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

by Elle Gray

“Yeah, he seemed nice.”

  A bitter laugh bursts from my mouth. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “As I said, you were so mysterious about where you were going and I was curious,” she replies. “Also, I could tell something was bothering you. You seemed upset when you were leaving this morning. So, I came along just to make sure you were all right.”

  I give her a tight smile. “I’m all right. And thank you.”

  “Of course,” she replies. “You’re my sister. Who would I be if I didn’t help protect you?”

  “You’re my little sister. If anybody should be doing the protecting…”

  I let my voice trail off as I realize that I’d already failed in that duty. Almost twenty years ago, in fact. When my little sister needed me to protect her, I wasn’t around. And she was taken.

  “Hey,” she says, giving me a gentle nudge. “Let’s go get some breakfast. My treat. Then you can tell me all about this Torres guy—and also about the guy in the box.”

  “Your treat, huh?”

  “As long as you don’t go ordering lobster or something.”

  “Aw, shucks, that’s exactly what I was craving,” I tell her with a grin. “But I don’t know if my fave seafood spot is open this early.”

  “Lucky thing for me,” she says.

  I let her lead me away from Mark’s grave, saying my final silent goodbye to the man who has stirred so many feelings inside of me. In the end, I want to believe that he wouldn’t have been able to kill me if he’d been ordered to. And that’s why he earned himself a bullet. Maybe it’s more of my naivete or it’s me romanticizing the situation, but it’s one of the only things that makes sense to me in this whole sordid affair.

  The biggest mystery, of course, is who killed him. And as much as I hate to think it, there is a stray nugget in my mind that wonders if my sister, who showed up out of the blue the same night Mark was killed, is the one who pulled the trigger. She certainly hasn’t shown any interest in him, and I think I’ve intentionally left a few juicy clues out there for her to be curious about. Small bits that invited questions.

  But until today, she hasn’t asked one question about him. And in that, she didn’t really ask. She merely said I could tell her about the man in the box. It’s cold and dismissive. It’s distancing herself from him. And it’s curious behavior in the mind of a big, smart profiler, as Torres so eloquently put it.

  I wish that it didn’t, but it sets off a few alarm bells in my mind. They’re not ringing loudly right now—they’re soft and subtle—but I can still hear them ringing. As much as I am so glad for her presence, I just can’t shake the idea that Kit is another Thirteen operative planted into my life. Though planting her now, so soon after Mark’s death, would be too brazen for them. It would lack the subtlety they’ve displayed so far.

  But then, perhaps they’re desperate and are hoping I’m such an emotional wreck that I won’t notice. That I won’t ask the questions and that I will overlook the obvious. And let’s face it—so far they’ve been right. I have missed a lot of things I normally wouldn’t.

  But the most obvious question in my mind right now is: did Kit kill Mark Walton to make room in my life for her?

  Eleven

  Stu’s Greasy Spoon; Seattle, WA

  “I’ll take the Elvis waffles, two eggs over easy, and sausage, please,” Kit orders.

  The waitress jots it all down on her pad and gives us a smile before taking our menus and darting off to place the order. I laugh softly.

  “What?” Kit asks.

  “Banana waffles with peanut butter and bacon. It’s just—some things haven’t changed,” I tell her. “You have loved that combination since you were a kid.”

  She grins back at me. “What can I say? If it’s not broken, why fix it? It’s a classic for a reason. If it’s good enough for the King himself to gorge on every day of his life, it’s good enough for me.”

  “Didn’t he give himself a heart attack because of that?”

  “Yeah, but I figure I’ve got a few more healthy habits than Elvis did,” she chuckles.

  “Fair enough,” I say and take a sip of my coffee.

  And speaking of Elvis Presley, the diner we’re in has been around since the man was number one on the charts—and some of the black-and-white photographs on the wall, showing Stu shaking hands and smiling with all sorts of iconic celebrities from the ‘50s and ‘60s, prove it.

