by A J Rivers
"Who is this wife? Has anyone spoken with her?" I ask, finishing selecting my peppers and spinning the bag to close it.
"No one can find her."
I pause.
"No one can find her? She's missing, too?" I ask.
"That would be easier to determine if we could find her to begin with. I was able to dig up her information from the social security number used to open the bank account. From there, I could find a marriage license and show that they got married one week before Mason went missing. But after that, it seems like she just dropped off the planet. The only problem is, she didn't exist before that either. I can't find anything about her other than her birth certificate and that marriage license. So, we don't even know where she was or what she was doing or anything. But here's the thing. That's not even the strangest part,” he tells me.
“It's not?”
“No. When I found the bank account, the police requested the transaction history. Two weeks before Mason disappeared, there was a large withdrawal. A couple thousand dollars. But then two days after he got married, more than three times that amount was deposited back into the account.”
"Is that what he's been using since he's been gone?"
"You would think. It would make sense. But no. That deposit is the last transaction in that account," Dean tells me.
I push my full cart toward the cash registers, taking a second to try to wrap my head around what he’s telling me.
"So, this guy started a bank account at some point and put money in it, then withdrew a bunch of money. Then he married someone no one knew existed, and no one can prove exists other than being born and marrying him. Then he deposited a whole lot of money into the mysterious account and disappeared. But the money hasn't been touched," I recap.
"Exactly."
"You're right. That makes no sense."
"That's what I was afraid you'd say," he sighs.
"I promise I'll think about it and see if anything comes to mind," I tell him. "I just got to the line, though, so I'm going to run. Let me know if anything else comes up."
"I will," Dean promises. "Tell Bellamy and Eric, I say hi. I haven't had much of a chance to talk to them recently."
"Definitely. Hopefully, we'll all be able to get together sometime soon."
It's been a long time since the whole extended group has been able to spend any time together. Some of it comes from clashing busy schedules. Some comes from the tension between Bellamy and Eric that developed a few weeks after Greg died. It’s all only really let go within the last few months. Things seem to have settled between them, but I don't know all the details of what happened.
I figure at some point Bellamy will probably fill me in. For now, I'm not going to mention it. All of us have more than enough to think about.
Chapter Five
I unload my groceries onto the conveyor and smile at the young man behind the cash register. It's one of those moments that really puts into perspective how far I've gotten in my life. After my birthday last year, I slipped out of my twenties and into my thirties. Now suddenly, when I see someone even just a few years younger than I am, I immediately think of them as being so young. I feel like they are in their adult years, but I am an adult, in italics.
"Hi, Emma," he says cheerfully.
It's not too much of a surprise, considering I heard him greet Andre Bailey by name when he went through the line ahead of me. But it is impressive he's been able to grasp the names of so many people in town already, considering he has only been working at the grocery store for the last three months.
"Hi," I say, searching for his name. "Gabriel, right?"
He nods, his infectious smile getting even wider. A shake of his head moves a thick lock of dark hair across his forehead and reveals more of his expressive hazel eyes.
“That's right,” he says. “How are you doing today?”
“Doing alright,” I tell him. “How about you? Getting along in Sherwood okay?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “I love it here. I mean, I knew I would. I spent a lot of time here when I was younger.”
“You did?“ I ask. “I don't think I knew that.”
“Yep. That's why I'm back here, actually. My grandmother is here. My grandfather died a couple of years ago, and her health has gotten worse. She hasn't been able to take care of herself recently, so I came to help her out. It's really good to spend time with her, and I love the town. I'm finishing the next couple of years of college with online courses so I can be here with her,” he explains.
“My grandparents lived here too,” I tell him. “That's how I ended up coming here when I was younger.”
He grins. “What a small world.”
“Not really,” I say with half a laugh. “Sherwood is kind of a grandparents’ town. It seems at least half the kids I knew when I was in school here ended up moving into town because this is where their grandparents were. But it does make it special. Who's your grandmother? Maybe I know her.”
“Evangeline Costas?” he asks, glancing up at me as he scans my groceries over the reader.
I think about the name for a few seconds, but it doesn't ring a bell.
“It doesn't sound familiar,” I tell him. “That's the thing about this town. Too small to feel like you are anonymous but too big for you to know everybody around you.”
Gabriel laughs.
“I hear that. I've been trying to learn people's name, so I can say hello to them when they come in the store, but right when I think I've gotten the hang of most of the people who shop here, somebody new comes through the door, and I have to add them to the list,” he chuckles.
“Well, I think you're doing a great job.”
He thanks me and fills a bag with the last of my groceries. Giving him a smile, I take my bags and leave. When the weather is nice, and I only need to pick up a few things at the grocery store, I often walk from home. It's not very far, and the surroundings are beautiful, giving me a chance to think or even just relax my brain. But today it's too cold to haul my bags back to my house. I'm shivering by the time I get to the car and toss everything in the backseat.
