The Girl Next Door (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 4)

by A J Rivers

  Not these men. These were among the strongest, most intense men he ever encountered. They were willing to offer themselves to his service not because they had nothing else to fulfill them, but because they believed in what he said. They wanted to uphold the same truths he did. They were fearsome and calculating, each intelligent and skilled in ways he could use for his own devices. It made his ability to control them more satisfying. When they looked to him for instruction, it wasn’t because they didn’t know how to do it, but because they were striving to do it the way he wanted them to. When they sought his approval, it wasn’t because they didn’t believe in what they were doing, but because they craved knowing they shared his thoughts. That in that moment, they were aligned.

  He enjoyed being able to gather the thoughts of those who could think for themselves and mold them into his likeness. It means more to harness wild mustangs than to lead a flock of sheep.

  The men searched each other’s eyes, scoured memories to find each other. They were piecing together a puzzle in hopes of finding what he wanted. He waited. He watched them interrogate each other silently. But none of them said anything. Some gave up and looked back at him imploringly. They were waiting, too. Waiting for him to tell them what to do next. Waiting for a hint or a clue they could use. Waiting for anything that would take away the helpless feelings that came from not being able to follow, even when they wanted to.

  “None of you?” he asked. “Not one of you will tell me where he is?” He took a step closer to them. “He should not have been able to get out. But he did. I don’t know where he is or what he might be doing. That should be a concern for all of you.”

  “What do we do?” a man kneeling in front of him, with barely the outline of a sea creature on his back, asked.

  He lifted his chin, his shoulders square to them.

  “Find him.”

  Chapter Ten

  The door opens while I'm upside down over the back of the couch. With my ass in the air and my head almost crushed by the wall, I'm not exactly in a position to defend myself if there's an intruder. Fortunately, I know it's Sam.

  "What are you doing?" he asks.

  "Rethinking my spatial awareness," I tell him.

  "What?"

  I wriggle backwards.

  "I didn't move the couch enough, and now I think I'm stuck. I can't move my head enough to get back upright."

  Sam laughs and crosses the room. I feel him come up behind me, and suddenly, the couch moves. He takes my hips and helps me back down. I land on the cushions with a gust of air from my lungs.

  "Why were you upside down? And where have you been? I've been calling you," he says.

  “That's why I was upside down,” I explain. “I can't find my phone. I have no idea what could have happened to it. I just had it.”

  “When was the last time you used at?” he asks.

  “Yesterday, when I talked to you. I could have sworn I put it down in here on the charger. But it's definitely not there. and I can't find it anywhere. I even used a landline to call myself, trying to figure out where it was.”

  “I still can't believe you still have a landline,” he teases. “What's the point of it?”

  I toss a glare at him. “For when I can't find my cell phone.”

  Sam laughs. “It worked out really well for you, didn't it?”

  “You are not being helpful.”

  I head back into the kitchen for the third time. I already searched the counters and under the table and even in the trash can. Now I'm resorting to digging through various bags of snacks to make sure I didn't somehow drop it in during a late-night binge I don't remember. Which brings up its own whole set of questions.

  "I'm sure you'll find it. Come on. We need to get going," he says.

  Closing the pantry door, I head for my bedroom to get a sweatshirt. I take one last look through my room for my phone, then join Sam in the living room. He's eating an apple as he peeks under the throw pillows on the couch.

  "Now I get to ask you what you're doing,” I say.

  “Being helpful,” he offers.

  “Don't you think I looked under the pillows?”

  He shrugs and takes a bite of his apple.

  “You also looked in a bag of tortilla chips, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to do a quick once-over.”

  I laugh and tug the sweatshirt down over my head.

  “Let's go. We have a fun festive carnival to plan.”

  Two hours later, I still feel completely disconnected from the world without my phone, but we're making progress on the carnival. It's been decades since Sherwood had its own county fair, but the small fairgrounds still stand near the outskirts of town. The current owners weren't easy to get ahold of, but once I did, they agreed to let us use the grounds for the fundraiser. There's just one catch. We have to whip them into shape by the time we want to use them.

  The threatening cold announces winter is definitely on its way. That makes it harder to imagine. It won't be until the spring, but getting the plans in place now means not having to contend with the chaos of the holiday season while searching for vendors. When the time comes along to put the finishing touches on the event, we'll already be way ahead.

  But that means actually doing all the work by then. That's where Sam's big overachieving plan shows its cracks. It's not easy getting people excited for an event so far into the future, and the sheer volume of work necessary to get the fairgrounds ready is daunting enough without the cold. I can't even imagine what it's going to be like when the actual winter weather hits. But Sam believes in his vision, so I'm doing my best to be supportive.

  A few people are already at the fairgrounds by the time we get there. One car in particular catches my eye.

  "Lionheart Property Management?" I ask, glancing over at Sam. It’s the same company that has been managing my grandparent’s house all these years.

  "Apparently, there are a couple of structures on the grounds the company manages. The owners haven't let go of their big dreams of selling the land to a theme park developer," he tells me.

  I'm waiting for there to be some sort of joke attached to that, but there isn't.

