by A J Rivers
It's not that I don't miss them or my house. It's not that I don't miss my life in Quantico. It’s just that being in Sherwood has simply been what's right for me while I'm on leave. I'm still deciding what I'll do next, but until that decision comes, here I am. Which means I anticipate my regular calls from the two of them, updating me on what they consider the real world. If I can convince them to come for an actual visit rather than them constantly trying to lure me back, maybe I can change their perception.
"I have an update," he starts.
"An update?" I ask, surprised by the matter-of-fact declaration.
“About Greg,” he says.
“I know you're not supposed to be talking to me about this,” I tell him. “I don't want you to get in any trouble.”
Even as I say it, I hope he'll ignore me. I can't stand being forced to stay on the outside of this investigation. I should be right in the middle of it. I already am right in the middle of it. Greg Bailey was my boyfriend right up until just shortly before his disappearance. I spent more time with him and knew him better than anyone else in the bureau. Creagan calls it a conflict of interest, but I think of myself as a resource.
“I know that,” Eric says. “We'll just have to be clandestine.”
“And you’re all right with that?” I asked.
“Some things are worth shaky ethics.”
“Alright,” I shrug. “What did you find out?”
“It turns out the video didn't require Mary's phone at all. It wasn't sent to you directly from her device. At least, it didn't have to be. The video automatically uploaded to her cloud. So, it could be accessed from any device using the internet. It had to be accessed by password but could more easily be opened using a saved access on a device she used frequently. Which brings up the significant and prevalent problem with people not properly securing their devices and utilizing passwords that are easily cracked. I can't even believe there are still people in this day and age who use the same password for every single account and device they have access to. All it takes is one person to figure out the right combination of words and numbers, and they can get to absolutely anything in that person's life. And the people who use their names or their pet’s names or their favorite activity? It's so beyond sanity, and I can't even wrap my head around it,” Eric rants.
I close my eyes and nod my way through his jabbering. It's not the first time I've heard it. There's a woman who favors the same pizza shop I used to frequent nearer my other house who is likely still recovering from the dressing-down Eric gave her when he inadvertently found out she used her birthday as her debit card pin. Some people have religion. Some people have politics. Eric lives and dies on cybersecurity.
"Eric, there's really not much we can do about the password situation right now. Can we detour away from proper virtual self-protection methods and find our way to your point?" I ask.
He lets out a huff of frustration.
"Yes. Sorry. My point is, Mary Preston's phone being in the evidence locker and no one getting near it since the bombing doesn't really matter. Whoever sent you that file didn't do it from her phone, but from the cloud," he says.
"How could that have happened?"
"Well, that's where we hit a bit of a speed bump. I'm not sure how it was done. Her family would have no reason to go into her computer, find that video, and send it to you. They don't know you or your connection to Greg. Besides, she didn't live with them, and the chances of them knowing her passwords are slim."
"Even though poor password creation and security is rampant?" I ask.
"Even though. But here's the thing. We haven't been able to find her laptop. It would make sense she would have it with her. She takes her videos with her phone but would use her laptop to edit and post them. Her previous videos said she was taking the trip so she could make videos about it, so it would make sense she would have her computer with her," he explains.
"But no one knows where it is?" I ask.
"No. We assumed it was destroyed in the blast," he tells me.
"Was the area around her searched thoroughly for it? If it was there during the explosion and was destroyed, there would still be pieces of it around her," I point out.
"Unless it was completely destroyed and mixed in with the rest of the debris," he counters.
"It was a computer, Eric. Not a sack full of packing peanuts. A human body is a lot more susceptible to being blasted and burned to unrecognizable bits by an explosion than a computer is. Especially if it was kept in a case. Not that I would expect it to be sitting there intact, but there should be some sign of it near her."
"The official findings of the search didn't identify any elements of a laptop," Eric insists. "So, it was either completely destroyed there at the bus station when the bomb went off, or it wasn't with her and no one knows where it could be. Her family has already gone to her apartment and completely cleared it out. There was no sign of a computer. They even went back through everything they took out of there. It was still in boxes in their spare bedroom. They didn't find a computer, a tablet, anything like that."
"Do you know if they found a laptop charger?" I ask.
"A charger?"
"Yeah. You said they didn't find a computer or tablet when her family went through the apartment, but do you know off the top of your head if they found a charger?"
"I don't know. We asked them to do an inventory. I'll check it. Why do you want to know?" he asks.
"Because a charger means a device. Most people would use a laptop for more significant activities like editing and loading videos, but have you seen some of the phones these days? I'm fairly certain a few of them are just tiny transformers and could turn into full-on servants if they got enough gumption. Mary very well could have one of the more advanced phones and be capable of doing everything she needs to do for her videos right from it. I watched a few of her other videos, and none of them were terribly advanced. But if her parents found a computer charger in her apartment, that means she definitely did have a laptop," I explain.
