The Girl in Dangerous Waters (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 8)

by A J Rivers

  “It's the truth. I have no reason to lie to you,” he insisted.

  Emma scoffed.

  “Because that's so out of your character? It's so far out of the scope of reality that you would lie about killing a man you already lied to in order to get him to trust you, and then nearly killed him? I'm supposed to believe a man who faked his death twenty years ago after raping a woman and attempting to kidnap her child?” Emma asked.

  His hands slammed down onto the table in front of him, and for an instant, his eyes flashed red.

  "I didn't rape her. Mariya loved me. We were supposed to be together."

  Emma’s eyes drilled into him, not betraying any emotion. Waiting for him to admit to it in his angered state.

  But just as quickly as the rage took over him, it disappeared, and Jonah sat back again. "I am not lying to you, Emma. I have been forthcoming and open since my arrest. You already know about Levi and Thomas. The information Greg gave you was enough to reveal several other deaths, and Fisher's actions have links to me as well. I'm going down for all of those. There's nothing to save at this point. I have no leverage. Given the irrefutable proof of the things I did, there’s no prosecutor in the world who would give me a deal to reduce my sentence merely to get details of one more murder. And one more murder tacked onto me isn't going to complicate my life any further."

  "But it would leave people questioning, which you love," Emma said.

  A smile, more sinister than the one before it, slid onto his lips as he leaned forward toward her.

  "Think of everything I've done, Emma," he said, his voice almost a hissing whisper. "No one has linked my actions to me before. Not because I hid them, but because no one has been smart enough to figure it out. I take pride in what I do. Nurturing chaos will save the world and give all who live in it purpose for existence."

  He sat back. "I won't say I'm not glad Greg is dead. But he was such a waste. Things could have been so good."

  Emma got to her feet as the hope rose in his eyes again, and he reached his hands toward her.

  "No," she said.

  "But they could have been. He could have had so much power. And you. You, Emma. You could have lived a life you could never imagine. I want to give you that life. All of us together, me, you, your brother…"

  She held up a hand to stop him.

  "Dean is not my brother. He is my cousin. My mother knew what you are and went to the doctor as soon as she realized the depths of your disgusting derangement."

  "Please, just listen to me."

  "I don't want to hear it."

  She stalked out of the room, leaving Jonah locked to the table and staring after her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Now

  At first, I think the plane must have hit a rough patch of air, and the shaking I feel is turbulence. But I'm going side to side rather than up and down, and as I get more awake, I hear Bellamy's voice coming at me.

  "Emma, wake up. We're getting ready to land."

  I peel the sleep mask back from over my eyes and peer around. Everyone is doing the shifting around that happens right before a plane lowers back to the ground. The passengers who made themselves at home and scattered their belongings across every available surface scoop them up to shove them back in their bags. People who didn't take a single thing out of their bags suddenly become concerned something slipped out and start searching around. Women check their makeup to make sure the travel didn't melt it off, and men comb at their hair with their fingertips to try to get it back in place from where resting against windows, and seat backs messed it up. It's the process of transitioning back from the suspended reality of travel to the real world.

  Taking my mask off, I stuff it into my bag and sweep my hand through my hair. My phone and a paperback I barely opened joining the mask, I secure my seatbelt, and I'm ready for landing.

  "That took it right out of you, huh?" Bellamy asks.

  "You were out like a light before the snacks even came by," Eric adds from the aisle seat.

  I nod, letting out the last remnants of sleep with a yawn.

  "I haven't been getting the best sleep at home," I admit. "Being on the plane helped."

  "Because of the movement?" Bellamy asks.

  "Because no one can get in," I say. "People might complain about all the security measures and having to show fourteen types of ID, your blood type, and your family lineage to get onto a plane these days, but I'm more than happy about it. At least I know there's a record of every person on here, and no one could just follow me on board. And if someone did happen to try something, it's a contained space so they wouldn't be able to get away."

  Bellamy shifts to press her back against the seat and stare straight ahead, her hands clamping around the ends of the armrests.

  "Well, let's just sketch that onto a postcard. First vacation memories," she mutters.

  I know the thought makes her uncomfortable, but it's the truth. Being contained on the airplane six miles above the ground gave me a sense of control and security I don't have when I'm at home. I can take care of myself, of course, but after way too many close calls over the last couple of years, I don’t like taking any risks.

  Sam makes me feel safe, and when he's there with me, I'm not worried about myself. I believe he would never let anything happen to me if he had any way of stopping it, and he would do anything to protect me. I want to protect him. It's the fear that something will happen to him that keeps me from being truly relaxed and at ease at night at home.

  I know full well that his being associated with me puts him in danger. Just the fact that he is in my life creates risk for him, and I hate that. I can't bear the thought that something might happen to him because of his connection to me. Things are going so well between us, and he is more precious to me than I ever knew. He has already suffered because of his relationship with me. There are still scars on his back, and he deals with chronic pain in his hip from being hit by a car when I got too close to unraveling the truth behind a cult. I'm always afraid something more will happen to him.

