The Girl Who Remembers

Copyright © 2024 by A.J. Rivers

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Author's Note

Also by A.J. Rivers

Emma

Then

“Tell me what happened.”

I was trying. I’d been sitting in the debriefing room for what felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been that long. They couldn’t have been waiting for my answers for much more than a handful of minutes. I looked down at my hands. They were red and dry from being washed so hard.

“It was chaos.”

I closed my eyes. All around me, I could still hear the screams of the women and children—sharp, puncturing the heavier sounds of the men shouting. Gunshots and flash-bangs drowned them out in some moments. Deathly stillness amplified them in others.

“What do you mean?”

I could still feel the heat against my face and the sweat stinging in my eyes. I could taste salt and dirt in my mouth when I called out for any of the team to hear me. The flames and diversionary tools against the inky night were disorienting.

“I could barely see where I was. The plan didn’t work,” I said.

“It didn’t work?”

“It wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. This was supposed to be a smooth, easy extraction. We’d planned it. Everything was agreed on.”

Even after opening my eyes, I could see everything as clearly as if it was still happening right in front of me. I watched the bullet tear through Agent Bilson. I scrambled to him and dragged him to safety, covering my hands with blood turned to crimson mud with the dry dirt as I applied pressure to the wound. As I was attending to the wounded agent, reassuring him that everything was going to be fine, that we would get through this, a bullet grazed across the top of my arm, just biting through the skin. The bandage wrapped tightly around it now itched and stung. But it was better than the pain and the blood rolling down to my fingertips as I watched a building in the distance burst into flame.

“It didn’t work.”

Now

A cup of tea appears around my shoulder, and I glance back to look at Sam as he sets it down on my table.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Anything?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “Nothing, and it’s driving me up a wall. How could someone do this without me noticing? How did they even know how… or where… or… I just don’t understand.”

I’m rambling, but there’s nothing else coming to mind. It’s been a week since I came home from Bellamy and Eric’s ill-fated honeymoon cruise with the entire group to find a box full of pictures of me sitting on my front porch. But not just pictures of me. Pictures that show very clearly that whoever has been following and tormenting me has been so close and I haven’t even known. Some of these pictures mean they were only a matter of feet from me, right there beside me, and I had no idea I was being watched and photographed.

“You’ll figure it out,” he says.

It’s a platitude, and he knows it. I swallow down the frustration that naturally comes up. It’s not his fault he has no idea what he’s supposed to say at this moment. He’s just trying to be my husband and support me through this. He’s just as exasperated and possibly even angrier than I am. Leaning on trite sayings is his way of coping when there’s nothing he can do and he wants to try to keep me calm.

“How could I not have noticed?” I ask again. “I observe, Sam. That’s what I do. I pay attention to the world around me, and I notice things. It’s how I’ve gotten as far as I have in the Bureau. It’s how I’ve saved lives, including my own. I pay attention. And yet here are pictures of me laughing and enjoying my damn vacation while some psycho is close enough to photograph the salt on my pretzel. I didn’t even know.”

“Emma, you were in one of the most-visited locations on the planet. There were people everywhere. People were looking at us the entire time because we were there. Everybody was looking at everybody. The girls wearing those unitard things that bothered you so much, and the guy with the giant camera that Xavier tried to follow around didn’t notice us either,” Sam says.

“That’s not comforting,” I tell him.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying. The thing is, this is pissing me off and scaring the hell out of me too. I hate that this person can get so close and there’s nothing I can do about it. You do observe everything, Emma. Everything you said about that is completely true. But you can’t expect that you will know everything at every moment. You aren’t superhuman. In these moments, you were just having fun. You didn’t think there was any need for you to be looking at every single person around you. I know you’re frustrated…”

“I’m so much more than just frustrated,” I say, fully aware I’ve used that word myself to describe this situation but not knowing how else to describe it.

This feeling is something I can’t put into words. It’s the knowledge that someone has been invading my life for years, sometimes bombarding me with infuriating reminders of not just their existence, but my inability to get anywhere near them. And at other times, there’s nothing. Long stretches of silence that sometimes give me just the space I need to put them into the back of my mind. The other times leave me even more on edge as I wait for what they are going to do next.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry. It isn’t your fault. You didn’t do this. I just can’t stand that there’s nothing I can do about it. And whoever did this knows it. They know that there’s no way to trace these pictures and know who took them. This is nothing but a way to torment me. That’s all it is, just a way for them to show that they can do this and I can’t stop them,” I say.

“You can stop them. You will. You just haven’t yet. But you will, babe,” Sam says.

The next morning I swap the tea for coffee, and there’s a batch of cinnamon rolls in the oven waiting to be smothered in the cream cheese frosting sitting in the refrigerator. But I’m still poring over the pictures when Sam comes into the room.

“It looks like I timed my day off perfectly,” he says.

I immediately notice there’s a slight tremble in his voice, and he takes a breath after he says it.

“What’s going on?” I ask, setting down my coffee cup and looking over at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Poppy Montgomery died last night. The nurse found her this morning,” he tells me.

Poppy was an elderly neighbor Sam and I have been informally taking care of for the last year or so. She lives a few doors down and across the street from our house. Sam grew up with her as a favorite neighbor. She was the kind of woman who had warm chocolate chip cookies on rainy days and always brought huge baskets of homemade goodies to the neighbors’ houses every Christmas season. She never wanted the acknowledgment for it. Sam often talks about hearing the doorbell ring every December and opening the door to a basket looking like a jewel wrapped in glistening red and green film sitting in the middle of the porch and Mrs. Montgomery scurrying away.

Her husband died about five years ago, and her health had deteriorated considerably since. Sam has always taken it upon himself to go over and mow her lawn or shovel her sidewalk, bring a few groceries or meals, or just visit every now and then. As the years went by and she stopped going out and her health got worse, she hired a nurse to come in every couple of days to help her bathe and make sure she was keeping up to date on her medications. She has no children and no family, so we stepped in and became her family. We didn’t want that nurse to be the only person who ever showed the kind elderly lady any care, so Sam and I started visiting more often, and soon it became a regular thing.

That doesn’t mean that Poppy was helpless or that we took over like she was a child. She was kind and friendly, but that woman was sassy, opinionated, and had a fierce independent streak. If she had any capability of doing it herself, she did. As soon as she discovered grocery delivery, the days of having Sam bring her stuff was over. She’s never allowed us to clean for her beyond tidying up the kitchen after cooking meals for us to have together or taking out the trash. Even though she was getting weaker and it was obvious she wasn’t anywhere near as spry and capable as she wanted to think she was, right up until the last time we saw her just yesterday, she was funny and happy. We had no idea it would really be the last time we saw her and that she would die only hours after we left her house.

“I’m so sorry, honey,” I tell him, getting up to hug him. “I know how much she meant to you.”

He squeezes back. “You too. The two of you had gotten pretty close.”

I feel tears stinging in my eyes as I nod. “I know.”

“I feel terrible that she was just lying there for hours and the nurse found her,” he says. “But she said she was in bed, and it looked like she went very peacefully in her sleep.”

“That’s a blessing,” I say. “And just think… she’s back with Isaac now. She’s been missing him for five years, so I’m sure she’s glad to be done with that.”

He laughs through his tears and nods. “That’s true.”

I can smell the cinnamon rolls and know they are finished. I am not always great at setting timers when I’m cooking, and over the years, I learned to recognize when the rolls were finished only by their smell. Now I do my best to remember to set the timer just for security, but more often than not, I still head to the oven when I start to smell them in all their yeasty, cinnamon-sugar glory.

We’re sitting at the table with the tray of rolls in front of us, a thick layer of cream cheese frosting melting over the top, when Sam’s phone rings. He looks at the screen and pulls a strange face.

“Who is it?” I ask, braving burning my fingertips to peel away another chunk of roll.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t recognize the number.”

He stands up and walks out of the room to take the call. I finish my bite of roll and go to the pantry to search through it and see what I need to get at the grocery store to make for dinner tonight. I haven’t decided yet when Sam comes back into the room. He still has an odd expression on his face, but it’s different than the first one. This one seems more stunned than confused.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Who was it?”

“That was Garrett Hunt. He was apparently Poppy’s attorney,” Sam says.

“Poppy’s attorney?” I ask. “Why is he calling you?”

“Apparently, she stipulated two things about how she wanted her estate handled. One, that any liquid cash left after her debts were paid would be donated to the animal shelter, and two, that I was to be responsible for seeing that her house was cleared out, anything of value liquidated for further donation, and the house sold.”

“What?” I ask, shocked at what he’s telling me.

“Her wishes state that we’ll receive twenty-five percent of the sale of the house, and the rest will be distributed across a selection of animal charities as well as the Sheriff’s Department Community Fund,” he says.

I blink at him a few times. “What?”

I’m still a bit baffled by this whole situation as we head over to Poppy’s house to look around, but it’s starting to make sense. Sam and I—but especially Sam—were the closest thing she had to family, and she needed someone she could trust to handle her last obligations. She couldn’t just leave her house full of stuff and nothing to do with it. It’s a huge responsibility, but Sam told me as we were leaving our house that it’s actually an honor and he’s touched by her thinking of him for it. I promised to help him, and we made our way across the street to really get a look at what we were dealing with.

When we visited Poppy, our time with her was relegated to the kitchen and to the living room where a hospital bed had been set up in the last couple of years to make life easier for her. It meant she didn’t have to climb the steps to get to her own bedroom, though I didn’t know why she didn’t just set up a bedroom in one of the rooms downstairs. I figure I’m about to find out.

“Oh,” Sam says as he’s using the spare key Poppy gave him to unlock the door. “Since we were talking about the Community Fund, don’t forget, I have that planning meeting for the annual community family fun day tonight. Dean and Xavier told me some things that were at the spring festival they went to.”

“And craft fair,” I correct him. “Xavier was very specific about that when he was talking about it. Spring Festival and Craft Fair.”

“And craft fair,” Sam adds with a chuckle. “They told me some of the things that were there, and they sounded really good. I’m going to bring them up at the meeting tonight and see what the guys think about adding them to our current plans. It feels like a lot of the event is pretty much the same every single year, which I guess is good in its way, but I think it would be fun to change things up a bit and make them more interesting.”

He sounds like he’s talking about some massive corporate event and not a little community day and carnival the sheriff’s department uses as a fundraiser every year in our tiny town of Sherwood.

“I remember,” I tell him. “Paul is out for the night too, so Janet and I are going to catch up some. You know, it’s only been a few months, but I’m really noticing not living across the street from them.”

“We still do our game nights,” he points out.

“I know, but it’s not the same as waving at her when we both happen to be checking the mail at the same time or catching up over a cup of coffee in the morning when I catch her during her gardening. It was just nice having them as such close neighbors,” I say.

“Well, you could always get our mail and then run down to their house and meet up with her at the mailbox,” he says. “And coffee, likewise, travels nicely. I hear they even have special insulating vessels just for that purpose.”

I sigh at him, but his slightly crooked little boy smile is always enough to melt me.

We’ve made it into the house and are standing in the den off the living room like we always did when we came in. This was where we waited for Poppy to actually invite us the rest of the way inside. She couldn’t come to the door to let us in, but this way, at least it was like she was getting to welcome us in rather than us just letting ourselves inside. This time we have to realize that her invitation to come into the living room with her is never going to come.

The thought in that moment is sobering. Seeing the empty space where her hospital bed had been and has apparently already been returned to the rental agency is painfully final.

“I don’t even know what to do,” he says. “Where do we even start with something like this?”

“I would say we start in the kitchen,” I tell him. “That’s a pretty easy room. We’ll throw away all the food, papers, junk mail, etc. It’ll be a good warmup to the rest of the house. We’ll definitely need to go pick up some boxes. I know the lawyer said she wanted us to liquidate what’s in here to have more money to donate, but I have a strong feeling a lot of what’s in this house is going to end up at the thrift store.”

“We could have a yard sale,” he suggests. “Call it an estate sale. People love a good yard sale.”

I think about that for a few seconds, then give an acknowledging sound and a one-shoulder shrug. “That could be fun. We’ll see what we find around here and decide.”

We go into the kitchen and search under the sink for trash bags. She only has a few, so we take the first and get to work on the refrigerator and freezer. It isn’t that much of a challenge considering we have been keeping up with it and making sure that the food inside is fresh. It’s so if the nurse made her something or she got a sudden burst of energy and was able to use her walker to get in here and find something for herself, she would always have safe options.

The pantry is a little bit worse once we get past the first few shelves that we usually used. Toward the back, we start finding long-expired items, food I’d never even heard of, and a tremendous stash of herbs and spices in a large box. Searching through it proves there are multiples of certain items, evidence that Poppy had fallen victim to the age-old issue of finding out a certain herb or spice was needed for a recipe, thinking she didn’t have it, and buying a new one… repeatedly. This is the way of the pumpkin spice and poultry seasoning in my house. I could season all the poultry in the town with the jars I have lined up in my cabinet after my last foray into organizing them, but I can’t bring myself to purge them just yet.

“Wow, I didn’t realize Poppy was such an aficionado of takeout,” Sam says, looking down into a drawer next to the stove. “There are menus for every restaurant in town in here.”

“Well, she was the town historian, you know,” I tease.

It’s a joke we had with Poppy, a notorious gossip and the type of person who seemed to always know everything about everyone even though she didn’t leave the house often, if at all, especially in her last months. She kept up with every event throughout the town, from the smallest store opening to the big carnivals and community gatherings. She had a voracious appetite for newsletters from every organization in existence and bulletins from all the churches. It kept her feeling like a member of the community rather than a shut-in, and I can’t see that as a bad thing.

We get through the trash in the kitchen pretty quickly and are feeling good about this whole process until we decide to check out the rest of the house and see what we’re up against. As soon as we get to the spare bedroom on the bottom floor, we know we’ve been cocky. It’s very evident now why Poppy didn’t just move into this room rather than have her hospital bed set up in the living room. The entire space is filled floor to ceiling with stuff. There’s no other word I can think of to describe it. It isn’t just furniture or collectibles or clothing. It’s a massive conglomeration of a little bit of everything.

“Wow,” Sam says again. “I didn’t… wow.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I think this is going to be a bigger undertaking than we thought.”

“She would have made me do this even if she had children, wouldn’t she?” he asks. “Just because it was like this.”

I laugh. “She had you do it because she trusted you. And maybe a little bit because you can be too nice. But what matters is, we’ve got to do this, so do we want to check everything else out or just kind of dive in?”

He looks at me with a withered expression. “I’m kind of afraid to go look at anything else. But I think we have to.”

“Come on,” I say, looping my arm through his. “Let’s do another easy one. Let’s empty out her bathrooms. Then we’ll look into another room.”

“Okay, I think I can handle that.”

We go to the bathroom on the bottom level and empty it of all the body products, mostly used candles, and old guest soaps. Several wrapped packages of toilet paper still sitting under the counter are set aside to bring to the donation center, and I keep cleaning products in place to tidy up once the place is empty. By the time we’ve gotten through the second bathroom upstairs, we’ve filled a couple of trash bags and only have part of one left. In order to get to the last bathroom in the house, we’ll have to go through the primary bedroom, what was Poppy’s bedroom before she moved downstairs for good.

We step into the room, and the smell of Poppy’s body powder and spicy perfume hit me. It’s like she was just here in the room with us. It makes a new surge of emotion well up inside me, and I push it out of the way so I can focus on the task at hand. Just like in the other bathrooms, we throw away soap, body products, and other obvious trash before moving back into the bedroom.

This is where the bigger challenge is going to begin. Without having any packing boxes yet, we’ll have to rely on just getting rid of trash and possibly sorting through clothing we can bring to the donation center without packing up first.

I walk over to her vanity table and look at the makeup spread across the mahogany surface. In the earliest days of us taking care of her, Poppy still wore a full face of makeup every day, right down to berry-colored lips that offset the bright white of her dentures. I smile as I pick up the remaining tube and look at the nearly gone lipstick inside. She loved her lipstick. It’s hard, but I toss it into the trash bag I’m holding, knowing there’s no purpose in keeping it. This is where the difficulty of taking on something like this comes. Dishes, knickknacks, and household products aren’t as hard to throw away as items so intrinsically connected to the person, like their makeup or their perfume.

Sam sits back and wipes the sweat off his forehead. “We’re going to need more trash bags,” he says. Probably go ahead and get some packing boxes too.”

“All right,” I say. “Why don’t you go grab them, and I’ll start sorting through her clothes. She might have things that we can’t donate or sell, and I’ll put them aside to get rid of.”

Sam hesitates. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“Why? There’s a ton to do here. It makes more sense if I stay here and do something useful while you go and do something else useful. Double the useful,” I say.

“I just don’t want you by yourself,” he says.

“Babe, I’m by myself just about every day. I’ll be fine. I don’t think Poppy’s ghost is going to come and haunt me while you’re gone, and even if she does, she’ll be delightful. Of course, now that I say that, I might have taunted some sort of demon into coming here and stirring up trouble,” I say.

Sam does not look amused, and I let out a sigh.

“Babe, come on, I’m kidding.” I walk over to him and give him a hug. “No ghosts. No demons. No anything else. Just a whole, whole lot of stuff we have to get out of here before Pamela comes to see the place so she can get it on the market.”

My old high school rival turned friend has become a leading real estate agent in Sherwood and the surrounding areas. She has a knack for finding homes and property with everything a person could want—or finding something that might have things they never realized they wanted. She shouldn’t have too hard of a time finding someone to scoop up this place. It’s well maintained aside from the rooms full of stuff, and once it’s cleaned out and ready for presentation, it will be just like the other houses in the neighborhood and offer the perfect place for a family to grow in.

He hesitates again, and I compromise.

“Why don’t you just get it from our house? We just got that massive megapack of trash bags, so you can grab some of those to bring over. And there are a bunch of boxes folded up in the garage from moving our stuff. I’m sure there are still plenty in the old house too. We’ll still need to get a bunch, but it will be a good start. Be sure to grab a couple of markers while you’re over there so that we can label the boxes,” I say.

This seems to appease Sam, and he agrees, kissing me before he leaves and locking the door behind him. I sigh and look over the bedroom again, trying to decide where to start: the dresser or the closet. I finally settle on the closet, deciding it will be easy to just drape the clothes across the bed in stacks as I go through them and decide what can be donated, put into our possible yard sale, or should just be tossed.

I’m deep in a jungle of wool jackets when I hear my phone ringing. I took it out of my pocket earlier and left it on the corner of the dressing table before diving into the closet. Backing out with a handful of items I think would be good for the donation center, I drop them on the bed and grab my phone. I don’t recognize the number on the screen.

“Agent Emma Griffin,” I answer.

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder what you are.” The voice is soft and feminine, somehow chilling even with the classic lullaby’s words.

“Who is this?” I ask.

“Up above the world so high. Like a diamond in the sky.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Twinkle, twinkle…”

I don’t let whoever it is finish the verse. Ending the call, I set my phone back on the table and return to the closet, shaking my head as I get back to my task. It doesn’t take long before Sam is back with a handful of bags and several folded boxes tucked up under his arm. He sets them down as I look out of the closet at him.

“Could you put that stuff that’s on the bed in one of the bags? Just poke the hangers through the top so it’s like a garment bag. They’re going to the donation center,” I tell him.

“All right. How did it go while I was gone?” he asks. “Looks like you’re getting through it.”

“I’m working on it,” I say. “She had a lot of clothes. Most of them are going to be donated, but there might be a few things in here we could include in the yard sale if you still want to do that.”

I reach in for another handful of garments to bring to the donation center and carry them over to the bed.

“Something kind of weird did happen though.”

“Weird?” Sam asks. “What do you mean?”

“Someone with a number I don’t recognize called me and sang Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

“What?” he asks, sounding as confused as I feel.

“Yeah, I told you it was weird. I asked who they were, and they wouldn’t answer. They just kept singing, so I eventually hung up on them. They didn’t call back or anything,” I say.

“Emma, I don’t like that,” Sam says. “With the kinds of things your stalker has been doing…”

“I really think it was just a weird prank,” I say. “She didn’t say my name or anything, so it was probably just somebody randomly calling strangers and singing to them to see how they were going to react. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Even as I say it, I know I’m trying to convince myself almost as much as him.

We work for another couple of hours before heading to the donation center with our first load and then to the dump with the trash we’ve gathered. It looks like we’ve done so much, and yet there really is just a dent made in the work of the house. This is going to be a big task. I might have to call in reinforcements in the form of Dean and Xavier, though I’m not sure how Xavier would react to doing something like this. It might really bother him. The energy could be too much for him, and the concept of throwing so much away at the same time could really get to him. And at the same time, it might be absolutely nothing to him. It can be very hard to read him in unfamiliar situations.

By the time we get home, we are exhausted and spend the rest of the evening just relaxing. Late that night, long after we’ve gone to bed, I’m awakened by the sound of my phone ringing. That sound will always wake me up. No matter how tired I am. No matter where I am. If my phone rings in the middle of the night, I am waking up to answer it. A phone call coming at this time is rarely a good thing, and I have received far too many to let them go to voicemail.

“Agent Emma Griffin,” I answer groggily.

“Do you remember me, Emma?” a woman’s voice asks.

I can’t be positive because it is speaking rather than singing, but I think it’s the same woman’s voice from the strange phone call earlier. I sit up a little.

“Who is this?” I ask.

“Do you remember me, Emma?” she asks again.

“Tell me who you are,” I demand, getting frustrated at this odd caller.

There is a brief moment of silence, then the call ends. I stare at my phone for a few seconds, contemplating calling the number back. I finally decide not to encourage whoever it is on the other end of the line, shove my phone back under my pillow, and try to go to bed.

I’m still thinking of the call the next day when I go shopping for the groceries I didn’t end up getting yesterday. The calls were so strange, and I’m sure they were from the same person, but the voice didn’t sound at all familiar. As much as I still want to think that it was just a prank, I can’t think of anyone who would prank me, much less choose something so unsettling.

As I’m pulling out of the grocery store parking lot, I’m waiting for traffic to clear when I’m suddenly launched forward by a car running into the back of mine. My airbag deploys, my face hits the material, and powder stings on my skin. Instantly my back starts hurting, and my neck feels twinged, but I can tell I’m not seriously hurt. I wasn’t moving, and that car didn’t seem to be going very fast. But I am still certainly going to be sore in the morning. Before I can even fully react to the situation, I notice a car swing around the side of mine and disappear into traffic.

When I’ve collected myself, I unhook my seat belt and climb out of the car. A young woman I recognize as an employee from the grocery store is running toward me across the small parking lot.

“Mrs. Johnson!” she calls out, using the married name I prefer when I’m not working. “Are you all right? I was outside collecting carts and saw what happened. I can’t believe they smashed into you like that and just drove off.”

“Did you happen to get their license plate?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No, I’m so sorry.”

“I called the police,” someone behind me says, holding up their phone as if to show evidence of the call. “I didn’t see a plate at all.”

“At all?” I ask. “Like the car didn’t have one?”

“That’s what it looked like to me. I could describe the car, but I didn’t see a plate.”

I’m tempted to start dictating the beginning of an investigation, but I force myself to stay quiet. This is not my jurisdiction. Sherwood belongs to Sam and the sheriff’s department, and I have to be respectful of their protocols. I already know from previous experience that the management of the store is extremely strict about their policies regarding any surveillance footage from the store or the parking lot. They will only release it with a warrant to protect themselves from the insurance company, though we’ve explained many times before that the step is not only unnecessary but time-consuming and potentially damaging to an investigation. It doesn’t matter to them. The owner of the store laid down the law years ago when there’d been a shooting right outside the store, and he has not budged since.

“Would you mind sticking around and talking to the sheriff when he gets here?” I ask.

Sam is on duty and knows I was going to the grocery store today, so the chances of him not responding to the call of a hit-and-run right outside the store are very low. I’m right, and within a couple of minutes, we hear the sirens and then see Sam’s squad car pull into the lot.

He gets out and jogs toward me.

“Emma!” he yells while he’s still approaching. “Emma, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I reassure him. “Just sore from being jostled. I might end up with a scrape on my face from the airbag, but other than that, I’m fine. The driver wasn’t going very fast when they hit me.”

“They just took off?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“I saw it,” the girl from the store volunteers, holding up her hand.

“So did I,” the person who called says, gesturing toward her car. “I was pulling up behind them.”

“All right, I’m going to need statements from both of you. Nobody happens to have a dashcam, do you?” he asks.

The woman who called and a man who got out of his car behind her shake their heads. Sam is always hoping more people will install dashcams in their cars. The footage from them can be invaluable in a wide range of situations. The fact that I don’t have one drives him insane, and I have a feeling I’m going to wake up soon with one installed in my car without my knowledge. After this, I would be all right with that.

Sam pulls me into a hug, and I squeeze back. I can feel the heaviness of his pulse throbbing in his neck as I nuzzle my face into him.

“Your car isn’t too bad, but it’s going to need some work. Just fixing the lights. I can do it, but I’m going to get Bruce to come tow it back to the house. I’ll bring you home,” he says.

“You don’t need to do that,” I tell him. “If my car is going back to the house so that you can do the work on it, I might as well be the one to drive it there. You get back to work.”

“No,” he tells me firmly. “You were just in an accident. Your airbag is deployed, and your lights aren’t properly functioning. You can’t drive it in that condition. I’m going to bring you home, and Bruce will get the car home. Give me a minute to get everyone’s statements, and we’ll get going.”

“Do you want me to talk to the manager of the store?” I ask. “I know they aren’t going to give us the surveillance, but we might as well give it a shot. Maybe because it was me that was involved, they will have some wiggle room with their policy.”

“Sure, that would be helpful,” he says.

As it turns out, a federal agent being involved in the incident doesn’t change the policy for the store surveillance. In a way, that’s a good thing. Equal treatment for everyone is generally a good thing. But it’s also frustrating. I want to get a look at the car that hit me. I still remember the car that tried to run me off the road and then the larger van that tried it again not long after. My attacks are still fresh in my mind, and though I’ve been getting interactions from my stalker over the last few weeks, this is a major escalation.

I get back outside as Sam is finishing up with the statements. Bruce has already arrived and is getting ready to load up my car. I thank him and climb into the front seat of the cruiser.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sam asks when we get in the car and it’s just the two of us.

I feel surprisingly emotional and frustrated, but I don’t want to make this any worse by letting it get to me.

“I’m sure I’m okay. Like I said, they weren’t going very fast, and I wasn’t expecting it, so I didn’t tense up or anything. My back and head are hurting, but it’s not a big deal. I’m going to be fine in a day or two.”

“Did you see the driver at all?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “They drove away before I had a chance to get out of the car.”

“The woman behind you who was pulling in when they hit you said it looked like there was only one driver and they had short, dark hair. She thinks it was a man. The girl working at the store didn’t see anyone,” he says. “I’m guessing the manager isn’t going to budge with the policy?”

“Absolutely not,” I tell him. “They want something from a judge saying to turn over the footage.”

“I don’t understand why they are so difficult about this,” he says.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

We get home, and I change into a sweatsuit to combat an unseasonably chilly spring day, put my hair in a ponytail, and wash off my makeup. I’m essentially getting ready for bed in the early afternoon, and I am fine with it. I just want to stretch out on the couch for a little bit and then maybe do some research for the case I’m currently consulting on. That’s one of the benefits of not always being in the field. Sometimes my job is far from physical, and I can do it in what amounts to my pajamas.

It turns out my plans for the day are not applicable. I’ve just gotten back downstairs to say goodbye to Sam as he goes back to the office when the front door opens and Xavier walks in with a large plastic food container.

“Hey, X,” I say. “What are you doing? Is Dean with you?”

“No. He left on a case this morning. I’m flying solo until tomorrow, and then Nicole is coming into town for a couple of days to talk to someone about an event. She’s decided to spread her service area.”

“This seems like a pretty far way to go to do just a party,” I say.

“She’s talking full-weekend extravaganzas now,” he says.

“Of course she is,” Sam says. “I’ve got to go. Bye. Love you.” He leans in to kiss my cheek.

“What do you have?” I ask, assuming it’s a massive conglomeration of his sourdough starter babies.

“Soup,” he says. “I’m here to take care of you.”

“Take care of me?” I ask. “Why?”

“You were in a car accident, Emma. You need to rest and eat soup,” Xavier says.

“Listen to him,” Sam says. “Not something I generally say, but I’m going with it. Bye.”

He heads for the door, and Xavier and I both wave.

“How did you know I got in an accident?” I ask, turning to go into the kitchen.

“Bruce told me. He called to let me know he was bringing your car back here and wanted to make sure I didn’t need a ride anywhere,” Xavier says.

After needing to get to a junkyard and meeting Bruce, Sherwood’s sole tow truck driver, Xavier has taken to calling him to get “towed” whenever he needs a ride somewhere and one of us isn’t available. It’s not the most efficient use of equipment, but he doesn’t do it often, and Bruce is a great sport about it.

“That was nice of him,” I say. “But you really don’t need to worry about me. It was just a minor thing. The only damage to the car was a broken taillight.”

“You are in a sweatsuit,” he tells me.

“It did jostle me around a little bit,” I admit.

He holds up his container. “Hence the soup. Do I need to get sheets and your pillow and make you a bed on the couch?”

There’s really no point in arguing this. It’s going to happen one way or the other.

“I’ll do it,” I relent.

I walk out of the kitchen, heading to the linen closet, with the sound of him rummaging for a pot behind me. I’ve learned that Xavier has clear views about microwaving food versus heating it up on the stove. Zapping something quickly in the microwave is apparently fine for leftovers or for a quick meal, but if it is for someone who is sick, sad, or is otherwise getting special treatment with the food, the only acceptable form of heating is on the stovetop. Same goes for making hot chocolate. A mug in the microwave will never do.

“Look at this,” I say to Sam.

It’s a couple of days later, and he has another day off, so we decide to go back and do some more work at Poppy’s house. We finished going through her bedroom, but reached a far more serious challenge when we went into the guest room. We’d peeked in before and saw that it was almost as full as the one downstairs. Walking in, though, shows us the real extent of what we are dealing with in this space.

Rather than the larger furniture, appliances in their original boxes, and collectibles that seem to make up the bulk of what’s going on in the room downstairs, this one is full of much smaller things, unmarked bags, and boxes full of things.

As tempting as it might be to just toss everything sight unseen, neither of us can really bring ourselves to do that. Poppy entrusted this process to Sam, and he’s taking it seriously. We have to respect her and the life she lived here, and that means going through everything—finding what can be liquidated for the benefit of her favorite charities and what can be useful in other ways. It’s a bigger task, but it’s the right way to do it.

We’ve been going through a lot of boxes of knickknacks and souvenirs from what was apparently a rich life of travel and experiences with her husband before his death. I thought that was what I’d find when I pulled another box out from under a chair. But when I open it, I find a stack of old newspapers.

“It looks like she collected newspapers from every important event that happened throughout the town,” I tell him, setting the box down and pulling out one of the volumes. “Look, this is when they opened that time capsule. I hear they are planning on burying another one. We should put something in it.”

“Xavier,” he says.

“Sam,” I say, giving him a playful whack on his chest.

“What? It says right here in the article that citizens who participated in putting the capsule together fifty years before had been asked to choose things that were remarkable.”

I give him a look.

“All right, I won’t actually put Xavier in. Maybe just a little booklet of some of the things he’s said. ‘The Wisdom of Xavier.’”

I laugh. “That would certainly be something.” I flip through a few more of the newspapers. “Poppy really was like the town historian. We have these and all those pictures we’ve found of all the different things she did and went to around here.”

“Speaking of things going on around here, don’t forget, we’re supposed to go to that fundraising gala thing tonight,” he says.

“I didn’t forget,” I say. “I already have my outfit ready at home.”

“Are you sure you’re up to it?” he asks.

I give my husband a quizzical look. “Of course I’m up to it. The accident was days ago, and it was barely anything. I’m still a little bit sore, but it’s not a big deal. I’m not going to miss tonight. It’s been hyped up for so long.”

“Good. It sounds like it’s supposed to be a pretty good time. A lot different than the department’s community fun day fundraiser,” he says.

“Both have their place,” I tell him. I scan over another of the papers. “We should talk to town hall and see if they want any of these for the archives.”

“We have archives?” Sam asks as my phone rings.

“I would think so,” I tell him. I look at my screen. “Oh, it’s Dean.” I click the Answer button as I put the box aside and reach for the next. “Hey, cousin.”

“Emma, something’s wrong,” he says, sounding almost frantic. “Something’s going on.”

Dean

Dean scribbled notes about the picture in his hand into his notebook, added that picture to another stack, then picked up the next. Later he would type up all the notes into a document he could share with his current client. With some of the things he’d been handling recently, a calm, simple case like this was a welcome break.

His phone rang, and he glanced at the screen to see if it was Xavier or Emma, but it was a number he didn’t know. Considering prospective clients regularly contacted him this way, he wasn’t surprised.

“Dean Steele,” he answered.

“Mr. Steele,” a desperate-sounding voice said. “Mr. Steele, I need your help. Please… please… it’s an emergency.”

The intensity in the woman’s voice stopped Dean from continuing to look through the pictures.

“What’s going on? What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I think my daughter has been abducted. I haven’t been able to get in touch with her in two days, and all of her things are still at home. The police aren’t taking me seriously. They are saying she’s a runaway, but I know she’s not. She’s in danger. I know it. Please… please… help me,” the woman begged.

“How do you know she’s not a runaway?” Dean asked.

“Because I’m her mother,” she said. “I know my child. She wouldn’t leave home without telling me or her father. She had no reason to. She was very happy here. And she would never leave without her clothing, her makeup, her phone. She’s been talking about some new friends that she has, and I’m afraid they are the wrong kind and they took her. I know she’s in danger. We have to find her. Please. Please help me.”

“Of course. I’ll help. Where are you located?”

Dean was in a hotel in a small town about an hour away from Harlan, and when the woman told him where she was, he realized it was very close. He didn’t know how she found out where he was, but like Sam always said, there are no such things as coincidences.

“I can meet with you in an hour,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Tracey Beard,” she said. “But I can’t meet with you. I’m out of the country. That’s part of why I’m so worried. I’m not even there to look for my baby. My husband is at home. He’s been talking to the police, but they aren’t going to do anything. They aren’t going to even listen to us.”

“I will meet with him,” Dean said. “Give me the address, and I’ll head right there.”

Tracey gave Dean the address and pleaded with him again to find her daughter. His heart pounding with the urgency of the woman’s desperate pleas for her child, Dean rushed to get to the address.

His GPS brought him to an older apartment complex and a unit at the top of a chipped, blue-painted flight of stairs. Dean knocked on the door, and a man opened it almost immediately. He stared at Dean with an emotionless face, his eyes dull and reddened.

“Bill?” he asked, using the name Tracey gave him.

“Yes,” the man said, not offering for Dean to come inside.

“I’m Dean Steele, the private investigator your wife called. I’m here to talk to you about your daughter.”

Bill stepped out of the apartment and closed the door behind him. He wore jeans and a plain white T-shirt as he rolled an unlit cigarette back and forth between his fingers. It looked like the kind of compulsive gesture of someone who had recently quit smoking but hadn’t yet figured out what to do with his hands when he wasn’t lit up. It was strange that he would come out of his apartment to talk to Dean about something like this rather than letting him inside. But Bill was under a considerable amount of stress, and Dean couldn’t judge any of the decisions he was making. He had no idea what the other man was feeling.

“She’s gone,” Bill said. “She was here a couple of days ago, and then when I got home from work, she wasn’t. She was supposed to be here. I’d talked to her on the phone not an hour before I got back, and she didn’t say anything about leaving. She didn’t have any of her stuff with her when she left.”

“Did you call the police immediately?” Dean asked.

“I called my wife first,” he said. “I wanted to know if there was anything Mallory had told her and not me. Maybe she knew about some plans or something and I just didn’t know what was going on. But Tracey told me she hadn’t said anything to her either. Then I called the police. They said she’s just a runaway and she’ll come back. Apparently, they talked to her school, and she got a bad grade on some test, and they think that’s why she ran off. She didn’t want to admit to us that she got that grade.”

“Does that sound reasonable to you?” Dean asked.

The man looked at him like he had lost his mind, but Dean had to ask these questions. He didn’t know the family or anything about them. Some parents are much more intense about grades than others, and in those circumstances, a bad grade on a test might feel like reason enough for a teenager to want to get away from her parents for a little while.

“No,” Bill responded flatly. “She has good grades. She’s doing fine. She’s happy, and she has never given us any trouble. My wife is adamant that she didn’t run away, and she found you. She said you’d be able to help.”

“I will do my best,” I said. “What else can you tell me about Mallory? The things she enjoys, what she spends her time doing, if she’s dating anyone, those kinds of things.”

