The Lost Sister (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 7)

by Elle Gray

  But we talked. And the more we did, the more I became convinced she truly is my lost little sister. There were certain mannerisms she had, even back then, that she still had. Certain gestures or ways of saying things. There were things she said and did that no amount of prepping an imposter could have accounted for. Things that were just part of Kit’s personality that couldn’t possibly be faked.

  I would have stayed home all day just to keep talking to her—and trying to break through that shell she keeps around herself. I want to know everything that happened to her. I want to know what her life was like—even the most terrible and horrible details. Kit shouldn’t have to carry that alone. As her big sister, I want to help shoulder that burden and get her the help she desperately needs to leave that life behind her once and for all.

  But I couldn’t stay home, unfortunately. There’s just too much going on and I can’t afford to not be here. I’m dealing with a dozen different fires right now. It’s not like I can take time off right now. It’s frustrating, but at least I can spend the evenings reconnecting with Kit. And I feel like that’s what we did last night—or at least, started to. We’re reconnecting. I never thought I’d be so lucky. After all these years, actually being able to sit with my sister and have a conversation with her fills me with a joy I never thought I’d know.

  Astra turns back to me. “All right. Assuming it’s her, doesn’t the timing of her showing up in your life strike you as strange?”

  I laugh softly. “Well, yeah. It’s one of the biggest red flags in my head,” I say. “I mean, you don’t know how happy I am she’s back. That she’s alive. But I’d kind of like to know if she’s back to watch me, or if she’s here to kill me. I hate thinking worst-case scenario—”

  “But you’d be an idiot not to,” Astra finishes for me.

  I take a sip of the coffee she brought in for me and ponder everything that’s happening. The emotions churning inside of me are complicated, to say the least. On one hand, the joy of knowing my sister is alive and is at home, waiting for me, is incalculable. On the other hand, with everything that’s happened—and still happening—knowing she’s at home waiting for me fills me with a profound sense of fear. It shouldn’t be like this. But this is what my life has come to.

  “I don’t want to overstep my bounds, but I want to have Rick do a deep dive on her,” Astra says. “I want to see what he can come up with.”

  I give her a grin. “I’ve already asked him to do it,” I reply. “As happy as I am, I’m not an idiot.”

  “Good girl.”

  We sit quietly for a moment then Astra looks up at me. “Look, I don’t want to be a wet blanket. I am really happy for you,” she says. “To have your sister back—it’s an incredible thing. It’s a miracle, really.”

  “It is,” I agree. “She won’t talk about it yet, but I’ve got a feeling she’s going to have a long road to recovery ahead of her. I got the feeling she was being trafficked and escaped.”

  “Did she say that?”

  I shake my head. “No, she hasn’t said anything yet. I’m guessing based on some of the things she said. It sounded like it.”

  “Well, be careful with your assumptions, Blake. Don’t let yourself get too emotionally invested just yet,” Astra warns me. “Not until we find out if she’s really on the up and up.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I know. It’s hard not to though.”

  There’s a knock at my door and when I look up, I see Rosie standing on the other side. I wave her in, and Astra gives me a tight smile before she stands and heads out into the bullpen. Rosie—SAC Rosalinda Espinoza—drops down into the chair Astra had just vacated and crosses her legs as she sits back. She’s a no-nonsense kind of woman. Tough. Intelligent. She’s not a large woman, but her mere presence can be intimidating, and she does not suffer fools.

  “Caught your hearing on TV,” she starts.

  I roll my eyes. “Wonderful.”

  “You didn’t do too bad. But you were a little more combative than I—or Betsy—would have liked,” she comments. “Made you look defensive.”

  “How can I not be defensive?” I reply. “They’re threatening to blow up my team and my career. I’m not going to sit idly by and let them take away everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve earned.”

  “And I’m not saying you should. But I thought we all agreed we weren’t going to bring Representative Hedlund into it.”