Getting in the car, I lock the doors and take a peek in the rearview mirror. I was just standing at the side of the car, looking into the back seat. No one is there, but it's a habit I haven't been able to shake. Maybe now that I'm no longer on active duty, the compulsion will fade. Just like the compulsion that makes my eyes flicker back and forth across the sidewalks and my hands tighten around the steering wheel a little bit more every time I pause at a corner.
It's been nearly a year, I tell myself. I don't have to be this way. Getting the answers I wanted and finally hearing the door of a jail cell slam behind the man responsible for my mother's death and also the one responsible for the torment I went through was supposed to end this. Life is supposed to move forward.
But not yet.
I'm getting there. There have been definite improvements and flecks of color glimmering across the sepia wash that took over my existence in the last couple of years. But the journey hasn't ended. There's still a long path at my feet.
Pulling up in front of my house, I open the door and step out. As soon as my second foot touches the ground, I hear a scream from behind me.
"Catch me!"
Bitterly cold air fills my lungs in a sharp inhale. I whip around to press my back against the driver's door. My hand reaches for my gun just as I see two little children race across the grass of the house across the street. Their father runs after them, his head dropping back to laugh as they slip from his grasp. My heart pounds in my chest, and my hand drops away from my holster.
It's still surreal that someone actually lives in the house across the street from me. I can't walk by the living room window without glancing out and imagining it empty and hunkering, the windows dark and the rooms empty.
But all it takes is for me to close my eyes for an instant, and I can imagine those lights coming on and shadows behind the curtains. Images of
a person who shouldn't have been there. Who no one believed was. Now the house is home to a family just getting started, and the pristine lawn is studded with toys. When the father notices me he waves. Smiling past the still trembling beat of my heart, I wave back and turn to open the back door of my car.
My mind sizzles angrily as I scold myself for the intense reaction. Grabbing everything out of the seat, I head into the house and close the door behind me. It's a relief to hear the click of the deadbolt.
These walls know me, and I know them.
An hour later, I'm in the kitchen, stirring a thick combination of onions, ground beef, tomatoes, and seasonings. On the back of the stove, a pot works on building up to a boil so I can blanch the prepared green peppers waiting on the counter. My front door opens, and I know it's Sam. I expect him to come directly into the kitchen like he always does, but he doesn't. He's moving around in the front of the house. Curiosity brings me to turn down the temperature on the stove and go into the living room to find out what he's doing. I gasp as I step through the arched entryway.
Sam stands up from where he's lighting candles lined up along the coffee table. Several more have already been clustered on either end table. A potted rosebush sits on the windowsill, and I can see the golden glint of a box of chocolates sticking up from a shopping bag sagging on the couch.
He looks up at me.
“It isn't ready yet,” he tells me.
“What is all this?” I ask, taking another step closer to him.
Sam grins and reaches into the bag for the box of candy. He gives me a kiss, then holds it out to me.
“Happy Valentine's Day,” he says.
The greeting twists in my chest and strikes me as odd.
“But it's…”
“I know,” Sam says. “Valentine's Day was a week ago.”
“And we agreed not to do anything,” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes,” he tells me. “I know. So, I didn't do anything on Valentine's Day. But I wanted to do something special for you. I knew this time of year was going to be especially hard for you, and I just want you to know how important you are. I love you.”
He kisses me again, and I rise up on my toes just enough to press my lips against him a little harder, so the kiss lasts longer. He presses back, and I kiss him again.
“I love you, too. Thank you for all this. Even if I did spoil your preparations a little.”
Sam smiles.
“That's alright. I rarely get to slip anything past you, so just getting the candles lit feels like a victory,” he says.
“It will be perfect for a drink before dinner,” I tell him. “I just need to add the rice to the filling, stuff the peppers, and put them in the oven.”
“Let me help,” he says. “That way we can get to that drink faster.”
Chapter Six
We don't make it to that drink until almost an hour later. I'm still reclined on the couch wearing Sam's t-shirt and curled up under a blanket when he comes back into the living room in the bathrobe that started out living at his house but migrated over here. Our nights together have started outnumbering our nights apart. He finishes pouring a glass of wine and hands it down to me, then pulls another glass from where he has it tucked under his upper arm and pours another for himself.
“The peppers look good. Just a few more minutes for the cheese to melt and get brown,” he tells me.
“Good. I'm hungry,” I say.
Sam sits at the end of the couch and takes a sip of his wine.
“Did you really pull your gun on the family across the street?” he asks.
I shake my head as I swallow my own sip.
"I didn't actually pull it. But I reached for it. All the little boy did was yell 'catch me', and I went into full-on defense. It's not even my service piece. I would officially be one of those people."
"One of those people?" he asks.
"Those armed civilians who freaks the hell out and waves their guns around to look impressive if someone sneezes," I say.