Bill filled him in with a sparse set of details about his daughter, sounding like he wasn’t very invested in her daily life. Unfortunately, that didn’t strike Dean as all that odd. He had encountered many fathers who loved their teenage daughters but just didn’t know how to engage with them. They knew the basic surface things, but when it came to deeper compulsions, feelings, or important relationships, the fathers were often separated, and it was the mother who was far more familiar with these things. It sounded like that might be what was going on here. Tracey was forceful in her belief that her daughter would never have run away and had to be in danger, and Dean wanted to do whatever he could to bring the girl home.

He finished his conversation with Bill, gave him a card so that he would be able to get in touch with Dean if he needed him, and headed back to his hotel. Bill hadn’t been able to give him any phone numbers of friends and said his daughter’s phone was locked with a passcode he didn’t know so there was no way to look up more.

With the promise that the girl’s mother would call him again the next day with more information, Dean had little he could do for Mallory Beard and forced himself to concentrate on his other case.

After a few hours, he went to bed. But he was awakened deep in the night by his phone ringing.

“Where are you?” the voice he recognized as Tracey Beard demanded. “Where are you?”

“Tracey?” Dean asked, trying to pull himself out of sleep. “I’m at my hotel. What’s going on?”

“Bill tried to get in touch with you hours ago. He said your phone never rang and he sent you a message, but you didn’t respond. He heard from Mallory! Why aren’t you helping us?” Tracey shouted.

“I didn’t get any calls from your husband,” Dean told her. “I’ve been in my hotel room since I left the apartment.”

“He called you, and he messaged you!” she shrieked. “He heard from Mallory. He said she sounded scared. He gave her your number. You have to find her. You have to!”

Dean was confused. He knew his phone hadn’t rung, and when he checked it after Tracey hung up, he didn’t see any missed calls. But he did see a message from Bill. He was baffled. It said he had read it, yet he didn’t remember seeing it. He messaged him back and tried to call, but the phone went straight to voicemail. Worried now, Dean rushed to get dressed and drive back to the apartment to try to locate Bill and find out what he had heard from his daughter.

Still trying to call Bill, Dean ran up the stairs to the apartment. As soon as he got to the door, he saw what looked like blood streaked across the doorknob and onto the door. Dean pounded on the door, but no one answered. Knowing something was going on, Dean called the police and gave them the address, reporting the blood and not being able to get a response from the man supposed to be inside. They assured him officers were responding, but no sooner had he hung up from that call than his phone rang again. This time his blood went cold when he answered.

“Dean Steele,” he said.

“Help me,” a small, high-pitched voice whispered. “Please help me. This is Mallory Beard.”

“Mallory?” Dean asked.

“Yes,” the girl said, sounding like she was sobbing. “It’s me. I was abducted. I need help. Please… I can’t get out of here.”

Dean looked at the door again, listened for the sound of the sirens he still didn’t hear coming, and made his decision. Running back down the stairs, he jumped into his car.

“Tell me where you are,” he said firmly, trying to break through the girl’s terrified crying so she would hear him.

“He’s going to come back,” she cried. “He’s going to come back.”

“Call the police,” Dean said. “Hang up with me and call the police.”

“No, no, no, I can’t. I can’t call the police. He’ll know they’re coming. He said he has a radio that tells him every 911 call that’s made. He’ll hear that I’m calling and come kill me,” she said.

Dean wanted to reassure her that it wasn’t true, but he wasn’t going to get through to her. It would be better to get her location.

“I need you to tell me the address of where you are,” he said, intending on immediately calling the police.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know. I only know how we got here. I paid attention to how the car moved, and I could see a little bit beneath my blindfold. I can describe it to you.”

“All right,” Dean said. It wasn’t what he wanted, but she was refusing to call the police, and this was the only way she was going to have a chance. “I’m right outside your apartment building. Tell me where to go.”

The girl’s voice was so high pitched, thin, and yet hushed that he struggled to hear her as he drove, but he followed her directions as carefully as he could. Eventually, he found himself pulling up to an abandoned house.

“All right. I’m at the house. Where are you?”

“I’m upstairs. I’m at the window.”

Dean looked up and saw a shadowy figure behind one of the upstairs windows. It waved at him, and he got out of the car, searching for an address so he could call the police. He took out his phone and… woke up.

Confused, Dean sat up. He was lying on the floor inside what he assumed was the abandoned house. Everything around him was silent. He didn’t hear anyone, and there was no sound to tell him that something was happening anywhere else in the house. A sliver of light shining in from between the curtains pulled over the window told him it was no longer the middle of the night. He got up and went to the window. Pushing them back, he looked out and saw his car sitting in the morning sunlight, but nothing else. He took his phone from his pocket and looked at it. A cold chill ran along his spine as he looked at his phone and saw the call to the police time-stamped hours ago.

There were no police anywhere in sight, no evidence they’d been there. But the call was right there on his phone. Dean got up and cautiously approached the closed door to the room. It opened without hesitation, and he carefully stepped out into the hallway. He was expecting to be ambushed at any second, but he moved without interference into each of the other rooms at the top of the house, searching for any trace of the girl he saw waving at him from the window.

When he was confident the upstairs was clear, he moved down and searched downstairs. The house was empty, and he saw no evidence of anyone being kept there. Confused and feeling a bit dazed, Dean got back in his car and called the number Tracey gave him. She didn’t answer, so he called Bill. The blood on the door was still pressing in his mind, and he rushed back to the apartment.

Climbing the stairs two at a time, Dean gripped his phone tightly in his hand, ready to call the police again. Instead, he stopped outside the door. There was nothing on it. The blood was gone.

Dean pounded on the door, and Bill opened it again. He was wearing a clean version of what he was wearing the night before and stepped outside just as he did.

“I called you,” Dean said angrily. “Why didn’t you answer?”

“I must have been in the shower,” Bill said.

“What the hell is going on?” Dean demanded.

“What do you mean?” Bill asked.

“You sent me a message last night that said you’d heard from Mallory. When I got here, there was blood on the door. I went…”

“Wait… what?” Bill asked. “I didn’t send any message about Mallory. I still haven’t seen or heard from her.”

“Yes, you did,” Dean said, opening his phone to show the message, but it was gone. “I don’t understand… It’s gone. It was here. Tracey even called me last night to tell me you had messaged me and I hadn’t responded. You can ask her. And the blood…”

Bill stepped aside and gestured at the door with the cigarette he was twirling in his fingers again. “I haven’t seen any blood on the door.”

“The police had to have come here last night,” Dean said. “I called them.”

“Yeah, they came,” he said. “Said that someone was trying to get a hold of me, but I didn’t know what they were talking about, so they left. What is going on here?”

I listen to the frantic note in Dean’s voice and can almost see his wide eyes. He’s spiraling, and I try to calm him down.

“Dean, take a couple of breaths,” I say.

“But what’s happening? I’m afraid I had another blackout and something happened during that time. That girl was in that window. I saw her,” he says. “But then I woke up, and she was nowhere in the house.”

“You said you saw something in the window. A figure, a shadow, something like that,” I say.

“Right,” he says.

“But you didn’t actually see her face. You didn’t really see who was looking down at you,” I say.

“But it had to be her. She waved at me.”

“Did she explain how she got a phone?” I ask. “You said her parents told you that she didn’t have her phone with her.”

“I’m guessing whoever took her left it in the house,” Dean says.

“And walked out without it?” I ask.

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just trying to get you to look at every piece of this carefully so you might figure out what really happened.”

“Am I hallucinating this?” he asks. “Did I have a blackout and then hallucinate? I don’t understand what the hell is going on. I know I saw that message on my phone from Bill. And I have the calls from Tracey and from him, but he’s saying he didn’t contact me, and the message is gone. And what about the police? I called them. It’s right there on my phone. I called them when I got to the house. But then I woke up inside the house, so what happened to them? What did I say to them? Why didn’t they go inside and find the girl?”

He sounds like he’s right on the edge of losing control, and I wish I were there to talk him down better. He shouldn’t be alone when he’s like this. Getting this anxious and feeling this much stress is going to make it much more likely that he will experience one of his blackouts, and that can be extremely dangerous. When those happen, he doesn’t have any concept of what happened during the time he’s lost. It might be just a few moments, but he’s had gaps that have lasted more than a day. He has to piece together what he did and has no way of knowing for sure he didn’t do things he would never do if he was fully conscious and functional. He’s been fighting them hard for a long time, but something like this could push him right into one.

“You just need to calm down a little bit and think this through. If you are positive you called the police, then they must have responded and not found anything. Go talk to them if you want to know for sure. They’ll obviously have a record of where they’ve responded and will probably remember talking to you,” I say.

“I need to find Mallory,” he says. “She’s still missing. She might have been in that house, but during whatever happened to me, the guy came back and took her somewhere else. But what about her father? The second time I talked to him, he was almost unfazed. He completely denied sending any message and didn’t even ask if I’d seen or heard anything.”

“Dean, you have cases you need to be focusing on, and you’ve already gotten the police involved,” I point out.

“But they aren’t taking her disappearance seriously. They are only saying that she has to be a runaway.”

“And maybe she is,” I tell him. “Keep in mind, no one saw anybody take her, and they can’t give you any concrete evidence that anything happened other than her leaving on her own accord.”

“What about the call from her?” Dean asks. “She told me that she had been abducted and guided me to that house. How else would I end up there?”

“You must have mentioned that to police,” I say. “Listen to me. You are good at what you do. The police are involved as well. You are going to figure this out. Just take a breath, step back, and look at everything again. You’re going to be fine.”

“Thank you,” Dean says.

He takes a breath as I recommended, and even though I know he is still being tormented by thoughts of the missing girl and the confusing events of last night, he tries to change the subject.

“How are you? How is Xavier?”

I don’t want to worry him, so I don’t tell him about the eerie phone calls or the car accident.

“Everything’s good,” I tell him. “Sam and I have that fundraising event we were telling you about tonight.”

“Oh right. That concert party thing. It’s being sponsored by that law firm, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Belmont and Associates,” I tell him. “Marshall Belmont is the primary contact and apparently has been really driving the fundraising.”

“I thought he had the reputation of kind of being an ass,” Dean says.

“He does,” I confirm. “At least to other lawyers and sometimes his clients. But he’s always been perfectly nice to me.”

“Probably because you scare the bejesus out of him,” Sam says.

I make a face at him. “Hopefully, it pulls in a lot of money for the community center and sheriff’s department tonight. And I’m actually looking forward to having some fun. From what I hear, they have some pretty good entertainment and plans lined up. Since the sheriff’s department is one of the recipients, they want Sam and me to be there early so we can see everything and know what’s going on.”

“That should be interesting,” Dean says.

“Yeah, I also think they are kind of making us pseudo hosts without telling us,” I say.

“That would make sense. You are two of the most prominent citizens in town. If people see you involved in something, they’re more likely to be a part of it. People want to do good things, and if they see that the two of you are doing something, they are going to know that it’s a good thing for them to do,” Dean says.

We talk for a little bit longer as he seems to calm down, and then we get off the phone so he can call and check in with Xavier. I know he’ll give Xavier a version of what he’s just told us, and Xavier will reassure him in his own way.

“What do you think about all that?” I ask Sam as we get back to going through the room.

“I really don’t know what to think about it. It’s strange, to say the least,” he says.

“Do you think it’s possible it’s a hoax?” I ask.

“The fact that you’re asking that tells me that you’re already thinking that way,” he says.

“I didn’t want to say that to Dean, but there were just some weird things about that. I know he has his blackouts, and I guess that’s what could have happened in the middle of it, but that doesn’t explain the messages that disappeared or the calls to the police that didn’t turn into anything. I think somebody might have been messing with him and just took it too far. At the same time, it very well could be a situation with a girl actually missing and the parents just don’t know how to handle it,” I tell him.

“Or they could have done something to her and are trying to use Dean as a cover-up. They don’t want to look suspicious, so they hire a private investigator to search for their daughter. How many times have you had cases where people who are guilty are the ones who are most involved in the investigation?” he asks.

“That’s true,” I say. “It’s very possible the parents know exactly where their daughter is but are trying to concoct some sort of complicated case to divert attention away from themselves and make it look like someone else has her and is doing everything they can to keep her away from them. He just sounded so upset. I hope he doesn’t work himself up into an actual blackout. He doesn’t have anyone with him right now, and it could turn out really bad if that happens.”

“I’m sure he’s going to be fine,” Sam says.

For the next couple of hours, we continue to work our way through the stockpile of memorabilia from Sherwood’s past accumulated in the guest bedroom, then it’s time to go back home and start getting ready for the night’s event.

Sam is in the shower and I’m in the other bathroom curling my hair and putting makeup on when my phone rings in the bedroom.

“Babe? Are you still in the shower?” I call out, hoping he’s gotten out. “Can you grab my phone for me?”

He doesn’t respond, and I figure he’s still in the shower, so I finish rolling the curler in my hand as I jog into the bedroom. I grab the phone and manage to answer it before the voicemail picks up. I don’t get a look at the screen, but I’m expecting it’s Dean giving us an update on the situation.

“Hello?”

“Expecting someone else, Emma?” the woman’s voice asks, sending a chill along my spine.

“Who is this?” I ask.

“Do you remember me?”

“Who is this?” I demand.

“Do you remember me?”

“You need to stop calling me,” I say. “Stop calling.”

“You will, Emma. You will remember me.”

The call ends, and I stare at my phone for a few seconds, angry and unnerved at the same time. The water in the bathroom turns off, and I go back to the other bathroom to keep getting ready. Sam shows up at the door a moment later.

“Were you calling for me?” he asks.

“I was just seeing if you were still in the shower,” I tell him.

I decide not to mention the call to him. There’s no reason to upset him right now. He’s looking forward to tonight’s event, and I want to keep looking forward to it too. Whoever this woman is, she’s trying to shake me up and get in my head, and I have to not let her. I don’t know who this woman is, but I need to stay in control.

We get to the community center where they are hosting the event about an hour before the festivities are actually set to begin. The preparations aren’t completely finished yet, but the transformation is pretty incredible. It no longer looks like a multipurpose room at a community center but a high-end event venue. I have a feeling the people who bought the tickets for tonight are going to definitely feel like they got their money’s worth and be willing to give even more at the various fundraising opportunities throughout the night.

Marshall Belmont walks towards us with open hands almost as soon as we enter the room. He gives a huge smile that looks just like the one on his advertising billboard just outside of town. It’s one of those smiles that you really want to be sincere and genuine, but you’re not entirely positive of because you’ve seen it so many times before.

“Sheriff Johnson, Agent Griffin,” he says as he takes hold of my hand first, then Sam’s. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Thank you for doing this,” Sam replies. “It’s going to make a huge difference to the causes around the community.”

“Well, I love Sherwood,” Marshall says. “And anything I can do to give back and make this town an even better place for the families who are living here, that’s what I want to do. I’m honored to be able to make a difference, with the help of so many other people who came together to make this happen. I’m just disappointed my wife can’t be here tonight. She came down with some virus and is home trying to rest up. I wanted to stay and take care of her, but the trooper told me I should be here.”

It could have come right out of a commercial for the event or for his law firm. I haven’t had much opportunity to engage with this man, and I’m trying not to immediately frame his character based on the things I’ve heard about the way he sometimes treats people or the somewhat slick veneer that seems to be over him. Snap decisions and immediate judgments tend to be the way I’ve always dealt with people, and I’ve been working to get over that and give people more time to show me who they actually are.

“It definitely looks like it’s coming together,” I say.

Marshall looks around at the crew scurrying around, putting the final touches on the event so that it will be fully ready by the time guests are allowed in.

“Let me show you around so you know where everything is,” he says.

That statement alone is enough to tell me I wasn’t far off when I told Dean I think we might be recruited as unofficial hosts for the evening.

Marshall leads us further into the room and sweeps his hands downward toward his feet. Colored lights are already moving around on the floor.

“This will be the dance floor. There’ll be dancing at the beginning of the night, and then toward the end, we’re having the paid dance-a-thon. Those participating have collected pledges for how long they dance, and we’ll have the music going for five hours after the main event ends. It will be a long night for some of us!”

“Sounds like it,” Sam says.

“Will you be jumping in for the dance-a-thon?” he asks.

“Definitely not,” I say with a laugh.

“Fair enough,” Marshall says. “Come on, I want to show you everything else.”

He leads us the rest of the way across the dance floor and gestures at the tables lining the walls.

“Each of those is going to have a different type of food or a bar station. I’ve had bartenders come up with specialty drinks just for tonight, and the food will cycle during the night so there’s always something different to try. Some of the stations will be upgraded stations that will be either a cash purchase that will go straight into the fundraising for the night or is included for those with upper-level tickets. Those with VIP privileges, my present company included, of course, will have access to all of the food and drinks as well as some other special perks throughout the night. And speaking of which, let’s get you stamped so that you can start enjoying the night as soon as it starts.”

“Stamped?” I ask.

Marshall leads us over to a pair of tables now set up just outside of the doors to the event. A few people stand around them, setting up what looks like a check-in station. Several stamp pads are sitting on one of the tables, and Marshall gestures at them.

“We’re using handstamps to indicate the different tickets purchased for easy identification. That way guests don’t have to keep track of their tickets or be asked to show them every time they are getting food or a drink or participating in one of the activities. It should just make the process smoother.”

Sam whistles. “Fancy.”

I notice one of the ink pads has already been opened, and a young woman starts unwrapping the others. Another woman takes the first unwrapped pad and puts it on the other table, which Marshall brings us over to.

“I suppose you could call this the first of the VIP perks for the night. There’s going to be a separate check-in station just for those with the VIP tickets so they can get inside faster and not have to wait in as long a line.”

He picks up a stamp with the letters ‘VIP’ on it and uses the ink pad to stamp his own hand as well as Sam’s and mine.

“There you go. You’re all set. Let me show you a couple more things, and then it will be time for fun.”

The first couple of hours of the event go off without a hitch. It’s obvious just how much time and attention went into planning all the details to make this as impressive an event as possible. Sam and I have been doing a little bit of dancing, working our way through all the food stations, as well as participating in the games and other activities that have been set up throughout the event. It looks like everybody is having a fantastic time, which bodes well for the fundraising efforts.

It seems the various causes around the community—including expanding the community center, boosting after-school activities and programs, the holiday support for those in need, along with some other smaller projects—will make and probably exceed their goals this year. The sheriff’s department fundraising event is still coming up as well, so I’m optimistic.

They’ve just switched out the food at one of the tables and Sam and I are filling our tiny plates when Pamela heads over toward us. I saw her across the room earlier, and she made eye contact, but this is the first time tonight we’ve actually gotten a chance to talk. We chat for a bit before the conversation turns to Poppy Montgomery’s house.

“How is the house coming?” she asks. “I’m sorry. That was really abrupt of me. I know you two were close with Mrs. Montgomery. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“It’s all right,” Sam says. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t hear anything about a memorial service or a visitation or anything,” she says.

“Her lawyer said she specifically requested there not be anything like that. She didn’t want anyone making a fuss over her or people she didn’t know coming to gawk over her body. Her words.” Sam chuckles, which seems to give Pamela permission to laugh as well.

“I guess I can understand that. I’m sorry again to jump right into asking about the house getting cleared out. I’m just looking forward to getting it on the market. It’s such a great house, and I know it’s going to go fast. At least from the outside, it looks like she did a really good job of keeping it up and making sure all the maintenance got done. There isn’t any obvious damage, the roof looks good. I haven’t gotten a chance to see the inside…”

She’s sniffing around for an invitation to come in and look around. Since Sam is officially in charge of the property until it sells, it’s up to him to decide when she’s going to be able to look it over, but now is not the time. I can tell by the look on his face he is imagining the rooms full of stuff just like I am.

“You’ll be able to see it soon,” he tells her. “We’re working on emptying the inside, and it’s been a bit of an undertaking. She lived a long life, and a very full one apparently. We’re trying to be as respectful as possible to her belongings and her wishes to have as much as possible used or sold so that more proceeds could be donated to her favorite charities.”

“I heard you are getting a cut of the sale of the house,” Pamela says, lowering her voice in an apparent effort to make the very personal question less awkward in the public situation. She hasn’t always been known for her tactfulness.

“Yes,” he says.

“So I guess that means you are just as eager as I am to get it up and available.”

Sam shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter that much to me how fast it happens,” he says. “I just want to make sure the whole thing is done right. There’s a lot to go through inside, and we’re taking our time so that it’s really done well.”

“Well, that’s good,” she says. “I know that she chose you for a reason, and that must be a big part of it. She knows you would take your time and do things the right way. What are you doing with everything? You said she wanted as much of it used or sold as possible.”

“Yeah, we’ve brought quite a bit to the donation center already, but we’re thinking about having a big estate sale with pieces that people might be more interested in, like her nicer vintage clothes, collectibles, dishes, that sort of thing. We don’t have any details yet and aren’t even positive we’re going to do it,” I tell her. “But it seems like a good way to get through things and not have to make as many runs to the donation center. Plus, it will make some extra money to go to the charities she chose.”

“You know, if there’s anything I can do…”

A sudden sound from across the room cuts off what I’m assuming was going to be Pamela offering her help. I turn toward the slight scream and see Marshall stumbling across the dance floor. He looks like he can’t breathe, and his hand is gripping his chest, pulling at the front of his shirt. His eyes are wide as he gasps for breath.

“Marshall!” a man dancing nearby yells and lunges toward him to catch him by the arm and help him stay on his feet.

He continues to struggle, and a few more people gather around. I put down my plate and rush over.

“Everybody, back up please,” I say. “Everybody, back up.” The people are too curious to move, so I drop the politeness. “Get out of the way!”

That’s enough to make them back up, and I get through them to Marshall. He’s dropped down to his knees now, and his face is turning red.

“Help,” he manages to say. “Help.”

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Did anyone see what happened to him?”

I look at the man who’s still holding his arm so it’s lifted up above his shoulder.

“Go ahead and lay him down.”

“I was with him,” a woman says, coming through the people. “I don’t know what happened.”

“I need you to stay here, and everybody else, get out! Everybody, out of the room!”

Dissatisfied mutters grumble through the crowd, but Sam steps in to back up my order, and a couple of members of the department who are off duty but there to enjoy the evening join in as well. Soon the crowd is being ushered out of the space and into the hallway and a smaller auxiliary room across it.

With Marshall on the ground, I check his pulse. It’s erratic and not very strong. He’s still having trouble breathing, and now his eyes are fluttering.

“The ambulance is on its way,” Sam says, coming back over.

“Marshall, I need you to focus on breathing,” I say. “Keep your eyes open, and just breathe.”

I look up at the woman who said she was with him when he started having trouble.

“Tell me what happened.”

“He didn’t look right, and I asked if everything was okay. He said he wasn’t feeling very good but didn’t know what was going on. He reached for one of the shrimp rolls and just suddenly folded over and grabbed his chest. It scared me, and I screamed. That was all I saw,” she says.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Marla Conners.”

“How do you know Marshall?” I ask.

“My husband works at his law firm,” she tells me.

“All right, thank you. You can go with the others.”

Marshall stops breathing, and I start CPR, willing the ambulance to get here faster. It seems like forever before the doors open and the paramedics rush in. The off-duty deputies make sure the doors get closed before any of the curious onlookers come back in to see what’s going on.

“What do we have?” one of the EMS workers asks as they drop their bag of supplies and crouch down beside me.

“I really don’t know,” I say. “According to someone who was with him just a few minutes before he collapsed, he’d said he wasn’t feeling well, and then he started stumbling and clutching at his chest. He couldn’t stand on his own, and we laid him out here. He stopped breathing, and I’ve been doing CPR since.”

“He doesn’t appear to be swollen or have any hives,” the paramedic says. “What was he consuming at the time?”

“I really don’t know,” I say. “She said that he was reaching for a shrimp roll, but I don’t know what else he might have eaten or had to drink through the rest of the night.”

“Do you know him well?” he asks.

Another EMT has taken over CPR as others on the team bring in the gurney. They pick Marshall up and put him on the stretcher, attaching an oxygen bag over his mouth so they can transport him back to the ambulance.

“No,” I say, “I don’t.”

“So you don’t know if he has any food allergies?”

“No,” I say.

“Thank you,” the EMT says, and they wheel Marshall out.

Sam goes out to the hallway to let everybody know the event has been canceled and to go on home. A few people try to linger as if they think they will get extra inside information if they just stay around long enough. We wait until the final people have left and then make our way to our car. We drive to the hospital and enter through the emergency room door.

Moments later a doctor comes out from the back.

“Sheriff Johnson,” he says, reaching out of hand to shake Sam’s. “I thought you might come.”

“Larry,” Sam says, “were you working on Marshall Belmont?”

“I was,” the doctor says.

“How’s he doing?” Sam asks.

“He didn’t make it,” Larry says.

“He didn’t make it?” Sam asks. “He’s dead?”

“Yes,” the doctor tells him. “We did everything we could, but we couldn’t stabilize him, and he died just a couple of minutes ago.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“We’re not sure,” he says. “We’re going to run a few tests, but the cause of death will probably require the medical examiner to verify. It looks like a heart attack right now, but we’ll keep you updated. Is his wife here?”

“No,” Sam says. “She wasn’t at the event tonight. He told us that she’s home sick.”

“Someone will need to make the notification,” Larry says.

“I’ll get in touch with her,” Sam says. “Thank you, Larry.”

The doctor nods and heads toward the back. Sam looks at me with widened eyes.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” I say, commiserating with the expression on his face.

“Neither can I,” he says. “He seemed like he was having a good time. Do you think the virus his wife has could have had anything to do with this? Maybe he was sick too and just didn’t realize that?”

“I’m sure the doctor will look into that,” I say.

“What is it?” he asks, noting the shift in my voice.

“Just the way he said the medical examiner might be the only one to verify the cause of death.”

“Do you think something else could have happened to him?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I think it would be a good idea to make sure nothing gets changed at the community center until we have a cause of death and at least the opportunity to talk to the people that were around him.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” he says. “I’ll call his wife, Sheila, on the way back over there. We’ll need to go to her house to talk to her, but I don’t want to just show up at her door.”

She doesn’t answer three calls in a row, and Sam leaves a message, then changes direction as he’s driving.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“To their house,” he says. “I’ve had to go over there before when he reported somebody creeping around behind his house. It turned out to be nothing, but I remember where he lives.”

“I thought you didn’t want to just show up at the door,” I say.

“I don’t,” he says. “But she’s not answering the phone. I’m concerned about her. Her husband did just drop dead out of nowhere. If she’s sick, somebody needs to check on her.”

We get to the impressive house and drive up the long driveway. There are no cars in it, but there is a massive attached garage where I assume both of them keep their vehicles, so it doesn’t mean anything. Sam and I get out of the car and go up to the front porch. We ring the bell and wait. There’s no response. He rings again, then a few seconds later, he knocks. No one comes to the door, and we don’t hear anything inside.

“There aren’t any lights on in there,” I say. “I don’t think anybody’s home. Maybe she decided to go to the event after all. She could have started feeling better and gone and doesn’t know what’s happening. Let’s go back to the community center and see if she showed up there.”

We get back to the community center, and as we are walking down the hallway to the room, we notice a couple of people starting to clean up the check-in area. Sam calls out to them and jogs toward them.

“You need to stop,” he says. “This whole area needs to be left exactly as it was. Both the room itself and these tables need to be kept exactly as they were tonight until further notice.”

“Is something going on?” one of the men cleaning up asks.

“Right now we don’t know anything,” Sam says. “Which is why this needs to be kept exactly as it is. I’m going to contact the manager of the community center and make sure nobody is allowed to go down this hallway or into this room until I’ve said it’s okay. Everybody needs to get out and stay out, all right?”

“Sure,” the guy says. “I’ll get everybody else.”

“I’ll tell them. Thank you,” Sam says.

He shows the trash bag he’s holding. It looks like he’s only put a couple of pieces of paper into it. “Should I just leave this?” he asks.

“Yes, please,” Sam says. “Thanks again. I appreciate your help.”

The man walks away down the hall, and I look at the tables, trying to see if any other cleanup work was done before we got here. It doesn’t look any different from when we left, so we go into the other room and let the people there know to stop cleaning. I recognize a couple of people whom Marshall introduced us to during the evening’s event, and we go up to them.

“Have you heard anything from Sheila Belmont?” Sam asks one of them.

The young, ambitious lawyer shakes her head. “No, I haven’t heard from her tonight. I know she wasn’t here. How’s Marshall?”

“He’s in the hospital,” Sam says, not lying but also not giving full details. He doesn’t want anyone else to know about the death until Marshall’s widow has been notified. “We’ll know more soon. We just want to make sure that Sheila knows what’s going on, and we haven’t been able to get in touch with her.”

The woman looks slightly uncomfortable, and someone else we’d met comes up.

“Everything all right?” he asks.

We repeat our questions about Marshall’s wife, and I notice the two of them exchange a glance before he answers the same way she did. Sam lets them know that he’s securing the area for now, and as they leave, I look over at him.

“That seemed odd,” I say.

“It did,” he agrees. “Like there was something else they wanted to say.”

My phone rings, and my body immediately goes tense. I consider not answering it, but I know that will look strange to Sam. Instead, I glance at the screen, and I see it’s Dean. I’m relieved and answer.

“Hey, Dean,” I say.

“Hey,” he says, “I just wanted to let you know that Mallory Beard turned up. She’s home safe, and it seems like the whole thing was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” I ask. “How is that possible?”

“I talked to her parents, and they say that she showed up back at home and told them that she went out with a couple of friends and they brought her to a party. She had too much to drink, and somebody might have put something in one of them because she woke up and didn’t know where she was. She felt really sick and was in and out of consciousness for a while. She was really scared and thought that someone had kidnapped her, so that’s why she called them and then me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “She was supposedly gone for two days. She went in and out of consciousness for two days?’

“I know,” he says. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I think there are things they aren’t telling me. Tracey and Bill are still really angry with me for all the confusion and for supposedly not doing enough in my investigation. I think they just don’t want me involved anymore, so they told me that she’s home and fine, but they aren’t going to give me all the information about what really happened.”

“That’s really bizarre,” I say. “Are they going to continue working with the police? Did you ever talk to them?”

Sam’s phone rings, and he walks away as he answers it so we aren’t talking over each other.

“I don’t know if they are still working with police on the situation or not. I haven’t talked to them, but I am seriously considering it. I need more information about what happened. What do you think?” he asks.

“I still think it would be a good idea,” I tell him. “You called them twice that night but don’t remember talking to any officers at any point. But you would have had to have interacted with them. Unless you were already in the house and they didn’t go inside because they didn’t have the right to. But I don’t think that sounds logical. Something else happened, and you really need to find out what it was.”

“I do,” Dean says. “This is really bothering me, and I don’t want it to push me over the edge.”

“Let me know what happens,” I say.

I get off the phone, and Sam comes over to me, also holding his phone down by his side.

“That was Sheila Belmont,” he tells me. “She said she just got my message and didn’t hear us when we rang the bell and knocked on the door because she was asleep. She wants us to come to the house to talk to her.”

“You didn’t tell her, did you?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “I just told her that we needed to talk to her and I thought it would be best if it was in person. As of right now, she probably still thinks that the event is going on.”

“Unless she’s gotten other phone calls from people who were here and want to know what’s going on,” I point out.

“If she has, she didn’t tell me,” Sam says. “I’m hoping that people would be tactful enough to not get in touch with her. But we should hurry and talk to her before anybody else does. I did tell her not to answer her phone until we’ve spoken with her.”

“That was a good idea,” I tell him.

We go back to the house, and this time Sheila Belmont opens the door the first time we ring. She’s wearing a bathrobe over what looks like leggings and a T-shirt. Her is hair pulled back, and she has a makeup-free face. She’s the image of a sick woman who’s been trying to rest.

“Come in,” she says.

We step into the house, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice a pair of high heels at the side of the front door. I don’t say anything about them but follow her along with Sam into the parlor.

“Can I get anybody some tea?” she asks.

“No, thank you,” we both respond.

She curls up on a large chair and picks up a mug of tea from the table beside her. It’s still steaming, like she made it just before we arrived. As she takes a sip of it, Sam and I pass by her to sit on the small couch next to the chair. I get a whiff of soap, and when I look at her again, I realize the hair around her face is slightly damp. Her face appears to be freshly washed, and when I look a little closer, I realize her hair is pulled into a ponytail but appears to have hairspray in it.

“Thank you for having us,” Sam says. “I appreciate you letting us come here.”

“Of course,” she says. “I’m sorry again for not answering the door the first time you came. I was just in such a deep sleep I didn’t even hear my phone or the door.”

“Is your car in the garage?” I ask.

She looks at me with a confused expression. “Yes. Why?”

“Just curiosity,” I tell her. “I haven’t been in this area very much, so I was just thinking about the layout of the houses.”

Sam gives me a strange look, but continues on. “You’ve been here all evening?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “I was so looking forward to the event tonight, but I got this terrible virus, and it has really taken its toll on me.”

“I’m sorry to hear you haven’t been feeling well,” Sam says. “We did come here, though, because we have something very difficult to tell you.”

“Oh,” she says, almost like she had convinced herself this was just a social call. “Is this something that should wait until Marshall is home? The event will probably keep…” Her voice trails off. “But you were there. You were at the event tonight. He told me you were going.” Her hand comes up to cover her mouth. “Oh no. This is about Marshall, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Sam says. “It’s why I asked you not to answer your phone until after we’d spoken. During the event, Marshall appeared to be having difficulty breathing and ended up collapsing. We supported him until the ambulance came, and he was brought to the hospital. We tried to get in touch with you to let you know, but you didn’t answer.”

“He’s in the hospital?” she asks. “I have to go see him.”

“Ma’am, I need you to listen to me,” Sam says carefully. “I am very sorry to tell you this, but he didn’t make it.”

“Didn’t make it? My husband… is dead?” she asks.

I watch her face go through a series of expressions as various emotions cross it. The shock and surprise give way to confusion, and then her face clenches as tears well in her eyes, and she lets out a wail.

“I’m so sorry,” Sam says.

“No,” Sheila cries out. “No… Marshall can’t be dead. He’s healthy and strong. He’s young. No, he can’t be gone. You’re wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, scooting to the edge of the cushion so I can reach out and take her hand. “I can’t even imagine what you are feeling right now. I know it’s a shock. Is there anything we can do?”

She continues to cry for a few seconds, then shakes her head and brushes the tears from her face.

“No,” she says. “Thank you for coming. I need to go to him now. I need to be there.”

She stands, and we know that we’ve been dismissed. She’s going to get dressed and go to the hospital to start the difficult process of dealing with her husband’s death. The aftermath is still ahead, and she already knows it’s going to be hard for her.

Sam and I walk to the door and thank her again, expressing our condolences.

“Please, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call,” Sam says.

“Thank you,” she says again and closes the door behind us.

“I hate doing that,” Sam says. “She’s devastated.”

“She might be,” I say. “But she’s also lying.”

“Lying?” Sam asks as we get into the car. “What do you mean?”

“There was a pair of high heels next to the front door, and her face had been freshly washed. There was also hairspray in her hair even though she tried to brush it out. Seems odd for a sick woman who had been home all night,” I tell him.

“She went out somewhere,” he says.

“That’s definitely what it seems like,” I say. “The question is, why would she lie about it unless there was something going on? Even after we told her that her husband was dead, she didn’t come forward and admit that she wasn’t at home for the whole night.”

“What do you think it means?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know, but it’s something to keep in mind,” I say.

It’s late, and I feel like I’m going to crash as soon as I get back to the house. Instead, I shower and find myself completely unable to fall asleep. I lie there in bed staring at the ceiling, changing positions, unable to stop my mind from racing and repeating everything over and over.

Finally, I get up, not wanting to wake Sam with my tossing and turning. It doesn’t do any good. I’ve just made myself a cup of tea and dug half a cinnamon roll out of the pan in the refrigerator to heat up in the microwave when he comes downstairs and shuffles into the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“I’m getting a midnight snack,” I tell him. “Do you want one?”

“Sure,” he says.

I get another chunk of roll out of the pan and warm both of them, then make another cup of tea for him, dosing it with plenty of honey and a splash of milk the way he likes it. As opposed to my straightforward black coffee and maybe a drizzle of honey in my tea, my husband enjoys his hot beverages augmented nearly beyond recognition.

“Are you okay?” he asks when we’re sitting at the kitchen table with our snacks.

“I didn’t want to tell you about it, but I got another call from that woman,” I say.

“That woman?” he asks. “The one who sang to you?”

“Yes,” I say. “She asked if I remembered her. I asked who she was, and she just asked again, then when I asked who she was again, she said I would remember her.”

“When did that happen?” he asks.

“While we were getting ready tonight. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“You have to tell me things like that, Emma,” he says. “You can’t just keep them from me. This is getting more serious. You can’t still think it’s just a prank.”