  “Listen, I know she’s your friend, but—”

  “That’s not what this is about. And I wouldn’t characterize our relationship as a friendship,” Rosie cuts me off. “But we didn’t want to bring her name into this simply because she’s a headache you don’t need right now. Not with everything else going on.”

  I cock my head at her and frown. I’m not sure what she means by everything else going on. She doesn’t know about Kit being back. Rosie looks at me, an expression of concern crossing her features.

  “Judging by the look on your face, I take it you haven’t heard yet,” she says.

  “Heard what?”

  Rosie runs a hand across her face, that look of concern deepening. “It’s Torres. I’m hearing that he’s making some noise about impaneling a grand jury.”

  “For what?”

  “He’s trying to indict you for the murders of Gina Aoki and Mark Walton,” she sighs.

  My eyes widen and my mouth falls open. Ricardo Torres, Deputy Chief of the Seattle Police Department, has been a thorn in my side for a long time now. His hatred for one of my best friends, Paxton Arrington—a former SPD officer—has bled over onto me. Torres has tried to intimidate and bully me. He’s threatened me. He’s done everything he can to make my life a living hell. But indicting me for a pair of murders I know that he knows I didn’t commit is a new low for him—and that bar is already really low.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.

  “It’s not official or anything. Those are the rumblings going around right now is all,” Rosie tells me, trying to be reassuring. “But knowing how much Torres hates you, I’m worried this is going to get out of control.”

  “There’s nothing to get out of control, Rosie. I didn’t kill them,” I argue. “And if Torres has evidence that says otherwise, he’s lying, and he manufactured it.”

  Rosie holds her hands up in surrender. “Relax, Blake. I know that. I know you didn’t murder anybody,” she says. “And I know he’s trying to gin up a case. I know that. But we need to take it seriously. We both know what he’s capable of, Blake.”

  “We do,” I nod. “And I am taking this seriously.”

  “Good. But this means you’ll be fighting a war on at least two different fronts,” she goes on. “Hedlund is not going to take kindly to be dragged into this. She will be coming for you, Blake.”

  “Let her come,” I reply. “All we need is to get the footage from the situation room the day of the raid at Haven…”

  My words taper off when I see Rosie’s face darken. She looks away for a moment and I feel a finger of ice sliding up my spine. I have a horrible feeling I know what the next words out of her mouth are going to be.

  “The footage is gone. As soon as you raised it at the hearing, I tried to pull it,” she says, sounding miserable. “The footage was erased, Blake. The tech teams say they don’t know how it happened. Say it was a systemwide glitch.”

  Color me surprised. I hate that I’m right about these things all the stinking time. If the footage really is gone, it’s a problem. A big problem. It will give credence to what I assume will be Hedlund’s storyline—an FBI coverup. I’m sure she’ll play the part of the victim to the hilt, accusing the Bureau of trying to destroy her politically. And I’m equally sure she’ll be able to parlay that faux victimhood into anger among her base, which she will use to make herself an even bigger blip on the national radar.

  The furor over this supposed coverup is going to grow, and of course, Hedlund will be right there on the front lines fanning the flames. And she�
��ll garner even more national attention for herself, very likely riding that tide of anger and outrage to an even more prominent and higher office. She’s going to build her political ambitions on the backs of twenty-nine dead people—including her own daughter. It is the most disgustingly craven play I’ve ever seen—and I’ve seen some things.

  “Hedlund played this well, I have to give her that. Covered all her bases,” I say. “She’s even more devious than I gave her credit for.”

  Rosie shakes her head. “I tried to warn you.”

  “I know you did.” I blow out a frustrated breath. “And I wish I’d listened.”

  There’s an uncomfortable silence in the room as I sit back in my seat and contemplate the destruction of my career. It’s all coming down in a flaming ruin around me and there’s not a thing I can do to stop it. By squeezing whoever she squeezed to get the footage erased, Hedlund boxed me in. The next time I’m called before the Senate Oversight Committee—and I’m sure I’m going to be called again—I’ll have nothing to back up any of my claims about Hedlund being the one who orchestrated the raid.

