. “But if you’re right about this—conspiracy—then these people can get to Supreme Court Justices, Blake—they can murder Supreme Court Justices. And if they can do that, what makes you think they can’t get to you, too?”

  The scathing reply that’s sitting on the tip of my tongue withers and I look away. I know what he’s saying isn’t entirely wrong. It’s a thought I’ve had before. The road I’m on could ultimately end in my death. If what I think is going on is really happening, I’m up against some powerful people. People who have no compunction about killing innocents to preserve and consolidate their power.

  I run a hand through my hair and frown, already knowing where all of this is heading. There was a time I would have fought like hell to put us onto a different path—something I’ve done several times already. But I just don’t have the energy for it anymore. And although I care about Mark, sometimes that’s just not enough. Not when there are bigger things in play.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Mark. I won’t,” I finally say.

  A look of exasperation crosses his face. “What are you talking about?”

  “This. Us,” I tell him. “I can’t keep circling back to this same conversation and fighting about it every few weeks.”

  “I’ve supported you every step of the way—”

  “Until you don’t,” I cut him off. “And that seems to happen every few weeks. Our fights about it happen like clockwork. I can practically set a watch by it.”

  “That’s not fair. I only talk to you about it because I care about you. Because I’m worried for you,” he says, his features etched with concern.

  “And while I appreciate that, it gets exhausting, Mark. I don’t need you to hold my hand. I’m a big girl and I know the risks I’m taking,” I reply.

  “But these risks you’re taking—”

  “Are mine to take. Nobody else’s. They’re mine,” I tell him. “And I don’t need you hovering over me like Mother Hen, clucking your tongue at me. I know what I’m doing is dangerous and I’m willing to accept the risks to find out who murdered my family.”

  “Blake—”

  “No. I’m done talking about this. And I think we need to take some time—apart.”

  He recoils as if I just slapped him across the face, and his expression is indescribable. There’s a hardness in his face I’ve never seen before. A tension in his jaw and tautness in his body that’s unfamiliar to me. But there’s also a sadness in his eyes that sends a lance of pain through my heart.

  “Are you serious? You’re breaking things off with me?” he asks. “Because I expressed concern for you?”

  “No, because you…” I sigh and let my words trail off.

  I take a couple of moments to gather my thoughts. The air between us crackles with a nervous energy that sends a flutter through my heart. I lick my lips nervously and swallow hard, fighting the emotions that are churning wildly inside of me. Clearing my throat, I square my shoulders and straighten my spine.

  “We need a break, Mark… I need a break,” I finally say. “I just need some time and space.”

  “Space.”

  I nod. “Yes. I need to be able to focus on my case without having somebody questioning my every move or trying to discourage me from pursuing this.”

  Mark’s face darkens and he looks down at the floor for a moment. He shakes his head then gets to his feet. And when he looks at me again, his expression is carefully neutral, but that sadness that wrenches my heart lingers in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry about your folks, Blake. But this isn’t healthy,” he says. “And you’re only going to get yourself killed if you keep chasing these people.”

  “As I said. I appreciate your concern, but until you’ve found your parents murdered and your sister abducted, your opinion on the matter doesn’t much matter to me,” I snap. “This is my family and I’m going to do what I feel is right by them—no matter the consequences or what anybody thinks about it.”

  “Blake—”

  “Please,” I interrupt him. “Just—leave your key on the table on your way out.”

  Without waiting for him to reply, I turn and walk to my bedroom, closing the door softly behind me. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait, listening until I hear the front door close. Once it does and I know he’s gone, I get up and head out to the main room, picking up the key Mark left behind. I stare at it for a long moment, letting the weight of what I’ve just done press down on me. Waiting for the wave of sadness to wash over me.

  But strangely enough, it doesn’t. The grief doesn’t come, and the burden of pain is a lot lighter than I expected it to be. I’d honestly expected to be something of a wreck after Mark left. But the truth is, I don’t feel nearly as bad as I’d anticipated. If I’m being totally honest with myself, I’m not sad at all.

  Which tells me all I need to know. Or maybe he was right—maybe I am unhealthily obsessed after all.

  Seven

  SSA Wilder’s Office, Criminal Data Analysis Unit; Seattle Field Office

  “I’m proud of you, girl,” Astra says, a wide smile on her face.

  “Proud of me?”

  She nods. “It’s been a long time coming.”