“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to think about it. It seems like a hoax, something somebody thinks is funny and they’re eventually going to drop because there’s no payoff. I have no idea who this person is. I don’t recognize her voice at all, and her number comes up without a name. Like I said, when she called, I asked who she was, but all she would do was ask if I remembered her and then say I was going to remember her. Or I will remember her. I don’t know what that means.”

“It means she’s planning something,” he says. “This has to do with your stalker and with those guys who attacked you.”

“You don’t know that,” I say.

“Neither do you,” he points out. “You need to give the number to Eric and tell him what’s going on. See if he can track it or somehow figure out who this person is and what they are doing.”

I agree to contact Eric the next day, and we bring our tea and cinnamon rolls into the living room to try to lull ourselves back to sleep by watching our favorite baking show.

The next morning I reach out to Eric, and then Sam and I head back to the hospital to talk to Dr. Larry Springfield about Marshall Belmont’s death.

“Good to see you again, Sheriff,” he says when he meets us in the lobby. “Come on back, we can talk in my office.”

He leads us through the halls to his office and gestures at two gray tweed-cushioned chairs across a large desk from a green leather executive chair. There has to be a story behind that chair.

“We wanted to check in about Marshall Belmont,” Sam tells him when we’ve settled in. “Have you found out anything else about his death?”

“We don’t have a conclusive cause of death yet, but right now, it looks like organ failure,” Dr. Springfield says.

“Doesn’t that seem really strange, though?” I ask. “According to his wife, he was really healthy.”

“We’re going to run some more tests, but I don’t have any more answers for you than that,” he says.

We thank the doctor and leave. I can tell Sam feels like something isn’t right. It’s the same feeling I have, the one that brought us to the hospital to check on what seemed like just a tragic case of sudden death. There’s something going on, but neither of us can pinpoint what right now.

Sam has to go to work, but he is hesitant to leave me alone after I told him about the call. I convince him that I’ll be fine, that Xavier is supposed to come over later with Nicole, for our own version of afternoon tea, and we might go to the park to enjoy the spring weather. I’m not going to be alone for long, and there are plenty of locks and other security in our house to keep me safe.

He reluctantly agrees, and almost as soon as he is out of the house, my phone rings. I look down at it and see Eric’s name.

“Hey, Eric,” I say. “Thanks for getting back to me.”

“No problem,” he says. “What did you get yourself into now that you’re having me trace a phone number?”

“I’ve been getting some really strange calls over the last few days,” I tell him.

“Strange calls? What do you mean?”

“The first one was just some woman singing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ She hung up when I asked her who she was. Then she called back and asked me if I remembered her, then told me that I would. I don’t recognize her voice, and the number isn’t coming up with a name,” I say.

“That’s because it’s a burner phone,” he tells me. “No way to track it or trace it to an owner.”

“That’s what I thought you were going to tell me,” I say, not at all surprised but frustrated by the news.

Burner phones are perfectly legal and used very regularly by all kinds of people with no sort of nefarious or criminal intent. These are the phones purchased often in big-box stores and that can be used without agreeing to any sort of contract or signing up for any major service. People can purchase cards that load a certain amount of service to them and use their phones just like anyone else. They simply can’t be linked to a single user. I have several that I use for work and dispose of on a regular basis.

Unfortunately, in the case of those people who have decided to use these phones for less savory purposes, this means that there’s no way to track a person who is using that kind of phone so that they can be found or at least identified. Because whoever is calling me is using a burner, I won’t be able to use the number of the phone itself to figure out who she is or even where she is.

I catch up with Eric for a few minutes before getting off the phone. I’m frustrated at the feeling of not being able to do anything but sit and wait for another call. She seems to be adding to each call that she makes, so the next one might offer me more information, but that’s not helping me right now. I hate this feeling of helplessness. I’m used to being able to take control and get things done, but that’s not an option right now.

Suddenly, an idea occurs to me. I grab my phone and call Dean.

“Hey, cousin,” he says when he answers.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you? Did you talk to the police?”

“I actually just left there,” he says.

He doesn’t sound at all relieved like he got all the information he could have wanted from them and is now going to be able to put the whole situation behind him.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I went in to talk to them about the situation with Mallory Beard and her parents, and as soon as they heard my name, they knew why I was there. They launched into an entire accounting of what happened that night, and I’m telling you, Emma, there’s something seriously wrong,” he says.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“They completely denied having heard from the Beard family about their daughter at all. They said that they never received a report that Mallory was missing, and they had never even heard of the family except for when they got the call from me. According to them, they got a 911 call from me, and I described the blood on the door and the father not answering the door to the dispatcher. I got it across to them that I thought something was possibly going on and that the man inside the apartment was in danger, so they sent officers out to check. Only, when they got there, no one was at the apartment.”

“Because you had left,” I say. “You got that phone call from Mallory.”

“Exactly. I got the call from Mallory saying she had been abducted and that she couldn’t call the police because the guy who had her had some kind of police tracker thing that would tell him the second that she made the call and she knew she was going to be killed,” he says.

“Only, that doesn’t make any sense at all if you try to correspond it to the story that they told you when they called to let you know that Mallory had been found,” I say. “They said that she had gone off with someone and was only scared when she woke up and didn’t know where she was.”

“Right,” he says. “That’s the story that the Beard family told me. But according to the police, none of that happened at all. They said that no one named Tracey Beard ever called them about her missing daughter. Then when they went to the apartment that I directed them to, there was no blood on the door the way I described, and the apartment was empty.”

“Bill Beard wasn’t there?” I ask.

“No, I mean empty. Like empty, empty. Not just that he wasn’t there, but that no one had been there in a good while. They checked with the landlord, and they said that no one was living there at all. So then I told them about the call that I made from the abandoned house, and they said that they had responders go to that house but that someone was there to speak with them. He identified himself as me but didn’t have any ID to show.”

“No ID?” I ask. “That doesn’t sound at all like you.”

“No, it doesn’t. I always have my ID on me, both my driver’s license and my PI credentials. Always. I have never encountered police and just said I didn’t have any ID to show them.”

“So what did they say that you told them when they responded to the house?” I ask.

“That I thought I saw something, but didn’t, and that everything was fine. Which, again, I would not have said. But they wouldn’t listen to me. They think that I’ve concocted some huge hoax just for the hell of it and wanted to arrest me. They ended up deciding not to, but they could charge me with misuse of the 911 system for the call to the apartment and filing a false report,” he says.

“But it wasn’t false. You spoke to the Beards. You were only going on what they told you.”

“I know that, but they couldn’t find anyone by those names living anywhere near that apartment, and again, no one had reported a daughter missing. I tried to call Tracey’s number back, and it was disconnected. Same with Bill’s.”

“Give me those numbers,” I say. “That’s actually why I called you. I need those numbers.”

“Okay. Give me a second,” he says.

He reads off the numbers, and I compare them to the number that the woman used to call me. They don’t match.

“I want to have those run to see if they can be traced,” I say.

“I already did that,” Dean says. “They both came back as burners. I think whoever was doing this was using a program that lets you spoof numbers, then send messages that they can then cause to disappear, that kind of thing. They aren’t very common, but they do exist.”

“I’m very familiar,” I tell him. “One of those has been used against me before.”

I can’t help but think of the horrors I faced in the abandoned hotel when I was being chased after being lured there using that type of program. It’s one of the bits of technology that sounds impossible—sounds like it should be impossible—and yet people can get their hands on it and cause serious upheaval in other people’s lives.

Remembering being in that hotel reminded me of the phone calls I’ve been getting, and a chill goes down my spine. When I’m still thinking about it after my tea with Xavier and Nicole, I decide I’ve had enough of feeling out of control. I need something I can get hold of and feel like I’m doing something. Thinking of my car accident, I decide to find out what’s been going on in the investigation. By now they should have been able to get surveillance footage from the store, and it might give us more information about the person driving the car that hit me.

I go to the department, and the woman behind the front desk smiles at me when I come in.

“Hey, Mrs. Johnson,” she says. “Do you want me to call the sheriff for you?” She giggles a little bit, like she thinks what she said was very cute, and I give her a bit of a smile.

“That would be great, thank you, Edith.”

A few moments later, Sam comes out from the back and gives me a hug.

“This is a surprise,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I would come and poke around about my accident,” I say.

“Oh, so you aren’t here to see me,” he says. “I probably should have realized that.”

I give him a playful glare. “If that was the case, I would have just come on your day off.”

He laughs and gives me a kiss before bringing me to the back and leading me to one of the conference rooms.

“You have impeccable timing, as always,” he tells me.

“Do I?” I ask.

“Savannah and Frank just got the surveillance footage from the manager of the grocery store today. They isolated a couple of stills. I’ll go get them,” he says.

He comes back with Savannah who’s holding a slim computer, a thumb drive, and a file of what I’m assuming are the stills they captured from the footage.

“Good to see you, Savannah,” I say.

“You too,” she says. “Unfortunately, we weren’t able to get a really good look at the driver, but we did get some images that could be helpful. Let me pull up the footage.”

She sets down the computer and puts the thumb drive in, clicking a few buttons before the screen fills with an image of the parking lot. The camera wasn’t very close, but it was enough to capture the car that hit me pulling up behind me and right into my back end. I immediately notice that like the witness said, the car appears to have no license plates.

“No plates,” I point out.

“Nope,” Savannah says, taking a still out of the file and putting it on the table so I can look at it. It’s a close-up of the back of the car, revealing it has no license plate attached.

“You said you couldn’t get a clear view of the driver, but did you get any images at all?” I ask.

“A couple,” she says.

She pulls out the stills and shows them to me. The driver is not fully visible, but it definitely looks like it’s a man. This immediately makes me think of the men who attacked me in my living room and hospital room, then tried to run me off the road.

“Is there any other footage? Is this the only camera that captured it from the grocery store?” I ask.

“This is it,” Savannah says.

“Let me see the footage again,” I say.

I watch it through, paying close attention to where the car goes after it pulls around me and drives off.

“We should talk to the gas station. It’s not far from the store. If their security cameras show the street, they might have caught the car going past, which might tell us where it was heading,” I say.

“That’s a good idea,” Sam says.

“I think I’ll do that now,” I say. “Savannah, do you want to come along? It is your investigation.”

“Thanks,” she says with a smile. “I think I will come.”

I follow Savannah in her squad car to the gas station. We speak to the manager, who is far more cooperative than the one at the grocery store. He immediately produces the footage from around the time that the car would have passed by.

“Look,” I say as we’re watching it. “The car didn’t drive past. It pulled in here. Right there. No plates.”

Savannah checks the still that she brought with her and compares the vehicle on the screen.

“That is it,” she says. “Whoever was driving the car came in here. Do you have the footage from inside from that time?”

“Of course,” the manager says. “Just give me a second.”

It doesn’t take long for me to get a clear shot of the driver walking through the door at the gas station. He’s wearing a hat and jacket with a high collar pulled up on the sides of his face, but even with him trying to conceal his identity, I recognize him. I am almost positive that is the man caught on the footage from the hospital after I was nearly killed following my attack by a different man right in my own living room.

“Can we take this with us?” I ask. “Or get a copy of it?”

“Sure,” the manager says.

Savannah goes back to the sheriff’s department to fill Sam in while I go home to pull up the surveillance footage from the hospital that I have on my work computer. I compare the two, and I have no doubt. They are the same man. This verifies to me that the accident was no accident at all. He smashed into me intentionally as another piece in my ongoing torment.

I rush back to the gas station, hoping the man paid with a credit card that we could trace, but that is where my luck in this ends. He paid with cash, leaving me with no further way of identifying him.

When Sam gets home, I’m still poring over all the evidence from my attacks as well as the other instances of my stalker getting close to me.

“What are you thinking?” Sam asks, coming into the living room with a sandwich and a glass of milk. He sits down beside me and looks over at my computer screen.

“It was men in the footage after my attacks,” I point out to him. “A man leaving here and a man in the hospital. Two different men who attacked me. But now I have this woman calling me. They have to be linked. But I can’t figure out who they are. The woman said I’ll remember, but remember who?”

I’m getting frustrated, so I decide to take a short break from digging into my attacks and sit back. Sam hands me half of his sandwich and turns on the TV, tuning in to the evening news. The story is on Marshall Belmont’s death.

As I’m watching them show images from the gathering, I notice something. It takes me a second to realize exactly what it is, but when I do, I grab my phone and start scrolling through pictures I have of the event. Several of them don’t show anything that’s helpful right now, but then I start to see exactly what I thought I saw in the news footage.

“Did you find something?” Sam asks.

“I might have,” I tell him. “But not about me.”

“Not about you?” he asks. “I thought you were going back through everything about your stalker and your attacks because of the guy who hit you?”

“I was, but then I saw that news story about Marshall Belmont, and something stood out to me. I wanted to look at the pictures I took at the event to see if I was actually seeing what I thought I was, and I think I am. Look at this.”

I show him a picture of several people gathered at the event, the stamps on their hands visible in the shot. I point at each of the stamps.

“The stamps?” he asks. “Everybody had those.”

“I know that. But look at this one in this picture.”

The next picture shows some of the same people turned slightly away from the camera so their hands aren’t as illuminated by the camera but have the lights from the dance floor shining on them.

“What am I looking at?” Sam asks.

“Look at Bryan Holstead’s shirt,” I say. “He’s wearing white, and it’s glowing because of the blacklight being used on the dance floor. Look at his stamp.”

“It just looks like a stamp,” he says.

“Right. Now look at this picture,” I say.

I bring up another image, this one of Sam playing one of the games.

“My shirt is glowing too,” he says.

“It is,” I say. “At least the part that’s near enough to the lights. But look at your hand.”

“The stamp is glowing.”

I nod. “And now look at this.”

I show him a picture of Marshall Belmont.

“His is too,” he says.

“Exactly. And if you look through the pictures, you’ll see other people with them doing the same thing. They are fluorescing. But only the VIP stamps,” I point out.

“Why did that stand out to you so much?” he asks.

“Because it made me think about the Christmas party Dean went to where the man died out in the snow. Remember? He saw the way his clothing was frozen and realized it had to have been wet. He used a blacklight…”

“And it glowed,” Sam says. “Because he had tonic water in his drink and spilled it on himself when he was dying.”

“Right,” I say. “Because tonic water contains quinine. The man died of quinine poisoning. Do you remember when Marshall was showing us the check-in station at the beginning of the night before everybody else got there and they were unwrapping the stamp pads? One of them was already unwrapped when she started unwrapping the other ones, and there wasn’t any trash or anything anywhere around it.”

“Maybe the VIPs just had special stamps,” Sam says.

“Or maybe Marshall was murdered.”

With the new theory pressing in my mind, Sam and I go back to the hospital. Dr. Springfield meets us again, and we go into his office.

“What can I do for you?” he asks as he settles into his green leather chair.

One of these days, I’m going to have to ask about that chair.

“Have there been any further developments on the cause of death of Marshall Belmont?” I ask.

“It still looks like organ failure,” he says. “As of right now, we still don’t have a reason behind it.”

“Could it have been caused by poisoning?” I ask.

“Poisoning?” he asks. “I suppose that’s a possibility. Tissue samples were submitted for toxicology testing. It will take a while for them to come back, but they’ll show if there was a substance that caused it.”

“Unless it’s a substance that doesn’t show up on those reports,” I say.

“What are you getting at?” Dr. Springfield asks.

“Is there any way to find out if Marshall was allergic to quinine?” I ask.

“He was,” the doctor responds without hesitation. “It was the only allergy listed in his chart. It stood out to me because it’s so unusual. You don’t run across that allergy very often.”

“And exposure to quinine for someone with that allergy can cause organ failure and death, correct?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “If the allergy is severe enough, even a small amount can cause the organs to shut down and the person to die within just a short time, a few hours at the most.”

“Do you think that could have happened in this case?” I ask.

He looks stunned. His mouth opens slightly and then closes again.

“I suppose… yes, that is possible.”

“Where is his body now?” I ask.

“As far as I know, it was transferred to the funeral home this morning. The autopsy was performed, and no additional findings were given,” he says.

“Great, thank you,” I say.

I rush out of the office, and Sam follows right behind me.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“You need to get in touch with the funeral home and tell them not to do anything with the body. We need to talk to a judge and get an order for a small amount of the skin on his hand to be collected. It needs to be tested for the presence of quinine,” I say.

“All right,” he says. “I can do that. Then what?”

“We need to go back to the community center. We can’t hold on to those rooms forever, but we need to see if we can find that stamp pad. It was there the last time we were there. If we can find it, we can compare it to other pads and see if someone tampered with it. Something as simple as purposely drying out the pad and then rehydrating it with tonic water would transfer it to the skin, and then it would be absorbed. The effect would take longer than him drinking it, but it did take a few hours, and he died more slowly than if it was directly ingested.”

Back at the community center, we go through the barricade blocking access to the hallway and the event room and go straight to the abandoned check-in tables. Three stamp pads are sitting on one of the tables, but there’s nothing on the second table, the one that was used as the special, exclusive VIP check-in table.

“It’s gone,” I say. “There were four stamp pads. The fourth one is gone. That was the one that was used for the VIP stamps.”

“Maybe somebody just moved it,” Sam says.

“Somebody took it,” I say. “It was here when we cleared the people away and told them no one else was allowed to access the hallway or the room. Now it’s not anymore. Someone took it. We need to find out if anyone came down here when they weren’t supposed to.”

“How do we find that out?” Sam asks. “All anyone would have had to do is walk through the barricade the way we did. The hallway wasn’t fully secured. The room is locked. No one would be able to get in there.”

“The room is locked?” I ask. “Do you have a key to it?”

“Yeah,” he says. “The director of the center gave it to me. She’s not pleased about this area still being blocked off. I’m going to have to release it to her today even now that this is an investigation.”

“So you are officially considering it an investigation?” I ask.

“Yes. It makes sense. It still could have just been a medical situation, but I don’t want to be complacent and overlook something more serious,” he says.

“Speaking of overlooking something, can you use that key to let me into the main room please? I want to check something,” I ask.

He lets me into the room, and I make a beeline across the former dance floor to the first drink station. The only thing that has been removed from the room since the end of the event was the food at Sam’s permission, but everything else had to stay until he determined he didn’t need to examine it or it was properly processed. I search around the first drink station, going through all the bottles stored beneath it and reading the recipes for the drinks posted on clipboards at the back of the table. Finding nothing, I move on to the next, and then the next, until I have searched every one of the stations.

“Exactly what I thought,” I say.

“What is it?” Sam asks.

“No tonic water. There isn’t a single bottle of tonic anywhere, and none of the drinks that were created for the night included it. Marshall had to have made a specification to the company providing the bar that there couldn’t be any tonic water on premises in order to protect himself.”

“Too bad for those people who wanted a gin and tonic,” Sam points out.

“Yeah, especially since someone managed to get the quinine into him another way,” I say. “I’m positive now that stamp pad had quinine in it. The rest of the VIPs had the same exact stamp, but because no one else is sensitive to quinine, it didn’t do anything to us. The only thing that was different was that the stamps fluoresced under the black light, which I doubt many people noticed at all. And even if they did notice, I bet it was the same reaction as you had—they just thought it was something special for the VIPs.” I take a breath. “I think we need to go back and talk to the grieving widow.”

Sheila Belmont looks surprised when she opens the door and sees Sam and me looking back at her. For a few seconds, she keeps the door most of the way closed, with just a sliver of her face visible, like she’s contemplating telling us that now is not a good time for her and that we’ll have to come back some other time when she is better able to talk. Or when she has had the time to come up with stories to answer the questions I’m about to ask her.

Her behavior and the lies she told the night Marshall died were strange enough then. Now that I am confident he was murdered, they take on a much more serious meaning.

“Sheriff Johnson, Agent Griffin,” she says, her tone as surprised as the look on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re sorry to just show up like this, but we need to have a word with you,” Sam says. “Can we come in?”

She hesitates, but eventually opens the door and steps back to allow us into the house.

“Can I get either of you anything?” she asks.

She looks more put together this time, dressed and with a full face of makeup, and she doesn’t seem to be going through too intense of a grieving process for the husband she lost only a short time ago. But I’ve learned very well over the years of my career that you can’t judge a person by the way they react to loss. Everybody responds to losing someone they love differently, and in some situations, it can look like they aren’t mourning at all when they are actually going through internal torment they are choosing not to show other people. It’s possible that is what’s happening with Sheila Belmont.

“Water would be great,” I say.

Sam nods, and she gestures toward the same sitting room where we gave her the news of Marshall’s death. We sit in the same positions, mirroring that night, and she comes in a few moments later with three glasses of water. We each take one of the glasses and have a sip before setting them down on the table. Sheila sits in her chair, not curling up the way she did the other night, and holds her glass in her lap, searching our faces for some indication of why we are here.

“Thank you for letting us come in and talk with you,” Sam says. “We know this is a difficult time for you, but there are a few things we need to talk to you about regarding Marshall’s death.”

Sheila looks a little bit startled, her eyes flickering back and forth between us.

“Something regarding Marshall’s death?” she asks. “What do you mean? The doctor said he had organ failure.”

“Yes,” I say. “But it’s the cause of that organ failure that is being questioned. Like you told us the night he had died, Marshall was a healthy man. There doesn’t seem like any reason why he should have suffered that type of medical catastrophe. But further investigation has revealed a potential cause of his death. Were you aware that your husband was allergic to quinine?”

“Yes,” she says almost dismissively. “Of course I was. He was so worried about it that when he planned events like that, he wouldn’t even allow the bar to have tonic water. Why?”

“We have reason to believe your husband was poisoned,” I say. “With quinine.”

She gasps, her hand coming up over her mouth briefly. “How?”

For the moment, I’m choosing not to give her the full details. I want to keep the stamp confidential and use that as leverage through the investigation. I look over at Sam, hoping to communicate that simply through the look, and he gives me a slight nod like he’s encouraging me to continue.

“The night Marshall died, you were sick, right?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “I told you that. I had a virus that I just couldn’t shake and wasn’t able to go to the event because of it.”

“And you stayed here the entire night?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“The whole evening? You didn’t go anywhere else, even for a few minutes?” I ask.

“Yes, the whole evening. I didn’t go anywhere. Why are you asking me these questions?” she asks.

Sheila Belmont is starting to sound emotional, and she sets the water down like she’s worried she’s going to lose her grip on it.

“When we came over here, I noticed there was a pair of high heels sitting off to the side near the front door,” I tell her. “And your face had been freshly washed when you came to speak with us.”

“I had just taken a bath,” she says. “It makes me feel better when I’m sick. I’m sure I’m not the only person in the world who does that.”

“No, you’re not. But I am wondering why you also had hairspray in your hair. If you were just going to be at home sick, why did you style your hair, then take a bath?” I ask.

Her mouth opens slightly, and her eyes move again between Sam and me like she’s trying to find something to hold on to, something that she can say that will make all this go away.

“Mrs. Belmont, this is extremely important,” Sam says. “Right now we are trying to find out what happened to your husband. There is a strong possibility he was murdered, and if that is the case, we need to understand what was happening around him that night. Right now it looks like you are hiding something from us, and we need you to be honest.”

Sam can be intense and overpowering when he needs to be, but it is his more gentle, caring side that has made him so beloved around Sherwood. People feel safe knowing he is their sheriff, and now that he’s thinking about running for mayor, I’m confident the people of the town would rally behind him and be thrilled to have him in that position too. It would be hard to adjust to having someone other than him as sheriff, but he could make such a difference in a higher position.

“All right,” she says. “Yes. I went out. I didn’t want to say anything because I’m not exactly proud of my actions that night. It doesn’t look very good for a woman to admit that while her husband was dying, she was out on a date with another man.”

“So you are having an affair,” I confirm

“Yes,” she says with a slight hiss at the end of the word. “I am. I have been for the last two years. I told Marshall I still felt sick after having the virus earlier in the week so that I didn’t have to go to the event and could see Charles instead.”

“Did he know you were having an affair?” I ask.

“He didn’t know it to the point of knowing his name or being aware when I was out with him, if that’s what you’re asking. We didn’t have some sort of agreement. But I think he had his suspicions. Just like I have my suspicions that he had someone else as well. You have to understand, Agent Griffin, Marshall and I haven’t been happily married in a long time. I love my husband, and I know he loved me, but we just weren’t compatible anymore. We found what we needed with other people. Or at the very least, I did.”

“Why did you stay together?” I ask.

“Appearances,” she says as if it’s the simplest answer in the world. “It looks much better for someone in Marshall’s position to have a strong, long-lasting marriage than it is to be divorced. And I stayed because I know what it’s like to not have enough money, and I never wanted to go back there. I got very comfortable with the life he provided for me. And like I said, I loved him. There were times when we were very happy. I just needed more attention than he could give me.”

“You said you suspected he was seeing someone else too,” Sam says. “Was their relationship serious? Did you worry that he might leave you?”

“Sometimes,” she admits. “I thought maybe he found the quintessential younger model and would risk the blow to his reputation so that he could marry her. But I didn’t have anything to do with his death. Nothing. Up until you came here tonight, I thought he had just died of a heart attack. The doctor said organ failure, but I don’t know what could have caused that. I thought he was just sick and we didn’t know.”

“Who else knows about his allergy?” I ask.

“Everybody who knew him,” she says. “Anybody who had ever gone to an event with him. He was always very open about it.”

That was not the answer I wanted. It doesn’t narrow anything down since now it means just about everybody in his circle had the knowledge of what could kill him.

“We need you to not talk about this with anybody,” I say. “Please do not discuss this situation, the possibility of Marshall being murdered, or anything we talked about tonight with anybody, do you understand?”

“Yes,” she says.

“And don’t plan on leaving town for a while,” Sam adds. “We need to be able to get in touch with you if necessary.”

“All right.” She sounds defeated.

Her eyes are downcast as she leads us to the door and we say good night, reminding her to call us if she can think of anything that might be relevant.

“What do you think?” Sam asks when we get in the car and start to pull out of the long driveway.

“She sounded genuinely surprised,” I say. “But she could have just been acting. She admitted that she was concerned he might be leaving her for another woman and that she was going to lose the comfortable life he gave her. That’s motive right there. At the same time, no one saw her at the event. She would be pretty obvious considering she’s the wife of the man who put the whole thing together and was strutting around talking to everyone. I’m sure she’s very well known among the people who know him and work with him. How would she have gotten the water onto the stamp pad?”

“We need to figure out who actually bought the stamp pads and was responsible for putting together the check-in station,” Sam says. “We’ll call the law firm in the morning and ask.”

With the long day behind us, we go home and spend the rest of the evening curled up on the couch watching useless TV and eating the leftovers we scavenged from the refrigerator. I try not to let my mind wander to anything else, but it keeps going back to the phone calls and the threatening promise that I would remember the woman calling.

Her

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

Emma should only be thinking about her. Only thinking about the sound of her voice and the words that she’d said.

She’s supposed to be trying to remember.

But now she’s getting distracted. She’s letting something else get into her mind and take her away from what she really should be doing. She thinks she knows something, but she doesn’t. Sam always says there’s no such thing as coincidences, but this time…

This time Emma might just learn what it’s like to be wrong.

She was tired of Emma’s distraction. She’d been so gentle with her so far. She encouraged her. Nurtured her. Just like a good mother would. After all, that’s what they called her. Mother. It’s what she was. What she was always meant to be. Emma would remember sometime. She had to.

And until she did… Mother would help.

The next morning, confirmation from the director of the community center that no one else had access to that area of the building after the event, and that it was being monitored regularly, encourages Sam to make the call to Belmont’s law firm as soon as the office opens. Without anyone else going into that area, it means that the watered-down pad was taken before or as we were shutting down the cleanup. Someone who was involved in that cleanup got rid of the pad.

He comes back into the kitchen while I’m brewing coffee and cooking eggs and bacon. It just feels like one of those days that’s going to need a big, real breakfast.

“I talked to somebody at the law firm,” he says. “I asked for the people who helped put the event together, and they told me there was a planning committee. Rather than hiring a professional event planner, Belmont wanted to put a personal touch on it by having people around the office participating in the planning. He was a part of it too, and they did it all together. Including buying supplies. I asked to speak to the head of the committee, but she wasn’t available. She will be tomorrow, so I made an appointment for us to meet with her in the afternoon.”

“Perfect,” I say.

My phone rings, and I grab it while I stir the eggs.

“Agent Griffin.”

“It’s Pamela,” she says.

“Good morning, Pamela,” I say, making sure to look over at Sam while I say her name.

He chuckles as he downs a glass of orange juice, then gets himself another before pouring one to put at my place at the table.

“Morning, Emma,” she says. “I was just calling because I woke up this morning ready to hit the ground running and thought to myself… maybe Sam and Emma feel the same way and are finishing up working on the Poppy Montgomery house so I can look at it. What do you think?”

I laugh. “Smooth, Pamela.”

“I tried.” She gives a lighthearted laugh.

“We’re definitely not done, but Sam is just on call today, so we’re going to be spending a good amount of the day over there getting it cleaned out. We’ll let you know just as soon as we’re finished and it’s good for you to walk around and look at,” I say.

“All right,” Pamela says, sounding notably disappointed but also like she knew that was going to be the response she got. “On an unrelated note, have you heard anything about Marshall Belmont? I would have thought there would have been a funeral in place by now, but I haven’t seen anything about it.”

Pamela knew Marshall much better than I did because of her work and is someone who would expect to be at the viewing and funeral.

“I haven’t heard anything about it,” I say. “I’m sure his wife is planning something.”

“I should call her. I haven’t talked to her since he died. Maybe I’ll take some food over to her,” she says.

The sentiment makes me smile. Sheila Belmont is by no means in a position where she would need someone to provide food for her while she is grieving her husband’s death. Anything she wants, she can just order and have it delivered to her. But there’s the cultural pull to take care of those in mourning, and the first thing we think of is to bring food. I know Pamela has made a pretty good name for herself with her baking, so I have no doubts Sheila will soon be in possession of a stack of cherry turnovers or possibly an apple brown Betty.

“I’ll let you go do that,” I tell her. “We’ll give you a call with an update of how things are going at the house.”

I hang up and distribute the eggs onto plates with crispy strips of bacon. I carry them over to the table, then go back to the stove to fill a separate bowl with home fries. As soon as I set the bowl on the table, Sam digs in, creating a mound on his plate of the buttery golden potatoes studded with chopped onions and red and yellow bell pepper.

“Let me guess why Pamela was calling,” he says.

“I have a feeling you would get it right,” I say. I add potatoes to my own plate and take a bite. “She really is eager to get that house on the market and sold.”

“Like she said, it’s a great house. I think she’s seeing it as a quick commission and also doesn’t want to risk the chance that another agent will approach us and try to take the sale out from under her,” Sam says.

“We wouldn’t do that,” I say.

“I know that,” Sam says. “But the world of real estate can be pretty cutthroat.”

I chuckle. “It’s really hard to think of anything in Sherwood being cutthroat.”

We finish breakfast and make our way over to Poppy Montgomery’s house. This time we are armed with plenty of trash bags as well as a large stack of boxes so we can more effectively sort through everything. The more we look through the piles of belongings in the woman’s house, the more I think Sam’s idea of the yard sale would be a good idea. I’m still thinking of bringing the newspapers and scrapbook compilation of pictures, clippings, and fliers over to the town hall to see if the historical society might be interested in them.

As for the rest of the mounds of pictures spilling out of boxes and filling files throughout the rooms, I have no idea what I should do with them. It would take me forever to go through every one and see if I could identify the people in them so that I could return the pictures to them. I might be able to do that for some of them, especially the more recent ones, but the older pictures are full of people I don’t know and times in Sherwood I don’t remember because they were from before I came back. I could add them to the scrapbooks and things I want to bring to the historical society, but I could also have them available at the yard sale to see if anyone wanted to take the ones of themselves or their family members.

The day is murky and cloudy, the heavy gray sky threatening rain, so we turn on all the lights throughout the house to try to brighten up the space. We go right back to the guest bedroom that we’ve been working on and start taping together boxes to fill with everything we are going to bring to the donation center or keep aside to try to sell. Everything else goes right into trash bags.

Even though I wasn’t as close to Poppy as Sam, the process hasn’t gotten any easier. It still feels strange digging through somebody’s belongings and deciding what to do with them. I hate tossing away things she kept. I figure they’re here for a reason and she would have wanted something done with them, but without her here to tell us why she kept it or what purpose she thought it served, so many things are just taking up space.

“Do you always remember Poppy being at all the Sherwood events when you were younger?” I ask Sam as I flip through yet another program from a community theater presentation.

“A lot of them, yeah,” he says. “She and her husband never had any children, and as far as I know, they didn’t have any other family, so it was just the two of them. They liked to go to all the things that were going on around the community like everyone in Sherwood was their family. I feel like they figured there had to be other people who didn’t really have a lot of people who were there for them, so they were going to be there for everybody. They went to the sports games at the schools, all the plays, carnivals, fundraisers, fun runs. They showed up for basically everything. And they were regulars at Pearl’s.”

“Of course they were,” I say. “Everybody who is anybody is a regular at Pearl’s.”

“They had their own table,” Sam says. “There was a long stretch there when they had breakfast there every day and then dinner at least three times a week.”

“Wow, that is next level.”

“Few places in Sherwood better for getting the news,” he points out.

“This is true. And biscuits and gravy. I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve had her biscuits and gravy,” I say.

“It has been a while,” he says. He looks around at the bags of trash, emptied old boxes, and larger items we are discarding. “It’s getting ready to pour down rain outside. If we’re going to get this stuff to the dump, we should go ahead and bring it there.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and do a dump run, and I’ll keep going here?” I suggest. “There’s still a lot to do, and I can get more done if I stay here than if I go with you. I’ll help you load everything up in the car.”

Sam is hesitant. He doesn’t want me alone, but he knows there’s so much left to do here that we really need to put as much effort and energy into it as we possibly can if it’s ever going to get done.

“All right,” he says. “Come on, let’s load this car up, and I’ll do a dump run before it rains.”

We pile everything into the car, and Sam kisses me.

“Lock the doors.”

“I will,” I say. “Just let me know when you’re almost back, and I’ll unlock it for you if it’s raining.”

“Thanks. It shouldn’t be long. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here,” I say.

He smiles and waits until I’m back in the house with the door closed to drive away. I lock it and head back to the bedroom to keep working. Now that all the trash and empty boxes are out of the room, it’s easier to see how much progress we are actually making. This room will likely take the rest of the day, but then we’ll be able to close the door and move on to the next one. I joke to myself that maybe Poppy didn’t choose Sam to handle this process because she loved him. Maybe she was holding some sort of grudge against him. I know that isn’t true, but it still makes me smile as I go to the closet and pull out an armful of garment bags stuffed against the back wall. I have no idea what’s in them, but I’m going to find out.

I’ve gotten through the garment bags full of evening wear from various eras and am sorting through hat boxes of accessories when I get a text from Sam.

Open the back door. It’s raining.

I’m surprised that he’s already back. The dump isn’t far, but I must have been really invested in the walk down fancy memory lane to not realize how much time has passed. I glance at the clock and see that it hasn’t been that long.

“Did you forget something?” I ask as I swing the door open.

I don’t even have time to process what I see before a fist smashes into my jaw, knocking me backward. I stumble to try and stay on my feet as something crashes into my back, shoving me against the corner of the kitchen wall, and a hot rod of pain shoots down my shoulder and left arm.

The man attacking me is bigger than me, but not particularly bulky or quick, and my instincts snap into place. I shift my weight hard to one side, popping my hips and grabbing at him with my good arm, locking him in a headlock and forcing him with me to the ground. He pounds on my bad shoulder and side, and I try to maneuver so I can mount him.

I need to know if he has weapons. Smashing him in the face with my fist gives me a moment to move around as he clearly didn’t expect to be hit so hard. I scramble away from him, creating a little space, and see that he seems to be unarmed, or if he has a weapon, he hasn’t pulled it out.

He struggles to his knees, and I fling myself toward him, kicking both feet out and drop-kicking him in the ribs. He rolls away with the momentum and crashes into the cabinets on the other side of the kitchen. I notice as I stand a few droplets of blood and realize they are coming from me. I can’t feel it yet, but he might have busted my lip or broken my nose. Either way, he’s going to pay for it.

I launch at him, but he moves at the last second, and I crash, knee-first, into the cabinet. He tries to wrap me up from behind, slipping one arm under my chin, but I elbow him hard in the rib I kicked before, and his arm loses all grip on me. I wriggle out and spin my body hard, swinging a backfist into his ear and following with my other fist to land a hard shot that connects with his lower neck as he tries to dodge.

Before I can throw another punch, his foot crunches into my upper leg, and I lose balance. He takes advantage of it and throws me hard against the sink. My back screams out in pain as he lands two punches to my stomach in rapid succession.

In the distance, muffled by the walls separating us, the ringtone of my phone begins going off. I know without seeing it that it’s Sam calling me. But it’s still in the bedroom, where my gun is also sitting, right beside it on a dresser. I have to get back in there, and more importantly, I can’t let this guy get in there before I do.