  That will, of course, lead them to conclude that I tried to falsely incriminate Hedlund and am part of this supposed coverup and attempt to smear her. Hedlund’s star will continue to rise—meteorically, no doubt—while I sit among the smoking rubble of my career.

  “She’s not going to be happy unless she destroys my whole team,” I say. “We’ve done some good work here—”

  “And you’re going to continue to do good work, Blake,” Rosie interrupts, her voice hard. “If she wants a fight, she’ll get one.”

  “What can we do, Rosie? She’s got friends in high places.”

  “So do we,” she replies. “Right now, you let me handle this. And you focus on your job.”

  “What about Torres?”

  “Unless and until he comes with an indictment, he’s not worth thinking about. Just focus on what’s in front of you.”

  I nod and run a hand across my face. Even without worrying about Hedlund and Torres, I still have a lot on my plate. But it’s going to be tough to focus on what’s in front of me when so much is hanging over my head and I’m just waiting for it all to come crashing down.

  Four

  Wilder Residence, The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments; Downtown Seattle

  “Kit? You here?” I call out.

  I drop my keys into the dish on the table beside the door then set my bag down. I walk into the apartment and look around. The lights are dim and she’s not there. Frowning, I walk down the hall and peek into the spare bedroom she’s been staying in, but she’s not there, either. An irrational flutter of worry passes through me as I walk back to the kitchen and go to the refrigerator. I pull out the open bottle of chardonnay on the top shelf and pour myself a glass, trying to get myself sorted.

  She hadn’t mentioned that she was going out tonight, nor did she send me a text or leave a note. I know she’s a grown woman now and that she doesn’t have to check in with me whenever she sets foot outside my apartment. But having grown up in a world where my little sister was abducted, I think I can be excused for feeling a little freaked out when she’s not where she should be. Or at least, where I think she should be.

  I take a swallow of wine to settle my nerves then pick up my phone and call her. Kit’s phone is off, and it goes directly to voicemail. My next call is to Annie, who picks up on the second ring.

  “Blake, I’m glad you called,” she greets me. “I was going to call you tonight actually to see if you and Kit would like to come for dinner—”

  “Hey Annie,” I cut her off. “I was actually wondering if Kit was over there?”

  “No, she’s not. Why would she be here?”

  “I just thought she might have come over to say hello.”

  Annie clucks her tongue the way she does when she’s about to say something cutting, so I take a drink of wine to brace myself for it.

  “It would be so out of character for you girls to just stop by to say hello,” she says.

  She laughs lightly, at least trying to make it sound like a joke, but I know she means it. Not to say Annie is needy, but we could stop by for dinner every night of the week and it still wouldn’t be enough. Her clinginess has only gotten worse since my cousin Maisey moved out with her boyfriend. We’ve been working on it with Annie, making a point of visiting and trying to make her feel less alone, but it’s obviously still a work in progress. My aunt raised me after my parents were killed, and I love her to death, but she can be… a little much.

  “No, she’s not here, Blake. But I would like you two to come for dinner soon,” she tells me.

  “We will. I promise.”

  “I am still just so shocked that she’s here. Alive,” Annie goes on. “It really is a miracle.”

  “It really is,” I agree, anxious to get off the line knowing Annie wants to have a long conversation. “Okay, I have to run, Annie. I’ll call you soon. Love you.”

  I quickly disconnect the call before she can reply. I’m not in the mood to have an idle chat right now. Instead, I drain the last of my glass then refill it. There’s nobody else I can call, so I’m left to sit here wondering where Kit is and what she’s doing. For all I know, the people who abducted her in the first place found and took her again. Granted, I’m pretty sure that’s not the case and it’s just my paranoid mind working overtime.