  "Seriously?" I ask.

  He nods as he turns off the ignition and releases his seatbelt.

  "They think Sherwood could become a tourist destination if there was a theme park here. Roller coasters. Maybe a water ride or two. I listened to their entire spiel when I finally talked to them about using the grounds for the fundraiser."

  "So, they weren't able to keep up with having a fair once a year, but they're sure a theme park would just do massive business?" I ask.

  "There was a documentary," he nods, as if that completely explains it.

  "If Lionheart manages the property, why is it in such bad shape?" I ask.

  "Not much of a budget, I'm assuming. They keep the buildings up to code and are ready at the waiting if a potential buyer shows up, but that's about all they can do."

  "That's why they let us use it. Free labor and marketing."

  Sam winks at me. "The American Dream."

  He gets out of the car, and I shake my head at him.

  "I don't think that's actually how that works," I comment, getting out and following him toward the small cluster of people waiting for us. Most are off-duty officers and their families or members of the local volunteer club. But one face stands out. "Oh, fantastic."

  "Good morning, Sam," Pamela Welsh nearly purrs. Her eyes slice over to me so hard I'm surprised the pupils didn't detach and stay in place. "Emma. I'm surprised to see you here."

  "Why is that?" I ask. "I'm organizing the fundraiser with Sam."

  "Oh," she says, cocking her hip to the other side. "I just mean, after everything, you know, I'm surprised you're out and about. Do you really think you're up to this?"

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I ask. Sam takes me by the arm and pulls me away. "No, seriously. What the hell does she mean by that?"

  "Let's just get to work
. There's a lot to get done and these people have come out to help us," Sam says.

  Doing my best to ignore Pamela, I stand close beside Sam while he does his pep talk for the group. We go over the list of tasks to be done that day and assign everyone to different areas of the grounds. With nearly everyone else ready to collect trash and start fighting back the areas of overgrowth, I make my way to the first of the scattering of buildings. Today I get to be the sweeper. I'll check through the buildings making sure there aren't any squatters or wild animals. With any luck, it will be a fast and easy jaunt. The footsteps and somewhat shrieking voice behind me dash that hope pretty quickly.

  "I have to be with you!"

  I don't stop but glance over my shoulder to watch Pamela try to scurry across the overgrown grass in heels that were a ridiculous choice for the occasion. I truly do not understand that woman. She’s always been like this, even back in high school, when she got it up in her head that she and I were rivals for Sam’s affections.

  "Why?" I ask.

  She makes her way to me and glares from under her heavy eyelashes.

  "Why do you think I'm here?" she asks.

  "Because Sam is?" I respond.

  Her arms cross over her chest so hard they threaten to pop her cleavage right out of the top of her shirt.

  "I'm here because Lionheart Property Management is responsible for these grounds. We're under instructions from the owner to give you people permission to access and improve it for your fundraiser, but it's in our best interests to make sure nothing happens to the property," she tells me.

  "Are you suggesting I might do something to the building?" I ask.

  "We would just hate to see someone get trapped or a fire start or anything," she says, her lips curling into a cruel smile.

  I refuse to feed into her. She's taunting me, trying to push me off the edge she thinks I'm standing on. Instead, I just keep walking, forcing to the back crevices of my mind the horrific memories she just brought back to the surface.

  The first building used to be a funhouse and looks essentially like a tall, narrow tower with cutouts covered with boards. The door at the entrance looks much newer than the rest of the building, like it was added to the front when the attraction closed. Pamela follows me to the door and hovers close behind me like at any second I'm going to yank the doorknob off the door and start smashing things.

  "Is it locked?" I ask.

  "It shouldn't be," she says. "These buildings don't have traditional locks. If you don't see a padlock, it's open," Pamela tells me.

  "Doing a bang-up job with the security."

  It's nowhere near as fun going through a funhouse with only the light from a pocket flashlight, and on constant lookout for what is about to go terribly wrong. Fortunately, we make it out the other side without incident. Next is a building that used to be a small restaurant. Other than a pile of discarded containers, there's little inside, and I quickly move on.

  The third building looks like a small, fairly deep house. I wonder if it's been standing there since before the land was the fairgrounds. It looks like it could have been a farmhouse at some point. The little porch across the front would be perfect for sitting in a rocker and looking out over crops waving in the evening air. At this point, those crops are crabgrass and dandelions, so it's not quite as picturesque. But for what they are, they are flourishing.

  I'm surprised when I open the door to see the building in fairly decent shape. Considering how long it's been since it was used, I was expecting much more disarray. There's dust and some debris piled in corners, but I'm taking the lack of bodies and drug paraphernalia as a bonus.

  Sweeping through the first floor is quick, but that all goes to hell when I get to the second floor. This is where the house is hiding all its secrets.

  Every room on this floor is stacked nearly to the ceiling with boxes, broken wood, tarps, and unidentifiable items. I prod through what I can. So far, I don't see anything overtly dangerous, but it's going to take some serious work to make this place usable for much of anything.