  The plane lands smoothly, and when we exit into the small airport, we see a man standing off to the side, holding a sign with our names on it. I smile at him as we walk up to him

  “Hi,” I say. “I'm Emma Griffin.”

  Impossibly straight, white teeth beam out at me from a massive smile.

  "Welcome to Windsor Island. I'm Joshua. Good to meet you, Miss Griffin," he says, an accent I can't exactly place lilting his voice. "And these must be your friends."

  "Yes. This is Bellamy, and this is Eric."

  "Alright then. Now that I've collected you, let's get you to the resort," he says and starts toward the door.

  "We need to pick up our luggage," I tell him.

  He shakes his head, almost laughing.

  "No, no. That's already been taken care of for you. Everything is taken care of. Come now. Windsor Palms Resort awaits you."

  We follow Joshua outside to a sleek white car, and he helps us load our carry-ons into the trunk. The already blasting air conditioner is blissful, even after the short walk through the blistering island heat.

  “I can't wait to get into the pool,” Bellamy says, leaning her head back and pulling the neckline of her shirt away to let some of the air on to her chest.

  Joshua chuckles from the driver’s seat.

  “Don't worry. It feels much cooler down by the water. The beautiful breezes and lush grounds make the resort very comfortable,” he tells us.

  The drive to the resort is long and meandering, and I quickly realize why the airport is so small. There doesn't seem to be anything else on the island. We see no other businesses or houses. The only structures that show up among the trees and dense, beautiful greenery look like gazebos or greenhouses.

  “Is the resort the only thing on the island?” I ask.

  Joshua looks at me through the rearview mirror and nods.

  “That's it,” he says. “It was a private island, and Mr. Windsor
, the owner, wanted to keep it that way even after he opened the resort. He wants all his guests to feel like they have the run of the island. Of course, there are a few places where guests shouldn't go.”

  “Oh?” I ask.

  “There are mysteries on the island,” he tells me. “Legends. This island had been uninhabited for hundreds of years. But they say that long ago, people lived here on this island. But they upset the ocean spirit. People ventured into the water and down into the caves and never came back. If you look out into the water and come out onto the rocks when the moon is just right, you may see the ocean spirits. We only have to hope they are satisfied and don't get angry again.”

  I wait for his booming laugh, but it doesn't come. A few seconds later, the narrow road we've been following widens, and I get my first glimpse of the resort. Surrounded by tropical flowers and elaborate fountains, it looks like a painting, almost too beautiful to actually exist. Bellamy gasps beside me, and when I glance over at her, I notice Eric slide a look in her direction.

  Attendants are waiting for us when we step out of the car, and Joshua hands them our carry-ons. A man in a pale gray suit greets us with a wide smile and outstretched hands. There are the beginning traces of white flecked through his dark hair, but his brown eyes are warm and inviting.

  "Welcome," he says. "We've been expecting you. I am Alonso Ordoñez, one of the managers of Windsor Palms Resort. Please, let me show you to the reception desk."

  I follow him through automatic glass doors into the lavish lobby. A waterfall tumbles down a rock wall in the middle of the space while huge skylights flood the area with light. Gatherings of plush furniture arranged throughout the lobby invite guests to relax and socialize, which several are doing. The atmosphere and energy of the resort is breezy and carefree, but the carefully orchestrated transportation and service tells me there are strict, complex protocols happening behind the scenes to maintain that feeling for the guests.

  The woman at the desk smiles as Alonso walks up to her and introduces us.

  “Welcome to Windsor Palms,” she says. “My name is Constance. Congratulations on winning your stay here.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “Is there anything I can do right now to ensure your trip is everything you hoped for? Any special requests I may be able to fulfill for you?” she asks.

  “Not that I can think of,” I tell her.

  Bellamy and Eric nod their agreement.

  “Then I will have the attendants bring you to your rooms. Your luggage is already waiting for you there. If you can think of anything you may like, please don't hesitate to get in touch with me. I am a simple phone call away,” she says, then gestures for the three men holding our carry-on bags.

  “Thank you,” I tell her again and fall into step behind the man carrying my bags.

  The three men lead us along a hallway leading away from the lobby to a door that brings us into a breezeway. We follow them along a path weaving through trees and plants that make the air thick with a fresh, sweet scent. The greenery ends, and we see the pristine beach and blue ocean a few hundred feet away at the bottom of a slight grassy slope beside the path.

  We make it to the guest building and ride a fast, smooth elevator several floors up before being taken to our separate rooms. The attendant uses the key Constance gave him to unlock the door, then steps aside so I can walk in.

  "Your luggage is in the bedroom," he tells me, gesturing to one side of the room. "The pool is at the end of the building. Meals are available in the lobby or can be delivered to your room. Cocktails are served in the lobby every evening. Please let me know if there is anything I can do for you."

  "Thank you very much," I tell him.

  He leaves with a tip in hand, and I step up to the glass door leading out onto the balcony to admire the incredible view. Only when I release the latch and grasp the handle to open the door, it won’t move.

  Chapter Twelve

  I'm still shaking the handle on the balcony door when the door to the room opens.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” a voice says behind me.