A momentary hesitation as he tries to catch his breath is all I need. I slam my head forward and strike him with a headbutt that lands just under his eye. He stumbles back, and I leap forward, spearing him against the refrigerator and knocking off it a dozen tins and boxes of cereal we forgot about. Showered in rice cereal and blood, the attacker is dazed, and I use the opportunity to run for the bedroom.

The phone is still ringing when I get to the door handle, but my leg is caught. I look down to see the man holding my ankle with both hands, a mouse developing under his eye and blood streaming from his lip. I stomp down with my other foot, then repeat it twice more, slamming his head into the wooden floor of the hallway. Blood splatter covers the wall as I stumble backward into the room, falling beside the bed.

Our eyes connect, and then I look up to the dresser. His eyes follow mine, and when I look back to him, panic is etched into his face. He scrambles to his feet as I reach for the gun, and by the time I turn to aim out of the bedroom door, he’s gone, his footsteps pounding toward the kitchen.

Sam

Emma’s mention of the biscuits and gravy from Pearl’s reminded him that they hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Sam’s stomach was grumbling, and he decided to bring food back to the house so they could eat before continuing on with the somewhat daunting task of continuing to clean out Poppy’s house.

He was shocked when he found out she wanted him to handle the responsibility in the event of her death. He’d been helping her for years and had known her since he was a little boy, but it was such an undertaking, and he was both honored and overwhelmed to handle it for her. It felt cleansing in a way. He was able to process his grief at losing the sweet, feisty woman, who was a perpetual part of his memories of growing up, by ensuring the task of dismantling her life and sending her on to the next was done with dignity and respect.

He was beyond appreciative of Emma for being so willing to help him. She’d been there with him as he took care of Poppy over the last year, and he knew this was important to her too.

He also knew it might not be the best idea to spring biscuits and gravy on her when she was talking about going to Pearl’s. She might have it in her mind that she wanted to actually go into the restaurant and see Pearl and the dedicated waitstaff that kept so much of Sherwood running. Sam couldn’t even begin to estimate how many cups of coffee and fried eggs or burgers that fueled him through his long days he had gotten from Pearl’s.

Instead of calling the diner and ordering the food to go without asking Emma, he decided to call and make sure that was what she wanted first. He finished unloading the trash at the dump and then pulled off into a parking spot to the side to call her. She didn’t answer, and he listened to the ringing until her voicemail picked up. Thinking she might be in the middle of something and not have been able to get to her phone, he called again. She still didn’t answer, and worry started building in the pit of his stomach. It crawled up into his chest, clenching around his heart.

Tossing his phone onto the seat beside him, Sam hurried back to the house. Before he even got to the house, he noticed a car parked in the driveway. As he pulled in behind it to block it, Sam saw a man run around the side of the house from the back door toward the car. As soon as he noticed Sam’s car there, he skidded to a stop and turned around to head in the opposite direction. Sam unhooked his seat belt and tossed it off, getting out of the car as fast as he could so that he could chase after the man.

He was torn between catching the intruder and going back to make sure Emma was okay. Terrifying memories of her attack in the summer tormented him. He could still hear the phone call telling him that Emma had been severely injured, which brought him back to Sherwood from Michigan where he was with his aunt trying to help her navigate her new life without the daughter who had recently been brutally murdered. He still knew that feeling.

What tortured him more were the memories of her attack in the hospital. He’d walked around for a little while, leaving her alone only for a few minutes, when the man got to her. Sam was able to save Emma’s life by scaring the man out of the room. He had chased him but decided that time to go back to his wife, trusting that someone else would get the man. No one did. He escaped from that hospital without a single person stopping him and had been out since.

This time Sam wasn’t going to let that happen. Having to trust that Emma was all right, he ran after the man.

“Help!” he shouted, knowing one of the neighbors was going to hear him.

The rainy weather wasn’t enough to completely deter everyone from fully closing their windows. In fact, he knew of some of the neighbors who purposely waited for the spring rain to come before throwing open their windows so they could bring the cool, fresh air into their homes. He had to believe someone had done that now and would hear his calls for help over the sound of the rain still falling.

“Help!” he shouted again. “Somebody get out here!”

He was gaining on the man running down the street, looking around like he was desperately hoping for a place where he could escape. Sam saw one of the houses’ doors open, and David Cooper ran out. He was within a few feet of the man and took a risk. Throwing himself forward, he reached out and grabbed the man, tackling him to the ground. The man immediately started struggling, trying to fight Sam off. Sam forced him onto his back and punched him hard enough to knock him out. He kept his knee pressed into the man’s chest until David got to him.

“Sam, what the hell is going on?” he asks.

Gloria Wiley, who lived one house over, opened her front door and gasped when she saw what was happening.

“Call 911,” Sam shouted. “Tell them I need backup. Now!”

The man was unconscious now, but that didn’t mean it was going to last for very long. A single punch wasn’t usually enough to put someone out for hours. He probably only had a matter of a few minutes before the man would wake back up, and though he would likely be groggy, he might be very dangerous to anyone near him if he wasn’t fully subdued.

Sam looked at David. “I’m going to go back to my car and get my handcuffs. I need you to hold him down just like this until I get back, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

Sam moved so that the other man could take his place and ran for the car to get his cuffs. The man was still out when he got back, and they rolled him over to put the cuffs on him.

“Stay here with him. The other officers should be here soon. I need to go check on Emma. When they get here, tell them I am at Poppy Montgomery’s house and he was in there with Emma.”

“Is she all right?” David asked, sounding anxious and worried.

“I don’t know. I just got back here. I went to the dump and came back and saw this guy running from the house. His car is parked in the driveway.”

Without another word, Sam took off back to Poppy’s house. He didn’t waste time going to the front door and unlocking it and instead ran around to the back where he knew the door was going to be unlocked.

“Emma!” he shouted as he burst into the house. He saw blood on the floor of the kitchen, and his heart tightened. “Emma! Where are you?”

He ran toward the steps and took them two at a time to get up to the guest bedroom where he knew she had her gun.

“Emma!”

Blood on the wall of the hallway nearly made him sick.

“I’m here,” he heard her say from the bedroom just before he got to the door.

He found her sitting on the floor, her head resting against the dresser. Her gun was still in her hand as it rested on the floor beside her. Blood trickled down from her lip, and her other arm was draped over her stomach like she was in pain, but he didn’t see any severe injuries.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “What hurts?”

Sam dropped to the floor next to Emma and touched her face gently. He could see that her bottom lip had been busted, and there was a bruise forming on her cheek.

“My face,” she said. “And my back. But I’m all right. Better off than him. Where is he? Did you get him?”

“I got him,” Sam told her. “He’s outside. The others should be here soon.”

Just as he said it, they heard the sirens rushing toward them.

“Make sure he gets to the station,” Emma said. “That’s the man who attacked me before. He was the one driving the car that hit me.”

“I know,” Sam said. “His car is in the driveway. No license plates. I don’t know how he was stupid enough to park in the driveway.”

“Not stupid. Arrogant. He was arrogant enough. He didn’t think you were going to get back. Why did you send that message?”

“What message?” Sam asked, helping Emma to her feet so he could get her downstairs to the ambulance he could hear wailing on the street.

“The text message. I got a message from you saying to open the back door to let you in because it was raining. I thought it was too quick but that maybe you had forgotten something,” Emma told him.

Sam’s face darkened. “That’s how he got in.”

“Yeah, I opened the back door thinking it would be you standing there, and he immediately attacked me.”

“I didn’t send that message. I didn’t text you at all. I was trying to call you,” he said.

“I heard the phone ringing, but I left it upstairs when I went to the door to open it for what I thought was going to be you. It was up here with my gun. You didn’t send it?” she asked.

“No. I called you to see if you wanted me to bring some food back, and you didn’t answer, so I was really worried and came back here. That was when I saw the guy running and went after him. David helped me subdue him,” Sam said.

They got downstairs just as a paramedic team was coming through the back door.

“It’s her. She was attacked,” Sam said, guiding Emma in front of him.

“Let’s get you loaded up and to the hospital to get checked out,” a paramedic said. Sam recognized him as one of the paramedics who were at the community center the night that Marshall died.

“No,” Emma immediately protested. “I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, you do,” Sam said. “You need to get looked at. You are all bloodied, and you said your back hurts. You just need to get checked over. That’s it.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “I want to interrogate that son of a bitch who attacked me. He knows how this woman is, and I want to ask him.”

“Emma,” Sam said. “We have him cuffed. By this point, he is already in the car. He might not even be conscious yet. He’s going to need to get checked out too before anybody is questioning him. I’m going to make sure that he gets to the hospital and has a doctor look him over and see what damage you did before he’s transferred to the station. Once he’s released and transferred, we’ll keep him in a holding cell until you’re ready.”

“Fine,” Emma finally relented and followed the team out of the house to the hospital.

Sam knew she hated going to the hospital and particularly hated having to go in an ambulance, but he wasn’t going to take any chances. He wasn’t taking any more risks with her. If he hadn’t left her this afternoon, this wouldn’t have happened. If he had just insisted she come with him, then this man, who was obviously watching everything they did, would never have known that she was alone and wouldn’t have come after her.

The guilt pressing down on him, Sam sat in the emergency room waiting area while the doctors looked over Emma. He knew that the man who attacked her was somewhere back there as well, and it was taking everything in him not to crash through the doors and search every room until he found him. The rage he felt was something he could only remember experiencing a couple of times in his life. He had his hands on the man. He’d had him unconscious and pinned to the ground beneath his knee and could only be grateful David showed up. He didn’t know what he might have done if his neighbor hadn’t appeared there to help him.

The thought of Emma being in the hospital again anywhere near that man was making Sam feel sick. He knew logically that the man wasn’t going to be able to get up and do anything to her. He was handcuffed to the bed and under the watch of one of his deputies. But there was still a feeling of terror coursing through him, and he knew there was no way he was going to take a single step out of the hospital until Emma was walking along beside him. He would sit right here and watch those doors, make sure no one else got in without knowing exactly who they were and where they were going. He was going to do everything in his power to protect her this time.

He was terrified of anything happening to her.

Sitting here in this damn hospital bed is the last thing I want to be doing right now. Whoever this man is, he came into Poppy’s house by pretending to be my husband and attacked me. I know his face. He’s done this before. He is the one who tried to kill me in the hospital, and now we’re in the same emergency room.

I can’t be thankful enough that Sam got him this time. I know he didn’t want to chase him. He wanted to get into the house to make sure I was all right, but he made the right choice. He did the right thing by chasing after that guy and getting him under his control. He won’t be able to escape again.

It feels like it takes forever for the doctor to finally get through the process of looking over every one of my injuries and making sure I’m actually all right enough to leave rather than being admitted. There’s no way I’m going to accept being admitted. Unless Sam will haul that man’s ass up into my room and let me run the interrogation right there, IV and all, the doctor is going to have to let me go.

“I’d really like to keep you for observation considering the bump on your head,” he says.

“No,” I tell him flatly. “Unless you already know there’s something seriously wrong and it is not possible for me to get out of here, I need to be discharged. I need to get back to an important case.”

“I’m aware of that, Agent Griffin. Remember, I’m one of the doctors who took care of you the last time you were attacked. That’s why I’m concerned about another head injury,” he says.

I feel a little bit put in my place, but I can’t worry about that right at this moment. I need to get discharged and find out what’s happening with the still-unidentified man who attacked me.

“Honestly, I feel fine. Some pain, of course, but nothing serious. He didn’t get as much of a chance to fight this time. I’m going to be sore, but nothing is broken. I’m not dizzy, I’m seeing just fine,” I tell him. “I really need to get out of here, Doc.”

“All right,” he says, knowing there’s very little point in arguing with me because I’m very unlikely to budge. “But I want you to follow up with your regular doctor in a couple of days, and if you feel strange in any way—a headache, woozy, seeing things, extra pain, anything—you are to get back here immediately no matter what you are doing. Got it?”

“Absolutely,” I say.

Finally, with extensive discharge papers—which I’m fairly certain contain some sternly worded notes about me forcing myself out of the care of the hospital in hand—I walk out of the back of the emergency room. Sam is pacing back and forth across the waiting area, and as soon as he sees me, he rushes over and gathers me in a hug. As if remembering what I’ve just been through, he quickly loosens his grip and whispers an apology.

“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Where is the guy?”

“Still in the back,” Sam says. “I made sure they knew that the second he was ready to be discharged, they were to have him transferred right to the precinct for questioning.”

“Good,” I say. My stomach rumbles. “How about some biscuits and gravy while we wait?”

“You’re really up for that?” he asks.

“Definitely. I am so hungry.”

He looks relieved and happy as we leave the hospital and drive over to Pearl’s Diner. We grab our favorite booth—which hasn’t quite risen to the level of being a regular table that is saved for us the way there was one apparently for Poppy and her husband—and smile over at Mindy Sweeting, one of the waitresses who has become a welcome familiar face at the diner in the last few years.

She grabs two white mugs and a carafe of coffee and comes over to the table. This is one of the things I love about this place. You never have to ask for coffee—unless it’s a very hot day, and then the waitress comes with iced water first, then follows up with the quintessential diner mug.

“Whoa, Emma,” Mindy says when she gets to the edge of the table. “Are you okay?”

“I just came from the hospital,” I say, displaying the bracelet I forgot to take off when walking out of the hospital, “so I can officially say I have proof that I am, in fact, okay.”

“She is not okay,” Sam corrects me. “But she bullied the doctor into saying she is so that she could get discharged. She will be okay.”

“How did you know that? You weren’t in the back with me,” I say.

“Because I know you well enough to know,” he says. “And one of the nurses overheard and came out to tell me so in case it got more heated, I would have the chance to pick which side I would be on.”

“Snitch,” I mutter. I straighten a little. “Wait… which side would you have been on?”

“The doctor’s, and you know it,” he says. “But they sprung you, so we’re here.”

“I am in great need of some medicinal biscuits and gravy,” I tell Mindy. “For my strength.”

She laughs. “You know what? I think that stuff could actually do that too. It’s pretty magical.”

“That it is,” Sam agrees. “But I think I’m going to go with an open-faced roast beef sandwich in light of the rain.”

Mindy gathers the menus already sitting on the table and eyes me again.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” she asks. “Something happen that I should know about?”

That could be loosely translated as her asking if there was something she should be informed about so that she could tell the rest of the town and make sure everyone was up to date. To her credit, I’m sure seeing me beaten up like this had her worrying about what kind of criminal was running around Sherwood and wondering if she should be concerned for her own safety.

“I’m sure,” I say. “No need to be worried. This,” I say, waving my hand over my face and across my body to indicate the visible signs of the fight, “was about me. No one else is in any danger.”

Even as I say it, I’m praying I’m right. I can’t help but think of Marshall’s death coming so soon after the threatening conversation with the woman. It so closely resembles the death of the man from the Christmas party Dean attended. That feels significant, and yet, I can’t figure out why that would apply to me or to anyone I was supposed to be remembering. It wasn’t my case. I wasn’t even there for the investigation.

“Good,” Mindy says with a sigh of relief, then looks embarrassed. “I mean… it’s not good, but…”

“It’s all right,” I say. “I got it.”

“Good,” she says again. “I’m going to go put your order in.”

She scurries away from the table, and Sam reaches across the table for my hands. I take them, and he looks into my eyes.

“I’m so sorry I left you in that house by yourself,” he says softly.

“No,” I tell him, shaking my head. “You’re not going to do that. This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault. You can’t watch over me every single second of my existence. I’m an adult, and there are going to be times when I am alone. I hate that this happened, but it’s not your fault that it did. And at least, this time it means we have the guy. He’s not just out running around anymore. We have him, and he’s going to have to answer for the things that he’s done. I’m willing to have gone through this for that.”

“Don’t say that,” Sam says.

“It’s true,” I say. “If it took getting attacked again to find out who the hell has been doing all this to me, I say it was a fine price to pay. As we both know, it could have been a hell of a lot worse.”

“Who do you think this woman is?” Sam asks. “She has to be in control of these men. She’s the one calling the shots. But who is she?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve been trying to figure out how everything pieces together, but I can’t. None of the women that I’ve ever put behind bars are out. The only one who isn’t in prison is Lilith Duprey, and she is still in the psychiatric facility. She wouldn’t do something like this anyway. I still go to visit her, I spend time with her. She wouldn’t have to tell me to remember her.”

“Then who?” Sam asks. “And why?”

“I don’t know. But we’re going to figure out how to make this guy sing.”

We get our food and turn our attention to other topics of conversation as we eat. We’re finishing up when Sam’s phone rings. He answers, and his eyebrows raise at me. I know what that means. The man is out of the hospital and waiting for us at the precinct.

Sam tosses a handful of cash onto the table, and we rush out before letting Mindy know we are done. We’re both eager to get into the room with this man and find out the answers we’ve been hunting for. It’s been years since my stalkers started tormenting me, and now I finally feel like the chance of finding out who they are and why they’ve been doing this is right at my fingertips.

The man is sitting in one of the interrogation rooms when Sam and I get to the precinct. He looks battered and worn down, but his eyes are focused directly in front of him.

“Got a name?” Sam asks Garrison, the officer responsible for handling his transfer from the hospital.

“No. He didn’t have any identification on him, and he wouldn’t speak at the hospital. They had to treat him without him saying anything at all. Everybody has been referring to him as John.”

“As in Doe,” I say. “Perfect.” I take a breath. “Let’s go see what we can find out.”

Sam and I walk into the room, and the man they have been calling John doesn’t even shift in his chair or turn his eyes to look in our direction. He just keeps staring directly in front of him. Sam and I take the other chairs in the room and position them so he has to see us from where he is, but his eyes don’t focus on us.

“What’s your name?” Sam asks.

“I remember,” the man whispers.

“Tell me your name,” Sam says.

“I remember.”

“That’s enough,” I say. “You had your fun with this little act at the hospital. Now it’s time for you to realize this is a serious situation, and you’re going to start answering our questions. Tell us your name.”

“I remember.”

“Fine,” I snap. “Then we’ll just keep calling you John. I genuinely don’t care what your name is. All I care about is that we have you and you’re not getting out of here anytime soon. Do you realize that you are facing charges of attempted murder on a federal officer?”

“I remember.”

I almost laugh. “Yeah, buddy, I remember too. I remember seeing your face on the surveillance footage from the hospital after you tried to kill me in my bed. And I remember you hitting me with your car. And I’m sure a couple of the other fun things that have been happening to me are your fault as well.”

I scoot my chair closer to him.

“And here’s the thing. I know you aren’t the only one doing this. In fact, I know you aren’t the one behind any one of it. You’re being told what to do by this woman who has been calling me. Tell me who she is.”

The man’s eyes finally meet mine. I see something in them as his fingers start to work at a loose thread inside the cuff of one sleeve.

John

Mother cupped her hands around his face and looked into his eyes. She was beautiful. At least he saw her that way. Her skin was smooth and unwrinkled. Her hair thick and dark. He didn’t know her by any other name but Mother. And he would do anything for her.

“You are an important part of our mission,” Mother told him, her thumbs gently stroking his cheeks as she stared into his eyes.

He felt like he could get lost in her eyes forever. Everything in the universe was right there in that gaze.

“You are so precious, so very loved. You may need to be sacrificed. Like your brother was. Like my child. Would you be willing to do that for me?”

“Yes, Mother,” he said without a second of hesitation.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small red pill. Taking one of his hands in hers, she rested the pill into the center of his palm and folded his fingers over it. She cradled his hand in both of hers and lifted it to her lips to kiss it.

“If you are caught this time, join your brother.”

“Call the ambulance!”

Sam comes back into the room and turns John over onto his back from where he slumped onto the floor after putting something in his mouth. I drop down beside them and reach to press my fingertips to his throat to check for his pulse. There was nothing.

“Damn it!”

I start compressions, trying to bring him back, but I know I can’t. He’s dead. Whatever he had sewn into the seam of his cuff was enough to kill him within seconds of him popping it into his mouth. It was planned, strategized for this particular moment.

“What the hell did he take?” Sam demands, leaning over to take over compressions for me so I can take a break.

“Cyanide,” I tell him. “It’s useless to try to get him back.”

He still doesn’t stop. When you start trying to save someone, you don’t just give up. We’ll continue until the paramedics come and take over responsibility of him. Only then is our job done.

“How do you know?” Sam asks.

“I don’t for sure, but it’s the only thing I can think of that kills that fast. Besides…” My voice trails off as a painful memory takes over my mind.

“Besides what?” Sam asks.

“This has happened before,” I say. “This is another reminder of my past. Remember Gabriel? Right after he killed Millie, he took a cyanide pill to kill himself before we could get to him. That was what caused him to crash his car into the wall. He was dead by the time we got to the car.”

The twisted torture of remembering these horrific moments from my past is starting to really get to me. I can’t stop thinking of everything that they are bringing up and wondering what the next one is going to be. I’ve certainly experienced enough traumatic moments that whoever is doing this has a wealth of torment to choose from. And until I find out who she is and why she’s doing this, all I can do is wait for the next bitter memory to be shoved onto me.

The EMS team finally arrives and rushes in with the same eagerness to save this man as we had expressed as we dropped to the ground and started doing CPR on him. I back up out of the way, and Sam gives over compressions to one of the paramedics.

“What happened here?” she asks.

“We were doing an interrogation, and he took something out of his sleeve and put it in his mouth. A couple of seconds later, he convulsed and fell out of the chair onto the ground. I checked his pulse, and he didn’t have one, but we’ve been doing compressions since,” I explain to them.

“Took something out of his sleeve?” the emergency medical technician asks.

“It looked like he was just pulling on a loose thread on the inside of his cuff, but then it opened, and something came out into his hand. He got it into his mouth before we were able to stop him and collapsed. He hasn’t responded to any of our efforts,” I say.

The EMT working on the man we’ve been calling John looks up at the others and shakes her head. He’s dead. Just as I thought, there’s nothing that’s going to bring him back. As they load the man’s body up onto a gurney and cover him with a sheet, I can feel my blood starting to boil.

Sam can sense the anger building up inside me and puts his arm around my shoulders to comfort me… and possibly to hold me back.

“Come on,” he says in a low tone. “We’re going home.”

I want to argue with him, but there’s no point. There’s nothing else we can do now.

He brings me home, and I burst through the front door before letting out a furious cry. I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I was so close and it was ripped away from me.

“Babe,” Sam says, “you need to calm down.”

“Calm down?” I ask incredulously. “Did you seriously just tell me to calm down? Do you not understand what happened? That man attacked me in the hospital and nearly killed me, tried to run me off the road, hit my car while I was at a stop sign, and then came into Poppy’s house and attacked me again. He has gotten away with it every single time, and I finally managed to get my hands on him.

“This time he didn’t get away. You caught him, and we had him sitting in an interrogation room. He was right there. I could look him in the eye. And instead of facing what he’s done and manning up enough to actually admit to everything and be willing to help us by giving us the name of this woman, he killed himself. We will never be able to get any information from him. Nothing. It was all a complete waste. I am absolutely positive he was led by the woman who’s been calling me, but now I’ll never find out anything from him. I don’t even know his name, so I can’t even look him up and try to find any affiliations. He took with him the one chance I had to find my stalker and end this.”

“I know you’re angry,” he says. “And I know what just happened is bullshit. I’m angry too. And I’m so sorry. But this wasn’t for nothing. He can’t hurt you ever again. And he wasn’t your only chance. I know you, Emma Griffin. I know what you are capable of. You can do incredible things, and you will find this person and stop them.”

“We need to make sure that he is fingerprinted and his prints run through the database. Maybe he’s been arrested for something before, and we’ll be able to get his identity that way.”

“The medical examiner will take the prints,” he assures me. “Maybe something will come up, and you’ll remember his name from something.”

I want to tell him not to use that word. I never want to hear it again.

I’m feeling the effects of the attack the next morning. My body is stiff and sore, my mouth hurts just breathing, and I’m exhausted even though I went to bed early to escape the rage I was still feeling after the man’s suicide. Sam made sure everyone in our little chosen family knew what happened in case it ends up on the news, which has happened before, and Xavier showed up again with soup and made me lie on the couch while he sat beside me for a couple of hours. It actually did make me feel better, and I was reminded of how grateful I am for these people who found their way into my life.

Janet calls as I’m trying to get myself going and asks if she can bring breakfast over and keep me company for a while. I know that means the whole neighborhood has heard the news of the chaos at the old Montgomery house and Sam has filled her in on the details. She’s worried about me and doesn’t want me to be alone even for the short time that Sam has to be at work this morning. He will also go to the appointment with the event organizing committee from the law firm. I would rather try to inch myself toward normalcy with a long hot shower and a few hours to grumble to myself, but I’m not going to turn down the offer. Both for them and for me.

I don’t want them to worry so much about me, but I also have the uncomfortable feeling along the back of my neck that these incidents don’t come isolated. They have always come in clusters with things happening a few hours to a couple of days apart. The man we called John is lying on a cold slab in the medical examiner’s office as they confirm what killed him and try to find out who he is, but he isn’t the only one who has been doing these things to me. There’s at least one other man and the woman who’s been calling me. They are still out there somewhere, and I have to be vigilant.

Janet appears with a basket full of breakfast goodies, and the warm spring weather lures us outside to the back patio to eat. We chat about things going on in the town, and she updates me on her little granddaughter, who isn’t quite so little anymore. I still think of her as the small girl who was taken by a brutal kidnapper and murderer years ago during the case that drew me back to Sherwood after an incredibly unexpected call from Sam. I hadn’t heard his voice in more than seven years at that point and thought I never would again. But he called and said he needed me, and I found myself back in the closest thing I’ve ever had to a hometown, surrounded by memories and facing the man I had walked away from to commit myself to the FBI.

I don’t want to think of any of that. I don’t want to feel any of what I went through during those challenging days as I grappled with my own life while trying to hunt down the killer who was using the alphabet as their tool to select young victims. That was one of the most difficult cases I’ve done, but it’s also what brought me back here and gave me the life I have now.

At the time Janet’s granddaughter was living with her and her husband, Paul, as their son tried to get his feet back under him. They love that little girl with everything, and they were shattered when she went missing. Every time I hear them talk about her and how much better their son is doing, or see her run up to the front door during one of their visits, I whisper thanks that she made it out of that situation alive. Not everyone was so lucky.

Visiting with Janet does me good. We eat and chat until she has to leave for her own appointment, and I go back into the house to take that long hot shower. As I walk into the bathroom, I find myself debating whether I should close the door or not. Part of me wants to shut and lock it so that I’m secure behind it, but the other part wants to leave it open so I can hear anything that might happen in the house while I’m showering.

The thoughts make a new wave of anger wash over me. I hate that this situation has taken so much control over my life. I hate that I feel this fear and uncertainty mixed with the intense desire to find these people and confront them head-on. I want to see their faces and be the one to take them down. They don’t deserve the kind of power their simple existence is wielding over me, and I am determined to take it back.

As I’m getting out of the shower, I hear something downstairs. It makes me pause, and I realize it’s the front door opening. My heart jumps slightly in my chest. It’s not time for Sam to be getting back from the appointment yet. I hurriedly get dressed and take my gun from the counter where it’s been sitting. Walking cautiously out of the bathroom, I cross through my bedroom and into the hallway. Ducking my head out into the hall, I listen carefully. Suddenly, I hear a giggle.

My entire body relaxes, and I chastise myself for my immediate reaction, though it’s logical considering what I went through yesterday. It’s Xavier and Cupcake. I forgot that she is in town for a couple of days and I offered for her to come stay with us since Xavier is not in a place where he can have her staying there without Dean for a buffer.

Until Dean is back from his case, Xavier is making decisions about what he does from minute to minute. He has gotten much better about being alone for stretches of time and has even decided to spend a night by himself. He was at my house just as the sun was coming up because something happened to the coffee maker and he couldn’t figure it out, then there was a weird sound somewhere in the house, and he decided he was done with that bit of alone time. Xavier does a lot better when his alone time involves someone else in the next room just in case. Usually, he has Nicole with him when he is in Harlan and has decided not to accompany Dean when he needs to travel for work. He’s been fortunate enough to have her here in Sherwood a couple of times too. But for the most part, he comes over here or I go over there at night, and his days form themselves as they will.

Dean has been gone for several days now, and Xavier has been enjoying having Nicole around as she works on expanding her business. But she gets to take the next couple of days off as his pet sitter while he spends time with Cupcake. Her staying the night there, however, is just not going to happen. She is officially my houseguest. He might end up here too, but that, somehow, isn’t the same thing.

I come down the steps and see Cupcake in all her pink confection glory standing beside a pink rolling suitcase and matching cosmetic case. This is not a girl who packs light. Of course, that would be obvious to anyone just by her signature look of frothy skirts and dresses, high-heeled boots, and plenty of sparkly makeup. I think she is fabulous on many levels.

“I know we didn’t call before coming over, but is that really necessary?” Xavier asks.

I’m not sure what he means, but then I realize I’m still holding my gun.

“I’m sorry,” I say, setting the gun down on the side table. “I guess I’m still a little jumpy.”

“You have every right to be,” Cupcake says, coming over to wrap her arms around me in a gentle but comforting hug. “I’m shocked you are even able to be here alone. I would never be able to be alone again. You are so brave.”

“She is the bravest person I know,” Xavier says.

This means a lot coming from him. Xavier faces more fears in his daily life than most people will ever even admit that they have.

“She is also the most stubborn person I know.”

There it is. “Thank you, Xavier.”

“Guest room upstairs or down?” he asks, scooping up Cupcake’s bags.

“You can put her down here,” I tell him. I look at Cupcake. “It will give you more of your own space.”

She nods. “Thank you again for having me over.”

“Of course. Anytime.”

Once Cupcake is settled, I make coffee, and we sit with a tray of cinnamon rolls on the back patio. It feels good to be out here. I’ve spent more time out on this patio today alone than I think I have in the last month or so. I need to remember to come out here more often. The yard isn’t quite what it should be yet, and Sam and I are still considering adding some extra features, like we had at the other house, but it’s still good to feel the sun on my face and watch the clouds.

“I’m glad you were able to come spend a couple of days here,” I tell Cupcake.

“Me too,” she says. “I just got the manuscript for my next book to my editor, and I have a couple of teaching and speaking engagements lined up, but I wanted to squeeze in some Xavi time where I could.”

“What’s your new book?” I ask.

It’s hard to gloss over her reference to “Xavi time” without pouncing on them and trying to get some sort of explanation of their relationship out of them. As of right now, no one really knows what’s happening between the two of them. A lot of this falls on Xavier. He’s impossible to read a good portion of the time, and we are all still unsure if he even fully recognizes Cupcake as a female he would potentially have feelings for. In all honesty, we’re unsure he has those feelings. The closest I’ve ever seen him be is with Millie, and that was just a pull he had to her, nothing like the time he is spending with Cupcake.

It’s obvious they are very special to each other and enjoy being around each other a lot. I try to tell myself that’s enough. There doesn’t need to be any other definition or explanation. They can just be what they are, whatever they are, and don’t owe anything to anyone else. But that is really hard when I can see the way she looks at him, and I watched him hold her hand voluntarily while we were at the theme park.

“It’s called Confectionary Couture,” she tells me. “It’s more of my scarf, hat, and other accessory designs that are based on sweets and treats. I actually wanted to show you one of the designs.”

She brings out her tablet and opens it, scrolling through a few screens before turning it toward me so I can see the image. It’s a scarf that looks like a string of cinnamon rolls connected to each other and drizzled with icing.

I break out into a grin. “Wow! That’s amazing.”

“I hoped you would like it,” she says. “The description of the pattern even mentions your delicious rolls and how many of them I devour every time I get a chance to spend time with everybody.”

“Thank you for doing that,” I say.

“Of course,” she says. “Thank you for being you.”

Xavier turns a look toward Cupcake, and I see something in his eyes I can’t quite define. Sometimes I wish I could get inside his brain just for a few minutes so I could understand what he feels and how he sees the world. Right now I want to know and yet wouldn’t be able to bring myself to do it. That particular something in that look is far too private for anyone to venture close to it.

Sam comes home right as Cupcake and Xavier head out to join the crochet circle that Xavier sometimes attends. He watches them get into the car and drive away, then comes up on the porch and kisses me hello.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “What is happening between the two of them?”

“I was wondering the same thing while they were here,” I tell him. “I think that one’s going to remain a mystery.”

“You’re in the FBI,” he says. “Figure it out.”

“I think I have enough things that I’m trying to figure out right now,” I tell him. “I’ll go ahead and put that one on the back burner, and we’ll revisit it later.”

“Fair enough,” Sam says. “Speaking of which though, I went to the law firm.”

We go inside and sit down in the living room.

“What did you find out?” I ask.

“Well, when I went, I first spoke to the head of the committee organizing the event. She didn’t seem to know much of anything. But she did know that Marshall Belmont bought a lot of the supplies. He’s the one who came up with the idea of the stamps on the hands, so he went out and bought the stamps themselves and the stamping pads,” Sam says.

“Well, he certainly didn’t do this to himself,” I say. “Not only did it not seem like he was suicidal in any way, but there are far more, far easier ways to kill yourself than through quinine poisoning absorbed into your bloodstream through a handstamp.”

“This is very true,” Sam says. “She then told me that she wasn’t even at the event that night. She organized it but wasn’t able to be there. So she connected me with the, I guess, second-in-command of the committee. It turns out that was Delta Hurley, Marshall’s personal assistant. She took over basically running the event when the first woman wasn’t able to come. But I talked to her about who was in charge of the stamping station, and she said there were multiple people doing that job. There wasn’t exactly one person who was directing the entire thing.”

“What about the materials?” I ask. “Did she know who set up the station?”

“I can tell you she was definitely there when we went up and got our hands stamped. She’s not the one who stamped our hands, but she was definitely there. Unfortunately, so were multiple other people, like I said. And they were all around the materials, so we can’t really know for sure who unwrapped that first stamp pad,” Sam says.

“Anything else?” I ask, feeling like the meeting was a bit of a bust.

“I asked her about Marshall’s personal life. If she knew anything about his marriage or about the rumor that he was having an affair,” he tells me.

“Wow,” I say. “Bold. That sounds a whole lot more like a stunt I would pull than you.”

“I was channeling you a little bit,” he admits. “And it didn’t turn out exactly well. She was really offended and said she was his professional assistant and didn’t know anything about his personal life.”

“Did you believe her?” I ask.

“Not for a second,” he says. “I can’t really explain it, but just the way she was talking and acting, I have the strong feeling she and Marshall were very familiar with each other.”

“What do you mean, the way she was acting?” I ask.

“She was just a little fidgety, making too much eye contact, being professional to the extreme after being pretty friendly when we first started talking. But there was also this weird little tic that she had the whole time we were talking. She kept reaching up and touching the spot between her collarbones. While we were talking, she would just reach up and touch her fingertips to that place just for a second, then put her hand down. She did it over and over,” Sam says.

“She probably usually wears a necklace,” I say. “A lot of women who wear necklaces play with the pendant that’s on it. It’s just kind of an absent motion, or they’ll do it when they’re nervous or thinking about something. If she usually wears a necklace, she might have been reaching for it. Let me look through the pictures of the event again, and you point her out to me. We’ll see if she’s wearing one.”

We go through the pictures of the event again, and Sam points out one of Delta. I immediately recognize her from the night of the event. She’s a beautiful woman with curly dark hair and big eyes. We look closely and see that she is indeed wearing a necklace. I have an idea, and we start pulling up pictures from the law firm’s website. It contains images of each of the people working there as well as other events that they’ve thrown or participated in. Delta appears in many of the pictures, and in each of these, she is wearing the same necklace.

“I want to know more about this necklace,” I tell him. “But I don’t want her to know that I’m curious about it, so I can’t just call her and ask her about it.”

“We could zoom in on the image and bring pictures of it to local jewelers,” Sam suggests. “One of them might recognize it and be able to tell us who bought it.”

It’s a brilliant idea, and by the end of the afternoon, we have confirmed that the necklace was purchased at one of the high-end jewelry stores downtown. By Marshall Belmont.

This detail seems to confirm Sam’s feelings about the woman knowing more about Marshall’s personal life than she wanted to let on. I have a strong feeling this is the younger model Marshall’s wife referenced when talking about suspecting her husband of also having an affair. Delta is not as young as I would have envisioned with that kind of description, but Marshall probably still has at least ten or so years on her. I’m intrigued and definitely want to look more into this relationship.

As we’re driving home from the jeweler, I tell Sam we need to go back to Poppy’s house.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I can do it myself. A couple of people at work offered to help, and I’m sure Xavier would and Dean too, when he gets back. You don’t have to go back there.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “I’m not going to let this chase me away from my life and the things I need to be doing. I made this commitment to you and to Poppy, and I’m not going to give up on it just because of these people.”