  A rueful grin touches my lips, and I look down at the cup of Starbucks coffee in my hand. I sigh, set the cup down on top of my desk, and
lean forward. I peer through the wall of glass and out into the bullpen, watching Rick conferring with Mo at her workstation. My thoughts are scattered this morning, and I’m almost trying to make myself feel guilty about breaking things off with Mark last night. The surprise is that I just don’t.

  “I didn’t expect such jubilation over my breakup,” I note. “I thought you liked him.”

  “I did like him. And he made you happy for a while. But what I didn’t like was that he wouldn’t give you the space to be you and do what you need to do. It seemed as though he was trying to be more of a father figure instead of your boyfriend,” she tells me.

  “Yeah. That’s kind of what I’ve told him several times before. And I just ran out of patience with it all last night. But still, I keep thinking I should feel guilty. He was hurt and upset last night, and I know I should feel bad,” I say.

  “How he reacts is neither your fault nor responsibility. You were open and sincere with him, and I know you weren’t a jerk about it.”

  “No, I really tried not to be. I was just honest,” I say. “But it’s weird. I feel guilty about not feeling worse that I ended things with him.”

  “Tell me something,” she says. “On a scale of one to ten, how sad are you that it’s over?”

  I shrug. “Two, maybe? Maybe less.”

  “That should tell you all you need to know.”

  “I know. And it does,” I reply. “Honestly, it just surprises me that I don’t feel much one way or the other about it. I mean, it’s not as if I didn’t care for him or anything.”

  “I know you did. But I suspect that deep down, you knew he wasn’t right for you,” she says. “Hell, I knew it ages ago.”

  “And you couldn’t have given me a heads-up?” I gesture wildly, with a grin that betrays my faux-frustrated tone of voice.

  “One thing I don’t do is force my relationship opinions on anybody. Unless I’m asked directly, I’ve always found it’s the best policy to let people discover these things on their own. Less drama and resentment that way. And let’s face it, you wouldn’t have heard me until you were ready to hear me, anyway,” she says.

  “You’re a wise woman, Astra Russo.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she replies with a smile.

  I gnaw on my bottom lip and study her for a moment. “To be honest, I think I probably should have done this a while ago.”

  She nods. “Yeah, you should have. The minute he started getting on you about this investigation you’re running. If he can’t support you in trying to find out who murdered your parents, I don’t know that you can count on him to support you in anything else that’s important,” she says. “I mean, I get that he’s worried for you. Hell, I’m worried for you. But I support you and am going to do whatever I can to help you.”

  “I appreciate that, Astra.”

  She gives me a gentle smile. “Of course. That’s what friends do,” she says, then adds pointedly, “and it’s what boyfriends are supposed to do.”

  “You’re not wrong,” I reply. “And I appreciate your having my back.”

  “Always, babe,” she tells me. “I’m always here for you.”

  I give her a smile, and a companionable silence descends over us. Astra gets me. She may be one of the only people in the world who does. I can count on her to always give me her real opinion, even when she knows I won’t like it. Maybe especially when she knows I won’t like it but need to hear it anyway. But I know that for better or worse, she’ll always back my play. It’s something I appreciate about her more than I can say.

  “Anyway,” she says, breaking the silence between us. “Now that you’re single, Benjamin has a friend who is gorgeous and—”

  I hold up my hand and shake my head, but smile. “Hard pass. I think I’m going to stay single for a while. The last thing I need is somebody else trying to smother me when I need to put all my focus on the case.”

  “Fair enough,” she chuckles. “But when you solve this—because you are going to solve it—you’re going to meet Benjamin’s friend.”

  “If you say so,” I say with a smile.

  I appreciate that she isn’t lecturing me on the dangers inherent in what I’m doing right now. She knows better than most just how dangerous it is. After all, she was shot at, too, the night we went out to see Corden. So if there’s somebody who’s earned the right to lecture me about the danger, it’s Astra. But I’m grateful to her that she isn’t trying to dissuade me from this path or harp on me about all the bad things that could potentially happen. She’s simply there for me. It’s something I wish Mark could have done. I need support, not condescension.

  “So anyway, where are we with the case?” she asks brightly.

  “Right. The case,” I say. “I stopped in and had a chat with Hobbs over in OC yesterday—”

  “And how is the old man doing?”

  “As snarky and sarcastic as ever.”

  She grins. “Two of his better qualities. And what did he have to say?”