  Stu’s Greasy Spoon is almost a landmark in Seattle. It really does live up to its name, but in the best way possible. It’s kitschy and looks like it’s out of a bygone era—which, to be fair, it really is. Some of the booths and tables look like they haven’t been updated in decades. But that’s what makes the place special. Gives it a certain vibe while serving some really good food—food you’d find in any greasy spoon in America. That’s Stu’s schtick and the people around here love it.

  “So,” Kit starts. “Torres. What’s the story with that guy?”

  I blow out a long breath. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “Try starting at the beginning,” she smiles. “It’s usually a good place to start.”

  I give her a rueful smile and then I start at the beginning. I tell her where my beef with Torres started, everything that’s happened, and bring her to the present. Our meals arrive at some point in my story, and we pick at our plates until I finish talking. And once I’m talked out, Kit tucks into her meal. But I can see the wheels turning in her mind. She’s thinking about everything I told her. I just don’t know what she’s thinking about it.

  “How are your Elvis waffles?” I ask.

  “Perfection,” she replies. “And your boring old omelet?”

  “It’s not boring. It’s got ham, spinach, cheese—”

  “Boring,” she rolls her eyes. “You’ve probably had it a million times.”

  “Hey, if something’s not broken, why fix it?” I throw her words back at her.

  She laughs. “Unlike you, I actually do try new things. I’m a food adventurer,” she declares. “But when it comes to breakfast, I like what I like.”

  “Hey, I can be a food adventurer too.”

  “Not really. I’ve seen what’s in your cupboards at home. Vanilla isn’t even as vanilla as you are, sis,” she comments.

  We laugh and tease each other as we finish our meals, and I can’t help but feel the waves of nostalgia washing over me. This reminds me so much of when we were kids. We would always rib and poke at each other. We’d tease and hurl silly insults. It’s a good feeling to have. It feels like a spot of normalcy in a situation that’s about as far from normal as we could possibly be.

  After the waitress comes to clear our plates and refill our coffee, we both sit back with full bellies and smiling faces. I’m as happy as I’ve been in a very long time and yet, that dark specter still hangs over my head. For as much as I love having my sister back, there is still so much that remains unknown. And I hate that I can’t completely open up yet. Obviously, I sidestepped some of the details when talking about why Gina and Mark were killed—saying only that I’d met with Gina for a case—but even though I hadn’t technically lied, I still feel as awful as if I had.

  “So, what are you going to do about Torres?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Let it all play out. He knows I didn’t kill anybody,” I say. “So, if he moves to indict, I’ll have to see whatever evidence he’s manufactured and attack that. Prove it’s a setup. That this is nothing more than a frame.”

  “You could always kill him. You take him out, this all goes away,” she offers.

  I look at her and Kit is staring back at me, with a totally deadpan expression on her face. A moment of tension lingers in the air, but then she erupts into laughter.

  “Oh my God, I’m kidding,” she crows. “Lighten up a little, Blake. It was a joke.”

  That’s the thing, though—I’m not sure it was. In fact, I’m pretty positive she wasn’t. There was a hardened steel in her voi
ce that, to me, is unmistakable. I’ve built a career on being able to detect when people are lying and when they’re not. And everything in me is telling me that she wasn’t kidding. I have the sinking feeling that if I asked, she would gladly kill Torres for me.

  It brings up yet again all the questions I have about what she’s been up to all these years. I realize now that my initial assumptions are dead wrong. Yes, she was abducted, but she wasn’t trafficked. She wasn’t sold into sex slavery or anything like that. She doesn’t exhibit any of the behaviors of a trafficking victim, nor does she look like one. Everything about that assumption is wrong.

  The problem—at least one of my problems—is that I don’t know what’s true and right. I don’t know anything about her, but knowing that she would kill Torres if I asked only deepens my worry that she’s involved with something dangerous. At the same time, it adds support to my feeling that she’s an operative for the Thirteen. That is absolutely killing me inside because I don’t know what to do with it.