  I turn around and see a beautiful woman in her late teens or early twenties standing just inside the door, an armful of towels held in front of her. Her crisp uniform tells me she works for the resort, and the light in her eyes speaks to hope and life. I shake my head.

  “It's okay,” I say. “Come on in.”

  She takes another few steps in and closes the door behind her.

  “I'm just bringing fresh towels,” she explains. “I didn't realize you'd already checked in.” She tilts her head to look around me at the door. “Are you having trouble with the handle?”

  I look at my hand still wrapped around the metal and give a short laugh.

  “Yes, I am. It doesn't seem to want to work,” I tell her.

  She sets the towels down on the back of a couch and comes toward me with a friendly smile.

  “Don't worry,” she says. “It's not just you. Some of these doors are a little tricky. It seems there was trouble when they were installing them.” She gives me a secretive look out of the corner of her eye. “But you didn't hear that from me.”

  “Of course not,” I nod.

  “You see, the doors are positioned just slightly off, so they sometimes get caught and latch incorrectly. It makes them very easy to open. That includes from the balcony. Since the balconies can't be accessed through anything but the rooms themselves, it's not too much of a problem, but it can be frustrating when they don't stay fully shut from the inside. Many guests leave their doors open all the time, so they may not notice the issue. But those of us who close them in between guests rather than leaving them open have a trick.”

  She shows me a small piece of metal bent and positioned toward the bottom of the door to keep it in place. A flick of her finger releases the piece, and she gestures to the handle. I barely pull on the door, and it slides open.

  "Oh," I say, surprised by it gliding open.

  "See? We are working on getting these doors replaced, but since there haven’t been any guest complaints, it hasn’t been a priority. The resort is still fairly new, so Mr. Windsor seems to discover new things he wants to change and improve just about every day."

  "The owner is on the property regularly?" I ask.

  "No," she shakes her head. "Not regularly. But he comes in occasionally. I've worked here for three months and have only seen him twice. He is very kind though. He made it a point to stop and talk to each of us. Treated us like people."

  That comment strikes me. "Like people? I mean… aren't you?"

  She picks up the towels and smooths them over her arm again.

  "You might not think so, the way some of the people around here treat us."

  "The guests?" I ask, hating the way her eyes darken just a little when she talks about it.

  "Most of our guests are… very rich. They like to throw their money around and think it can buy them anything they want, including the ability to treat anyone however they want to. They see the people who work here as less than them and aren't afraid to show it." She suddenly looks embarrassed, like she just realized what she was saying. She covers her eyes with her hand and shakes her head. “I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be saying things like that to you.”

  “No,” I tell her, reaching my hand out to stop her before she can walk away. “Don't worry about it. I didn't pay for my stay here, so you don't need to count me among them. And even if I did, I'd never be that way.”

  She smiles, her shoulders relaxing.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “I'm Emma,” I tell her.

  "Graciela," she introduces herself. "It's nice to meet you."

  "You, too," I smile.

  Someone knocks on the door, and Graciela looks at me as if for confirmation. I nod at her, and she steps back to open the door. Bellamy comes in, already changed from the clothes she wore on the plane to a floral dress that flows down to the metallic gold sandals that show off her perfec
t pedicure. Large brown sunglasses I won't tell her make her look like a fly are flipped up onto the top of her head, and she looks me up and down.

  "You're still dressed," she observes.

  "Should I not be?" I ask, raising my eyebrows at her.

  "I'll put these in the bathroom for you," Graciela says.

  "Oh, Graciela, this is my best friend, Bellamy. She's here at the resort with me and our other best friend, Eric. B, this is Graciela."

  The two women exchange pleasantries, and Graciela disappears into the bathroom.

  "I thought we were going to go down to the pool," Bellamy says.

  "Right now? We just got here," I raise an eyebrow.

  “Is there some sort of time limit like there is with eating? You shouldn't swim thirty minutes after eating or traveling?” she asks. “Come on. We are wasting precious island time.”

  “I just wasn't up on the itinerary,” I tell her. “Give me a minute, and I will change.”

  Graciela gives me a knowing look as she slips out of the bathroom and heads to the door to the room.

  “If you need anything,” she starts, and I nod.

  “I'll let you know,” I tell her. “Thank you again.”

  “Absolutely. Enjoy your swim.”

  Bellamy follows me into the bedroom, and I dig my bathing suit out of my suitcase.

  “You haven't even unpacked yet?” she asks.

  “How can you possibly have unpacked and changed by now?” I ask.

  “I'm efficient at vacationing,” Bellamy offers.

  “I've only managed to get in the room and learn how to open the balcony door,” I tell her. “But I'll catch up.”

  With my hair twisted up on top of my head, my feet feeling happily freed from socks in a pair of flip-flops, and wearing a dress similar to Bellamy's over my bathing suit, I walk with her down to the brick path we followed from the lobby. Eric is already waiting there; his head tucked down as his thumbs fly across his phone screen. Bellamy reaches out and plants her hand right on top of the screen, forcing him to look up.