“I’m not going anywhere this time,” he says. “If we need to go to the dump or to the donation center, you’re going with me.”

“Agreed,” I say without hesitation.

He looks almost surprised that I went along with it so quickly, but he doesn’t say anything, as if he’s not going to rock the boat.

“All right. If you want to, let’s go.”

The first thing Sam and I do when we get to Poppy’s house is clean up the aftermath of the attack. It seems like something that would further traumatize me or that would be extremely difficult to face, but I actually find it cathartic. As I straighten up the kitchen and clean away the blood, I’m removing that man fully from my life and taking another step toward ending the power he has over me. I feel better when I see the wall clean and the damaged items stuffed away in bags to head to the dump on our next run. The bloody cereal was a bit much, but I got through it fairly easily, all things considered.

With that finished, I go back to the guest bedroom and gather up an armful of boxes of pictures and memorabilia. Rather than going through them in the bedroom, I carry them downstairs so I can spread them out more in the living room. Sam and I turn the TV on to fill the space with some much-needed sound and spend the next couple of hours sorting and talking. It’s fun to hear the stories of all the activities and events that happened throughout the town during the years that I wasn’t here, but there’s also an emotional tug on my heart.

I’ve been trying hard to think back on the time I did spend in Sherwood when I was younger and find any memories of Poppy from then. Some of the things Sam is describing, I should be able to remember. I spent a good part of my school year here several times, and most of my high school career was here. Yet I don’t have anything concrete about Poppy or her husband, even though she apparently was an active part of the lives of most of the town.

It isn’t just painful not to be able to bring up any thoughts of this woman who has become such a prominent part of my life in the last year; it’s a reminder of everything else in my life that I’ve lost. So much of my younger years is a blur. I don’t even remember what I was doing or where I was for a lot of it. Up until just a few years ago, I wasn’t even sure of where or how my mother died when I was eleven years old. I learned so much about her and my father as I unraveled that mystery, but I also learned about myself and what my life was really like. They are things I am both glad to know and that I wish I didn’t have to.

Now I think about everything that passed me by here in Sherwood. Everything that Sam experienced in the times when I was away from him. I don’t want to let myself venture down that path, like wondering if he missed me or if he thought of me. That’s not for me to know. When I was young, I didn’t get to decide where I was going to be, and when I got older, I made the decision I thought was best for the life I was planning to lead. Sam has told me before how much he missed me and that he always thought about me, even during those seven years when we didn’t speak at all. But I also know there were other people in his life and things he experienced that had nothing to do with me. That was because of my choice, and I can’t fault him for it or dwell on it, especially because I lived my life too.

What really matters—what I tell myself is the only thing that matters—is that we are here together now.

Sam has gone upstairs for what should be the last load of boxes and bags from that room when my phone rings. I’m expecting a call back from Bellamy after leaving her a message earlier today, but instead of seeing her name on the screen, I see the same burner number. I almost don’t answer it. I don’t want to hear the woman’s voice. I don’t want to deal with her. But I also can’t just ignore the ringing. That man killed himself rather than talk about her and what he was commanded to do. I need to know more about this woman and what she is capable of.

“What do you want?” I answer.

“What a way to answer the phone, Emma,” the woman says. “You really should be more polite.”

“I don’t need to be polite to you,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Oh? But I’ve been so nice to you. I’ve been so patient, Emma. And here I am calling to check on you. How are you feeling?” she asks.

I want to reach through the phone and grab the woman by her throat.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“You still don’t remember, Emma?” The woman sighs. “I just don’t understand. How can you not remember? I do. We all do.”

“Tell me who you are,” I demand.

“You have to remember.”

“Why would you go after Marshall Belmont? He didn’t have anything to do with me,” I say, jumping on the possibility and wondering if it will give me anything.

The woman chuckles, and I feel a new surge of anger rush through me at the sound.

“Oh, Emma. Always searching. Always looking. You know, sometimes you look the wrong direction and don’t see the car coming before it hits you.” She pauses and giggles slightly. “Oh. Too soon?”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Your husband isn’t always right. Sometimes there really are just coincidences. You know, you really should be thinking more about me and what you need to remember. You should be more respectful of my sacrifice.”

The call drops, and I stare at the phone, trying to process what the woman said. Sam comes down the stairs and must notice the look on my face because he hurries into the living room and drops the boxes on the couch before crouching down beside me where I’m sitting on the floor.

“What happened? What’s going on?” he asks. He looks at the phone in my hand. “Did she call you again?”

“Yes,” I say. “That was her. She said that she was checking on me.”

“What the hell?” Sam asks. “What is wrong with this woman?”

“She also said I need to be more respectful of her sacrifice,” I tell him.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“I think she’s talking about the man who killed himself. She said that I shouldn’t be thinking so much about Marshall Belmont’s death because sometimes you’re wrong and there really are coincidences,” I tell him.

“She said that?” he asks.

“Yeah. That means it doesn’t mean anything. The quinine, the way he died at a party. None of it means anything. Marshall’s death really doesn’t have anything to do with this woman and what she’s been doing to me. The similarities of the cases really are just coincidences,” I say.

Sam looks uncomfortable. I know that’s hard for him to hear. He can’t stand the idea of things happening in a random way that doesn’t mean anything. He believes in everything falling into place the way it’s supposed to, and if something happens that seems like it has to do with something else or that it means something specific, then that is the case. He has said it countless times. There are no such things as coincidences. But this time it looks like he’s off base.

“Maybe she’s just trying to lead you in the wrong direction,” he says.

“But why would she do that?” I ask. “She has already alluded to her involvement in everything. She’s the one who has been calling me and making sure that I’m very aware of her existence. Why would she do something and then lie to me about it if she wants me to figure out who she is?”

“Not figure out,” he says. “Remember. She wants you to remember who she is. That could have something to do with it.”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “I don’t think she has anything to do with Marshall Belmont’s death, which means that investigation is separate, and we need to think more about what we found out about that necklace.”

Before I can say anything else, my phone alerts me to a new text message. In it is a link to an audio file.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who lived at the edge of a great, dark wood.

“What is this?” Sam asks.

I quiet him with a hand on his arm, not wanting to miss anything.

She lived with her mother in a cottage, and her grandmother lived in her own cottage on the other side of the wood. Everyone knew this little girl as Little Red Riding Hood because everywhere she went, she wore a hood of the brightest scarlet. She was a good little girl who always did what her mother told her. Until one day. That day her mother told Little Red Riding Hood that her grandmother was sick and she needed to bring her a basket of food.

“It’s just a story,” I tell Sam. “She’s reading me a story.”

“Maybe there’s something else,” Sam says. “We should listen to the whole thing.”

We sit and listen to the entire file, and it turns out to be nothing but the retelling of Little Red Riding Hood. The woman says nothing else before the recording ends.

“What does that mean?” I ask. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, looking around and glancing out the windows. “I have no idea.”

The sun is just starting to come up when the phone rings the next morning. I instantly think it’s going to be the strange woman, but my stomach sinks a little when I see that it’s Eric. There isn’t anything good that would cause him to call me this early in the morning.

“Hey,” I say, getting out of bed and leaving the bedroom so I don’t wake up Sam. “What’s going on?”

“I need you to get to Feathered Nest as soon as you can,” he says.

Hearing that name makes my heart beat a little bit faster. One of the things I learned about myself in my exploration of my mother’s death, and what her life was like leading up to it, was that I was actually born in the tiny mountain town called Feathered Nest, but it is the furthest thing from a hometown as I can imagine. It brings up no sense of comfort or happiness, no warm feelings of nostalgia or happy memories. The only thing I think of when I think of the town is horror.

It was in that town so many years ago that my career changed. I’d already been a special agent with the FBI for a few years, but when I was assigned to go undercover in the tiny town, it was the biggest and most intense case I’d ever handled. There was no way of knowing then what I know now about the town and the people who wanted me there. All I knew was, I was going undercover to investigate a series of disappearances. They turned out to be gruesome, horrific murders that changed everything about me and the way I see what I do.

I have faced down monsters since that case, but that one still sticks with me. The pain of that case affected me in a way I can’t put into words. I walked into that case believing tragedy burns the place where it happens and that it will never fully be the same. I walked away from it knowing that it can burn people too, and I was deeply scarred by what I experienced there.

When I escaped Feathered Nest the first time, I never thought I would be back. I was satisfied to put it fully behind me and told myself I never had to step foot back in that place. But that didn’t happen. I was dragged back and tormented more by a town seeped in secrets and darkness.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been there, and I hadn’t planned on returning. I thought I made my peace. I thought I had finally said goodbye. Now Eric is sending me back there yet again.

“Feathered Nest?” I ask. “Why would I need to go back there?”

“A body has been found in Cabin 13,” he tells me.

The words go through me like I’ve been stung. My breath catches in my chest, and for a moment, my vision blurs. The image of a large body lying on the wooden porch, a piece of paper with my name in it clutched in his hand, forms in front of my eyes. I can still see the blood. It would be years after I heard that man knock on my door, and then his body hit the wood, that I would finally find out who he really was and why he was looking for me.

“Who was it?” I ask. “What happened?”

“I don’t want to talk about this over the phone. I’ll give you details when you get here,” he says.

“You’re already there?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “They contacted me after the murder was discovered. They obviously remember the story of Cabin 13. I got here a couple of hours ago. I need you to leave as soon as you possibly can and get here. I’ll meet you at the hotel and fill you in on all the details then. We’ll go to see the body together.”

“You haven’t actually seen the body yet?” I ask.

“Not yet. I’ve only spoken with the detective. I thought it would be better for us to do this together. I’m going to get some sleep, and I’ll talk to you when you get here. Emma…”

“Yes?”

“Hurry. This is something… Just hurry.”

I don’t like the sound in his voice, and I’m shaking slightly as the call ends. I take a second to collect myself before rushing back to the bedroom.

“Sam,” I say, turning on the light and going to the closet for my suitcase.

I keep a duffel bag packed with overnight supplies in my trunk at all times because I never know what I’m going to encounter at any given time, but that’s not going to be enough for this. I have a feeling I’m going to need much more than just enough for a day.

“Sam, wake up.”

He groans when the light turns on, but he rolls away from the lamp and puts his head under his pillow rather than waking up. He doesn’t respond to me calling for him, and I have to go over to the bed and jostle him.

“Sam,” I say again.

“What?” he grunts from under the pillow.

“Seriously, Sam, this is important. I need you to wake up.”

I go back to packing the bag, giving him a few moments to try to break through the fog of sleep so he can pay attention to what I need to say to him. I stuff the bag with everything I might need for a few days, get a couple of pairs of slacks and white shirts I usually wear when I need to look professional from my closet, and head to the bathroom to fill my toiletry bag.

Sam is sitting up in bed, his elbows resting on his splayed-out knees as he rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks. He looks up and blinks a few times, then turns toward the window. “What the hell time is it?”

“Early,” I tell him. “I’m sorry, but this is important. I’ve got to go.”

“Go?” he asks. “Why? Where are you going?”

“Eric just called. He needs me in Feathered Nest as soon as I can get there,” I tell him.

“Feathered Nest?” he asks, sounding as shocked as I was when I first heard it. “Why would you need to go back there?”

“There’s been a murder,” I tell him. “The body was found in Cabin 13.”

His face shows some of the same emotion that washed over me when Eric broke that news to me. The thought of another body in that cabin makes me sick.

“Who?” he asks. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “He wouldn’t give me any details. He just said I need to meet him there and he will fill me in when he sees me. He hasn’t seen the body yet either, so we’ll do that when I get there.”

“If Eric is there, why do you need to go?” Sam asks. “He can handle a murder case on his own.”

“You know why, Sam. You know I need to do this.”

I finish putting everything in my luggage and change clothes.

“You need to keep working on Marshall Belmont’s murder. That necklace is something. Keep looking into that.”

“I will,” he tells me. “I really don’t like the idea of you traveling alone.”

“I’m going to be fine,” I say. “I’m going to fill up with gas before I leave Sherwood and drive straight through.”

“Fill up at the gas station where the man who attacked you stopped for gas and a snack after hitting you with his car?” he asks.

I get where he’s going with the comment, but I can’t stop long enough to talk this through. I need to make sure he understands why I’m doing this, and then I need to get out of here.

“Sam, that man is dead. I know there is another out there and this woman is still contacting me, but I can’t stop my life because of them. I have to do this. I have to do my job. And right now, my job is finding out what happened to someone in Cabin 13 in Feathered Nest. I will keep in touch and let you know as soon as I get to Myrna’s hotel. Eric is staying there too, so you’ll know he’s close by.”

“I still don’t like it,” he says. “I don’t want you to be alone for that long.”

“Honey,” I say, trying to feel compassion rather than frustration in this moment. “I know you’re worried about me, and I appreciate it. It means a lot to me that you care enough about me that you would be worried. But you need to understand that I can’t just live in a bubble for the rest of my life. I can’t sit in the living room with Janet bringing me breakfast and Xavier bringing me soup and sourdough baked goods forever just waiting for something to happen. That’s not me. It can’t be. I am an FBI agent. I have to do this. If Eric thinks that I need to be a part of this investigation, then I need to be a part of the investigation. Please understand that.”

He finally sighs and nods. “I do understand that. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to say you’re sorry, but I really have to go,” I say.

He gets out of bed to walk me to the door.

“Keep in touch with me,” he says. “Let me know after you get gas, and then check in with me during the drive.”

“I will,” I tell him.

I toss everything into the back seat of my car, searching it before opening the door the way my father taught me when I was younger. I get behind the wheel and immediately lock the doors. Waving at Sam, I blow him a kiss and pull out.

My first stop is the gas station. The sun is almost up, and I know I’m going to need coffee and something to eat to get me through this drive. Stocking up with two coffees, some fruit, a package of nuts, and a doughnut, I prepare myself to take the rest of the long drive without stopping if at all possible, then hit the road.

If I had been urgently called somewhere else, I might have called Zara to see if I could arrange a flight, or gotten a commercial flight, but there aren’t any airports anywhere near Feathered Nest. With all the procedures and protocols of getting on a flight, then renting a car and driving the rest of the way, it would take just about as long to fly as it does to just drive directly, and this way I feel like I have some control.

As I’m driving, the recording of Little Red Riding Hood comes back into my mind. It has to mean something. She wouldn’t just go through the effort of recording and sending a message of her reading a bedtime story without it having some sort of very specific meaning that has to do with this whole situation. The woman was trying to get something across with that story.

I think about the case I had recently on my old college campus involving library books and wonder if the woman is trying to reference that. If that is what she’s trying to get me to think about, then the story itself is what matters, not the act of her reading it to me. It also means something is coming.

I go through the story in my head, trying to think of every detail and what they could mean. The little girl. The woods. The red riding hood. The basket of goodies. The grandmother’s house. The wolf. My heart jumps a little at the thought of the wolf inside the house, fooling people by being dressed as the grandmother so that it can eat them. I call Sam.

“Hey, babe,” I say when he answers. “I’m still doing fine. Getting closer. I just wanted to tell you to be careful. Don’t open the door to anyone, no matter what. And tell Xavier the same thing. It doesn’t matter what you think might be going on. Unless you know the person on the other side of the door, don’t open it. I’m going to call Bellamy and warn her too. She doesn’t know what’s going on, but she needs to.”

“Why are you warning everyone? Did something else happen?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I was just thinking about the story. Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf got into the house and pretended to be the grandmother to lure people in.”

“You think that she’s using that story to warn that she’s going to try to fool one of us into thinking she needs help, but then hurt us?” Sam asks.

“Maybe,” I say. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about it, and that was what came to mind. I thought about the case in Richmond, and I think the story itself is what matters. It’s not that she’s reading me a story like she sang Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star to me. It’s more than that. She keeps saying she wants me to remember, and something about that story—at least she thinks—is going to help me remember.”

“Unless it’s just about that case,” Sam says. “She might be trying to get you to remember that case specifically.”

“I don’t know. But until we know who this woman is and have her off the street, I need you to be careful,” I say.

“I will, and I’ll make sure Xavier and Dean are too,” he says.

“Thank you. I’ll let you know when I get to the hotel. I love you.”

“I love you.”

Trying to get my mind prepared for what I’m about to face, I turn on the music and listen to it for the rest of the drive. I go straight through and pull into the parking lot of Myrna’s hotel in the early afternoon. I’m cramped from sitting in the car for so long, but glad to have gotten here in good time. Every minute that passes is another that could complicate the investigation of this murder and make it less likely we are going to find the person responsible.

I climb out of the car and do a few stretches to try to loosen myself back up so that I won’t be as sore and stiff for the rest of the day. When I feel like I can walk again, I collect all my luggage from the back seat and bring it into the lobby. Myrna is standing behind the reception desk and rushes around the side with open arms when she sees me.

“Emma,” she calls out.

“Hey, Myrna,” I say, opening my arms to her and accepting her hug.

She’s one of the very few bright spots that came out of the times that I’ve had to spend in Feathered Nest. I met her during that first visit to the town when I was undercover. I found out the man who died on the porch was staying here, and that was how we connected. I’ve stayed at this hotel or stopped in to talk to her each of the other times I’ve been here. I also keep up with her through the occasional text just to make sure she’s doing all right.

“I’m so glad you’re here. As soon as all this ugliness happened and that nice man came and told me he’s in the FBI, I thought of you. I hoped you would come and handle this,” she says.

“‘All this ugliness,’” I repeat. “Are you talking about the murder?”

She nods. “Yes. It was on the news. I can’t even believe it. That cabin needs to be torn down. There’s too much darkness there. Too much has happened. They need to just tear it down and let those woods rest.”

“I tend to agree with you,” I say. “But it seems enough people come to visit and keep it filled up that it’s too profitable to just abandon.”

“Then things like this are going to keep happening. There will be more tragedies,” she says.

“What have you heard about the murder?” I ask, curious about how much has been released into the media.

It doesn’t surprise me that the news of the murder itself has already spread through the town and even past the limits to the outskirts where the hotel is located. Everybody around here knows what happened all those years ago. They know who I am and what happened when I was staying in Cabin 13, then what happened when I was drawn back here by a mysterious note and a cruel, vicious killer tasking me to catch him as he kept staying one step ahead.

Cabin 13 has a dual identity. For some, it represents the horrors that I faced when I was undercover and the brutal murder that happened when I came again. It’s a dark and stained place that shouldn’t even be there anymore because of all it’s linked to. Then there are those who are so fascinated by the story that they come almost like it’s a tourist attraction. They want to see the infamous cabin and the woods surrounding it where girls ran for their lives and another was lashed to a tree with a dog leash until she finally escaped only to be torn apart by a train.

They rent the cabin so they can feel close to the scene and go hunting for the darkest place in the area, a spot out in the woods that I haven’t even gone back to. Its exact location was never released, and barriers have been put up to try to stop people from venturing there for parties and photo shoots, but I have no doubt people have found it.

“Not much. Just that a man who was visiting was found dead after Clancy received a maintenance call from there. I don’t know who the man was or what he was doing in Feathered Nest,” Myrna tells me.

“Do you know how he was killed?” I ask.

“No,” she says, shaking her head. She holds up her hands. “I don’t want to know.”

“I don’t know yet,” I tell her. “I just got notice early this morning that I needed to get here. That nice man who told you he was in the FBI. Is that Eric Martinez?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“He’s one of my best friends. You’re right. He can be a nice man. He also happens to be my boss and the one who told me I needed to come here and take on this investigation. I’m supposed to be meeting him here so that we can go talk to the detectives and everything together,” I say.

“Then we should get you checked in so you can put everything in your room,” Myrna says.

We go to the reception desk, and she pulls out one of the guest registration cards she uses instead of a computerized system. I fill out the card just like I always have and put my ID on the counter beside it as she tucks the card away into the book where she keeps all the guests organized. She checks the computer she uses to keep her rooms organized, pulls a key card out of the top drawer, and scans it to activate it.

“Room 311,” she tells me.

“Thank you,” I tell her.

“Don’t hesitate to call down to the desk if you need any extra towels or anything, and come get hot chocolate chip cookies and coffee tonight. Breakfast in the morning!”

“You have breakfast now?” I ask.

She nods proudly. “I’m expanding. I’m even planning on adding some extra rooms over the next year. You’d be surprised at how much more popular this place has gotten over the last couple of years. I think people have heard the secret of how beautiful it is around here.”

“I can believe that,” I tell her. “I’ve still been meaning on having a trip to explore the caverns and do some hiking.”

I don’t add that I just haven’t been able to bring myself to purposely plan a vacation to the area of Feathered Nest. I can admit this area is absolutely beautiful, and there are many things about it that would attract visitors. I just can’t get over the darkness that hangs over it.

“You know where to come when you do,” she says.

I smile at her and head for the stairs. Walking down the hallway, I think about me scouring the hotel for information about the mysterious man who died on the porch of Cabin 13 while I was there and the strange clues I eventually uncovered that would lead me to his identity and his significance in my life.

I get to the room and let myself in with the key card. The blast of the air-conditioning hits me, sending a pleasant chill along my skin. I love the first moment of walking into a hotel room, feeling the cold of the air conditioner that is always set just a bit too low, smelling the cleaning products, and seeing the crisp, clean bedding. There’s something comforting about it, especially after a long drive.

I set my luggage down and put my toiletry bag in the bathroom. I open my bag and unpack my clothes into the dresser. No matter how much I travel around for work, I always unpack when I get to a hotel. I hate living out of a suitcase. Unpacking and getting everything organized helps me think more clearly. When I’m finished unpacking, I look longingly at the perfectly made white bed. The tiredness from getting up early and the long drive kicks in, and part of me is so tempted to crawl into the bed for a little while, but I can’t. There’s much more of me that needs to know the details of this murder.

I tuck my luggage out of the way in the little closet alcove and call Eric.

“Agent Eric Martinez,” he answers.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey. Are you here?” he asks.

“I just got in. I’m in my room. Did you get any rest?”

“Yeah, I actually just woke up. Give me about ten minutes to take a shower and get dressed, and I’ll meet you down in the lobby,” he says.

“See you then.”

While I wait for Eric, I call Sam to let him know I’m settled in and getting ready to go find out more about the murder.

“I called Sheila Belmont to talk to her again,” he says. “I wanted to ask her if she could think of anyone who had any reason to kill her husband. She said that there have been a lot of cases where he has defended people against charges and the people pressing the charges have been very angry when he was able to get them off. But she doesn’t know anybody specifically.”

“She didn’t talk anymore about thinking he was having an affair?” I ask.

“No. I guess she didn’t think that a woman who had landed a rich lawyer would do anything to compromise it,” Sam says.

“I would venture to say that murdering a man is more than compromising the relationship,” I say.

“That’s true. I think I’m going to talk to Delta about the necklace. Now that we know that Marshall bought it, I want to see what she’ll tell me about their relationship,” he says.

“Let me know what you find out,” I say.

“You too,” he says.

We get off the phone, and I head downstairs to the lobby to meet up with Eric. Myrna is helping someone else check in, and I stand off to the side in the open lobby while I wait for him to come down. Finally, he appears on the steps and comes over to hug me.

“Good to see you,” he says.

We haven’t seen each other since the cruise, and everything that happened during that trip is enough to make anyone thankful to see the other still in one piece.

“Good to see you too,” I say. “How is everybody? I miss the girls.”

“Everyone is good,” he says. “B was just saying she misses you too. You need to come over for a weekend to spend some time together. And Bebe is starting to read now!”

“Wow!”

He smiles, but it drops after a moment and he snaps back into work mode. “How about you? How are you feeling?”

He’s eyeing my face, which is still showing signs of the attack despite my best efforts with makeup. I know Myrna had to have noticed the cut on my lip and the bruising on my cheek, but she didn’t mention it. She knows what I do, and that it isn’t always the safest career. I think she’d rather just pretend she doesn’t notice when I’m hurt. Eric doesn’t have that desire. He’s not going to pretend.

“Better. Still a bit sore, but I’m fine. I’m more angry than anything,” I say.

“I know. I heard that the suspect killed himself when you were questioning him,” he says.

I nod. “Cyanide. Now there’s no chance of ever getting any information out of him.”

“Have you heard from that woman again?” he asks.

“She called to, as she put it, check on me after everything. Then she sent me a text with an audio file that was her reading the story of Little Red Riding Hood,” I tell him.

“Little Red Riding Hood?” he asks, sounding confused. “Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. At first I thought maybe it was the active reading itself. The bedtime story. Kind of like how she called me and sang Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. But then I started thinking about it more, and now I’m wondering if it has something to do with the story itself. Like the books in the college library of that case I did in Richmond. The clues weren’t in the entirety of the story but in the sections that were highlighted. She didn’t highlight a specific section. She read the entire story, but I think it might have something to do with that. I just can’t figure out what. I don’t understand what she’s trying to get across by choosing that particular story.”

“Is that all she said?” Eric asks. “Just that she was checking on you and then she sent you the recording of the story?”

“No,” I tell him. “She said that the case Sam and I have been investigating doesn’t have anything to do with her. What she said was that he was wrong and there are sometimes coincidences. That I shouldn’t be so distracted and should be more respectful of her sacrifice.”

“What sacrifice?” he asks. “Is she talking about the man who killed himself?”

“I don’t know for sure,” I say. “But that makes sense. She said that right after he killed himself, and it’s obvious that she is leading him and that other man in everything that they do. He killed himself because we caught him. So maybe that is her sacrifice. I just don’t understand what she means by me needing to respect it more. She keeps pushing that I need to remember her, but I have no idea who she is or what I’m supposed to remember about her. I thought she was bringing up Dean’s old case with the investigation Sam and I are doing, but she said no.”

“Well, let’s focus on this. The detective is expecting us,” Eric says.

As we enter the town of Feathered Nest and drive through toward the precinct, I can’t help but think of Sheriff LaRoche, the sheriff in power when I was undercover. Just the thought of him makes my skin crawl. Even though I know he’s not there, I find myself dreading even getting to the station because part of me is expecting him to walk out of the back with his arrogant swagger to talk to us about the case.

Despite there being no chance that LaRoche is here, I am still relieved when a different man comes out from the back of the station. His face is drawn, and he reaches his hands toward me as he approaches.

“Agent Griffin,” he says, obviously knowing immediately who I am even though I haven’t met him. “We’re so glad to have you back in Feathered Nest.”

“This is Detective Shane Thompson,” Eric says, gesturing toward the officer as he takes my hand in both of his and shakes it. “Detective, Agent Emma Griffin.”

“Of course,” he says. “Thank you for coming.”

“Absolutely. What are we dealing with?” I ask.

“Come to my office, and we’ll talk,” he says.

He leads us into the back and then into an office. We settle onto chairs in a seating area off to the side of the room, and he offers us coffee. I immediately accept, and Eric follows suit. The detective goes to the door and shouts out that he needs three coffees. I thought he was going to get them for us. If I’d known he was going to send the receptionist or some junior officer to do it, I might not have so readily accepted. Except the prospect of coffee sounds really amazing right now. The two cups I got from the gas station in Sherwood have long since lost their effect.

The coffee comes, and the men spend a few seconds adding powdered creamer and sugar to theirs while I happily sip mine jet-black. Well, it would be jet-black if the coffee itself had ever reached that level. It’s more of a murky brown, but the taste is much better than it looks. All I care about right now is that it is strong enough to keep me going and brace me for whatever Eric deemed serious enough to bring me back here.

“As you already know, the victim was found in the rental cabin known as Cabin 13,” Detective Thompson says, his eyes sliding over to me as if he is waiting for some sort of reaction at the mention of the cabin.

“Who is the victim?” I ask.

“His name was Darian Percy. He was renting the cabin. He was pretty quiet while he was staying there, and nobody really thought much of anything when he wasn’t seen for a couple of days. Then Clancy got a request for some maintenance late last night and went over there to do what was asked of him. No one would answer the door, so he ended up using his master key to get inside, and that’s when he found the body,” Detective Thompson tells me.

I’m happy, if a little surprised, to hear that Clancy is still the maintenance man for the rental cabin. He was there when I was all those years ago and was already getting up there in years. But he is a kind man whom I can trust to give me all the information he has.

“How was Percy killed?” I ask.

“That’s actually why I called you in,” Eric says. “This isn’t a conventional murder.”

“Not a conventional murderer?” I ask. “What does that mean? How was he killed?”

“It isn’t so much the manner of his death that is unusual,” Eric tells me. “It’s more about the body. But I think you need to see it rather than just having us tell you. I haven’t seen it yet, like I told you. But I think it’s important that you do.”

I don’t like how this is sounding. Eric is being odd, almost secretive, about the way this man died, and that puts me on edge. I don’t know what could have happened to him that would make Eric act like this, but it has to be something incredibly serious if he thought immediately that I needed to be here.

Eric can handle a murder case on his own, but that in and of itself is strange. The FBI doesn’t generally come in for an adult’s murder. Unless there are very serious extenuating circumstances that take it from being just a murder to something justifying federal involvement, single adult murders are generally handled by the police department that has jurisdiction over the area where the murder occurred. That means that he was very much intentional when he said that this was not a conventional murder. Something about it puts it not just in the crosshairs of the FBI but specifically calls out to me to be involved.

“The body is at the medical examiner’s office,” Detective Thompson tells me. “She’s expecting you.”

“What is going on?” I ask Eric as we leave the sheriff’s department and head for the medical examiner’s office. “You’re acting really strange. Why don’t you just tell me what happened to this guy? How was he killed? Why did you call me in rather than anyone else? Is it just because it’s Feathered Nest?”

“No,” he tells me. “Trust me, I’d keep you out of this place if I could, but this is something you need to see. I can’t tell you how he was killed because we don’t know yet. The cause of death isn’t obvious yet. And the medical examiner’s work in the autopsy is going to be difficult. The way that the body was treated after death is something I’ve never personally seen. But I know you have. And you may have some insights that no one else would.”

As soon as he says that, my heart starts beating faster in my chest. I don’t want to think about what that brings to mind. If I’m right, then I know exactly why they would have called me in. We get to the medical examiner’s office and are ushered directly into the cold of the examination room. Rather than just a slab set up for the body to be laid across and covered with a sheet, movable curtains have been put in place to create a separate cubicle.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Ghosh,” says a woman in scrubs, her thick dark hair pulled back into a bun at the back of her head.

“Agent Emma Griffin,” I tell her.

She gives a single nod. “We’ve been expecting you. I’ve never seen anything like this in my career, but I’ve heard that you have experience with it. I have to warn you, this is not easy to look at. The body was taxidermized.”

The word hits me like I’ve been punched, and I barely have time to process it before she moves one of the metal-framed curtains aside to reveal the corpse on a table in the center of the cubicle. In an instant, I’m brought back all those years ago to a dark basement in a house long thought abandoned in the woods.

My eyes squeeze closed, and I can see every second of it playing out in front of me again…

Pulling the chain doesn’t just turn on the single bulb overhead. It also activates several strands of Christmas lights, a lamp, and a vintage Lite Brite game set up on a table several paces away from me. The room is larger than I would have anticipated, and the light creates a brighter pool in the middle before melting out to shadows at the edges and corners.

All around me, the light illuminates the bodies.

I’ve walked into scenes of corpses many times. I’ve reported to mass burials, bodies hidden away in walls, and those long dead strewn across fields, streets, and floors. But I’ve never experienced anything like this. The bodies aren’t just lying on the floor or on tables. They haven’t been stored here. They’ve been posed.

All around the room, more than a dozen bodies have been taxidermized and manipulated into poses creating vignettes of everyday life.

In one corner, four sit and stand around a Christmas tree. A middle-aged man has his hand rested against the branches of the tree, as if setting an ornament into place, while a woman sits on a chair at his side, poised as if ready to hand him the next decoration. A young man and woman are on a shaggy rug wrapping a gift.

Several feet away, another version of the family sits around a dining room table, frozen around a meal. Fighting to control my revulsion, I walk up to the table and touch the loaf of bread sitting among platters of food. The wood is hard and cold beneath my touch.

I’m suddenly aware of the weight of my phone still in my hand. I turn off the flashlight and try to dial for help. There’s nothing. I put in Eric’s number, but it still won’t connect. I have no service down here. Fear starts to sink into my mind, taking over my thoughts. I’m locked down in this hidden basement room with corpses crafted into some mind-boggling playland. Without phone service. Without anything to save me.

“Emma,” Eric says, his voice breaking me out of the horrifying memory that took over. “Emma, are you all right?”

I open my eyes, forcing myself to collect my thoughts and get back in control. I won’t let him do this to me again. I won’t give him that fear, that feeling of terror and hopelessness I felt locked down in that basement with the stuffed, posed bodies of more than a dozen people, crafted to look like they were living out happy moments in their lives.

“Jake,” I whisper, the name coming through my lips for the first time in many years.

I never wanted to say it again. I never wanted to think about him again. But here I’m standing, facing what looks like another of his creations—only I can tell the difference.

“He’s still in prison, Emma,” Eric says. “I checked this morning.”

I shake my head. “No, I know that. He didn’t do this. Someone else did to make me think of him. He would never do anything this… hurried.”

I take a step closer to the table so I can more closely examine the corpse of Darian Percy. He’s been posed on his knees, kneeling with his hands clasped in front of him, his head slightly bowed as if in prayer. But the work is crude and inexact, clearly done by someone who had never done anything like this before and wasn’t sure exactly what they were doing.

“The air-conditioning was put as cold as possible,” Dr. Ghosh tells me.

“To slow decomposition,” I acknowledge.

“That’s what I’m assuming. But it’s obvious he has been dead for a couple of days at least. Whoever did this tried to use some chemicals and other agents to slow the decomposition and aid in the preparation of the body so that it would look like this, but there are several areas that it didn’t go properly,” she says.

“It definitely got the point across, but it wasn’t done well,” I say. “This isn’t like what Jake Logan did. He was, as grotesque as this sounds, a master of the craft. The bodies could have been put in museums. But I’m assuming it’s because he had much more time. The victims were considered missing, and he wasn’t suspected in any way. He was able to use all the time he wanted to perfect them. The person who did this needed it to be done quickly.”

“The crime scene investigators took pictures while he was still in the cabin, and I have taken several while the body was here. I will take more as I undo what was done to him during his full autopsy,” the doctor tells me. “I’ll be sure they are available to you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Eric and I leave the office, and I take a moment to lean against the wall, taking deep breaths of the cool spring air washing over my burning, stinging face. My stomach is turning, and my heart is still racing, the blood roaring in my ears. Eric comes over and stands in front of me, but he doesn’t reach out to comfort me. He knows now is not the time to touch me.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know that wasn’t easy for you to see.”

I straighten up, sucking in another breath to force myself to calm down.

“It’s all right. You did the right thing calling me in,” I tell him. “I need to be a part of this.”

“Do you need a second?” he asks.

I nod, and he backs up a few steps. “I’ll be in the car when you’re ready.”

He walks away, and I take out my phone to call Sam.

“Hey, babe,” he says.

Just the sound of his voice makes tears spring into my eyes.

“Hey,” I say.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

“The guy who was found dead in Cabin 13,” I say. “He was taxidermized.”

“What?” he asks, sounding shocked.

“Whoever killed him stuffed him and posed him like he was praying,” I tell him. “It just reminded me…”

“I know,” he says, cutting me off before I have to say it.

Sam knows that my first experience here in Feathered Nest was deeply traumatic for me and affected me more than nearly any other case I’ve worked on. I’ve done many things and experienced many horrors in the years since I faced down Jake Logan, but he has still haunted my mind in a way others haven’t. I learned a painful, horrible lesson during that time, and though I’ve been able to move forward, I will never fully put it behind me.

“What the hell was Eric thinking bringing you into that?” he demands. “You need to come home. You shouldn’t be seeing that.”

“No,” I tell him. “I can’t come home. I should be here. I need to do this. I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Emma, please. This is too much,” he says.

“No, it’s not,” I say. “I can do this. I have to do this.”

“All right,” he finally says. “If that’s what you think, I can’t argue with you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

I hang up and take another breath. My body has settled, and I feel better having talked to Sam, even if it was to argue with him that I should be doing this and not fleeing home even though that’s exactly what my first thought was.

But now that I’ve calmed down enough to think clearly, I know that’s not what I should do. I’m here for a reason, and I’m going to make sure whoever did this to this man doesn’t get away with it.

Now that we’ve seen the body and know what we’re dealing with, Eric and I go back to the precinct to talk to Detective Thompson again. I want all the details of the case that they have—everything they know about this man, what he was doing in Feathered Nest, and what happened to him. The urgency of the case has my spine tight as we walk back to the office and sit back, with fresh cups of coffee, to go over everything they already know.

“Like I said, Darian Percy was staying in Cabin 13. He had been there for a few days.”

“Was he staying by himself?” I ask.

“Yes, his was the only name on the reservation,” Detective Thompson says.

“Do you have any idea why he was here in Feathered Nest?” Eric asks.