  It also presents me with a host of new problems I’m only now starting to consider. If she is part of the Thirteen, the chances are high that she’s involved with some illegal things. I’m a law enforcement officer. Those two things don’t align, and I know that I could possibly find myself in a situation where I’m going to have to decide whether to look the other way and betray my oath and my duty or lock my own sister up after finding her alive after eighteen years.

  “You do know I was kidding right?” Kit presses.

  “Sure. Yeah,” I shake my head. “Sorry, he just really gets under my skin.”

  “Yeah, that’s understandable. I mean, I know when somebody’s trying to frame me for a couple of murders, that tends to bother me too.”

  I laugh softly, feeling some small bit of my apprehension begin to dissipate. I’m not feeling any better about the situation, but I’m giving Kit the benefit of the doubt. My initial assumptions about her being trafficked have proven to be wrong, so until I learn anything to the contrary, I’m going to assume that my other assumptions about her being involved in anything illegal are also wrong. When it comes to my sister, I am just not thinking straight, and I quite obviously can’t trust myself. So, for now, I’m going to kick the can down the road. I’ll only deal with it when I absolutely have to.

  “So, moving onto another sensitive, totally uncomfortable subject, tell me about Mark,” she says. “You said you guys broke up, right?”

  I nod. “Yeah, we did.”

  “Then why pay for his burial? I mean, it’s not like you owed him anything.”

  I push the empty sugar packet around on the table in front of me. I obviously haven’t told her about Mark and his involvement with the Thirteen. I don’t want to tip my hand or let her know how much I actually know about the organization, just in case she’s part of it. If they find out how much I know and that I’m starting to close in on them, that could trigger another order to kill me—come to think of it, that’s probably what got Mark killed. If he was ordered to kill me because of how close I was getting, and he refused, I can definitely see the Thirteen swiftly moving in to eliminate them.

  And if my suspicions are correct that Kit is also an agent of theirs, the Thirteen have just upped the stakes considerably. I can’t think of anything worse than looking into the eyes of my beloved, long-lost sister as one of us pulls the trigger, snuffing out the life of the other. If it wasn’t me who ended up being killed, that’s something that would break me. Forever.

  “I had him buried because there was nobody else to do it,” I say evenly. “He had nobody else in this world that I know of.”

  “Wow. That’s really sad.”

  I nod. “It is. I can’t imagine living a life where you have no connections to anybody. Nobody to mourn you when you’re dead. It’s a lonely existence—not something you could even call a life, really.”

  A shadow crosses her face and she frowns. But Kit takes a quick drink of her coffee and composes herself. That expression that flitted across her features interests me. It was almost like a light of recognition. Of understanding. It makes me think she can relate to what I just said—perhaps a little too well. And that only deepens my sense of foreboding when it comes to my sister.

  “Well,” she finally says. “If nothing else, at least we’ve got each other, right?”

  “Right. We’ve got each other. Always,” I tell her.

  I hope my words are true.

  Twelve

  Wilder Residence; The Emerald Pines Luxury Apartments, Downtown Seattle

  I sit at the table in the living room, my laptop open, poring through the papers Mo gave me. Night is pressing at the windows. I hadn’t noticed when it got dark. I lean back with a yawn and stretch as I glance at the clock. It’s a little after ten and I feel like my eyes are crossed from looking at these papers all day. I stand up and wander into the kitchen, then pour myself another glass of wine.

  After the funeral—if it can be called that—and breakfast at Stu’s, we came home. I got to work vetting the people on the list Mo had compiled and Kit had curled up on the couch with a book. Our mother instilled a love of reading into us at an early age. Kit obviously still practices it religiously—in the short time she’s been staying with me she’s already torn through three or four books. I do love reading, but I don’t have as much time as I’d like to just curl up with a book.