"And if she had her computer with her when she was at the bus station, most likely the charger would be with her, too. So, if they have a charger, the computer was still at her apartment when she went, and someone must have taken it before her family got there to remove her belongings," Eric realizes.
"Exactly."
"I'll look into it, and I'll let you know. How has everything been there?" he asks.
He doesn't want to say it outright, but I know he's making sure the frightening events that started happening earlier in the fall haven't continued. The feeling of someone being in my house still slithers along my spine and occasionally makes me stop and listen to insignificant sounds a little longer.
"Everything has been fine," I tell him. "There's a new neighbor moving in across the street. We've voted Trivial Pursuit for game night this week. They still won't go for Twister. I'm still working on that fundraiser. There. You are now updated on the news."
"Riveting. I don't know how you stand the excitement of living there."
My mind wanders back to the noose hanging in the building at the fairgrounds.
"I get by."
Chapter Fifteen
Even standing on her front porch with the open cake stand flagrantly displaying a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls with enough cream cheese frosting to pool on the ceramic doesn't bring Ruby to her door later that afternoon. The other half of the dough went into the freezer so I can let them rise slowly tomorrow and bake them up for game night. But these really should be eaten today while they're still fresh. I try not to let myself worry throughout the rest of the afternoon and evening. This woman is almost a stranger to me. If I scrape together all the minutes we've spent talking since the first time I laid eyes on her, it would add up to less than an hour. That's not exactly a deep emotional investment.
Yet I can't stop my mind from going back to her. And what she told me about her ex. It's a story I've heard too many times before. Even saying tha
t feels like a cliché. It's a horrifying reality that virtually everyone has someone in their life who is or has been affected by abuse. But many would never know it.
Most people suffering at the hands of an abusive partner or family member don't want to advertise it to the world. Whether out of fear of making the situation worse, or guilt because of their misguided view that the abuser’s reprehensible, cowardly behavior is somehow their fault, or sheer, basic humiliation, they keep the reality of what they're going through close to them. Some overcompensate by acting happier and more energetic than before, while becoming fiercely protective of their relationship. It can make it extremely difficult to sift out the truth.
Ruby is a woman who has reached her breaking point and decided this time she wasn't just going to stay and be broken even more. She swept up the pieces of herself, pieced them back together in the most convincing semblance of the person she once was, and left. She feels confident and comfortable enough to start talking about the past that made her run, but she's still ready to run again if she needs to. I'm under no delusion she told me everything. That was only a small glimpse into what she went through with that man. But it was enough to keep me glancing out the window and waiting for her to show up again.
Late that night, I’m jolted awake by an echoing thud. I’m not exactly sure what it was, but it sounded like it came from across the street. Maybe Ruby is moving those boxes in her house.
I try to fall asleep again, but the sound repeats. Louder this time. I sigh and embark on what has become my nightly nocturnal stroll through the house, trying to convince myself to sleep.
My feet bring me back into the living room. Relief washes over me when I see the same light across the street I did last night. The front window of Ruby's house glows brightly, and I immediately feel better, and perhaps a little silly, for being so wrapped up in my new neighbor.
Both feelings are short-lived, though. I've only been standing at the window for a few seconds when two shadows appear somewhere deep in the house. The figures come closer to the window, and it takes me a few seconds to realize they are indistinct because semi-sheer curtains have been put up over the glass. I can only make out the shapes of the people, but it's enough to see they're locked in a fierce confrontation. The larger of the two figures grabs onto the smaller one, who I can only assume is Ruby. The man shakes her and slings her to the floor before coming down on top of her.
I instantly burst into action. Running to the back of the house, I grab my phone from my nightstand and yank the drawer open. The emptiness inside it gives me a sinking feeling. When I left FBI headquarters to officially take leave for my mental health, Creagan ordered me to leave my Bureau-issued firearm. It's a standard safety precaution I've seen several times before during my time as an agent. Anyone going into a non-active status for an extended time, particularly those with reasons related to mental health, have their guns secured for them until their return. Most of the time, I don't think about it. But there are moments, like this one, when I feel naked without it.
Running to my closet, I take the next weapon that comes to mind, a small stun gun I bought recently, and dart out of the house. The figures are gone from the window, but the light still intrudes on the dark of the night. I scan my surroundings, bracing myself, and get closer to the house.
In the glow of the light, I see the door is standing open a few inches. There's a streak of something across it. Another step shows it is glistening wet and red. Blood. I rush up to the window and peer inside.
There on the floor, among the move-in chaos, is Ruby's body. Most of her is concealed by the scattered boxes, but I clearly see her legs, bare except for steaks of blood and a dark blue robe tangled around them. The tips of her fingers are visible just beyond one of the boxes.
I want to go inside. My instincts push me to kick the door open and rush in to check on her. My memories and training remind me I am alone. The rest of the street is sleeping, and no one knows I'm out here. It was only a matter of moments from when I watched the assault from the window and ran outside from my bedroom. That means whoever hurt Ruby is very likely still close by. I'm by myself in the darkness, at a disadvantage because I don't know where he is, with only a stun gun to defend myself with.