  I don’t see any sign of a struggle and nothing is missing or out of place. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my sister since she’s been here, it’s that she’s a fighter. She would kick, hit, scratch, or bite to keep herself from being taken again. She very likely would make her captor kill her rather than go with them. And since there’s no body and no blood, I have to assume she went out. For what reason, I have no idea. It’s not like she knows anybody in Seattle.

  Or hell, maybe she does. Kit has been so tight-lipped about her life prior to showing up at Annie’s that I have no idea where she’s been or who she knows. She could have built an entire life here and I wouldn’t have known. I suppose it’s entirely possible she’s got friends here. I sigh and pace the room, taking a drink of my wine as I do. This must be what it feels like for a parent waiting for their child to come home.

  A few minutes later, I’ve finished my second glass and am in the middle of pouring a third when a knock at the door draws my attention. I set the bottle down and sprint to the door, not even bothering to even glance at the doorbell camera monitor. I throw the locks and fling the door open, expecting to see Kit standing there. But when I see it’s not her, I frown.

  “I’ll try to not take that lack of enthusiasm about my presence personally,” Mo cracks.

  I laugh softly. “Sorry. I was expecting somebody else.”

  “Clearly,” she replies with a laugh. She’s carrying a banker’s box clearly full of papers and files.

  “Come in, come in,” I wave her in.

  Mo walks in and I close the door, making sure to leave it unlocked, then follow her into the living room.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I ask.

  “No, but thanks,” she said. “I won’t take up much of your time. I just wanted to drop these off for you.”

  She takes the lid off the box and pulls out a file. I take it from her and start flipping through the papers inside of it and see that it’s pages and pages of financial records.

  “What am I looking at?” I ask.

  “You are looking at the finances of the top one hundred and fifty people who directly benefitted from rulings reversed by this new Supreme Court,” Mo explains. “Obviously, there are a lot more people who reaped some benefit from things like looser tax laws and deregulation—thousands, probably—but not everybody is going to be involved with this conspiracy to remake the Court.”

  I nod, following along. “The vast majority of people would probably benefit incidentally.”

  “Right. So, my thinking was that the people who financially benefitted the m
ost—and we’re talking hundreds of millions, if not billions—would have had the most incentive to be involved with this plot.”

  “Making them the most likely candidates to be part of the Thirteen.”

  “Bingo,” Mo says. “But it’s not a guarantee that the hundred and fifty names in those files are all part of this evil and exclusive club either.”

  “No, absolutely,” I agree. “This is going to take some serious legwork. We’re going to have to go through and vet each of these people.”

  “It’s going to take a minute,” she notes.

  “Yeah, that it will,” I laugh softly. “But this is a really great place to start. Excellent work, Mo. Seriously. And thank you.”

  “No sweat, boss. It’s actually kind of fun in a weird way.”

  “I think we need to have a serious discussion about your definition of fun,” I crack, flashing her a grin. “On a serious note, things are starting to get hairy, Mo. This is a dangerous line we’re walking so I think this should be the end of your involvement with this.”

  She screws up her face. “Absolutely not. We’re really starting to get somewhere here.”

  “Mo, people are being killed—”

  “I know that. And I’m fine with assuming the risks,” she cuts me off.

  “I just don’t want you getting hurt. Or worse.”

  “Hey, I knew that was a possibility when I joined the Bureau,” she shrugs. “I joined because I want to do some good—some real good—in this world. I want to make a difference before I’m done here, Blake.”

  “But you can—”

  “Look,” she says. Mo extends her right arm and rolls up her sleeve, revealing a litany of tattoos all up her arm. I always forget that underneath the no-nonsense business clothes she wears, Mo is somewhat of an ink fiend. You’d never know it to look at her.

  “Right here,” she points to her inner arm, just below a floral design in the crook of her elbow and above a small moon on her wrist. The other tattoos around it are much fresher and more colorful; the one she’s pointing at has been faded over time. But it still occupies a prominent position on her arm. It’s a centerpiece.