by A J Rivers
“Not good,” he answers.
I nod solemnly.
“I didn't think so.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ian
Seventeen years ago …
Even in spring, Vermont was so cold Ian felt like he never really escaped the chill. It was especially deep in his bones that morning when he woke up and opened his computer. The email at the top of his inbox was one he was expecting, but the impact of seeing it was more intense than he even anticipated. He stared at it for a long time before opening it. There was nothing in the subject line and nothing in the body of the email. There was only an attachment.
Eventually, he clicked on it. A scanned page of a newspaper filled the screen. Mariya's obituary. He read through it to see how it was worded, glad that he’d entrusted that to Grayson. At the bottom was the specific information he was anticipating when he first saw the email. The funeral and burial details. As he looked over them, he picked up the phone and dialed Grayson.
"Did you take care of everything?" he asked when the liaison answered.
"Exactly as you wanted," Grayson said. "I saw to the casket myself."
"And the weight?" Ian asked.
"Balanced. It shouldn't call any attention."
"Have you heard from him?"
"Yes. He called this morning. He said you haven't spoken to him since it happened," Grayson said.
"I haven't. And I don't intend to. He wasn't here. He was supposed to be and he wasn't. Mariya is dead because he didn't do his job," Ian said angrily.
"According to his manifest, he was where he was supposed to be. The plans changed at the last minute, and he responded as quickly as he could."
"Are you defending him?" Ian asked incredulously.
"You shouldn't hang onto anger that isn't justified," Grayson told him.
"My wife is dead. My child has no mother. I have to change everything about my life. Today I should be finishing filling Easter eggs and going to the grocery store for everything Mariya forgot for Easter dinner. I should be calling her to find out when she was going to get home, and making the bed with the new sheets I got her as a surprise so she could take a shower when she got home and slip into them to rest. Instead, I'm sitting in a cold, almost empty house with a devastated child who hasn't spoken a word in forty-eight hours, and I found out our host sent the Easter card from Mariya on Wednesday, so it will arrive in Virginia several days after her death. Any anger I'm feeling is justified."
"I'm sorry, Ian," Grayson said. "I need to go and get ready for the service. Do you want me to send you pictures?"
Ian felt bile rise up in his throat.
"No," he said. Before he hung up the phone, he hesitated. "Take them," he instructed. "Take pictures, but don't send them to me."
"Alright,” Grayson said.
Ian hung up and walked to the living room. Emma was still curled up in the corner of the couch, wrapped in the blanket like a cocoon. She'd been there with very little movement since waking up in Vermont several hours after leaving Florida. The private plane arranged for them meant no one questioned the heavily sleeping child still in her pajamas or the tracks of tears on her face. The crew of the plane knew exactly what happened and what was being asked of them, even without him saying a word. The same was being asked of him now.
Emma didn't need to say anything, to make any noise or acknowledgment, to ask him to leave her alone. Another small dose of the sedative partway to Vermont kept her comfortable and secure during the trip. But it also left her confused and frustrated when she woke up. She would know she was somewhere different but remember nothing since lying down on the couch in Florida. After that, she moved from the bed to the couch and had been there with very little movement since still clinging tight to the blanket.
Ian knew the scent would go away soon. She would breathe the last of her mother’s scent and then have to be without that smell for the rest of her life. So he would never ask her to take it off. She could lose herself to the cozy folds and the couch as long as he didn't lose her to anything else.
Without saying anything, he sat down on the far end of the couch and stared ahead. The TV was set at an angle, and when he looked at it, the corner of his eye still framed the mantlepiece of the fireplace. It was a beautiful spot, one made for setting up a Christmas tree and decorating altogether. In just a few more days, Mariya would be there. He'd place her there, so she was a part of everything they would do together. Then they would grieve.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Now
I don't want Sam to leave the next morning, but I know he has to. Sherwood can't be without its sheriff indefinitely; he has things he has to deal with there. Including dealing with the situation with Greg. The rest of the department managed to take care of the earliest part of the investigation and dealing with the public, but he needs to be there now to tamp down the rumors and try to create as much confidence in the town again as possible. It made it easier that he was transferred back to the hospital nearest to the Bureau as soon as he was identified. Without any family nearby, his emergency information lists Eric as his first point of contact if anything were to happen to him. It used to be me. That was one of those relationship milestones he put a tremendous amount of emphasis on. We were serious enough for him to list me as a person he wanted to be contacted if something serious were to happen to him.
He was never mine. I didn't tell him that, and now that I look back on it, I realize it was just another of those things that kept my distance from him. It makes my heart twinge a little every time I think of that. He should have had more. He seemed comfortable with our relationship exactly the way it was. That's why he was so safe. He didn't have passion and intensity that might have overwhelmed me. But what he should have had was a girlfriend who genuinely had more in common with him, and who would have wanted him first if there was an emergency.