  There's one more room at the end of the hall. By the placement in the house, I would guess it's a master bedroom. Unlike the other rooms, the door is fully closed. Ingrained instincts and training immediately make me suspicious of the room. The hair on the back of my neck pricks up, and I prepare myself for what might be just beyond the door.

  I reach for the door handle and push the door open away from me, keeping myself as far in the hallway as I can. Before I can take a step toward the room, something tumbles down from above the doorframe.

  The light from my small flashlight hits it, and my stomach turns. It's a noose.

  Chapter Eleven

  I gasp, stumbling back from the rope dangling from the doorframe. I push past it into the room beyond, but it's nearly empty. It's as if someone took most of what was in the room and stuffed it into the others.

  “What's that?” Pamela asks behind me.

  I don't bother to answer but force my way past her and down the hallway back to the stairs. I take them two at a time and rush out of the building that suddenly feels hot and close. Sam is only a few yards away, cutting down the overgrown grass. He looks up and furrows his brow as I hop down from the porch.

  "Emma?" he calls. "Are you okay?"

  He doesn't wait for my response before dropping the tool in his hand and jogging toward me. My mouth feels dry, and my mind races with stark images from only weeks ago. I only saw the pictures, but I remember every detail. And those details brought me back to the backseat of a speeding car and a cold, stone cell.

  "There's a noose," I tell him.

  "What?" he asks.

  "A noose. There's a noose hanging inside the house. Someone went in there and put up a noose."

  "You mean this?" Pamela asks, coming out of the house with the rope draped between her hands.

  "Pamela, you shouldn't have touched that," Sam tells her. "The whole point of sending Emma into the buildings was to make sure there wasn't anything potentially dangerous happening inside. Abandoned buildings can attract serious criminals."

  "The building isn't abandoned. Lionheart has been managing it."

  "Without a lock on the front door," I point out.

  "It wasn't locked?" Sam asks.

  "It's just an unused building," Pamela protests.

  "Do you know how many times I've gone into supposedly unused buildings and found what was left of people who were tossed into rooms or stuffed under the floorboards?" I ask.

  She rolls her eyes, but Sam reaches for the rope and examines it.

  "It's not new," he mutters. "There are wear patterns on it like it was used, and there's something dark embedded in the frayed fibers. It could be blood."

  Pamela scoffs. "You're starting to sound like Emma, Sam."

  "You can't just ignore things like this, Pamela. It could mean something," he says.

  "Yeah, like it held up a mannequin covered in fake blood."

  "Excuse me?" I ask.

  Another roll of her eyes makes me wish she would go just a bit too hard and topple herself over on her self-righteous ass. But I'm not that lucky. She stays upright and cocks her hip, flipping her hair back over her shoulder like she's forgotten she's a grown woman supposedly working.

  "Didn't you bother to look at pictures of this place when it was still fairgrounds?" she asks.

  "We did," Sam says.

  She licks her lips, a smug look coming over her face like she is just enjoying this too much.

  "So, you realize that isn't actually a real house. It's a set. That was a haunted house attraction when this was a fair," Pamela explains. "The noose was a prop. Some kids probably snuck in there to prove how big and bad they were to each other. They found some props and thought it would seem edgy if they put one of them up again. It's really not that serious."

  She tosses a glare at me, then glances back at Sam. "Maybe you're spending too much time with her, Sam. You're not thinking straight."

&nb
sp; "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask again. My irritation is through the roof with this woman.

  Sam takes hold of my wrist and guides me back, so I'm slightly behind him.

  "Everybody get back to work," he says to the group that has filtered in from the various points throughout the grounds to watch the growing confrontation. He looks directly at Pamela. "I'm going to look into this, Pamela. I suggest you let Derrick know."

  She bristles, but nods. I think even she understands how little her manager would appreciate knowing something like this happened in a building they were supposed to be managing.

  “I think I can search through the rest of the buildings by myself,” I tell her. “Feel free to wait out here, and I'll let you know if something happens.”

  I don't give her the chance to answer. I know full well I'm under no obligation to have her with me anywhere on the grounds. The owners gave us complete permission to use the property. Tolerating her was a courtesy, but I've reached my absolute limit with the way she looks at me and talks about me.

  It's obvious she thinks something's wrong with me. I'm not far enough removed from our confrontation in the Lionheart Property Management office a few weeks ago to forget her talking about the rumors. Evidently, my triumphant return to my hometown wasn't so triumphant after all. Even helping with the devastating case that lured me back here apparently wasn't enough to keep the abundantly healthy grapevine from passing along stories of my delicate mental health.

  The ladies who lunch, or more appropriately, the ladies who knock back wine, were whispering that the only thing that brought me back here was my time in the FBI chipping away at my sanity, and I bet anything Pamela is the ringleader of it all.

  I don't care so much about rumors floating around about me. When you are perpetually the new girl in town and have a tendency to leave without a word, people talking about you is just something that happens. For the most part, the things made up about me are nowhere near as exciting or as complex as my actual life. It's them tracing my break with reality and questioning my integrity that grates on me. Pamela's persistent perception of me as a romantic rival despite barely being a blip on the radar of my past doesn't help.