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

by A J Rivers

  “The wrong one?” Sam frowns.

  “He got the numbers mixed up. When the police showed up to the address he gave them, it wasn't that kid’s house. Them being there startled the man inside, and he stepped out onto the porch. He was holding a lighter, but they thought it was a gun and he was shot dead right in front of his door. Don't you see? This has so many similarities,” I say. “Someone orchestrated this to directly remind me of that.”

  “There is no evidence of that,” Sam says. “Emma, you know as well as I do there has to be evidence. There has to be a clear path, and right now, the only clear indicators are pointing right to you. Considering everything that's been happening recently and the shift in how people are seeing you, I can't just let you walk away.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t you see it?”

  “People already know what happened. They know there's a man lying in critical condition in the hospital, fighting for his life because he was shot in the middle of the library three feet away from you. And they know you were arrested. As Sheriff, my responsibility is to the people of my town. They elected me, and they trust me. I can't let them down by turning a blind eye to this just because it's you.”

  “Are you booking me?” I ask in shock.

  "I have to hold you while we look into this. The situation with you is becoming dangerous, and I can't let it keep happening. When we have more information, we'll decide where to go from there."

  Chapter Forty-Six

  It was already well into the evening by the time Sam came into the interrogation room to question me, so there's no hope of me getting out of the cell they book me into before morning. The door closes behind me with a thick clang. It makes me feel like I can't breathe. The walls feel tight, and the light overhead is too much, even in its dimmed state.

  They expect me to sleep. They think I will lie down on the thin mattress draped across a piece of metal and rest. As if there's anything in this world that can make me feel relaxed right now.

  I think about the doctor coming over and giving me the sedatives that put me to sleep so quickly. The prescription for the rest of the sleeping pills is still at home, sitting on my bedside table waiting for me to come to a conclusion as to whether I'll fill it or not. I wonder how that will play into this. Anyone who finds out I took medication that was completely new to me right before this incident happened will jump to conclusions. There have been so many cases of people taking medications that are meant to help them, only to find out they have horrific unintended consequences. It wasn't too long ago that a man who took sleeping pills to help him combat lifelong insomnia ended up murdering his in-laws in the middle of the night.

  I know I didn't do anything. I have nothing to do with what happened to that man in the library, but my inability to sleep and taking medication will become a part of this. I pace the cell throughout the night, trying to remember everything I possibly can about my old cases. They don't seem related. They don't feel like they have anything to do with each other, yet someone chose them. What's more important, they're going to choose another one. There's going to be something else, and the consequences could be dire if I can't stop it before it happens.

  The night stretches on. It feels like I've been pacing for days when my legs finally get tired, and I'm forced to lie down on what passes for a mattress. I'm staring up at the ceiling when the cell door opens. I sit upright and see Sam standing at the door. He looks like he hasn't slept, either. His clothes are wrinkled, and his eyes are drawn and red.

  “You can go,” he says.

  “I can?”

  “Go home,” he says. “Don't stop anywhere else. Don't talk to anybody. Go home. I can't hold you for any longer until there's more evidence, but I also can't let you cause any more trouble. I'm sorry, Emma. I wish it didn't have to be this way. I hate that this is happening to you, but my hands are tied.”

  I walk past him out of the cell to make my way to the small room where I can collect the belongings they took from me last night.

  "Are you coming with me?" I ask. "You look like you need some sleep."

  "I have an investigation to run," he says. "I'll catch some sleep in the back when I have a chance."

  "Sam, I need to tell you what's going on," I say.

  "Right now, we have to hope that man doesn't die and that someone is able to prove you aren't the one who made that phone call," he says. "I don't want to bring charges on you."

  "I told you, my phone was here. I couldn't have made that call," I insist.

  "Your phone was here. We recovered it and got corroboration from Edna. But that doesn't necessarily prove anything," he says.

  "What do you mean?" I ask incredulously.

  "I shouldn't be talking to you about this without an attorney present," he sighs.

  Anger starts boiling inside me.

  "I don't need a fucking attorney. I need you to be straight with me.”

  "Just because you left your phone here doesn't mean you don't have another one. The phone left here is inoperable. It won't turn on. There is nothing to say you didn't get another phone attached to the same number and have that."

  "It's not inoperable. It's bricked. Like I tried to explain to you, it's being controlled by a program someone installed on it. It should be easy to prove I don't have another phone with the same number. Just contact my provider," I say.

  "Emma, I know how to do my job. This is an investigation you aren't going to be able to control. We're going to contact the service provider, but it's Saturday. The chances of them getting back to us are slim. It will take time," he says. "You're just lucky I was able to get you out before then. You could have been spending the entire weekend in that cell."

  "Yes. I feel so lucky."

  I collect my things and walk out to the lobby, but Sam follows me.

  "I thought you weren't coming with me," I say.

  "I'm not. I just thought I would walk you to your car," he tells me.

  It's still waiting where I left it. As I approach, I notice something fluttering in the morning air from under the windshield wiper. My stomach tightens, and I prepare myself, almost hoping for a threatening note, so I have something I can show Sam. Instead, I find a parking ticket.