“Not specifically,” he says. “According to Clancy, when he checked him into the cabin, he mentioned that he was just here to enjoy some relaxation and quiet. Apparently, his family has traveled out this way for years, but this was the first time he came by himself. It didn’t seem like he was one of the folks who comes looking for ghosts and bad energy.”

I know exactly what he’s talking about. There’s something both reassuring and saddening about that. This was a man who just came for a break from the stress of his daily life and instead was brutally murdered.

“Do you know if anybody visited him or went by the cabin during the time he was there?” Eric asks.

“Only one person,” the detective says. “She showed up on the camera footage.”

“That’s right,” I say. “There’s a trail camera outside of the cabin. It shows the front door as well as some of the area around it.”

“A new camera was actually installed just recently,” the detective says. “With the cabin rentals becoming more popular, we’ve tried to do some upgrades. That includes the online reservation system as well as the system that’s in place to let Clancy know when an occupant needs something. That’s what happened the night he found the body.”

“Can we see the footage?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” he says. “Just give me a second, and I will pull it up for you.”

Detective Thompson goes over to the other side of the office, then comes back with a tablet. A thumb drive is sticking out of one side, and after going through a few commands, he pulls up the file from the camera. Even before it starts, I can tell that this new camera covers a much wider space than the old one did. It was a good idea for them to install this camera. Not just for the occupants of the cabin, but for people who might be drawn there by curiosity and inspired to mischief by the escalated legends of the woods around it.

“This part of the footage shows Darian Percy arriving and checking in,” he says.

We watch as two cars pull up until they are just visible at the edge of the screen. One person gets out of each vehicle. First is Clancy getting out of his white pickup truck. The next is who I assume is Darian Percy. Clancy walks up to the front door and uses a key to open the door. For a short while, they had changed protocols for checking into the cabin, not requiring Clancy or anyone else to be involved. But it seems that incidences that have occurred due to the change have caused them to revert their process. Someone now comes face-to-face with whoever is staying in the cabin. Knowing what I do about this place, I think that’s a good idea.

I watch as Clancy allows Darian into the cabin first, then follows him in. They’re both inside for a short while as I assume Clancy shows him around the way he did for me. The cabin isn’t large, so there isn’t a lot to show, but it’s a nice welcome to know where to find and use everything. Since they’ve upgraded the cabin and its amenities according to the detective, including adding the system where people renting the place can put in requests for maintenance from Clancy, I assume there is a bit more of an orientation than when it was just a matter of giving a brief tour and telling me I could call him if I needed him. Which I ended up doing.

“If it’s all right with you, I’m just going to speed things through a little because the next few days are just him going in and out,” Detective Thompson says.

“That’s fine,” I say. “Just make sure we can see anyone that’s going in.”

We watch the sped-up footage and don’t see anything suspicious. It looks like the man is just leaving the cabin in the morning to hike, fish, or possibly visit the town, then returning in the afternoon. Once or twice, he sits out on the porch for a little while in the late evening, wrapped in one of the blankets from the cabin, probably enjoying the cold air and sparkling stars.

“All right. This is where his only visitor comes in,” the detective says, putting the speed back to normal so that we can watch the footage play through.

For a few seconds, there’s no movement. Then I notice headlights coming up the driveway and pausing behind Darian’s car where it’s parked up close to the cabin. The headlights hover there for a few moments, then turn off. The night vision trail camera then captures a figure walking around the car and heading up the steps of the cabin. It looks like a woman, and my attention is immediately piqued. The woman stands in front of the door briefly, then reaches up and knocks on it. A few seconds later, light from inside the cabin pools at the woman’s feet as the door opens.

She gestures for a few seconds, then steps inside the cabin, and the door closes. I wait for her to come back out, but the door remains closed.

“Where is she?” I ask. “How long is she in there?”

“About two days,” Detective Thompson says.

That shocks me. “Two days?”

“Yep. Here I’ll show you her leaving.”

He scans forward through the footage. It shows the cabin remaining absolutely still for the long stretch of time before he stops it again and lets the stream play. It’s night again when the door to the cabin opens and the woman walks back out. She’s wearing the same clothing she had been wearing and looks unfazed as she walks out of the cabin, closes the door, and walks down the steps. She returns to her car, the headlights come on, and the car pulls away.

The detective scans through a short time.

“Clancy shows up less than half an hour later,” he tells me.

The footage then shows the front of a white pickup truck parking behind Darian’s car and Clancy getting out, going up to the front door of the cabin, and knocking. He waits, then knocks again. Leaning in toward the door, he seems to call out like he’s announcing himself, then knocks again. When no one answers, he goes back to the truck and returns with a large key ring. He knocks one more time, then uses the key to open the door. He steps inside and seconds later bursts back out of the cabin and runs for his truck.

“He just discovered the body,” Eric says.

“Yes,” the detective replies. “He said when no one answered, he used his master key to go inside and found Darian Percy kneeling on the floor beside the bed. At first he thought that he was just praying and he had interrupted him because the lights were off in the bedroom, but then when he called out to him and he didn’t move, he thought something was wrong. He went into the bedroom, turned on the light… and you saw what he found.”

“Yes,” I say. “We did.” I think about the footage for a second. Something stood out to me when we saw the woman go inside. “Can you go back to when the woman shows up and let me watch through it again?”

“Sure,” he says.

Detective Thompson cues the footage back up, and I watch the woman get out of her car and go up to the cabin again. She stands just outside the door and talks to Darian, who is not visible until she gestures toward her car, and then he leans out slightly and looks in that direction.

“Look at that,” I say. “Go back and watch that again.”

They do, and I point out the moment when she waves her hands slightly and the man leans out of the cabin to look toward her vehicle.

“She’s talking to him and gesturing around a lot like she’s upset, then he looks over at her car. I think that’s how she convinced him to let her inside. She told him that her car was having difficulty and that she needed some help. Maybe she asked if she could use his phone to call someone.

“That’s a popular ruse these days. People say that their phones have died or they aren’t getting any reception and ask if they can borrow someone else’s phone. It’s the same old con that was used decades ago with landline phones. Someone would pretend they were broken down and needed to use a landline phone to call for help as a way to get into a house. How about the back of the house? Is there any coverage there?”

“There is a camera,” Detective Thompson tells me. “But it was malfunctioning during this time. It only got a little bit of footage, and it doesn’t show anything.”

“I’d like to see it,” I tell him.

He goes through commands on the tablet again to bring up the other footage and shows me what little the camera did record. There are long stretches of stillness as the camera glitched and didn’t record anything, then the screen skipped, and there was some motion before it went still again. In one of the brief segments of movement, I’m able to catch Darian’s car moving out of the driveway. In another, his car is visible, and lights come on inside the cabin. Later there’s a split second of headlights pulling away.

“That right there,” Eric says at the same time I point to the screen. “That’s right at the time that the woman left the house.”

“Those are her headlights,” I say. “Go back to the beginning. Something is bothering me.”

I can’t place exactly what it is, but there’s something about the cabin in the footage that’s getting to me. I watch through twice more before I realize it.

“The window,” I say.

“What about it?” the detective asks.

“At the beginning, before he arrived and then when the lights come on in the cabin, the window is closed. Look at the timestamp. It should be not long before the woman shows up that those lights go on in the cabin and the window is closed. But at the point where she drives away, the window is open.” I point to the screen when it shows the window leading into the bedroom standing open.

“What do you think?” Eric asks.

“Clancy arrived at the house less than half an hour after the woman left the cabin, right? She is obviously the one who put in the request for maintenance. She wanted the body to be found. She wasn’t hurrying when she left or trying to disguise herself. She probably didn’t know about the cameras. But she is the only one who could have committed that murder. Darian is visible perfectly alive and well when she is out on the porch looking at the car, then half an hour after she leaves, he’s dead and trussed up like prize game. She did that. But I don’t think she did it alone. I think she distracted Darian or incapacitated him just enough that she was able to get to that bedroom window and let someone in who’d been outside waiting.”

“Why not bring them in when she first went in?” Detective Thompson asks.

“Because if I don’t miss my guess, it was a man, and it’s far less likely that someone is going to allow a strange man into their house late at night to get help. Besides, most people are under the assumption that men just automatically know how to fix cars, so the plan of looking helpless and vulnerable wouldn’t work. Which is problematic in its own way, but that’s not really applicable at the moment.”

“Why not let this person in through the front door? Why were they out back?”

“Because they were out there to make sure that Darian Percy never got out of Cabin 13.”

“She did know about the camera,” I say. “That’s why whoever came into that cabin to help her left through the back too. If she didn’t know about them when she first arrived, I would guess Darian mentioned them to her when she was inside or there is a welcome packet inside the cabin that mentions it and she saw it.”

“Why would she not mind being seen, but she wouldn’t want her accomplice to be seen?” the detective asks.

“Because this woman doesn’t care if she’s recognized. She doesn’t believe that anything will happen to her. But she wants to protect those who follow her and do her bidding. She understands she asks them to do things that could them caught, and she doesn’t want that. She sent him back the way he came so that he wouldn’t be seen by the camera because she thought it was the safest thing for him,” I say.

I hate that I feel like I’m starting to understand this woman’s thoughts. I still don’t know who she is, and it is only making me more frustrated and angry.

“Do you recognize her? Do you have any idea who she might be?”

Detective Thompson shakes his head. “No. She doesn’t look familiar at all.”

“Nothing about her?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says.

This is significant. Feathered Nest is such a small community that everyone is familiar with everyone, which is something I can’t even necessarily say about Sherwood. The average person might not know the names of everybody in town, and there might be some that just look familiar in passing, but a member of law enforcement would be different. He would be able to recognize everybody from town, at least well enough to know if this woman really did come from the area.

“She’s an outsider,” I say. “She knows that even with footage of her face, no one around here would recognize her and be able to tell anyone who she was. It also means she didn’t have a home to go back to. We need to talk to Myrna. She could have come in right before going to the cabin and then left after, but I have a feeling she took some time here to watch Darian. She might have checked into the hotel.”

Eric and I stand, and I reach out to shake the detective’s hand.

“If you think of anything, please don’t hesitate to contact me. We’ll keep you updated on anything we find out.”

We head back to the hotel and find Myrna at the front desk again. She looks up as we approach. She smiles, but the expression falls as she seems to realize that we aren’t just coming up to say hello.

“Myrna, did you have any guests check in recently whom you didn’t see much?” I ask. “I know that’s a strange question, but I need you to think about the guests who have checked in over the last week, maybe. Have any of them not wanted any housekeeping, not come down for breakfast, that kind of thing?”

“Now that you mention it, yes,” she says. “There was a woman who checked in a few days ago, but then I didn’t see her again until this morning when she left. The whole time she was here, she had her ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign up on the door, and I never saw her come for breakfast.”

“All right. That’s great. Do you remember her name? Or have her guest card?” I ask.

“Noelle,” she says. “At least I think that’s what it says. I have her card here.”

She goes through the book of guest registration cards and takes one out, sliding it across the counter to me. I look at the name on it.

“It looks like it says ‘Noelle,’ but I can’t read the last name.”

Eric looks at it, and I see his head cock to the side. “It looks like it says ‘Mother.’ And there’s a comma in between. She registered as ‘Noelle, Mother.’”

He gives a significant pause where the comma is to indicate the spacing between the two.

“‘Noelle, Mother’? What does that mean?” I ask.

“I don’t know, but I’ve never heard of that as a last name before.”

“Neither have I,” I say. I look back at her. “Myrna, do you still not require ID from people checking in?”

“No,” she says. “And before you start, I know you’ve told me before that I really need to start checking ID to verify people’s identification, but it’s just not the way I do things. It’s not the way I’ve ever done things. There are people who come through here who don’t have ID or who would just rather stay low for their own reasons, and I don’t think I should discriminate against them. They fill out their cards, they pay, that’s all I care about. If something goes wrong, I have security cameras that cover the front desk and can figure out who people are if I need to, but I never have before.”

“The security cameras,” I say. “Can you bring up the footage from the time that the woman checked in and when she checked out? Is it still available?”

“Of course, it’s still available,” she says. “I’ll get it for you.”

She walks into her office behind the desk and returns with a laptop that she sets on the counter and turns toward me. Security footage has been cued up on the screen, and she presses the Play button to get it going. I watch as a woman who looks very similar from the back to the woman who went into Cabin 13 walks into the lobby and goes up to the registration desk. I watch her fill out the guest card and get her key from Myrna. She only has one bag with her. She goes to the stairs and disappears.

“I don’t know if she left at all. If she did, she went through the side entrance. But then she left early this morning before you got here,” Myrna says.

She scans through the footage, and it shows the same woman coming down the stairs and going to the front desk. She turns around to leave the lobby and looks directly at the security camera. Her smile makes my skin crawl. By the time she was walking out of this lobby, I was already on my way to Feathered Nest, the body had been discovered, and Detective Thompson had called Eric. She walked out like nothing in the world was bothering her. She knew the camera was there, and she wanted to be seen.

“That’s her,” I tell Eric.

I look at the guest card again and see that she wrote down her address, but it isn’t complete. I take out my phone and take a picture of the card so I can have the information.

“Who?” Myrna asks.

“I can’t say anything right now,” I tell her. “But please don’t delete that footage. We’re going to need it.”

“I can make a copy of it for you,” she offers.

“That would be great. Thank you. I’ll be back later. You can put the copy in my room,” I say.

Eric and I walk out of the hotel, and I glance at him as we’re crossing the parking lot.

“That woman murdered Darian Percy. She wasn’t trying to sneak around or hide or anything. She wanted to be seen on those cameras,” I say.

“Why?” Eric asks. “Why would she want to be seen?”

“She wants me to see her. This Noelle woman is the one who has been calling me. I know it. And now the story makes sense. In Little Red Riding Hood, the wolf dresses up like the grandmother to manipulate people into coming in so they can eat them. She manipulated Darian in a cabin in the woods so she could get inside and kill him,” I say. “But it feels like there’s something else to it. Something else about the story is supposed to make me remember. She did this to force me to remember Jake Logan and what he did. She’s escalating. Until I figure out who she is, she’s going to keep tormenting me.”

“We have to figure out why she targeted Darian Percy,” he says.

“Because he was staying in Cabin 13,” I point out. “Noelle wanted me dragged back here with more horror in that cabin. It’s supposed to make me think of something.”

“But how did she know?” Eric asks. “She could just guess that there was going to be somebody there, but I think it’s a lot more likely that she somehow knew he was going to be there.”

“You think that he was expecting her? That she wasn’t asking for help the night that she showed up on his porch?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Eric says. “But I think there’s more that we need to look into. I will go talk to his family and find out what I can from them. Maybe he mentioned something to them about meeting up with somebody here, or maybe they know of a new woman in his life. You stay here and investigate the town.”

We agree to the arrangement, and I go to my car, deciding to go talk to Clancy. I call Detective Thompson as I drive toward the town to see if he can tell me where to find him. He gives me directions to the management office of the company that rents the cabins scattered throughout the woods surrounding Feathered Nest, and I head there.

I walk into the management office, and a woman behind a desk looks at me suspiciously.

“Hello? How can I help you?” she asks.

It occurs to me that people likely don’t come in here very often. Now that reservations are handled online, it’s unlikely many people roam in looking for a place to stay while they are visiting the area.

“Hello,” I say. “I’m Agent Emma Griffin. I’m with the FBI.”

“You’re here to talk to Clancy,” she says, the suspicion turning to protectiveness.

“Yes,” I say.

“He’s not here,” she tells me. “He went home. After what he saw last night, I’m sure you understand.”

“I do,” I tell her. “But I do need to speak with him. Can you give me his phone number?”

She doesn’t look like she wants to cooperate with me, but my shield is enough to convince her. She takes out a pen and scribbles a number onto a sticky note, then hands it to me.

“Do you handle the reservations for the cabins?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers. “They are done through the computer system, but I confirm them and make sure any special requests are noted.”

“Can you please confirm that Darian Percy was the only person on the reservation for Cabin 13?” I ask.

She turns to her computer and clicks her mouse a few times as she navigates to the reservation.

“He was the only one listed as a guest on the reservation. The system asks for the names of everyone who will be staying for insurance purposes. The rate also depends on how many people are staying, so it’s important for the guests to all be noted. He only listed himself, and Clancy said that he was the only person who was in the car when he went to check him in.”

“Did you have any other of the cabins rented for the same general time frame?” I ask.

“Most of the cabins have been rented recently,” she says.

“Is it possible for you to look up whether one of them was rented by someone named Noelle?” I ask.

“Noelle?” she asks.

“Yes. Could you see if any reservations had that name listed?” I ask.

She clicks a few more buttons, then shakes her head. “That name isn’t on any of the reservations.”

“All right. Thank you,” I say. “And thank you for Clancy’s number.”

“You’re going to find who did this to that man, aren’t you?” the woman asks, expressing no emotion in her voice but showing it for a brief moment in her eyes.

“Yes,” I tell her without hesitation. “I’m going to find them and make sure they pay for what they’ve done.”

She nods, and I leave the office. Sitting in my car, I call the number on the sticky note.

“Hello?”

“Clancy?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“This is Emma Griffin,” I tell him, knowing he will recognize the name.

“I heard you were in town,” he says.

“Yes,” I tell him. “They called me in about the murder. I need to talk to you. I know you went through something really hard last night, and I understand you probably don’t want to talk about it, but it’s really important that I get as much information from you as I can get. Do you have a few minutes that we can talk?”

He hesitates before agreeing. “I’ll meet you at the diner.”

No matter where in town Clancy lives, he’s not far away from the diner, so I head right toward it. By the time I get there, Clancy is sitting in one of the booths with a cup of coffee. He barely looks up at me as I sit down across from him.

“Hi, Clancy,” I say, sitting down and making eye contact with the waitress so she knows I’m here.

She comes over and hands me a menu. “Coffee?”

“Yes please,” I say. I look at Clancy. “Are you going to order anything else?”

“Already did,” he says.

I have a feeling that means he’s the kind of regular around here who doesn’t actually need to order anything. As soon as the waitress sees him, she knows what he wants.

I quickly scan the menu.

“I’ll have a mushroom-and-onion omelet with bacon and grits,” I say, realizing just how hungry I actually am now that I’m breathing in all the delicious smells of the diner.

“Sure thing. Let me grab you that coffee.”

She takes my menu and walks away. I turn my attention to Clancy, who is looking down into his coffee and seems to be somewhere else. I know that feeling.

“Thank you for coming to talk to me, Clancy,” I say. “Again, I know this isn’t something you want to talk about, but it’s really important I get all the information I can.”

“I know,” he says. “And I want you to catch whoever did this.”

I don’t mention that I already know who did it, at least one of the people, but I don’t know who she really is or how I’m going to find her.

“I’m doing everything I can,” I tell him. “We’re going to start with just talking about Darian Percy. I know you checked him in a few days ago. I watched on the surveillance footage from the trail cam that you went inside with him for a couple of minutes. Were you just giving him the tour of the place and letting him know how everything works?”

“Yeah,” Clancy nods. “I’m glad we went back to in-person check-ins. It really cuts down on how many times I get calls for simple things that are either easy to explain or are in the welcome packet. If I get a chance to talk to people as they are checking in, I can explain all of that to them. It also makes it so we can notice when people are trying to sneak in extra occupants.”

“The woman at the office was mentioning that,” I say. “Have you had trouble with people not telling you everybody who is going to be staying there?”

“Not a lot, but enough that it was gettin’ to be annoying. And then we had a girl get injured. Due to her own stupidity, mind you. But she wasn’t listed on the reservation, so she wasn’t listed with the insurance. Caused this big hubbub, but of course, we came out on top because of our policies. Anyway, just making sure we cover our bases makes things much easier on me,” he says.

“When you checked Darian Percy in, did he talk about anything that he was planning on doing around here? Was he meeting up with anyone? Was there some sort of event or special occasion that brought him here?”

I already got the statement from Detective Thompson that he was just here for some peace and quiet, but I’m wondering if he might have mentioned something else to Clancy.

“No,” he says. “He just talked about how nice it would be to be able to relax and enjoy nature for a few days. He didn’t mention anybody else.”

“And it didn’t seem like anything was bothering him? He wasn’t on edge or trying to hurry you out or anything?” I ask.

“No, he was fine. Chatted a little bit. Asked me some questions about how to work things. It didn’t seem like he was trying to get me out of there or anything.”

Our food comes, and we spend a few quiet minutes eating.

“In the time that he was there, did he put in any maintenance requests other than the one from last night?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “He wasn’t one of the needy ones. That’s why it didn’t occur to me to wonder about him when I hadn’t heard anything or seen him out for a couple days. I usually saw him in town or driving at least once a day, but then didn’t. That didn’t really bother me because he didn’t seem like the kind that needed a lot of people doing things for him, if that makes sense.”

“Do you look at the footage from the trail camera often?” I ask.

“Not really. I’ll watch it if the occupant complains about something and I think it might have gotten caught on the camera, or if we think that there are extra people, or if something has happened there that I need to know what’s going on. A party that ended up with something getting damaged or something.”

“So you hadn’t watched the footage and seen anyone else go into the cabin,” I say.

“No.”

“Was it unusual to get a maintenance request so late at night?” I ask.

“Not really. We offer twenty-four-hour maintenance. Sometimes we deal with late-night power outages in the winter and such, where we need to get things back up and running and it can’t wait. These days we have another guy who comes in to handle requests between midnight and six o’clock, but this request came in right before that, so I handled it,” he says.

“Tell me what happened after you got the request.”

“I get a notice on my phone when one of the requests comes in when I’m not at the office or if I’m out on another call, so I was already at home. I was dressed for bed and relaxing. I had to get dressed and collect my tools before heading over there. When I got there, it didn’t look like anything was going on. I could see the kitchen light on, and the porch light was on. I went up to the door and knocked, but no one answered. I knocked a couple times and called to him, but he never came to the door. He’d made the maintenance call, and so I decided to go on in and make sure everything was all right.”

I nod. So far it all seems to be exactly the pattern of events that I already saw on the footage.

“At first I thought he just wasn’t there. His car was there, but everything was quiet. I glanced into the bedroom—the door was open—and I saw what looked like the guy staying there saying his prayers by the side of the bed. I felt bad for interrupting him, but when I said something to him, he didn’t react. It was dark in the room, so I didn’t notice anything about him until I got closer, and then I realized the way he was kneeling just didn’t look right. There was something off about the way that he was positioned. I turned on the light, and that was when I realized…” He takes a shuddering breath. “Well, that’s when I saw what I saw. I ran out of there and called the sheriff from the car.”

“Is there anything else you noticed about the cabin when you went in?” I ask.

“Yeah, actually. The window in the bedroom was open. Screen and everything. I thought that was strange.”

“But you didn’t see anyone else? No cars or anything?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

We finish eating, and I thank Clancy again before heading back toward the hotel while calling Eric.

“I talked to Darian’s mother and sister,” he says. “They are shocked, of course, and they both said that they couldn’t think of anyone who would want to do something like this to him. They’ve never lived in Feathered Nest or anything, but they’ve visited the area quite a bit. They rented the cabins for family reunions and things. But they were both adamant he didn’t say anything about anyone meeting him here or coming to visit while he was here. Darian was looking forward to just having quiet alone time for a while after some stress at work. I could look into him more…”

“There’s no point,” I say. “I don’t think any amount of talking to his family or researching him is actually going to do us any good. This wasn’t about Darian Percy. This kill was about Noelle, and that’s it. She stayed here for a while to make sure that someone was staying in the cabin and to watch his movements and make sure no one else was there, but she would have killed anyone who was staying there. It didn’t matter that it was him. As long as it was someone alone, that was all that mattered to her. Honestly, I don’t even put it past her to have hacked the reservation system to find out that a single person had reserved the cabin. With as much as she has been able to find out—what hotel I’m staying in, getting into the parks at the same time as us, the pictures, controlling the phones, all of it—I wouldn’t be shocked by anything she’s capable of doing.”

“What did you find out from Clancy?” he asks.

“Nothing much in the way of information that will help us identify this woman, but I did realize something. She was trying to hide. Not her identity. Not that she was there. But what she did,” I say.

“What do you mean?” Eric asks.

“I didn’t even think about it when I was first watching the footage and saw her leave, but there was no blood on her. No indication of anything that she had done in that cabin. She was in there for two days murdering, stuffing, and stitching together a human being. That can’t be done neatly. Yet there was no sign on her that she had done anything. Then Clancy told me there was nothing odd about the inside of the cabin. He didn’t notice anything off when he first walked in and didn’t even see that there was something going on with Darian until he turned the lights on in the bedroom.”

“Right,” Eric says.

“So where was the crime scene?” I ask. “Where was all the blood from the process? It’s not the kind of stuff you can just wash off in the shower without leaving a trace. I think that whoever came in to help her brought her extra clothes—or she might have just put on some of Darian’s, come to think of it—and the supplies that they would need. When they were finished, he brought them out the back of the cabin the same way he came in. Because, again, she knew about that camera. She knew that there would be some sort of security system in place and that they would see her going into the cabin and coming back out. It didn’t bother her that they would see her, but she didn’t want anybody to see the evidence of what she had done.”

“I don’t understand,” Eric says. “Why would it matter if anybody saw her with blood on her or carrying a tarp or whatever it is that she would need? They clearly captured her going into the cabin, being in there for two days, then coming back out just before the body was found. There’s no question that she was the one who killed him. Or at least she was there while somebody else did. Yet she didn’t want that person to be seen.”

“It’s a message,” I tell him. “She’s trying to say something to me. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

I drive by a familiar road, and I find myself turning before I even think about it.

“Where are you right now?” he asks. “Want to meet up for some lunch?”

“I’ve already eaten. There’s something I need to do. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hang up without waiting for a response and continue along the road that leads into the woods. When I get out of my car, it feels like I’m stepping back in time. I’ve stood in this place so few times, and yet it’s etched into my mind. There’s nothing that will ever remove it, nothing that will ever make me forget.

Walking deeper, I search for evidence of what was once here. I don’t know what’s been done to it in the years since I was undercover or if anyone has even touched it at all. And then I find it. I know this is the place. The evidence of the fire is still here, though the long-forgotten house isn’t. Nature has been doing everything it can to reclaim the area and heal the wounds, but there’s still scorching to the trees around it and pieces of foundation and steps evident in the undergrowth. I start to shake slightly seeing it. My eyes close again, and I remember.

Bursting out of the house, I run for the woods. His footsteps fall heavy on the wooden steps leading down from the porch. I hope for the darkness to conceal me, for the moonlight to not betray me. Once in the trees, I try to find the path with the least branches, trying to keep my feet quiet. I know now it was him following me in the woods that night. He pursued me almost silently, watching me as I moved along this very path and then back toward the cabin. He knows how I navigate the trees. He knows how I move about these woods.

Abandoning the path, I head in the opposite direction, kind of hoping it brings me somewhere I can find help or at least a place where I can hide until daylight. Exhausted and out of breath, I drop down behind a fallen tree. Pressing my back to the damp bark, I struggle to fill my lungs with air without making noise. I stay there as long as I can spare before standing up.

As soon as I turn around, something hits me in the side of the head.

I come out of a groggy stupor being dragged across the ground. I writhe and fight to get my feet under me. I try to stand. I scream, but it’s useless.

No one is anywhere around here. No one will hear me. Just like no one heard Cristela. No one heard any of them.

Jake says nothing as he pulls me back through the woods. He has me in a tight, complicated grip that keeps me from getting loose. My back aches from the angle it’s bent at as he drags me, but when I loosen up completely, I feel like I’m choking.

Finally, we’re back to the house, and he pulls me up to my feet but doesn’t release me. I’m standing with my back to him, my arms twisted around behind me. He tucks one hand around the front of my throat and kisses my cheek.

“You’re not going anywhere, Emma. Like I said, you could have been my future. We could have had such an incredible life together. If you had only just done what you were supposed to do.”

The sound of my phone breaks me out of the horrific memory.

“Agent Griffin,” I say.

“It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Emma?” the woman I now know as Noelle asks. “It was a good idea to take a walk.”

“Who the hell are you?” I growl into the phone. “Why did you kill Darian Percy?”

“You have to remember, Emma. You have to remember me. It was unfortunate he had to be utilized that way, but there was nothing I could do. You just won’t remember me. You won’t remember what happened. If only you understood.”

That is when I start to scream.

I know there are words coming out of my mouth, at least I think there are, but I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m pouring my rage and my pain out to her, almost not caring if she’s actually listening. Suddenly, I feel hands on my upper arms, and panic shoots through me. My elbow shoots back and comes into contact with a jaw.

“Shit! Emma!”

I whip around and see Eric on the ground behind me. He’s gripping his chin and moving his jaw gingerly back and forth to make sure I didn’t break it.

“Eric! What the hell are you doing?”

“I came to find you. You sounded weird on the phone, and I just knew this was where you were going. Why would you want to come out here and see this?” he asks.

I reach down and take his hand to pull him up to his feet.

“I just needed to.”

“You were screaming,” he says.

“Noelle called me,” I tell him.

“Emma, look. I don’t think you need to be here. I wanted you to see it and know what was going on, but I think you need to go back to Sherwood. Deal with things from there,” he says.

“No,” I tell him. “This is about me, and I need to figure it out.”

“You’re not going to do that from here. You need to go home. That isn’t a request, Emma. You’re going home.”

I’m angry at Eric for sending me home, but there’s nothing I can do about it. And I understand what he’s saying. There’s nothing I can do from Feathered Nest, and just being here is pushing me closer to the edge.

It’s getting into the evening, so I’m not going to take the long drive home tonight. Instead, I go back to the hotel and call Sam to let him know I’m coming back.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I know you’re frustrated, but you should be here. I’m meeting with Delta again tomorrow. If you feel up to it, you can come with me. I’m going to talk to her about the necklace.”

“What time are you meeting her?” I ask.

“Late afternoon,” he tells me. “She says that she’s busy with meetings and things in the morning. They’re apparently still scrambling to figure out what they’re going to do without Marshall Belmont.”

“Well, it is his law firm,” I say. “I’m sure his death left quite a hole. I’m going to leave here early, so I should be there in plenty of time.”

“You don’t have to come if you’re not feeling up to it,” he reiterates.

“I’m coming,” I tell him. “I don’t know why everybody is being so delicate with me, but they need to stop. I’m going through this, but that doesn’t change that I want to know what happened to Marshall Belmont. I can handle this.”

“What did you find out?” he asks.

“I’ll tell you when I get home,” I tell him. “I want to take a shower and get some sleep.”

I’m up before the sun rises, but so is Myrna. She already has pastries, coffee, juice, and some fresh fruit sitting out in the lobby. I am all packed and load up my car before going back in to check out.

“Thank you for your help,” I tell her. “You know, if you think of anything or if you need anything, you can always call me.”

“Thank you,” she says. “I wish you were going to be around for longer.”

“So do I,” I say. “But there are some other things I need to deal with.”

“Grab some coffee and pastries,” she says. “I know you have a long drive back home.”

“Yes, I do,” I say and take her up on the offer.

Loaded up with pastries and fruit for breakfast and snacks on the road as well as a paper cup of coffee, I get behind the wheel and head out of town in the dark of the predawn morning.

Leaving so early helps me to avoid all the traffic, and I’m back in Sherwood before noon. Sam is at work, so I unload my luggage, dump what little dirty laundry I have in the laundry room, and change clothes. I don’t know what it is about taking a long drive that always makes me want to change when I get home, but as soon as I’m finished with a drive like that, I just want clean clothes and some rest.

I can do the clean clothes, but the rest will have to wait until later. I’m fortunately feeling energetic as I get back in the car and drive to the sheriff’s department. Sam looks surprised when he sees me. He comes over and grabs me into a hug, squeezing me close and then giving me a kiss.

“I’m so glad you’re back home,” he says.

“Can you take a break for lunch?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” he says.

Since we just ate at Pearl’s Diner, we decide to go to the little Italian place on Main Street that we both love. It’s small and dark inside, the perfect atmosphere for anything from a romantic date to scheming a mob hit. We frequently joke that we think the restaurant might actually be a cover for the mob, but we’re not serious, and I sincerely hope it’s not true. The owner, Rosie, is far too sweet, and I would hate to have to shut this place down for something like that.

“Why did Eric send you home?” Sam asks as he reaches for one of the pieces of crusty bread in the basket set in the middle of the table. “I thought he wanted your help with the murder there.”

“He didn’t want me in Feathered Nest anymore,” I tell him. “He thought it was getting to be too much for me. And maybe it was. I was having horrible flashbacks to when I was there and what happened with Jake. And I think that was exactly the point of it.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“That wasn’t a random murder. My stalker did it,” I say. “She was staying at Myrna’s hotel, and she filled out the guest card with the name Noelle, but she put ‘Mother’ like it was her last name or a title.”

“How do you know it was her?” Sam asks.

“Because we checked the footage; I saw her go into the cabin and then not come out for two days. When she came out, it was less than half an hour later that Clancy found the body. She is the only one who could have done it. I think somebody came in through the back window and helped her, but she was there. She did this. I saw her on the trail cam footage that covers the cabin, and then I saw her again on the hotel security camera. She wasn’t even trying not to be seen. She looked directly into the camera and smiled at one point. She wants me to see her, Sam. She wants me to look into her face and know that she’s the one doing this.”

“Did she look familiar?” Sam asks. “Do you know who she was?”

“No,” I say with a heavy sigh. “She didn’t look familiar at all. I have no idea who she is or why she’s doing this, but she’s escalating.”

There are still a couple of hours before the meeting with Delta, so I tell Sam I’m going to go back home and relax for a little while. I don’t really intend on relaxing. I need to investigate. I need to research and dig into my past as much as I can to try to understand this woman and why she has done what she has. And what she wants from me.

I’ve forgotten that Cupcake is staying at my place when I get home and am a little startled to see her and Xavier in the living room. They had apparently either been at his house or on one of their adventures for the morning because they weren’t there when I first got back to Sherwood.

“Hey,” I say when I walk inside.

“Emma!” Xavier says. “You’re back. Cupcake and I are going through some pictures of her latest designs. Do you want to help?”

It sounds like a good distraction, so I sit down with them and help them sift through pictures of various steps of Cupcake making the items that she designed. I have some very basic crochet skills, but nothing compared to her. So many of the pictures don’t make a lot of sense to me. As much as this was supposed to be the distraction from everything that’s going on, I find my mind drifting back to Noelle and what happened in Feathered Nest.

“Emma?” Cupcake says. “Can you hand me that picture?”

She says that like she has asked for it a couple of times and I just wasn’t paying attention. I have no idea how long I’ve been zoned out, and I quickly hand her the image in my hand.

“Is everything okay?” Xavier asks.

“Not really,” I tell him.

“You can tell me,” he says. “You can tell me anything. Technically, anybody could tell anybody anything because of free will and the ability to communicate, but I mean that with the colloquial connotation of I am receptive to anything you may want to say to me.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Some things have been going on that I haven’t talked to you much about, but I feel like I might need to tell you.”

“Do you need some time?” Cupcake asks. “I could…”

“No,” I say. “If you’re willing to hear it, I would like you here too. You’ve been spending a lot of time with us recently, and I’m afraid that might mean you could get wrapped up in this too.”

She sits back down, and I notice how close she is sitting to Xavier. He doesn’t move away from her but seems to find comfort in her proximity. I don’t give them full details because they are too much for me to even think about right now, but I tell them what’s been happening with Noelle and why I ended up in Feathered Nest. I didn’t want to have to tell them or get them involved, but with Dean’s situation with the kidnapping hoax and now this escalation, I can’t be too careful with the people around me.

“There are times when I see a person from my past, or I think of them and I can remember everything about them,” Xavier says. “I know how we met or can remember little details about the time that we spent together, even if we were never close. I remember times when we ate lunch together or things that they said to me. I can remember the clothes they wore. And every time that happens, I wonder if they remember me at all or if any thought of me was just lost in the void of time.

“Then there have been times when people have come and said hello to me, and I had no idea who they were. I might know I’ve seen their face before. I might know that I’ve heard their voice. But I can’t place them. I can’t remember their names or why they would have had any significance to me. But they remember me so clearly. I made some sort of impact on them, and they believe wholeheartedly the feeling must be mutual.

“You made some impact on this woman that makes you so prevalent in her mind she can’t let you go, and she believes that if you simply try hard enough, you’ll remember her as well. She can’t believe that whatever happened between the two of you didn’t make enough of a mark on you that you don’t immediately recall her. You can’t think of just the big picture. You have to think of the periphery.”

I go to my office and pull out one of the massive rolls of butcher paper I like to use when I’m investigating a case. When I lived at the other house—the house that was my grandparents’ home and now belongs to Dean and Xavier—I used to put the paper up on the dining room wall. The layout of this house doesn’t allow for that, so I instead go for the living room wall. It requires me to shift the furniture a little, but soon I’ve taped the paper up to the wall, and it has become a giant notepad for me to record my thoughts. Doing this helps me get a visual of what I’m thinking and sometimes make connections I wouldn’t have made before.