  “Not too much. But he pointed me toward Edgar Morello over in street gangs,” I reply and look at my watch. “And speaking of which, I should head on over there. What do you have going on right now?”

  “I’m going to start sifting through the incident reports from Spokane,” she tells me.

  “Good. Do me a favor, if you would, and put a call in to the ME’s office. See if they’ve got anything on the guy in the barrel yet.”

  She laughs. “It’s only been a day. You don’t seriously think they’re going to have anything yet, do you?”

  “Probably not. But if they know we’re watching this closely, maybe it’ll light a fire under their butts. Help keep them motivated.”

  “That’s a good point.”

  “Yeah, I have them every once in a while.”

  She laughs. “No sweat. I’ll give them a call and put a soft squeeze on them.”

  “Thanks, Astra.”

  “You got it, boss,” she says, getting to her feet. “I’m off. I’ve got a hot date with a stack of paperwork ten feet high.”

  I walk with her out to the bullpen and go over to check on Mo and see how she’s doing with the opioid issue in Bremerton. After that, I head out of the CDAU and to the elevators, taking one up to the cushy upper floors to see how the other half lives.

  Eight

  Anti-Street Gang Unit; Seattle Field Office

  I get off at the fourth floor and head through the warren of corridors until I find the unit offices. The door slides open as I approach, and I walk into the bustling bullpen and stand there for a moment. Nobody approaches me, so I take it upon myself to look around. I walk through the bullpen, then up a small staircase and along a row of offices, coming to a door at the end of the hallway. The frosted glass window is engraved with Morello’s name. It’s open a crack and I can hear a man’s deep, rumbling voice. It sounds as if he’s on the phone, so I knock softly.

  “Yeah, hang on a second,” he says to whoever he’s talking to, then calls out. “Yeah, door’s open. Come on in.”

  When I push the door open and step in, he gives me a nod and gestures to the chairs in front of his desk. He finishes up with his call as I take a seat and wait. I look around and see that Morello is about the same age as Hobbs and seems to have the same affection for a cluttered office and ties that are an absolute aberration—Morello’s is a pastel blue with pink stripes on it. It makes me wonder if it’s a generational thing or something.

  Morello’s hair is dark, but it’s flecked with gray, his eyes are the color of caramel, and his skin has an umber tone to it. His face is smooth and unlined, and he’s got a youthful appearance about him. If not for the splash of silver in his dark locks, you’d never be able to pin him down to a specific age. Unless you looked into his eyes. His eyes are old. Wise. He’s a man who’s obviously seen some things. It’s a hazard of the job, I suppose.

  “SSA Wilder, good to know you,” he greets me, his voice deep and gravely.

  “Likewise. B
ut please, just call me Blake.”

  “Alright. Fair enough. Then call me Edgar,” he replies. “Jonas has told me a lot about you. That boy’s proud of you the way a daddy’s proud of his daughter. I’ve known the man for almost thirty years now and I ain’t never heard him gush over somebody the way he does with you.”

  “He’s a good man. I was lucky to have him as a mentor.”

  “I’m pretty sure it was the other way around. Way I hear it, you made the old man look good more often than not,” Morello counters. “To which I say, God bless you. Lord knows that man needs all the help he can get.”

  A grin curls the corners of my mouth, which makes Morello laugh. I’ve never been comfortable with compliments, so to hear that Hobbs has been that effusive with his praise to a man I’ve never met before makes me feel awkward.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t have to,” he says. “So, what can I do for you today, Blake?”

  “Well, we caught a body yesterday all the way down in Tukwila. It was floating down the Green River. Vic had some Eighth Street Kings ink on him,” I explain. “But he was completely disarticulated. Whoever did our guy was thorough. And clean. He wasn’t hacked apart with a machete or an ax. Looked surgical to me.”

  “Huh. Got a name?”

  I shake my head. “Head and hands were missing. We’ve got no way to ID the guy yet. I’m hoping for a hit through CODIS, but I don’t want to wait for the testing to get done to get a jump on this case.”

  “Good thinking,” he replies. “But with no name, I’m not sure what I can do for you.”

  “I was wondering if maybe you’d heard any chatter about a King who went missing,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Nothing yet. But I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know if I hear anything.”

  “I appreciate that,” I reply and sit back in my chair. “Can you tell me who the Kings’ biggest rival on the streets is? Maybe a gang who has a penchant for cutting a person into pieces? It’s possible they were trying to send them a message.”