  "Power-hungry son of a bitch," I grumble, snatching the ticket from under the wiper.

  "I might know someone who can take care of that for you," Sam says, trying to inject some levity into a moment woefully undeserving of levity. He feels the tension and tries another approach. "There wasn't anything at your house when I went and looked yesterday. But if you're uncomfortable and you don't want to be there, you can always go to my house."

  I shake my head. “No. I'm not going to put you in that position. I'm sure it will be fine.”

  He closes my door, and I drive away, waiting until I know he can't see my reflection in the mirror anymore to let myself cry.

  I walk around to my backdoor and make sure it's closed, then check every window before I return to the front door and go inside. My house feels quiet and unassuming. There's none of the strange, tingling feeling that comes from something being off within your space. I felt that before. I wait just a few steps inside the still-open door to sense if anything is different, but no matter how long I stand there, nothing changes. Relieved, I close and lock the door. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten anything since early yesterday. I'm tempted to order a pizza, but the risk of the delivery boys snapping a picture and me ending up on some Community Hall of Shame website stops me. Instead, I settle for a massive bowl of popcorn, promising myself a real meal when I can build up the energy.

  I take my place on my couch, open my computer, and pull up the file of cases again. A thought occurs to me, and I get out my burner phone. Realizing my collection of phone numbers I have completely memorized is limited, to say the least, I pull up a new window and search for the phone number to Lionheart Property Management.

  “Lionheart Property Management, this is Derrick. How can I hel
p you?”

  “Hi, Derrick . This is Emma Griffin. I need a quick favor,” I say.

  “Emma, are you all right? I heard what happened,” he says.

  “Well, you heard what people think happened. But that's not the point right now. Did Pamela come into work today?”

  “Are you asking that because you're planning on coming up here again?”

  “No. I just genuinely need to know if she came into work,” I say.

  “No, she didn't. I spoke to her this morning she said she had a family emergency she was dealing with,” he says. “I'm hoping it works out for her. To tell you the truth, I didn't even know she had a family.”

  “I hope it works out, too.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” he asks.

  “No. That's all. Actually, can I have her cell phone number? I have something I need to ask her,” I tell him.

  He gives me the number, and I thank him before hanging up. I dial the number, but it rings several times without answer. Outside, I hear a door slam heavily and an engine rev. I end the call and call again. It rings a few times and goes to voicemail as I walk across the room to the window.

  “Pamela, this is Emma. I sure hope you listened. Call me when you get this.”

  I watch as the garage door to what I thought of as Ruby's house opens and a car I don't recognize slides inside. The door closes, but a moment later opens again, and the car slides back out. I pick up the phone again and call Derrick back.

  “I'm going to sound like a broken record here, but humor me,” I say. “Did anyone have a showing at 2021 Candlewood today?”

  “Yes, actually. It's been getting some new attention thanks to recent events. Several people have called wanting to see it. Without Pamela here, I've had to have other agents step in,” he tells me.

  “Thanks,” I say. “That makes me feel better.”

  I get off the phone and go back to the couch. People have called me many things during my life, but that's the first I've been referred to as ‘recent events’. At least I appreciate his attempt at subtlety. He's one of the few people in town who hasn't either implied or explicitly stated that they think I'm one green cherry short of a fruitcake, and it feels good to at least have that going for me.

  And speaking of cake…

  I pick up the phone again and look up another number. Pearl answers on the second ring.

  “Hi Pearl, it's Emma,” I say.

  “Emma, child. What is going on? Are you alright? I heard you were arrested. I thought that can't possibly be. Not Emma.”

  "I was arrested," I tell her flatly.

  "On the other hand, you have been known to get yourself into things. What's going on?" she asks.

  "Everything's going to be alright. No matter what happens, it's all going to be fine. I can promise you that." The words feel heavy in my throat, but I mean them. Somehow, I'll see them through.

  "That's good to hear, Emma. Now, what can I do for you?"

  "I just have a question. Did you have chocolate cake at the diner yesterday?"

  "I certainly did. It was the special dessert. Dark chocolate with fudge icing. Made with Duke's mayonnaise, so it's moist and tender. It was my Mama's recipe," she tells me.

  "Did you have that special a couple weeks ago, too?" I ask.

  "Sure did. Why are you asking? Were you wanting some?"

  "I was just thinking about chocolate cake. It sounds delicious, but I promised Sam I wouldn't leave the house.”

  "Well, If I can find my grandson, I'll have him bring you a piece when the lunch rush is over," she offers.

  "Find him? You can't find Kevin?" I ask.

  "He was supposed to come in today, but I haven't seen him yet. I'm sure there's a gerbil to be splinted, or a rose to be pruned somewhere," she says.

  "Rose to be pruned?" I raise an eyebrow.

  "Oh, yes. Kevin is nothing if not an ambitious boy. When he's not taking care of the animals or here helping me, he picks up jobs with that landscaping company you see around."

  "Davis Landscaping Solutions?" I ask.

  "That sounds right. He says he likes the chance to get into the outdoors when he can because he's so cooped up all the time."