"That's not exactly a valid analogy. You are still a special agent. Just because you are stationed in Sherwood rather than near Quantico and you don’t go into Headquarters every day doesn’t diminish that. Not being on an active investigation at the moment doesn’t make you a civilian. Even if you weren’t an agent, you are still a member of the Sherwood Police Department. And even if you weren't even that, that isn't the reaction you had. You have PTSD, Emma. You're working through it. Honestly, I admire the hell out of you for being able to be as put together as you are right now. But you're still going to have moments that get to you. There will be things that set you off. It’ll take time, but eventually, it will get better," he comforts me.
I look down at my glass and swirl my wine around for a few seconds, watching it cling to the sides, then slide away.
"At my therapy session yesterday, she started talking about Leviathan again. Asking me if I think they are behind Greg's death."
"She wants you to work through your frustration at the case going cold," Sam says.
"Of course I'm frustrated," I reply, sitting up and setting my glass on the table. "Don't you think I should be? I dedicated my life to solving crimes and bringing in criminals so they can't hurt anyone else. I've solved much harder, much more complicated crimes. But I can't figure out who shot my ex-boyfriend a couple hours after he walked out of a hospital. It's been a year, and I'm no closer now than I was when it happened."
"That's not your fault," Sam points out. "If it was Leviathan, it's going to be extremely difficult to prove. You know that as well as I do. They work in the shadows, and the followers are the two most dangerous things cult members can be: obsessed and anonymous. The only lead you would have to build on is Jonah, and he was in jail before Greg died."
"That's the thing, though. I don't know if it was Leviathan. I know that seems like the most obvious option, and I'll admit it was the first thing that went through my mind when we started investigating. But the longer I looked at it and the more I thought about it, the less likely it actually seems that this was a hit put out by Jonah. I think about the way he treated the two men who shot my mother. Or what he did to Greg before he dumped him in my yard.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just… smooth and seamless like a single bullet to the back of the head doesn't fit. Jonah doesn't just kill. He makes a show of it. Remember what Greg told us about the people he removed from Leviathan? They have the tattoos on their backs cut out or burned off, and they're dumped, so they look like transients or gang killings. He wouldn't want to just kill Greg for the sake of having him dead. He would want to send a message.”
“But it wasn't Jonah who killed him,” Sam points out. “He had already been arrested and was in jail when Greg was shot. He could have put a hit out on him and the person he chose decided to go for a more subtle approach.”
“It's possible,” I note. “But it still doesn't feel right. It's been almost a year. And we haven't heard anything else. No one has come after me. No one has come after you or Bellamy or Eric or Dean. No one's gone after my father. I can understand the organization being up in arms about their leader being taken down, but if they were going to kill Greg out of retaliation, they would come after us, too.”
“But if his murder wasn't related to Leviathan, who would it be?" Sam asks.
“I don't know. That's where all the frustration comes in. I just don't understand why I can't figure it out. There has to be something. I have to be missing something,” I say.
“You and everyone else has been working on the investigation,” Sam tells me. “You can't put that on yourself. Nobody has let this go. The case is cold, but it doesn't mean it's forgotten.”
The timer on the oven goes off, and I toss the blanket off my legs to go into the kitchen. Sam leans against the door and watches me pull on a pair of oven mitts and reach down to pull out the pan of bubbling peppers. Cool air rushes up the back of the shirt as it rises up, and Sam give
s a little moan of appreciation. I flip my hair to the side to look at him, and he grins, pushing away from the door and heading back into the living room.
A surge of love rushes through me, the emotion heady and silly at first, then deepening until it aches in my throat and burns in my chest. Every day I'm thankful for that man. Every day I remind myself how lucky I am to have him in my life.
I came so close to not having that. Thinking it was my only option, I walked away from him when we were younger. I put my entire life behind me so I could focus completely on my career. He could have hated me. He could have found somebody else and gotten married and lived the life he always imagined, just without me in it.
But he didn't. He lived and he loved, but we found our way back to each other. Not a single day goes by that I don't thank every entity I can think of for the chance to have him. Sam is my strength without making it impossible for me to stand on my own. He's my comfort, my reassurance, my reminder of beauty and hope when my world gets dark. He's my laughter when I can't find humor and my tears when my heart is hardened too much to cry.
I've seen enough death and horror in my life to know I could survive if he was gone. My lungs would keep dragging in air and expelling it again. My heart would keep pumping blood through veins that rush it to cells because they have no other purpose. My brain would send signals and form thoughts, etch memories, sleep, and wake. I would survive.
But I certainly wouldn't live.
Chapter Seven
March comes and with it the very first signs of spring. The shift in temperature that comes with the changing of the seasons has always fascinated me. It seems there shouldn’t be any difference in what a certain temperature feels like just because of the time of year, but that's not how it is.
In the fall, the chill that starts to form in the air creeps around the edges of warmth, gradually crystallizing and sharpening down into sheets of winter ice. The spring is different. It can be the exact same temperature, but the cold feels thin and fragile. The new warmth rises up from underneath, tenuous and fleeting.