I use a marker to start jotting down everything I can think of that this woman has brought up or alluded to since she started this brutal leg of her torment. With the larger cases written down, I try to think of smaller details of them that she might be trying to get me to remember that would link to her.

“Did you do anything wrong in your investigation of Jake?” Xavier asks as he looks at the words I’ve written across the paper.

“Did I do anything wrong?” I ask. “What do you mean?”

“Did you go against protocol or do something you knew you shouldn’t do?” he asks.

I take a breath, remembering my actions during those tangled, confusing days. “Yes.”

“Little Red Riding Hood,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

“Oh,” Cupcake says. “That’s right. She went against what her mother told her.”

Xavier nods. “The reason the wolf knew to go and eat the grandmother and lure the others in was that Little Red did what she was told not to. Her mother had always told her not to take the shortcut through the woods to get to her grandmother’s house. She was to take the road that would lead her around the woods to the house on the other side. But she didn’t want to take that long, so she used the shortcut. While she was walking through the woods, she came upon the wolf and told him that she was going to see her sick granny. He ran ahead and killed the grandmother. The only way he would have known to do that is because she did what she wasn’t supposed to do, and if she had done what she was supposed to do, her grandmother, and everyone else, would have been safe.”

“But this woman doesn’t have anything to do with what happened with Jake,” I tell him. “I know that case. I know that case very well, and I know that she was not involved.”

“It isn’t about that case,” Xavier says. “Just like she told you the story, she used Jake to get you to remember. You, or someone, did something you or they weren’t supposed to do, and she suffered because of it. You have to remember what that was.”

Two hours later, Sam and I arrive at the law firm and are ushered into an office that seems far too extravagant for an assistant. She comes in a few moments later and offers us coffee, gesturing at a machine set on a counter at the base of large built-in bookshelves along one wall. We both accept, and she brings them over to us, then makes a cup for herself. We settle into a seating area comprised of dark leather furniture that takes up one corner of the room.

“This is a very nice office,” I say.

“It was actually Marshall’s,” she explains. “I’ve been tasked with going through everything and trying to sort out everything here so that the other attorneys can take over his cases and anything that’s important can go to his wife. It’s not an easy responsibility.”

I think of Poppy Montgomery’s house and nod in commiseration. “I’m sure it’s not.”

“Thank you for meeting with us,” Sam says. “We won’t take up too much of your time.”

There’s a light knock on the door, and Delta looks over at it. She gestures, and I glance over to see a young woman coming through the glass door. She’s holding a few file folders and a bag from a takeout service.

“I was picking up my lunch, and one of the assistants gave these to me to give to you,” she says, holding the folders out toward Delta.

“Thank you, honey,” she says. “This is Special Agent Emma Griffin and Sheriff Sam Johnson. Agent, Sheriff, this is my daughter, Rose.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” the younger woman, in whom I can now see the resemblance to her mother, says.

“Go on and enjoy your lunch,” Delta says.

“Okay. Bye. I’ll talk to you later.”

She looks at us and gives a small smile before heading for the door. As she’s walking away, I notice her lift one hand toward her neck, then drop it quickly.

“I’m sorry for the interruption,” Delta says.

“Does your daughter work here?” I ask.

“Yes. She took an internship here about a year ago and was recently hired on as a general office assistant. She does whatever needs to be done for the various lawyers and their assistants,” she says. “I honestly don’t know what we did before she was around. She is so helpful.”

“I’m sure she is,” Sam says. “It seems like all of you stay pretty busy around here.”

“Always,” she says with a slight laugh. I notice her fingertips go up and touch the dip between her collarbones. “Well, what can I do for you today? Did you have more questions about the fundraising event?”

Her eyes cloud over just slightly at the mention of the event.

“No,” I say. “Actually, we wanted to ask you about something else.”

“Oh? What is it?” Delta asks.

“Do you usually wear a necklace?” Sam asks.

“A necklace?” she asks, sounding confused.

“Yes,” Sam says. “The first time I came to speak with you, I noticed that you frequently reached up and touched your chest just under your neck. And I just saw that you did it again a moment ago. It looks like you are used to touching something hanging around your neck, like a pendant on a necklace.”

Delta glances down like she’s trying to see her own neck. “Oh… well… I guess sometimes I wear one.”

“It seems like you used to wear one frequently,” I say. “We looked at pictures from the fundraising event at the community center and then some pictures from the law firm website, and in almost all of them you are wearing a specific necklace.” I take the close-up image that I brought to the jeweler out of my bag and show it to her. “This necklace. Does it look familiar?”

“Yes, of course, it looks familiar. It’s my necklace,” she says. “But I don’t understand what’s so important about me wearing a necklace.”

“Well, we didn’t know either, but we wanted to look into it. So we brought this picture to jewelers around town to see if they recognized it. And it turned out, one of them did. He remembers very clearly selling this necklace about a year ago to Marshall Belmont. Did he give this necklace to you?” I ask.

Delta hesitates. She obviously doesn’t want to talk about this. The misty look comes back to her eyes, and she forces it away, straightening her spine further like she’s trying to hold herself together.

“Yes,” she says. “He did. To show his appreciation for the hard work that I did for him every day.”

“That is quite the appreciation gift from a man to his assistant,” Sam says.

Her eyes shift to Sam, her gaze sharp and intense. “I worked very hard for him.”

“Why did you stop wearing it?” I ask.

“I didn’t stop wearing it,” she says. “I just haven’t worn it in a few days. I don’t wear it every single day.”

“You told Sheriff Johnson that the two of you only had a professional relationship and that you didn’t know anything about his personal life,” I say. “Are you sure that’s true?”

“Yes,” she says firmly.

I stop myself from pushing her any further. I can tell she’s getting defensive, and I don’t want to cause a scene in the office, especially since we will likely need to talk to many, if not all, of the people here, and I don’t want anything they say to be influenced by her reaction to us.

“All right. That’s all we needed to ask you. Thank you so much again for meeting with us,” I say.

“We appreciate your time,” Sam adds. “And if you think of anything, please give us a call.”

He hands her a card, and she doesn’t even look at it.

We stand, and she walks with us out of the office, closing the door immediately behind us. As we’re leaving, I notice Rose sitting in a cubicle with her lunch spread in front of her. She’s looking over her shoulder, her eyes trained on the door to Marshall Belmont’s former office.

Sam and I don’t look at each other or say anything until we get out of the office building and back into the car.

“What do you think?” he asks when our seat belts are on and we’re pulling out of the parking spot.

“I think she knows a lot more than she wants to say. I can understand someone showing their appreciation to a longtime employee with a nice gift, but that necklace did not seem like the type of thing that a married man would give to his personal assistant. Especially one who insists that she doesn’t know anything about his personal life. After so long working together, and if he appreciates her so much that he would give her something like that, it seems like they would be on much closer terms. I feel like she is emphasizing that their relationship was purely professional for a reason.”

“Where now?” he asks.

“Home,” I say. “I need to not be in a car for a little while.”

Sam puts his phone in the cradle on the dashboard and notices that he has a voicemail. He hits the Speaker button and plays the message.

“Hi, Sheriff Johnson, this is Mel Gracey from Gracey Jewelers. I might have found something about that necklace that you asked about. Would you mind giving me a callback?”

Sam looks over at me. “Think you could handle a little more time in the car?”

“Definitely,” I say.

He turns away from the route that would have led home and instead heads for downtown Sherwood. We park on the street a few buildings down from the jewelry store and go inside. It’s empty except for one man standing close to the glass display case where engagement rings sparkle under bright embedded lights. He has the expression on his face of someone excited to be doing what he is and yet also weighed down by the thought that he’s making one of the most important decisions of his life.

The pressure is obvious in his tightly knit eyebrows, and I want to go over and reassure him. He’s already done the difficult part. He’s found the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with and made the decision within himself to ask them to marry him. That should be the greatest challenge of this entire experience, not picking out a ring. The jewelry is a nice touch and something a lot of people look forward to showing off their entire lives, but it’s based on an antiquated tradition that doesn’t apply anymore and shouldn’t be such a massive source of stress for the person proposing. If the ring doesn’t appeal to the person he’s proposing to and it prevents them from becoming his fiancée, that should be the red flag right there that he didn’t really choose the right person.

“Hi, Sheriff Johnson,” Mel Gracey says from the other side of the store.

We walk up to him, and Sam gestures at me. “Mr. Gracey, this is my wife, Agent Emma Griffin.”

“Of course, Agent Griffin,” he says, extending his hand to shake mine. “I believe we’ve met before.”

I nod. “How are you?”

“Well, thank you,” he says. “I heard about your accident. I hope you’re feeling better.”

One of the charms and curses of living in a small town is everyone hearing about your business and bringing it up at awkward times.

I smile. “Much. Thank you.”

Either he assumes that the evidence of my attack is related to the car accident or he’s heard about that incident and decided not to bring it up. I’m thankful for that.

“Good,” he says, nodding. “That’s good to hear.”

“I got your voicemail,” Sam says, detouring the conversation back over to the reason we’re here. “I thought I’d stop by and talk to you rather than just calling you back.”

“Yes,” Mel says. “I realized that I told you that necklace was purchased about a year ago by Marshall Belmont.”

“You did,” Sam says. “Is that not accurate? Did you not sell that necklace to him?”

I can hear the confusion in Sam’s voice. Delta just told us herself that Marshall gave her the necklace, and we were told before that Mel Gracey designed that piece, so it was unique to his shop.

“I did,” he says. “But it wasn’t a year ago. Give me just a second.”

He goes into the office and comes back with a picture of another necklace strikingly similar to the first, only with a different color stone in the pendant.

“I sold that necklace longer ago than that. This is the necklace I sold to Marshall Belmont a year ago.”

“You made two of them?” I ask.

“I actually made four, all just slightly different, but I recalled specifically that Marshall Belmont bought the one with the garnet because it was probably my favorite of the four. Then I remembered that he also bought the emerald and that the garnet had been purchased before. I’m sorry for any confusion.”

“No,” Sam says shaking his head. “No need to apologize. Thank you for letting us know.”

“I hope it helps,” he says.

“It does,” I tell him. “It definitely does.”

I’m buzzing when Sam and I leave the jewelry store.

“He bought another necklace,” I say to Sam. “He got a favorite design and stuck with it.”

“Or he didn’t remember buying the first one because he was too wrapped up in the person he was buying the second one for,” he says. “I have a feeling Marshall Belmont had more than one extracurricular activity going on at any given point. He might have had a favorite—”

“Or at least one that lasted the longest,” I say.

“Exactly. But he was always looking for the next thing, and when he found it, he didn’t remember buying that necklace for Delta. Should we go back and talk to her again?”

“Not yet,” I say. “We still don’t know for sure she has anything to do with Marshall’s murder. We need to get more information first.”

Later that evening I’ve been staring at the butcher paper on the wall for hours when Sam comes into the living room with a cup of tea.

“You’ve got to stop,” he says. “Earlier you told me that you just wanted to come home and relax, but the second you got here, you started staring at that wall, and you haven’t left it.”

“I have to figure this out, Sam. This woman isn’t just messing with me anymore. She isn’t just following me around and seeing if she can scare me. She killed a man to get my attention. I have to figure out who she is.”

“I know,” he says. “But you’re going to completely burn yourself out. Xavier just called, and Nicole wants to come over and hang out for a little bit before Cupcake leaves. I just wanted you to know.”

I knew Cupcake had to head out today, but I didn’t realize it was already time. I had lost the whole afternoon and early evening staring at that paper, and I still don’t feel like I’ve made any more connections. I’ve gotten a few sips of my tea down when the door opens and Xavier, Cupcake, and Nicole stream in. I give them all hugs, but Nicole gives me a knowing, questioning look as I go over to the couch and curl up in the corner.

“You okay, girl?” she asks.

I shake my head, running my fingers back through it. “Not really, but yes.”

“Very clear,” she says.

“She’s conflicted because while she is physically healthy and relatively in one piece, considering she is still recovering from being attacked within short shrift of being in a car accident, she is struggling with emotional turmoil and professional stress, putting her in a difficult state,” Xavier says.

Nicole looks at him and then at me. She points at him.

“You do realize you just got translated by Xavier’s long-ass explanation,” she says.

I nod. “I do. But that was pretty much accurate. I’m just dealing with a lot.”

“I know,” she says. “Cupcake and Xavier filled me in. I would be stressed as hell if I were you too.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“The community event will make you feel better,” Sam says, sitting down on the couch beside me.

“The what?” I ask.

“The community event,” he repeats. “The sheriff’s department community day.”

I groan, my eyes clenching shut as my head drops back against the couch.

“I completely forgot about that,” I say.

“Completely forgot about something you’ve been working on with me for months?” he asks.

“I’m sorry. I have a few things going on right now,” I say, perhaps a bit more defensively than I needed to.

Sam doesn’t pull away or get angry. He has an incredible way of understanding what I’m feeling and knowing how to approach it. He doesn’t always choose to use it, but right now he’s staying calm to try to keep me as calm as possible.

“I know you do, babe, and if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to. But I think it would do you a lot of good to get out and just do something fun.”

“It is going to be fun,” Xavier says. “I believe it is right there in the official title.”

“It is,” Cupcake confirms. “You sent me the flyer. I’m so disappointed I can’t come. If I didn’t have this meeting with my publicist tomorrow, I would be excited to go along with everybody.”

“Come on,” Nicole says. “This is gonna be a blast. I’m starting to feel like a part of this community myself, so this will be my first official event. And maybe I’ll even drum up some business while I’m there. Things like this are usually crawling with engaged couples and pregnant people.”

“Or married couples on the brink,” Xavier points out.

Nicole points to him. “That too,” she says.

“Such an uplifting business model,” I say.

“We’ve been over this,” Nicole says. “Divorce parties are a hot thing right now. People celebrating their newfound freedom and reclaiming their independence.”

“And it doesn’t bother you to host parties like that right after you’ve done bridal showers or engagement parties?” I ask

“Not at all,” she says. “Why should I discriminate? I am in the business of helping people celebrate life’s moments and make the memories they want. It’s not up to me to decide what makes another person happy and what moments are important in their life.”

“You’re right,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“And thank you for that, Xavier,” Nicole says, revealing that the entire spiel was manufactured by Xavier. I’m not surprised. It’s missing some of his signature loquacious wisdom, but it has his heart.

The next morning Sam and I go over to the park early so that we can help with the setup. The rental companies have already arrived with their inflatables, rides, and games. The vendors are setting up their food kiosks and booths, and there’s a general energy of excitement. This is something the community genuinely looks forward to all year, and I try to push everything else out of my mind so that I can just enjoy myself. It isn’t easy to do, especially when I notice a booth being set up by Marshall Belmont’s former law firm and see Delta putting together what looks like a large lattice.

“What’s going on over there?” I ask Sam.

“The law firm is a sponsor for the event along with the sheriff’s department,” he says. “It’s like a sister event to the fundraising party at the community center. They asked if they could do something to memorialize Marshall at their booth.”

“They do understand that this is a family event, right?” I ask.

“I’m sure they do,” he says.

“Well, nothing says childhood memories and fun for the whole family like a memorial for a murdered man right next to the cotton candy vendor,” I say.

“I’m sure they’re going to make it subtle,” Sam says. “Besides, it wasn’t like we could say no. He had really committed to doing a lot for the community, and the people at the firm just wanted to give him a respectable farewell considering his wife decided to keep his funeral arrangements private.”

“Probably because she didn’t want his mistress showing up,” I whisper.

“Very likely,” Sam says. “But that’s not really the point.”

I start toward the booth.

“What are you doing?” he asks in a slightly louder whisper.

“I’m going to ask if I can be of any assistance,” I say.

I can almost hear his eyes rolling behind me, but I don’t turn around to make sure he stays on his feet. I walk over to the law firm booth, and Delta looks up at me. She doesn’t seem pleased to see me but still offers a tight smile, as if keeping up appearances in case anybody around notices.

“Hello, Agent Griffin,” she says.

“Good morning, Delta,” I say. “I was just coming over to say hello and see what you’re doing.”

I probably could have worded that in a more tactful way, but I’m very rapidly running out of tact, and I need to preserve some of it for other people. Delta steps to the side and gestures at the white lattice she has set up. Beside it is a table with long strips of fabric and markers.

“We are creating a community art installment,” she says dramatically. “Everyone is going to be invited to write down something they remember about Marshall or his contribution to the community and tie it to the lattice. Then we will display it at the law firm.”

I’ve heard of something like this being done before, but not quite in this context. I still smile and nod.

“That’s a lovely thought,” I say. “I would add to it, but I didn’t really know him.”

“That’s all right. I’m sure there are plenty of others who will be happy to send up their thoughts to him.”

“Was this your idea?” I ask. “It seems very touching for someone with only a professional relationship.”

“I need to help finish setting everything up,” she says, turning away from me and returning to the main part of the booth.

I go back to Sam, who gives me a knowing look. “That didn’t seem to be a pleasant interaction.”

“Not especially. But I’m even more positive now that she was Marshall’s mistress.”

“Let’s try not to think about that for the rest of the day, all right? Just for this event, let’s try to relax and enjoy ourselves. You have a lot of people who are going to be excited to see you, and I’m sure everyone is going to want to talk to you about the classes you’re teaching at the center soon. Just be in the moment, and don’t think about anything else,” he says.

I smile. “No promises. But I’ll try.”

Xavier

“I just want to try one more time,” Nicole said. “The rest of those were practice.”

“I don’t think the guy running the game knew they were practice,” Xavier told her.

“Well, they were, and now I’ve got my form. I’m going to get it this time,” she said.

“Why don’t you give your arm a break from trying to knock over the bottles that will never be knocked over because they are strategically designed to resist any type of jostling from a ball that is far too lightweight to be given the type of force necessary to displace them? I need a bathroom, and then we’ll get a snack.”

Nicole looked longingly at the bottle game she had been playing for the last half hour, but then she nodded.

“All right. We’ll take a restroom break and fuel up with a snack, then I’m back at it. I’m going to prove to you that these aren’t crooked carnies. This game is beatable, and I’m going to do it.”

“I’ll root for you the whole way,” Xavier said.

They left the game area and crossed the park to the restroom building. They parted ways at the front of the building, each going into their separate doors. A few minutes later, Xavier emerged and looked around for Nicole. She wasn’t standing in the front of the building like she should have been. That was where they always met back up when they took bathroom breaks anywhere they were. Right in the center of the two doors.

Maybe she just hadn’t come out yet.

He positioned himself in the spot where they should be meeting and waited. The air around him crawled across his skin as it crystallized into seconds passing. He could feel every breath, hear it in his ears. The people around him passed by too quickly, too close. Too much energy radiated off them, bombarding him, pressing in around him. She still wasn’t there.

A child cried somewhere, the sharp sound making his stomach jump and repeating in his ears even when it had gone silent.

She still wasn’t there.

Everyone around him started to blur. He couldn’t differentiate faces, couldn’t put voices to the moving mouths. He reached for his phone, but it wasn’t there. He must have left it in the car. Fingertips starting to tingle, Xavier stepped to the side and craned to search for Nicole. Even just a flash of her hair, the sound of her voice, would reassure him.

She still wasn’t there.

He was very aware of not standing in the right spot, but also of her not being there. He was alone. No phone. No one. He couldn’t just stay there. He needed to find her, needed to find someone.

Xavier turned around and faced the park. It stretched out in front of him like it would never end. It felt like an illusion, like he would step forward and it would swallow him. He tried to remind himself of every step they’d taken already, but they at once streamed together and came to him in tight snippets like bits of negative falling to the floor.

She still wasn’t there.

He remembered the game. That was the last place where they were. The game to the bathroom. They turned once to get off the row of games, then walked in a straight line. He could do that. He could get back to the game.

Xavier concentrated on his breathing as he forced his feet to start walking. It seemed like everyone was looking at him. They could see his bones. They knew his fear. He kept his chin up, not showing on his face what he was feeling through every inch of his body. Someone brushed against him, and he pulled back like he’d been burned. He would feel that for the rest of the day. It would stay with him for weeks.

He walked until he heard the sound of the games and saw the flashing lights. He took the one turn and was back on the row of games.

She still wasn’t there.

He looked ahead and saw the impossible-to-topple pile of bottles, the bright-pink panda she coveted hanging above. Nicole wasn’t there. She wasn’t feeding more tickets into the man’s palm or stomping to the ticket kiosk at the end of the row to exchange more cash for another handful.

Everything around him faded and expanded, became nothing and endless. He didn’t know where to go, but he couldn’t stand still. He could never explain this feeling, could never make anyone understand.

“Xavier!”

He wasn’t sure he was actually hearing the sound of his name. It was impossibly far away and in his head at the same time.

“Xavier!”

He heard it again. It was real.

He turned until he saw Emma and Sam coming toward him. Emma got to him first.

“Are you all right? Where’s Nicole?”

“I can’t find her.”

“She called and said she can’t find you,” Emma said.

She took Xavier’s hand, and the fractured bits of the world around him started to settle back into some semblance of normalcy.

I call Nicole to let her know that Sam and I found Xavier, and within a few moments, she’s running toward us through the crowd.

“Xavier!” she calls out. “Oh my god. I thought I lost you.”

“You did,” Xavier says. “Where did you go?”

“What do you mean where did I go? You texted me that you went to get cotton candy. There was a line for the ladies’ room, and I figured you had just gotten tired of waiting. You’d mentioned cotton candy, and so I thought you just decided to go. I texted back for you to wait for me, but you never responded. Didn’t you get it?”

“I didn’t send you any text messages,” Xavier says.

“It’s right here,” Nicole says, taking out her phone to show us the message from Xavier. “Right here.”

She turns the screen toward us, and I see the message under Xavier’s number. He shakes his head.

“I don’t even have my phone. It’s in the car. That’s why I didn’t just call when I couldn’t find you. I didn’t send that message,” he says.

Sweat prickles the back of my neck, and anger darkens the edges of my vision.

“She did this,” I say. “This was Noelle. She did the same thing to Dean when she sent the messages that made it seem like that girl had been kidnapped and the father messaged him, then deleted them. She did it to me when she spoofed Sam’s number so that it looked like he was messaging me to get me to open the back door before I was attacked. Now she’s doing it to you. Xavier doesn’t have his phone, which means that any messages supposedly from him can’t be from him. She did this to lure the two of you away from each other.”

“Why?” Sam asks. “Xavier is fine. X, did anyone try to hurt you? Was someone following you?”

“Not that I noticed,” Xavier says.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But that’s what’s happening. This is her.”

I snatch my phone out of my pocket and stalk away from the others, searching around me for the woman I saw on the security footage and the trail cam. I go through my calls to find one from her and redial the number.

“Emma,” Noelle’s sickeningly calm, even voice says. “So lovely to hear from you. How are you?”

“Cut the shit. I want to know who you are and what you want,” I demand.

“I told you, Emma. I want you to remember. I’m trying so hard to help you, but you just won’t do it. Why can’t you remember?” she asks.

“Stay away from my family,” I tell her. “This is about me.”

“You made it about everyone else, Emma. And until you figure it out, I’ll just have to keep trying to remind you.”

The call ends, and I clench my hand around the phone, angry enough that I feel like I could snap it in half. I will do whatever I have to do to protect the people I love. But this time I don’t know what I have to do.

The next day I’m back standing in front of the notes I have written across the butcher paper when Sam rushes through the front door. I wasn’t expecting him to be home until this evening, so his sudden appearance startles me. He looks worked up, and I’m immediately nervous.

“What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

“Rose Hurley just called the station. Her mother is missing,” he tells me.

“Delta Hurley is missing?” I ask, stunned by the revelation.

He nods. “According to Rose, she spoke to her yesterday afternoon when she needed to leave the community day early and hasn’t heard from her since. She hasn’t answered any calls or messages, and when Rose went over to her house, her car was there but Delta wasn’t. She’s extremely worried about her.”

“She had to leave the event early?” I ask. “Why? Where did she go?”

“Rose doesn’t know. She just said that they were doing the law firm booth and encouraging people to participate in the community art installation thing that they were creating in memory of Marshall. Everything was fine, then her mother got a text and said that she needed to go handle something. She didn’t give her any other details,” Sam says.

“And she didn’t mention to anyone else where she was going or what she was doing?” I ask.

“No. Everyone else manning the booth said the same thing. She just left. She didn’t say if she was coming back, but when she didn’t show back up, they just figured that whatever took her away from the event was serious, and they cleaned everything up. I haven’t had a chance to talk to everyone who was there,” he says.

“Then we need to go to the office,” I say. “We need to talk to as many people who had contact with her as possible. Call Rose back and make sure she’s there. Everyone should be at work today, but ask her if she knows of anyone who is going to be out of the office. We need to talk to as many of them as possible.”

Twenty minutes later, we are back at the law firm and standing in a conference room with everyone who is at the firm gathered around the table and standing along the edges of the room. Some of them look nervous, and I’m assuming they are the people who are most familiar with Delta and have already found out that she is missing. Rose might have called them to see if any of them had heard from her mother or were at the event and knew she left suddenly.

“Hello,” Sam says. “If I can have your attention for just a few minutes, this is very important. This morning we received notification that Delta Hurley is missing.”

A few gasps and murmurs ripple through the room as people who weren’t aware react to the surprising news.

“Her daughter, Rose, reported her missing after not being able to get in touch with her since yesterday afternoon and visiting her home without being able to find her. Agent Griffin and I need to speak with everyone to find out what you know about Delta and her possible movements. If she spoke with any of you before she left the community fun day event yesterday afternoon, or if you heard from her at all since then, please let us know. Any bit of information that you have could be important.”

“I barely know her,” one of the men says. “I know of her and that she was Marshall Belmont’s assistant, but I don’t think I’ve exchanged more than half a dozen words with her personally. I wasn’t at the event yesterday either.”

A few others in the room murmur their agreement, and Sam nods.

“If you are not familiar with Ms. Hurley, please step out of the room, and I’ll be out to speak with you in just a moment,” he says.

Several people walk out of the room, and the others shift around to fill the space better.

“I was at the event yesterday,” a woman I recognize as one of the assistants says. “I heard her tell Rose that she needed to leave to take care of something, but she didn’t say specifically what it was or that she was going to come back or anything. I think we all assumed she was going to come back.”

“Yeah, but when she didn’t, I just figured that she’d been held up by whatever was going on, and we just went ahead and cleaned up,” another person at the table says. “I was pretty frustrated because she was the one who organized the whole thing and was pushing for the memorial.”

“I actually called her about the memorial,” the first woman says as if that thought just occurred to her. “While we were cleaning up, I realized she was the one who was supposed to pack it up and bring it to the office. She knew where she wanted to put it and everything. So I called her to see what she wanted us to do with it. She didn’t answer.”

“Did anyone else try to get in touch with her?” I ask.

They all shake their heads, and I notice that Rose still isn’t in the room.

“Has anyone spoken with Rose this morning?” I ask.

Again everyone shakes their heads. I ask for her contact information, and one of the assistants is able to give me her phone number.

“Thank you, everyone. I know this isn’t an easy situation, so please if you think of anything, reach out to Sheriff Johnson. We appreciate your cooperation.”

They filter out of the room, and Sam goes to check in with the people standing out in the hall as I dial Rose.

“Hello?” a teary voice answers.

“Rose? This is Agent Griffin. I’m at the office. We asked that you make sure you were here so we could talk to you about your mother,” I say.

“I know. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t be there.”

“Where are you right now?” I ask.

“I’m at her house. I wanted to wait here so I’m here when she comes back,” she says.

“Give me the address and stay there. Sheriff Johnson and I are going to come speak with you.”

She gives me the address, and I type it into the GPS. It’s only a few minutes away. As Sam and I are driving in that direction, I try to keep my mind focused on what’s happening right now rather than letting it wander back to the butcher paper on my wall and the list of text messages that weren’t really sent by the people who supposedly sent them.

Rose answers the door with red-rimmed eyes, the sleeves of her sweatshirt pulled down over her hands as she seems to be trying to fold herself completely into herself. She ushers us into the house, and we sit down in the living room. She curls up on the couch and holds a pillow on her lap like it’s protecting her.

“Rose, why didn’t you go into the office?” Sam asks.

“I told Agent Griffin I just couldn’t. I’m too worried about my mom,” she says.

“We understand that,” I tell her before Sam can chastise her any more. We are going to have to be delicate with her. This isn’t going to be an easy conversation. “Tell us again when the last time you spoke to your mother was.”

“Yesterday at the community fun day. We were both at the booth, and she got a text. She didn’t tell me who it was from or what it said or anything. She just said she needed to go take care of something and left. I called her after the event when she didn’t show back up, but she didn’t answer. I called her a few times and sent her a few text messages, but she didn’t answer any of them, so I came over here. Her car is here, but the house was unlocked, and she wasn’t here.”

Rose lets out a sob and covers her mouth with one hand.

“Rose, I need to ask you about something. I know this is probably the last thing you want to talk about, but I need you to be honest with me,” I say.

She nods. “All right.”

“What was going on between you and Marshall Belmont?” I ask.

Her eyes widen, and a horrified expression crosses her face. “Nothing. He was my mom’s boss. Mine too, technically. There was… nothing.”

“Rose, listen to me. This could be extremely important to your mother’s disappearance. I know that he gave her a necklace a couple of years ago. I also know that he bought another necklace very similar to that one a little less than a year ago. Your mother wore hers almost constantly until just recently when she stopped wearing it. Recently enough that she was still reaching up to try to grab on to it when she talked to people. I noticed you did the same thing when we met you at the firm the other day. You started your internship at the firm about a year ago, right?”

“Yes,” she says softly.

“Did he give you that other necklace?” I ask.

Rose hesitates, then her face collapses as she bursts into tears. “Yes. He was interested in me as soon as he met me, before I even started the internship. He was the one who recommended me for it. He just wanted me close. I thought there was something really special between us. My mother never told me that they were having an affair. I didn’t know until he gave me the necklace. I realized how similar it was to the one that he gave her and figured it out. He told me how special I was and how much he cared about me. But he didn’t stop seeing my mother. He told her that he got me the same necklace to honor her. She believed him.”

“And you didn’t tell her?” I ask.

“I didn’t want to hurt her. I still believed that Marshall and I were going to be together. He was struggling with his wife, and my mother was there for him at work, so I didn’t want to make life any harder for him. Then he told me that he had no intention of stopping seeing my mother. He wanted relationships with both of us and essentially told me that was just the way it was going to be. I broke things off with him, but then I found out I was pregnant.

“He immediately freaked out and tried to force me into having an abortion. I am completely against that and told him I wasn’t going to do it. I was so angry and hurt that I told him I was going to have the baby and bring him to court to make sure that he paid me child support and was responsible for his baby. He threatened me, and I didn’t believe him. So he pushed me down the stairs. He’d never been physical with me. Ever. But I… I lost my baby after that.”

“You never reported that,” Sam says.

She sniffs and draws in a breath, letting it out slowly. “I know. He threatened me with legal action and said that he would ruin me and my mother. I believed him. He was powerful. He could do anything he wanted.”

“Rose,” I say. “You were at the handstamping station at the event at the community center. Did you kill Marshall Belmont?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “No. But…” She lets out another sob. “But I think my mother might have.”

I’m stunned by her admission. “Why do you think that?”

“She promised me she was going to get even with him. I didn’t know what she meant, and when he died, I thought it was just karma, the universe getting him back for what he did to me and my baby. But then you started saying he was murdered, and I realized that Mom brought the stamp pads to the station, and one of them was already unwrapped. That was the one she put on the VIP table right before stamping him. I didn’t want to say anything because she’s my mother. But now…”

“Now?” I lead when she hesitates.

“Now I’m terrified something happened to her,” she says. “She wouldn’t just leave like this. She would tell me if she was going somewhere or if she had any kind of plan. Besides, her car is still here. I just know that she didn’t just walk away to escape this. Something happened.”

“We’re going to do everything we can to find your mother,” I tell her. “And if you think of anything else, call us. Day or night.”

“I will.”

“And we will keep you updated with anything we find out,” I tell her.

Sam and I leave Delta’s house and sit in the car for a few moments. He looks over at me.

“Do you think…”

I know exactly what’s on his mind. I don’t need him to finish the question.

“I think I need to call Eric.”

As Sam drives me home, I call Eric and fill him in on what’s happening. As I was expecting, he has made no progress in Feathered Nest trying to find out who Noelle is or who helped her kill Darian Percy. He’s not going to find out. When I left Feathered Nest, I took that mystery with me. If anyone is going to find out, it’s going to be me. And I’m afraid now she’s sending me another message.

Later that night, I get a call back from Eric.

“Emma, we just got a call from Richmond. Some homeless men found some mysterious luggage outside of the old bus station. There were human remains inside. And your name was on the luggage tag.”

It’s been a while since I’ve been in Richmond, but entering the city brings up the same memories it always does. This used to be a place of comfort for me, somewhere I was familiar with and that I could attach happy moments to. Now those thoughts were more often than not drowned out by the memory of the bombing at the old bus station years ago. The city hasn’t fully recovered from the blast that claimed many lives and left the internet full of videos of carnage and destruction.

The station reopened after the bombing, but then closed again. Now it is a shell, a haunting reminder of what happened right on that ground. I can still remember walking through the rubble, seeing the blood on the floor and rescue workers still searching for any sign of people who had been reported missing. The bomb had been planted by a man who was targeting me. He was testing my skills as an FBI agent and experimenting on me, trying to figure out what about me fascinated my uncle so much. I’ll never forget watching the video an influencer was posting about her first bus trip when the explosion happened. The recording captured the agonizing last moments of her life. But it was her, her videos, and the comments below them that eventually revealed the identity of the man responsible.

The next time I was called to Richmond, it was for the case with the books on the college campus. The one that popped to mind immediately when Noelle read the story to me. Now I’m being drawn back here dragged by a brutal murder that leaves no question as to whom it was a message for.

Eric meets me at the medical examiner’s office.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask as soon as I walk in.

“Last night a couple of homeless people were trying to seek shelter near the bus station. They noticed a large piece of luggage that was sitting near the door and thought there might be something inside they could use. When they opened it, they found human remains. They called the police, and that’s when they found the luggage tag with your name on it. ‘Special Agent Emma Griffin, FBI.’ The whole thing, right there on the tag, so there would be no question. They called the Richmond field office, who contacted me to let me know what was going on,” he says.

“Are you ready to see what they found?” I ask.

“If you are,” he says.

We go into the back with Gideon Curry, the ME for the area, and he leads us to a slab with a sheet pulled over it. I’ve seen this many times before, but this doesn’t look like the usual body. The shape beneath the sheet doesn’t resemble a human form. It is just an oddly shaped mound. I take out a handkerchief to hold over my nose and mouth just in case the smell of the remains is too much.

“They are pretty fresh,” Gideon says as he notices my gesture. “There isn’t much, but it doesn’t look like the victim has been dead for more than a day. Are you ready?”

We nod, and he pulls back the sheet, revealing a head, shoulders, and part of the upper torso. There are no arms, and the separating incision was made just above the breasts. I immediately know the woman.

“Delta Hurley,” I tell Eric. “She was reported missing yesterday by her daughter. She hadn’t been seen since the afternoon of the day before.”

“You’re sure?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I say. “I spoke to her just a couple of hours before she disappeared.” I notice something on the table beside the remains. I take a step closer and see a silver dish with something sitting in it. “What’s that?”

“During my examination of the remains, I located this down the victim’s throat,” Gideon says, picking up the dish and holding it out toward us so that we can get a better look at what’s inside.

It’s a chain with a pendant hanging from the end. I lean closer to read the engraved message on the pendant.

Think before you speak.

“What does that mean?” Eric says.

I shake my head. “I don’t know.” I look at Gideon. “Is this the only thing you found during your examination?”

“Yes. There are no signs of injury on this section of the body, and I can’t determine the cause of death. We have to hope the rest of the remains will be found so that we can move forward with the investigation,” he says.

“Yes, we do,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

Eric and I leave the office, and I take a deep breath.

“What is she trying to tell me?” I ask. “What does she want me to remember? These are two more cases that she’s reminding me of. Three more if you count Delta Hurley herself being a reminder of the Marshall Belmont case. But what do they have to do with each other? What do they have to do with anything?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Eric says. “None of it makes sense to me.”

“Were the homeless men interviewed?” I ask. “Did they see the person who left the bag?”

“They were interviewed, but they all said they didn’t see who left the luggage. It was there when they got to the bus station. But there was surveillance footage from the cameras in the parking lot.”

“I want to see it.”

Eric and I go to the police station and meet with Monique Tarrant, the detective handling the case.

“Agent Griffin,” she says, shaking my hand. “It’s good to see you again. Maybe not in these circumstances though.”