Greg switched the contact information the day after he ended our relationship. I'm not sure why he chose Eric. They were friends, but not the type of close friends I could see giving that type of responsibility to each other. But I guess there wasn't really any other choice. He could have chosen his father, but he didn't even live in the state, and they weren't very close, and his only sibling was on a military tour. Eric was a good choice. They were friends and knew each other better than some of the other agents just because of their connection to me. Besides, Eric is a solid, steady, reliable person who he knew would be there as soon as he was needed.
And he was.
He went to Sherwood as soon as they called and had Greg transferred to the hospital near the Bureau as soon as they stabilized him enough to do it. Now he’s near doctors who are already familiar with him and people he knows can be around him. It’s the best thing for him.
But it created confusion and fear in Sherwood. All people knew was a man wrapped in bloodied plastic was found in my front yard in the days following the horror on the train, then he was whisked away without any information shared with them. Sam is their comfort, their trusted voice. He'll be able to calm them down and reassure them of their safety without giving away too many details.
I'll miss him. But fortunately, there is more than enough here to keep my mind busy. After the night in the hotel, we went back to the cabin so he could pack up the rest of his things. I stayed there after he left, waiting for another rental car to be delivered so I'd have transportation while I'm here. He doesn't like the idea of me being in the cabin, but I'm not going to stay cooped up in the hotel waiting all day. Once the car is here, I'll pack everything up and head out to talk to a few people.
It's not too long after Sam leaves when I finally hear tires crunching on the gravel outside. Assuming it's my rental car, I step out onto the porch. Instead, I see a squad car. Nicolas climbs out, and I walk down the steps to meet him.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“I didn't bring everything with me when I went to the hotel. Sam just left, so I'm getting a rental car
delivered here,” I tell him.
“You shouldn't be here alone,” he says.
“It won't be for long, and I can protect myself. Besides, I technically have it reserved under my name for the next two weeks, and I know how much it bothers everybody when people leave before their time is up,” I say.
“Speaking of which,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “I have that necklace with me. Chief says he thought we got rid of that stuff a long time ago, so he doesn't want it back in storage. I guess you can hang on to it.”
I take the broken chain and pendant from him and look down at it draped across my palm.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
His radio crackles, requesting his attention at a call. He looks aggravated but confirms receipt of the message and that he's on his way.
“Don't stay here long,” he says. “Technically, it's a crime scene.”
“I know,” I nod. “But nobody said I couldn't come back. I'll leave when the car comes.”
“And you let me know if anything new happens,” he says.
“Absolutely,” I say.
Nicolas nods and gets back in his car, backing down the narrow road leading to the house for long enough that he's still pointing the wrong direction when I can't see him anymore. I'm walking back up the steps onto the porch when I hear the familiar snapping sound behind the house again.
Not hesitating for even a second, I take my gun into my hand and move around the side of the building, going in the opposite direction I hear the sound coming from so I can come up behind whoever it is.
As I turn the corner and continue around to the back of the cabin, I see a figure in the trees. I step out and aim my gun.
“Stop,” I call out. “Keep your hands where I can see them and stay where you are.”
The man does what I ask. Staying close to the cabin, I move along the back, passing him and coming around to his front. My jaw twitches when I see his face. Dark hair, blue eyes.
“Dean Steele.”
"Emma," Dean starts softly, "lower your gun. I don't know how good your aim is, and I'd rather you not get spooked with it pointed right at me."
Without a word, I turn to the side, aim at a knot in a tree, and blow it away, then turn it back to Dean. He's a touch paler but still standing.
"Holy shit. What the hell was that?"
"A demonstration. What are you doing lurking around in the woods outside my cabin again?" I ask.
"I need to talk to you. The police were out here yesterday, and I heard over the scanner a car was coming out again, and I wanted to make sure you are alright."
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"Call it a track record," he offers, his hands still above his head. "Seriously, can you put the gun away?"
"Why are you in the woods?" I ask.
"It's the easiest way for me to get here. I found the path through from the railroad tracks."
"That's easier than driving?"
"It is when you don't want to be noticed," he answers.
"That inspires a tremendous amount of confidence in me," I tell him.
"I need to talk to you. Can you stand down for five minutes and let me talk to you?"
"Why didn't you stay at the train station to be interviewed like you were supposed to?" I ask.
"There wasn't time. Things needed to be done," he tells me.
"You were here the first night I got here, weren't you? Sam and I heard you going back through the woods."
"Yes."
"And you went into the cabin while we were back there," I say.
"Yes," he confirms. "Let me talk to you, and I'll explain everything."
"Why did you go into the cabin?"
"Because I needed to know for sure you are who you say you are."
Chapter Thirty
"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, keeping my gun trained on him.