I hear something behind the house, something rustling that sets my feet moving. Taking my phone from my pocket, I dial Sam and run back to my house. He answers in a groggy voice as I slam the door closed and lock it behind me.
"Emma?"
"Sam, I need you to get up," I hiss.
"Emma? What the hell are you doing? Do you have any idea what time it is?" he asks.
"Yes, I do. I need you to get up and get to my house. Bring your squad car."
"What's going on?" he asks, sounding slightly more awake as the panic in my voice cuts through the sleep and burrows into his brain.
"I think I just witnessed a murder in the house across the street. My new neighbor," I tell him.
"Where are you, Emma?" he asks.
The sleep is gone from his voice, and the scuffling sounds tell me he's already getting dressed.
"I went back to my house," I tell him.
"Thank goodness. You stay put there," he tells me.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.
"You know very well what that means. Stay put. Don't go outside. Don't open the door. Stay away from the window. Wait for me. I'll be right there."
He disconnects before I say anything. The temptation to go to the window is strong, so I go into my bedroom to resist it. I want to watch what might be happening out there, but Sam's right. I need to stay securely inside and away from where I might be seen. Whoever did that to Ruby is not someone I want to know I was watching him.
My front door opens a few minutes later, and I rush out to Sam, meeting him in the hallway.
"You startled me," I say. "I didn't realize you got here."
"I didn't do lights and sirens. If this guy is still around here, I don't want to spook him and make him run," he explains. "Now, tell me exactly what you saw."
I relay the entire event to him, and he listens silently. When I'm finished, he nods his head slowly.
"How were you able to see what was happening inside the house?" he asks.
"I told you, from my living room, there's a clear view of Ruby's house. The light on in her living room lights up the window like a TV screen. She must have just put curtains up because they weren't there yesterday, but I couldn't see everything going on because they were blocking them," I tell him.
"The living room light isn't on," he says flatly.
"What?" I frown. "Yes, it is. It was on when I looked out the window and when I got across the street."
"I just looked at the house before I came in here. It's dark," Sam points out.
Giving him an incredulous look, I push past him back into the living room. I don't even have to get all the way to the window to see there is no glow. The house across the street is completely dark.
"It was on," I insist, pointing toward the window. "That light was on. He must have still been in the house when I was over there."
Sam takes his gun off his hip, and I take a step toward the door, but he holds up his hand to stop me.
"You stay right here. Lock the door behind me but be ready to open it. I'll be right back."
I reluctantly lock the door as he walks out of the house. I want to be out there beside him. It feels like another way I'm just being sat on the sidelines when I could be helpful, but I have to keep down my arrogance. Sam is the one in a uniform and badge right now.
I pace up and down my hallway for what feels like the rest of the night but was likely only a handful of minutes. The door opens, and I run out to the living room. Sam shakes his head.
"Is she dead?" I ask.
"There's no one there, Emma," he says.
"What?" I practically shout, incredulously. "Did you go inside?"
"I couldn't. The door was locked."
"It was open whe
n I left. There was blood on it."
"There was no blood. The door was perfectly clean, shut, and locked. I knocked, but no one answered. I shined my flashlight in the window and didn't see anything."
"Nothing?" He shakes his head, and my ears start ringing. "I don't understand. I was there. Not ten minutes before you got here. The light was on, the door was open, there was a smear of blood across it, and Ruby was dead on the floor."
"Emma, calm down," Sam says, resting his hands on my shoulders. "I know you haven't been sleeping well. You probably had a nightmare or were sleepwalking. It's perfectly normal."
"This wasn't a dream, Sam," I insist. "I know what I saw."
"Sleepwalking can seem very real. I've seen it before. Come on. Let me tuck you into bed so you can get some rest. I'll sleep on the couch tonight to help you feel safe. How does that sound?" he asks.
I want to protest, to tell him to stop infantilizing me, but the sincerity in his eyes stops me. He's not trying to talk down to me. He genuinely wants to take care of me. And to be honest, the thought of him taking up residence in the front room, if just for tonight, sounds fantastic.
He brings me into my room and waits while I slip between the covers. He kisses me goodnight, then turns out the light. I listen to him walking around the front of the house and hear the thud of his boots hit the floor, then his slight groan as he settles onto the couch. Knowing he's there helps me relax, but I can't sleep.
I know what I saw.
Chapter Sixteen
Exhaustion must have taken over at some point, because my eyes snap open, my heart already beating hard in my chest. What happened last night presses down on me. I can still feel the panic, the horrible feeling of watching the attack, and the dread of getting to Ruby's house too late. The sound I heard behind the house is still with me. It was just a rustling, not identifiable as any specific thing. But with Ruby lying dead in the living room and the short time between me seeing the blood on the door and it being gone, the only thing it could have been was the person responsible, running off to escape.