  Eventually, Kit wandered off to her bedroom and slept the day away. She sleeps a lot and keeps odd hours, which I’ll admit has made me curious. I carry my glass of wine over to the window and look out at the city below. It’s rained on and off all day, leaving Seattle looking sparkling and clean. And when I open the window, a blast of fresh air comes rushing in. I shudder from the cold, but it feels good. Refreshing.

  Behind me drifts the saxophone of Coleman Hawkins filling the apartment with its sultry sound. I wander back to my desk and set my glass down. I close the file I was working on and pick up the next one. It’s the file I dropped the other night, so everything is out of order. As I start flipping through the pages though, my eyes catch a familiar name and I pause. I lift the page and look at the information. My eyes widen and my mouth falls open as things start falling into place in my head.

  “You piece of garbage,” I mutter. “I’ve got you, you son of a—”

  “Are you talking to yourself?”

  I look up and drop the page back into the file and close it quickly—too quickly—and feel the heat of embarrassment at being caught creeping into my face. Kit looks from me to the file then back up at me again, her curiosity obviously piqued.

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “Just work stuff.”

  “What kind of work stuff?”

  “I can’t really talk about it right now,” I say.

  She nods and gives me a knowing smile. It’s only then I see that she’s dressed. Kit’s wearing black pants, black boots, a black turtleneck, and a black overcoat that falls to the middle of her thighs. I frown as I take in her attire.

  “Going out?” I raise an eyebrow.

  She nods. “I have some things I need to do.”

  “Uh-huh,” I reply. “Are you going to rob a bank?”

  “Maybe,” she replies as she walks into the kitchen. “Trying to decide between a bank and a liquor store. Which one do you think has less security?”

  “Funny,” I reply. “Where are you going?”

  She quirks a grin at me as she picks up an apple and takes a bite. “I can’t really talk about it right now.”

  “Kit—”

  “Blake, I just have some things to do.”

  “Like what? You don’t have a job or anything here. You come and go at all hours of the night, and you’re dressed like you’re about to go either rob or kill somebody—”

  “Can we not do this right now, Blake?”

  “I’m worried about you, Kit.”

  “Listen, there is somebody in the city I need to find. That’s what I’ve been do
ing. Looking for him,” she tells me. “He can help me get out from under the trouble I’m in. If I find him, I think I can get myself clear of it all.”

  “Then let me help. I’m pretty good at finding people who don’t want to be found.”

  She shakes her head. “No. I told you, I don’t want you anywhere near this. This is my problem and I’m going to fix it. On my own.”

  Kit takes another bite of the apple, chewing on it angrily. It’s clear she’s not going to back down. Nor will she let me help her.

  “If you get into trouble, you know I can help you,” I tell her.

  “I’ve gotten pretty good at taking care of myself,” she says. “Now, I have to go. I’ll see you later. And don’t wait up for me.”

  Before I can reply, she turns and leaves. I listen to the sound of the door closing and locking behind her. I know I shouldn’t push her, but it’s so hard not to when I’m concerned for her safety, not to mention worried about what sort of trouble she’s gotten herself into. She shouldn’t be going this alone. Not when I have the resources to help her. I’m really scared that Kit’s secretive nature and stubbornness are going to get her killed.

  There’s nothing I can do though. It’s not like I can ground her and restrict her to her room. Kit is a grown woman and I have absolutely zero power or control over her. All I can do is what I’ve been doing—trying to make sure she knows she’s not alone and be there to help her when she asks. If she asks. I made her promise that she would, but knowing how stubborn she is, I have my doubts that she’ll actually ask for help.

  I return to my desk and pick up the page I was just looking at and feel an electric charge wash through me. Senator Daniel Graham is within the top ten beneficiaries of the new SCOTUS rulings. Ever since the third new Justice was seated, his personal net worth has increased by a factor of ten. He is officially a billionaire.

  I grab one of the other files Mo had brought over—she’d separated the people from the corporations that benefitted for easier access and cross-referencing. When I look at the corporations who’ve benefitted from the SCOTUS rulings, Graham’s company is in the top five, becoming a multi-billion-dollar company.