  "I can understand that," I say.

  "Well, it's getting on rush time. I have to run. But I'll get that cake over to you when I can. And keep your chin up, no matter what people are saying about you," she says.

  "Thank you, Pearl."

  I hang up, shaking my head. That's one of those things that's meant well but does little to conceal the truth. The people of Sherwood have lost faith in me. I have to prove them wrong.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The sleepless night in jail catches up with me, and I nod off on the couch at some point in the afternoon. When I snap awake, the light is nearly gone from the house, and the dusky blue of evening has started to set in. I didn't wake up naturally. Something startled me awake, but I'm not sure what it was. I hear it again and realize it's a car. Someone else must be doing a morbid fascination tour of the house across the street. Standing up, I stretch my back and walk over to the window. The car parked in the driveway spikes my interest, and I rush to get my shoes and coat on.

  Pamela's little red Miata sits in the middle of the driveway, the exhaust pumping out clouds into the frigid night air. The garage door slides open, and a silhouette dips down under it to go in. She must think my warning is off now. I remember what she said about being so dedicated to her career.

  Undoubtedly, Derrick finally got in touch with Pamela and let her know just how many people want to see the house. That would draw her back, but she needs to stay vigilant. I jog across the street to talk to her, calling out her name, but she doesn't respond. I'm almost to the garage when I notice more exhaust is coming out from under the door.

  My first thought is whoever is seeing the house must have parked in the garage. But then I realize that doesn't make sense. They wouldn't be able to open the garage door.

  “Pamela?” I call out again.

  The garage door hitches and struggles, stuck in its position. I dip down under it and immediately notice the dark-haired woman standing at the controls, jostling the buttons back and forth to make it act like it wasn’t working. I start to move toward her, but she drops to the floor and rolls under the door into the night. Before I can do the same, the door slams down onto the concrete drive with a sickening thud. There's a sound of metal against metal, and I try desperately to yank the door back up, but it's no use. She's locked it from the outside.

  With the garage door closed, the small space fills with exhaust quickly. It's warmer in here, so the cloud of fumes isn't as dense and visible, but that doesn't mean anything. it's not the appearance of the exhaust that matters. It's not even the elements that make my eyes sting and choke my throat and lungs that I have to worry about. Those are disruptive. I don't want to be exposed to them for any longer than I have to, but because I can see and smell and taste them, I'm not as concerned. It's what I know is building up around me, odorless, colorless, and tasteless, that makes me frantic.

  Carbon monoxide.

  The truck looks familiar. It's not exactly right. There are a few slight differences, but I know I've seen a truck very much like this before. My mind is already starting to get foggy. I reach for my phone but realize I took it out and put it beside my computer when I was sitting on the couch. I didn't think to grab it when I was crossing the street with the intention of talking to Pamela.

  Running up to the front door of the truck, I tug on it, but it's locked. I run around to the other side and find that one locked as well. I climb up into the bed of the truck and try to open the back window, but I realize it's not the type that slides open. Jumping down again, I bound up the four steps leading to the door to go inside the house. It's also locked, and I remember how thick it is and the two locking mechanisms on the other side. There's no way I'm going to be able to kick it in. My only choice is to somehow get inside the truck and
stop it.

  I climb into the bed again and kick at the back window, hoping to pop it out of place. I'm quickly getting disoriented as the carbon monoxide replaces the oxygen in my blood. I'm feeling sleepy, and everything inside me begs to just lie down and rest. I can't. I know I can’t. If I take even a second to rest, it'll be over for me. I have to keep trying.

  I climb down from the truck, looking around for anything I might be able to use. I remember the can of paint sitting up on the shelf and look for it. Relief washes over me when I see it. I scramble up a step stool and reach up for the can. It's nearly empty, but the small amount of paint left in there gives the can enough heft that it just might work.

  I hold the can firmly and swing it back, then smash it forward into the glass at the driver's side window. It doesn't do anything.

  I hit it again and again. Each hit is more difficult as I get short of breath and weak.

  Finally, I notice a chip in the window, then a series of cracks weaving their way along the surface. I use it to give me a second wind and hit the window again. It finally shatters, and I scrape away the pieces of broken glass so I can unlock the door and climb in. As soon as I do, my heart sinks. There's no key. There's no button to end the ignition. There's nothing. Somebody rigged the truck to keep running even without the key.

  I try revving the engine, maybe driving back out of this and crushing the door, but it won’t take. The gas pedal has been cut. This truck isn’t going anywhere.

  Coming back out of the truck, I run up to the door and slam my hands on it, screaming at the top of my lungs. It's only when I see my bloody handprints on the cream-colored paint that I realize I cut myself on the window. The pain hasn't set in yet. I know it will, but for now, my brain is blocking it out.

  I'm so tired. I'm completely exhausted like there's nothing left in me. I use everything I can to pound on the door again and let out another scream to whoever might be on the other side. To any of my neighbors who might be able to hear me. But I honestly don't even know how loud my voice is. I feel like it's a whisper. No matter how much energy and power I try to force into it, it comes through my lips like a murmur.