"Can we go inside and talk? I'd really rather not have this entire conversation standing out here with my hands in the air," Dean says. "Besides, it's really cold."
My spine stiffens slightly.
"Care for some tea?" I ask.
His head tilts to the side, and he looks at me strangely.
“No, thank you. I'm really more of a coffee guy.”
The reaction seems genuine. Nothing in his face gives away that he knows about the teapot from yesterday. Finally, I lower my gun, and he gratefully drops his hands to his sides.
“Okay,” I say. “You can have five minutes, but you better make them compelling.”
I let him step in front of me so I can watch him as we walk into the cabin. He sits down on the couch, and I position myself at an angle away from him so I can see all his movements.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Who are you?” I ask immediately.
“My name is Dean Steele.”
“I know your name. Who are you?” I ask.
“I already told you. I'm a private investigator.”
“And why exactly am I being investigated? Because I assure you there are a whole lot of people out there who know exactly who I am and don't need to creep around and commit burglary to confirm it,” I snap.
“I'm sorry for going into the cabin, but I needed to make sure I was right. I've been looking for you for a long time,” he says.
“That's not something you say to somebody who you want to trust you,” I tell him.
“We have a connection, Emma,” he says.
I stand up, ready to walk over to the door and firmly encouraged him to leave.
“I'm really sorry to disappoint you,” I say. “But the position of obsessed stalker is already filled in my life. I really don't need to add another one to the roster. Though I'll admit you have gone to some pretty good effort, so if it wasn't disgusting, threatening, and a felony besides, I'd be touched. You can leave now.”
“Emma, that's not what's going on. Not that kind of connection,” he sighs.
Outside I hear a car pull into the driveway and gesture to the window.
"Look, my rental just got here. I need to pack up, and then I have things I have to do," I tell him.
"Because you'll be staying in the hotel from now on?" he asks.
I let out a breath. "Of course you know I'm staying there. I guess it serves me right for choosing the hotel you’re also staying in."
"You chose the Sleepaway because you knew I was staying there?" he asks.
"Don't get too excited. We've been trying to find you since the train. It's pretty damn suspicious you just wandered off after lurking around me that whole time," I point out. "I'm going to call the detectives in charge of the case and let them know you're here so they can come interview you. Don't try to run again."
"Emma, we still need to talk," he says.
"I've run out of patience," I snap, starting for the door.
"When did your mother die?" he suddenly asks.
I turn slowly and face him.
"Excuse me?"
"When did your mother die? On the train, there were clues about your mother and the murder that just happened here, same thing."
"How did you know about that?"
"When did she die?" he asks, pushing past the question.
"I was eleven," I tell him.
"What time of day?"
"Is this fun for you in some way I'm missing?" I ask, readying my hand on my weapon again. This guy is getting on my last nerve.
"What time of day did your mother die, Emma?"
"The middle of the night."
"And you were home?" he asks. "Not out anywhere?"
"Of course, I was home. I was eleven years old," I tell him. "I was in bed when it happened."
"Then why do you remember walking through blood?"
The question hits me so hard I nearly take a step back.
"What?" I ask.
Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he holds it out to me.
"You did an interview a few years ago. You talked a
bout your mother's death and all the unanswered questions about it, how there are differing accounts, and conflicting information that you've been trying to work through your whole life. You mention remembering getting back home and walking through her blood."
The knock on the door behind me startles me, and I whip around to face it. It takes a second for me to realize it must be the person delivering the rental car. Taking one more look at Dean, I go to the door and open it. The man outside smiles at me and holds out a contract on a clipboard. The name I scribble across the dotted line at the bottom might be more swirls than letters, but it works. He hands me the keys, gives me a wave, and heads back out to the car sitting behind my rental. I watch as he climbs into the passenger seat, and they drive away.
Closing the door, I walk past Dean and into the bedroom to finish packing. He follows me and stands at the doorway, waiting for a response.
“That was a nightmare,” I explain. “It was a recurring nightmare. My therapist and I have talked through it, and she says it's normal to experience things like that after the trauma of a parent's murder.”
“What if it wasn't just a nightmare? What if it was a memory that turned into a nightmare?” he presses.
“In that nightmare, I'm a teenager. It's the middle of the day, and I'm coming home from training at the gym. My mother died when I was eleven years old in the middle of the night. It can't be a memory, why are you asking me about this?
He ignores my irritation. “You said that there are conflicting stories about your mother's death. Different details and information you've gotten over the years that mean you aren't completely sure what happened, right?” he asks.
“Are you suggesting my mother was alive for years after I thought she was dead? That my father just concealed it?”
“No. but maybe it wasn't your mother. Maybe it was just someone who looked like her, but your mind turned it into her. I'm guessing you never saw your mother's body,” he says.
I look up at him with all the rage I can muster, then look away.