“Definitely not these circumstances, but it’s good to see you too,” I say. “This is Agent Eric Martinez. I worked with Detective Tarrant on the college library case.”

“Nice to meet you,” Eric says.

Detective Tarrant returns the sentiment and gestures for us to follow her. We go into the back of the station into a conference room where a computer is already set up.

“We were able to get the footage from the cameras in the parking lot of the bus station as well as the business across the street. We were able to see the person leave the luggage but didn’t get a clear image of their face.”

She plays the footage, and I see a figure in a hooded sweatshirt come into frame at the corner of the parking lot. They are rolling the luggage behind them and walking with direct purpose toward the doors of the bus station. They set the luggage up against the wall, turn, and walk back the way they came, head down, hands stuffed in their pockets.

The leaving of the luggage where they did was a very deliberate move. That doorway is a popular place for the homeless to gather when looking for somewhere relatively safe and out of the elements to sleep. Noelle knew that if they saw a high-quality piece of luggage sitting there, they would want to know what was inside.

“Is that her?” Eric asks, watching the figure walk out of view.

Detective Tarrant cues up the footage from across the street. It shows the same thing, not giving us much additional information.

“I don’t think so,” I tell him. “That person looks taller. I think that’s the second man who has been working with her. The one who actually attacked me in my house. Remember, she had no problem being seen on the camera, but she has been careful to protect them and keep them from being seen. And she hasn’t been caught on camera actually doing anything. The only footage of her is doing things like checking into the hotel and walking in and out of the cabin. I don’t think she would be so careful to cover her head with a hood and keep her face away from the cameras if it were her.”

“So where is she?” Eric asks. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I looked up the address from the guest card at Myrna’s, and it says it doesn’t exist. So either she made it up or it is supposed to mean something else.”

“I think we should talk to the business owners in the area. See if any of them remember seeing this guy coming in. They might have additional footage,” Eric says.

“That’s a good idea,” I say. “I’ll call Sam and let him know about Delta so that he can notify her daughter.” I look at the detective. “I appreciate you showing us this. And for contacting us.”

“Absolutely. The second I saw your name on that luggage tag, I knew something serious was going on. You needed to be involved,” she says.

“This is far bigger than just this one victim,” I tell her. “Every bit of help we can get is going to be valuable.”

“You know I’m here,” she says. “Anything I can do, let me know.”

We leave the police station, and I call Sam to give him the news about Delta Hurley. He’s shocked, and I can hear the fear in his voice. He doesn’t want me to be far from him while this is happening. But there’s nothing I can do.

For the next couple of hours, Eric and I visit the businesses around the bus station talking to the people working there and showing them still images captured from the footage to see if they remember the man coming in last night. None of them do, leaving us no further along than we were when we first saw the footage.

We’re stopped for lunch at one of my favorite spots in the city when I get a text message. I immediately recognize the number.

“It’s her,” I tell Eric. “It’s Noelle.”

“What does it say?” he asks.

“It’s a link to another audio file,” I tell him.

“Play it.”

Once upon a time, there lived a little girl named Goldilocks because she had ringlets the color of gold. She lived at the edge of a wood with her parents, who always told her never to play in the forest alone. One day she was playing outside and decided she wanted to explore the forest, even though she knew she wasn’t supposed to. As she was roaming through the trees, she discovered a small house. She was hungry and tired after all her playing and knocked on the door. Surely, the kind people inside would offer her something to eat and allow her to rest for a while before she went home. No one answered the door, and being the curious child that she was, Goldilocks let herself in…

“The Three Bears,” I say.

“It’s similar to Little Red Riding Hood,” Eric points out. “In both stories, the little girl lives near the woods and isn’t supposed to be in them when something goes wrong.”

“Xavier asked me about that,” I tell him. “Whether I made any mistakes or did anything wrong with the cases that she’s bringing up. But there has to be something else. This story means something, and it also means she’s going to act again. But what does it mean? She’s singing me lullabies and reading me bedtime stories. She signed the guest card with ‘Mother.’ I don’t understand.”

I think about Rose and the unimaginable pain she went through because of what Marshall did to her. But this can’t be her. These things were happening to me long before Rose and I ever met and before she lost her baby. But maybe Noelle experienced something similar. I dig through my mind, scouring for anything that might remind me of a woman who lost a child during one of my investigations. I have dealt with the heartbreaking murders of very young victims, but in every one of them, I found the killer and ensured they ended up in prison. I don’t know why any of those would inspire this.

“I need to call the others,” I tell Eric. “But not from here.”

We leave the restaurant and go to a pocket park in the middle of one of the neighborhoods not far from the bus station. It gives us more privacy so I can video call Sam and Xavier together. I message Xavier and tell him that Sam will be at his house soon, then call Sam and ask him to go to Xavier’s house and video call me when he gets there. It takes a few minutes to coordinate the call, but finally, the screen pops up with Sam and Xavier sitting beside each other.

“I got another audio file,” I tell them. “This time she was reading The Three Bears.”

Xavier draws in a breath. “It’s about me.”

“About you?” I ask. “What do you mean it’s about you?”

“Think about the story,” he says. “The porridge was too hot, then too cold, then just right. The chair was too big, then too small, then just right. The bed was too hard, then too soft, then just right. She was very particular. I am very particular.”

“Xavier, I don’t think…”

“Emma, listen. I like things the way I like things, and I often feel like I’m getting eaten alive by the world around me, just like Goldilocks was eaten by the bears. This is about me. Something is going to happen related to me,” he says.

“Stay with Sam. Don’t leave him,” I tell him. “You’ll be safe.”

“I don’t think it’s going to happen to me. It’s going to happen to someone else,” he says.

“Where’s Cupcake?” I ask. “Is she somewhere you can reach her?”

“No, not Cupcake. This isn’t about her. This is about me. We need to check on Nicole,” he says.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why Nicole?”

“She takes care of me,” Xavier says. “But it’s not about her. It’s about me.”

“Xavier, I don’t understand,” I tell him, trying to stay calm but starting to get frustrated.

I know he’s doing his best to communicate what he’s thinking, but this is one of those times when I need more.

“Do you remember when we went to that corn maze years ago?” he asks. “There was a haunted trail that was all themed around fairy tales? We talked about how the stories were written as a way to frighten children into behaving. This is about scaring me. It’s not about losing someone I care about. Not Cupcake. Not Dean. Not any of you. That’s not what they are trying to scare me with. They are scaring me with myself. This is about my fear of not being able to navigate the world and what can happen when I’m alone. She represents my ability to do more when Dean isn’t around because she helps me figure things out. She’s my backup. Us getting separated at the community event was just a taste. It was a reminder of what life was like when I was alone.”

My chest clenches, and my jaw aches with tension. “Get in touch with Nicole. Make sure she’s safe. Is she still in Sherwood?”

“Yes, she has an event tonight.”

“Good. Tell her to come to our house, and the two of you stay with her. I’ll keep you updated on what’s going on here,” I say.

I get off the call, and immediately Eric shakes his head.

“You need to go. You need to be there with them. I’ll call in Callan to continue with the investigation here.”

“Eric, the investigation is going to follow me.”

He takes a breath. “I know.”

I jump back in my car and head home as fast as I can. I’m driving when I get a callback from Sam.

“Nicole is missing,” he says. “We tried to call her and text her, but she didn’t answer. She insists on staying in a hotel rather than with any of us when she’s here for work, and I called them to get them to do a welfare check, and she isn’t in her room.”

“Keep trying to find her,” I tell him. “I’m on my way home. Keep Xavier close to you, keep him calm, and keep looking for Nicole. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I hang up with him and immediately call Noelle.

“What did you do with Nicole?” I demand as soon as she answers.

“You really should pay better attention, you know. Things happen in the blink of an eye.”

“She doesn’t even know you. She did nothing to you. Neither did Xavier. I told you to leave my family alone,” I say angrily.

“Now you think your words matter?” she asks. “You have to remember, Emma. You have to figure out what this is about. Just think, Emma. It’s all there. Just think. You’ll remember.”

She hangs up, and I let out an infuriated growl as I throw my phone into the passenger seat and keep driving. As I do, I’m vigilant of the people around me, waiting for the man who attacked me and who left the body parts in front of the bus station to appear. I watch carefully to make sure the cars around me stay at a distance, then I look at every driver to make sure that I don’t recognize them.

The drive feels far longer than the couple of hours that it is, and my muscles ache from being so tight with tension the entire time when I pull up in front of my house. Sam’s car is in the driveway, which means he brought Xavier here rather than staying at the other house. I’m glad for that, feeling more secure with them in our space than somewhere where I have already been attacked.

“I heard from her again,” I tell them when I go inside and lock the door. “She wouldn’t tell me anything about Nicole, but she also didn’t deny that she had anything to do with her being missing. Have you talked to Dean?”

“Yeah, we called him and filled him in on everything,” Sam says. “What did Noelle say?”

“She said something about me thinking that my words have power now and that I have to figure out what this is all about,” I say. “It’s more than remembering. This all means something, and I have to figure it out.”

“Fear,” Xavier says. “It’s all about fear.”

“You told us that Nicole being missing is about your fear,” I say.

“All of it is,” he says. “She is trying to manipulate us using our fears. Dean is terrified of his blackouts. He’s afraid that they will mean he isn’t able to do his job, but the worst thing he’s afraid of is that he will lose time and someone will be hurt because he wasn’t able to do anything about it. He still struggles with wondering what might have happened during the times when he can’t remember. He has nightmares about when he woke up beside the woman who was dead and he didn’t remember anything about what happened leading up to it.

“This woman created a situation that made it seem like Dean was having his blackouts and he was risking the life of a girl who had been abducted because of them. She wasn’t real. The parents weren’t real. He was talking to one of Noelle’s followers when he thought he was talking to the girl’s father.”

“And she used the disappearing texts and spoofed numbers to create the communications,” I say. “When he went to that house and called the police, that man incapacitated him and hid him in the house, then spoke to the police pretending he was the one who called so that Dean would think he had just lost time and didn’t remember talking to them.”

“Exactly,” Xavier says. “That was the fear she was manipulating him with.”

“With me, she waited until I was away from you and then had that man pretend to be me and text you so that he could get in the house and attack you,” Sam says. “My biggest fear is something happening to you and me not being able to do anything about it. She made it worse by making it seem like you were safe, that you were just opening the door for me, and then attacking you. If you hadn’t been able to get to your gun and I hadn’t been able to get back to the house fast enough, he might have killed you.”

“What’s your fear, Emma?” Xavier asks. “What did she do to you?”

“Not being able to protect people,” I say. “Doing everything I can to defend people, especially the people I love, and failing. That’s what this is about. She wants us to be afraid. She wanted me to remember some of my horrifying cases and be afraid of what was going to happen when I remembered each of them.”

I snatch my phone off the table and call Noelle again.

“It’s about fear,” I tell her. “You’re coming at us with our greatest fears.”

I wait through a long silence, hoping for something, anything that might tell me that this nightmare is over.

Instead, she lets out a sigh. “That’s not good enough, Emma. You still aren’t remembering. You have to remember.”

She hangs up, and I let out an exasperated cry.

“What?” Sam asks. “What did she say?”

“She said that’s not good enough. There’s something else that I have to remember. It’s about fear, but what else? How does she know me?”

“We should go through your old cases and try to figure out why this started. When did it happen?” Sam suggests.

I go over to the butcher paper on the wall and point out all the cases that have been brought up during her torment. I add the bombing of the Richmond bus station and the man on the train with the locket found down his throat. We stare at the notes, trying to make sense out of any of them, trying to find connections where there never have been any.

“The thing is, all of these cases didn’t happen before she started coming after me,” I point out. “It isn’t like she’s showing me the timeline of my career leading up to when we encountered each other, or what has happened since. It looks like she just chose cases. Jake would have been enough. That would have been plenty, but she has referenced all these other cases. I can’t pinpoint when she would have encountered me.”

“I need you to think about it again, Emma,” Xavier says.

“Think about what?” I ask.

“Doing something wrong. Is there a case where something went very wrong, or you did something you shouldn’t have done? Something that led to disaster?” he asks.

“I make mistakes,” I tell him. “I’ve made mistakes in a lot of my cases.”

I can’t help but think back on Jake and the blind trust I offered him. I was in such a vulnerable place, and he ate me right up. He knew exactly what he needed to do to get me into his web, and by the time I figured it out, it was almost too late.

“Not just mistakes,” he says. “Something worse than that.”

I think hard about each of the cases that Noelle has referenced and then the rest of my career, thinking about fear and mistakes. Suddenly, something comes into my head.

“Sam, did they run the fingerprints for the man who killed himself during his interrogation?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “Give me a second.” He makes a call and comes back moments later. “Peter Hoyer.”

“That name sounds familiar,” I say. “Hoyer,” I whisper the name to myself a couple of times. Something starts to click into place, and I look at the information from the guest card again. “This isn’t a real address. Not one that’s recognized.” A sharp breath stings in my lungs. “I remember.”

“What is it?” Sam asks.

“There was a raid,” I tell them. “Years ago. A doomsday cult that we thought was holding women and children hostage. They had a compound, and this was what they considered the address of their main temple building. We had a plan to get in, release the hostages, and arrest the leader. But it went wrong. People didn’t do what they were supposed to do, and it turned into a massive battle. The temple was burned. More than thirty people in the cult were killed. Three agents were killed. There were dozens of injuries.”

I touch my arm where I can almost still feel the bullet grazing across my skin.

“It was horrible. We didn’t do what we were supposed to do, and it turned into that. Hoyer was the name of one of the leaders. His son, Anthony, was killed during the fight.”

I grab my phone again and call Noelle, but she doesn’t answer. I leave a message. Now there’s nothing to do but try to find out what she did with Nicole and wait.

As hours tick by and the afternoon slips into evening and then into night, we do everything we can to track Nicole’s movements and try to find out what happened to her. Her car isn’t at the hotel, and it hasn’t been spotted anywhere, which tells me she was likely lured somewhere. She was supposed to have an event that night, and we had to call and let the people know what was going on. There was a big part of me that was hoping when we talked to them, we would find out she was with them or at least that she had called and it would simply be that she was so wrapped up in the event she had planned that she didn’t notice all the missed calls and messages from us.

But I know that’s not what happened.

Noelle has her. I don’t know where she is or what she’s done to her, but I know she has her.

I sleep in short fits that night, stretched out on the floor of the living room while Xavier tries to sleep on the couch and Sam battles his own insomnia on the recliner. He offered me the chair when we decided to stay in the living room together, but I wanted to be closer to Xavier. I know he’s having a hard time with this even if he’s trying not to show it. He’s gone quiet and introspective, which means he is crawling into himself and will have an even more difficult time expressing himself.

When I’ve finally given up sleeping, I go into the kitchen to make coffee and put together breakfast. The morning feels like a haze. I feel like I’m trying to chase someone through glue. I know I need to act, but I’m being held in place. I can’t fight my way through to find out what I’m supposed to do next.

The sound of my phone ringing in the early afternoon makes my heart pound in my chest. I snatch it up.

“Hello?”

I can hear something in the background, a familiar sound I know that I’ve heard many times before but I can’t quite place.

The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout.

Down came the rain and washed the spider out.

Up came the sun and dried up all the rain.

And the itsy-bitsy spider went up the spout again.

“I remember,” I tell her. “Didn’t you get my message? I remember.”

“Do you remember what you did?” she asks.

“Yes,” I tell her. “I remember the raid. I know that I probably hurt people. I know we didn’t do what we were supposed to do.”

“But do you remember what else you did?” she asks.

“What?” I ask, feeling almost desperate. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m waiting for you.”

“Where? Where are you?”

“You’ll remember.”

She hums a bit of the song as she hangs up. I struggle to think, trying to understand the clues she wants me to piece together. I think about the raid, the horrific few hours of standoff that resulted in so much death and destruction. Then I remember.

“The pool,” I say.

“What?” Sam asks.

“The pool. After the raid, six people were found dead in the compound pool. It looked like they had just been executed and shoved in. While I was talking to her, I heard a sound in the background that I couldn’t quite place. It was water. She’s at the community center pool. We need to get to her,” I say.

“Why is she at the pool?” Sam asks.

“She said she’s waiting for me. She’s going to do something,” I say. Fear locks in my chest. “I think she’s hidden an explosive somewhere in the community center. We need to go right now. Xavier, stay here.”

“No,” he says firmly. “I’m going. I can help look.”

I don’t have time to argue. We get ready as fast as we can, I strap my gun in place, and we leave.

The spring weather hasn’t heated up enough for the outdoor pool to be exposed, so the community center has it covered with a massive pressurized bubble that keeps the space inside warm enough for people to continue enjoying the pool throughout the cooler weather. Sam, Xavier, and I rush into the center and start telling people to leave. We go to the front desk and let them know that there is an emergency and they need to clear the center as quickly as possible. I’m not giving details. I don’t want to cause panic, but I do want the people inside gone.

“You keep searching the building and get everyone out,” I tell Sam. “I’m going to the pool.”

“You can’t go alone,” he says.

“Yes, I can. You need to get these people safe. I’ll see you when this is over. I love you.”

“I love you.”

I run for the pool door and go through into the warm, humid bubble. There are several families playing in the water and people doing laps.

“FBI,” I shout. “Everyone out. Please get out of the pool and leave. Don’t run, but get out quickly.”

“What’s going on?” a man nearby asks as he starts to climb out of the pool.

“You’ll get more details later. There isn’t time right now. Please get out of the building as quickly as possible.”

“Out of the building?” a woman asks, her voice lifting to a terrified high pitch.

“Yes. Please leave your belongings, and get out of the building. You’ll find out more later.”

I storm around the deck, searching for Noelle, but I only see the families in the water and the people in the lap lanes climbing out. They all leave, and I search around. The sound comes back to my mind.

“Up the water spout.”

The closest thing to a water spout I can find is the large, yellow tube slide spiraling down into the deep end. I run for the ladder, scrambling up it until I’m at the platform in front of the mouth of the slide. I look inside and see a wooden box. The intricate scrolling along the sides and delicately painted night sky scene on the top doesn’t look like a bomb. Confused, I pick up the box. My hands shake slightly as I open it. There’s a slight click, and then the box starts playing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

I hear the sound of a door and then a voice.

“I should be singing that song to my baby.”

I lean back and look around. Noelle walks across the pool deck and drapes herself across one of the chaise lounges, looking up at me without hesitation, without flinching. She wants me to see her face just like she did before.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Why aren’t you?”

“Do you remember what you said, Emma?” she asks.

“What I said?” I ask.

I think about the pendant down Delta Hurley’s throat.

Think before you speak.

“After. After my people died and you watched the temple burn. Do you remember what you said?”

I think about that day again and remember the press conference after. My breath catches. They asked me if I was afraid while everything was happening.

“I said I wasn’t afraid,” I tell her.

“That’s right,” she says. “You saw all that. You did all that. You destroyed our home, our temple, our entire community. You ripped families apart. You stole babies from their mothers. You stormed in, looked me in the eye, and tore apart everything I loved. And you said you weren’t afraid. Are you afraid now, Emma?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice movement. I look and see a man coming at me, a gun in his hand. I have nowhere to go except down the slide. Dropping the music box, I fling myself into the tube and scramble to pull my gun out of its holster as I head for the water.

My body splashes through the surface, and I instantly kick my legs, trying to be as elusive a target as I can. I pull my gun out as I kick toward the surface. I break through back into the air, my hands up, my gun already shooting. The man shoots back, but his bullets burrow into the slide and the cement of the pool.

Mine find his heart.

He drops to the deck, and I turn around to face Noelle. The gun is shaking in my field of vision, but I know I won’t miss. If I pull the trigger, it’s over.

And I want to, so badly.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask. “I didn’t plan that raid. I wasn’t the only agent there.”

“You aren’t the only one I’ve punished,” she says. “But I’ve kept this special just for you. Because you’re the one who took everything from me.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, working my way to the edge of the pool so I can climb out.

I get out of the water, my gun still trained on Noelle.

“You looked me in the eye, Emma. You watched as I was shot, and you did nothing to help me. Instead, you grabbed that man. You dragged him to safety, and you left me there to bleed. I was shot again lying there. I lost my baby.”

“I didn’t know,” I tell her. “I was doing what I was trained to do. I had to save a fellow agent when he was hurt.”

“How about a mother?” she asks. “I was trying everything I could to protect my baby, and you ruined all of it. But now…”—her voice goes softer—“now I’m doing exactly what all good mothers do. I protect my children. And I’m fighting away the monsters so my baby doesn’t have to be afraid. I’m scaring them all away so that my baby can rest.”

“That isn’t how it works,” I tell her. “I’m so sorry for what happened to your baby. I’m so sorry for what happened to everyone there that day. But this isn’t going to fix any of it.”

My gun is still pointed directly at her, and she cocks her head to the side.

“Emma, I really don’t appreciate you pointing that at me. I’m sitting here unarmed, and you have your gun on me while I’m just trying to talk.”

“I need to know what you did with Nicole,” I say.

“How am I supposed to feel safe enough to share with you when you have your gun pointed at me?” she asks.

“What if I put the gun down?” I ask. “I’ll put it right here at my feet, so it won’t be pointing at you anymore. Would that be all right? Then you can tell me where Nicole is, and we can figure this out.”

She shrugs with one shoulder, and I slowly lower my gun to the cement deck.

“Much better,” Noelle says, and she begins to motion a little closer.

She’s not a large woman, though she does have enough weight to her that she would be difficult to manhandle much. I want to think this will go somewhat peacefully, that this woman will realize she is dealing with an FBI agent who has already fought and bested a man she sent after me. But something in the back of my mind is tingling. I don’t trust her not to make a move. Not to take a swing or something.

She walks slowly, and I have to believe it’s purposeful. She’s stalling for time. Every lost second is another second on the timer of the bomb. I have to move this along and let whatever happens happen, but I also don’t want to give her what she wants and do something rash. I want her to tell me where it is so I can secure it, and then she can be arrested. But I might not have the choice.

“Now, where is Nicole?”

Noelle sighs, her smile never fading. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

All too late, I realize one hand has been hidden behind her back as she walked. In a split second, it comes out, swiping, and the shine of a knife’s blade flashes in my eyes. I’m too late to move completely out of the way, and a tear of pain rips through my thigh. I dive backward and fall to the ground, hard.

Before I can get up, Noelle is airborne, the knife raised as she dives on top of me. I reach for her wrist and catch it as her body weight crushes down on me, and I use the momentum of her fall to roll to one side. On our sides, I struggle for the knife as she gnashes and kicks at me. I don’t have much leverage to hit her being on my side, and my focus has to stay on the knife, so I try to absorb the shots as best I can. The kicks to my gushing thigh are the worst. The pain is nearly unbearable.

Finally, I am able to roll her to her back, and I press one knee into her stomach and slam her hand into the concrete of the pool’s surrounding floor. I throw my weight into an elbow that crushes across her jaw and she yelps in pain, her body going momentarily limp. I use the opportunity to pry the knife from her hand and toss it across the floor. It slides more than I think it would, catching patches of water as it goes, and slips into the pool itself.

A scream of rage builds up inside of me, and the adrenaline of knowing I have the upper hand threatens to take over. I could beat this woman to death right here, right now if I wanted to. But I need to know where Nicole is. And Noelle needs to face justice.

“Where is Nicole?” I scream.

Noelle’s eyes focus on mine, and that smile returns. Blood runs between her teeth, and her eyebrows pinch together as she struggles to punch at me. One hand reaches up and swipes at my eyes, and for a second, I have to close them and lean back. She uses that moment to shift her body, and I tumble a bit to the side, smashing my knee into the concrete.

Turning, she bangs on my bloody thigh with her fist, and I lose my grip on her. She wiggles out of my grasp and then leaps forward, rolling me to my back and jumping on. She’s swinging wildly, and while my training is kicking into high gear, my practice against people who are not experienced fighters has been lacking. I’m so used to someone who knows what to do in a close-quarters fight that I am surprised by her movements. They are chaotic and animalistic and go against what I would expect someone to do.

I resort to grasping her throat, wrapping both hands around her and snapping my hips to the side. The result is rolling us both toward the pool and the back of her head smashing against the concrete. For a moment now, I have her dazed and down, and I press my good knee into one shoulder and hold the other down with my hand as I sit on her chest. I’m applying pressure to her throat but only enough to keep her head still and to know I could choke her out.

“Where is the bomb?” I grumble. “I know you have one. It has to be on a timer. I have to get these other people out of here. Where is it, and how much time do I have?”

Again, she laughs, and the rage in my belly nearly makes me explode. I let out a roar and let her throat go long enough to smack her hard across the cheek. Applying the pressure again, only this time making sure I’m choking her, I lean my face close to hers.

“How much time do I have, Noelle?”

The laughter, which was cut short by my slap, returns again.

“You started it,” she gasps between laughter and choking. “The second his heart stopped, a five-minute timer began.”

I look over to the dead body of the man who was coming after me. The one I shot. It had to be at least three minutes ago.

Oh god.

“We have to go,” I shout. “You’re coming with me.”

“No,” Noelle says, and suddenly, I find myself stumbling after a heavy push.

Crashing into the water, the sound fills my ears, and I accidentally take a gulp that burns my throat and lungs.

As soon as I surface, coughing and spitting up water, Noelle is splashing wildly. I know what she’s doing. She’s going for the knife. I can’t let her get it again. And I can’t let her keep me here either.

I scramble for her and catch her around the waist as water sprays around us. I can see the knife on the bottom of the pool just below us, and I try to kick it away. She flails at me, but the water removes the power of her blows, and as I wrench her up and to the surface, her mad eyes turn to mine.

I don’t waste any more time. I slam my forehead into the bridge of her nose, and her head rocks backward and into the side of the pool.

Noelle’s body goes limp in my grip, and I find myself unable to hold her without going under. I have to let her go so I can stay afloat.

I let go of her, splashing my arms and kicking my one good leg to stay afloat. The pool is just deep enough that my toes scrape on the bottom as my chin dips below the surface. I try to bounce and gain control, noting that the water is turning pink with my blood mixing in the chlorine.

I have to get out of there before the bomb explodes, and I need to get Noelle out too. If I leave her, she will drown and be caught in the explosion. But it’s everything I can do to hop to a more shallow end and get my hands on the edge.

As Noelle floats unmoving in the water, I can feel the time passing. I know it won’t be long before the bomb attached to the man will explode. I might only have a matter of seconds. I am just able to grab Noelle’s arm and flip her over in the water, pulling her to me at the edge of the pool.

I struggle with her, walking to the steps that lead out, and tumble up them. Climbing out, I drag her out of the water and lay her out on the cement deck.

“Noelle?” I say, “Noelle, wake up.”

She doesn’t react. I wrap one of her arms around my neck and move to pick her up, but my body is exhausted. I could lift her, but I wouldn’t be able to carry her and run out of here, especially with the weakness in my leg now. I have to save myself. I run for the door as fast as I can, limping and stumbling, holding my hand over the bleeding, stinging wound, out of the pool area. Clawing for my phone, I’m thankful for the waterproof device as I wrench it from my pocket. The door to the outside is at the end of the hallway. My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I run for the door and throw myself outside.

Pushing as hard as I can away from the building, I call Sam.

“Get out of the building!” I shout when he answers. “Get out!”

I don’t have a chance to hear a response before the explosion. My feet leave the ground, and I fly through the air, landing hard on the ground. I know only an instant of pain before everything goes dark.

The familiar sound of hospital machines greets me before I open my eyes. I hear Sam’s voice, and when I open my eyes, I see him sitting by the side of the bed. He’s looking over his shoulder talking to Xavier, but when I squeeze his hand, he looks back to me.

“Hey,” he says. “There you are.”

“You got out,” I say, the relief almost tangible.

“We were already out when you called,” he tells me. “We decided to get everybody out of the building rather than look for an explosive device we wouldn’t be able to disarm.”

“That was a better idea,” I say. “Did everyone get out safely?”

“There were a few injuries,” he tells me. “A couple people were trying to go back inside to get things from the locker room when the explosion happened, but there weren’t any too serious. Except for…”

“Noelle and the man with her,” I say.

He nods. Despite everything she did, there’s still a twinge thinking about the woman I left lying on the pool deck. I couldn’t save her. Even though I tried, I couldn’t save her.

“Have we heard anything else about Nicole?” I ask.

“She’s safe,” Xavier says. “We told Dean what was going on, and he had the idea of going to check the house where he thought he saw the kidnapped girl in the window who turned out to be one of Noelle’s followers. He went there and found her in one of the upstairs rooms guarded by a man who has been brought into custody. He was checked very carefully while being processed in, and they found another cyanide pill sewn into his sleeve. He’s clearly one of Noelle’s followers.”

“That’s something we’re going to have to deal with,” Sam says. “We don’t know how many people out there were doing her bidding. It seems like she created an offshoot of the original religious group and put herself as the leader. There’s no telling how many followers she had and what they are capable of.”

“Not without her,” I say. “They won’t keep going without her. She was the Mother, she was everything to them. Without her to tell them what to do, they will either kill themselves or fade into obscurity.”

I can only hope it’s the latter. Regardless of what they did, I do feel some compassion for those people who fell under Noelle’s control. They had to have been extremely vulnerable for them to be manipulated to the extent that they were, and now at least two have lost their lives because of it.

“The bomb was attached to a man who came after me at the pool,” I tell them. “How extensive was the damage to the community center?”

“It was pretty bad,” Sam says. “Not a lot will be able to be salvaged. But the fundraisers this year were successful, and they’re already talking about rebuilding and improving.”

“She told me that she was coming after me because I was a monster. That she was defending the baby she lost during a raid that went bad. She said she’s already punished some others,” I say.

Sam nods. “Eric used the information we were able to give him to look into Noelle. He says they’re confident she was responsible for at least two other deaths as well as many attacks on other FBI agents who were involved in the raid.”

Hearing that makes my heart ache, but at the same time, I finally feel a sense of closure. I know my stalker is gone. I will no longer be tormented or have to worry about the people I love. But I also know this will never leave me.

I will remember.

Three weeks later, I finally have my entire found family together in the same place again. We’ve all gathered together to celebrate Nicole’s birthday with a visit to the zoo a couple of towns over from Sherwood. I thought it was an interesting choice, but she had been excited about it since she first started talking about it, so all of us piled into our cars and drove over for a day of roaming around looking at the animals and an afternoon picnic.

Dean and I are relaxing on one of the picnic blankets watching the rest of the crew bring popsicle sticks covered in honey and birdseed to budgies in a large enclosure when we notice Xavier covered by the birds and Cupcake giggling happily as she takes pictures of it. One of the birds flutters away, causing the rest of them to leave, and I hear Xavier laugh.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh like that,” I say.

“Not before she came along,” he says.

Xavier comes out of the enclosure and flops down onto the blanket beside me.

“I think I managed to touch every bird in there,” he says.

“Good job,” I say.

“Hey, X, can I ask you something?” Dean asks.

“You just did, but I will allow for something else too,” Xavier says.

“Emma was telling me about you figuring out that the situation with Noelle was about fear after Nicole went missing. Why would she take Nicole and not Cupcake?” he asks.

“Because it was about me, Dean,” he says, repeating the sentiment he expressed when we were first unraveling the situation. “It wasn’t about her. I care about Nicole. I’m even considering firing her as my pet sitter because we mostly just hang out anyway, and I don’t want to hold her back professionally. But the fear wasn’t about the person being taken from me. It was about me. If you had been in town, she probably would have taken you. But it wouldn’t have had the same impact if she did something to you while you were already away from me.”

“All right, I’m just going to do it,” Dean says.

I already know what’s coming, and I shoot a glare at him. “Dean!”

“Nope, I’m doing this. We’ve all been wondering about it, so now I’m going to find out. What’s going on with you and Cupcake?” he asks.

Xavier looks at him strangely. “What’s going on with us?”

“What’s happening between the two of you?” Dean rewords it.

“We’re friends,” Xavier answers simply. “Just like she’s friends with the rest of you.”

“No,” Dean says. “I don’t think she’s friends with us the way she’s friends with you. At least I don’t think she sees it that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever considered looking at Cupcake in a different way?” I ask.

“Like maybe Cupcake is your person?” Dean asks.

Xavier takes a breath and looks back over at the budgie enclosure, then at Dean and me again.

“I already had my person, Dean,” he answers.

“You what?” I ask.

The question bursts out of me without me intending to ask it. I never want to pry into Xavier. He tells what he wants to tell, when he wants to tell it, and shields the rest from everyone. He has his reasons, and we need to respect them. But this came as such a shock I couldn’t help the reaction.

“I already had my person. Lila. We grew up together. She was my dearest friend, and as we got older, I knew she was more than that. We were for each other. But she was very sick, and she had to leave when we were teenagers. We meant everything to each other, but she only had a short time here, and I had much more,” he says.

The emotion in the words brings tears to my eyes.

“X, you weren’t meant to be alone, and caring for someone else doesn’t change what you had with Lila. It doesn’t hurt her. She would want you to have someone and be happy,” Dean says. “And maybe she had a hand in bringing Cupcake into your life. Something to think about.”

Cupcake comes out of the budgie enclosure and runs over to us. Reaching her hands to Xavier, she smiles brightly at him.

“Come ride the SkyRide with me, Xavi,” she says.

Xavier takes her hands, and she pulls him to his feet. Holding hands, they go over to the loading station not far from the picnic area and climb into a gondola. Cupcake squeals as the ride jolts a little as it picks lifts above the ground. Cupcake nuzzles up against him, and I watch as Xavier gently cups a hand around her cheek and turns her face toward him. He searches her eyes. Then he kisses her.

And that moment is one I will want to remember.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for choosing to read The Girl Who Remembers, the final installment in this season of the Emma Griffin® FBI Mystery. Your endless support of these books has made writing them an incredibly joyous journey! I look forward to writing each one with utter delight because it’s another story that I get to share with you. As we close this chapter, I hope you will join me in next season of mysteries that await Emma. The mysteries ahead are some of the most gripping yet, and I know you won't want to miss a single page!

I owe Emma and the rest of this beloved cast of characters to your unyielding support and enthusiasm. So, if you could please take a quick moment to leave a review for this book, I would appreciate it enormously. Your reviews allow me to keep living my dream as an indie author and bringing you the thrilling mystery stories that you love.

While you eagerly await the next Emma Griffin book, I invite you to catch up with Emma’s cousin in the Dean Steele Mystery Thriller series. The readers are saying that this is the best Dean book! The Last Promise, follows Dean as he unravels the most significant mystery of his life. When Dean received a call from his high school sweetheart, Brielle, he never imagined it would lead him to the discovery of her lifeless body. His relentless pursuit for her killer has lead him down a path of secrets that will change everything he thought he knew. Does he have a son he never knew about?

I promise to keep bringing you heart-pounding, mind-bending mysteries that will keep you at the edge of your seat, and coming back for more!

Yours,

A.J. Rivers

P.S. If for some reason you didn’t like this book or found typos or other errors, please let me know personally. I do my best to read and respond to every email at mailto:aj@riversthrillers.com

P.P.S. If you would like to stay up-to-date with me and my latest releases I invite you to visit my Linktree page at www.linktr.ee/a.j.rivers to subscribe to my newsletter and receive a free copy of my book, Edge of the Woods. You can also follow me on my social media accounts for behind-the-scenes glimpses and sneak peeks of my upcoming projects, or even sign up for text notifications. I can't wait to connect with you!

Emma Griffin FBI Mysteries

Season One

Book One—The Girl in Cabin 13*

Book Two—The Girl Who Vanished*

Book Three—The Girl in the Manor*

Book Four—The Girl Next Door*

Book Five—The Girl and the Deadly Express*

Book Six—The Girl and the Hunt*

Book Seven—The Girl and the Deadly End*

Season Two

Book Eight—The Girl in Dangerous Waters*

Book Nine—The Girl and Secret Society*

Book Ten—The Girl and the Field of Bones*

Book Eleven—The Girl and the Black Christmas*

Book Twelve—The Girl and the Cursed Lake*

Book Thirteen—The Girl and The Unlucky 13*

Book Fourteen—The Girl and the Dragon’s Island*

Season Three

Book Fifteen—The Girl in the Woods*

Book Sixteen —The Girl and the Midnight Murder*

Book Seventeen— The Girl and the Silent Night*

Book Eighteen — The Girl and the Last Sleepover*

Book Nineteen — The Girl and the 7 Deadly Sins*

Book Twenty — The Girl in Apartment 9*

Book Twenty-One — The Girl and the Twisted End*

Emma Griffin FBI Mysteries Retro - Limited Series

(Read as standalone or before Emma Griffin book 22)

Book One—The Girl in the Mist*

Book Two—The Girl on Hallow's Eve*

Book Three—The Girl and the Christmas Past*

Book Four— The Girl and the Winter Bones*

Book Five—The Girl on the Retreat*

Season Four

Book Twenty-Two — The Girl and the Deadly Secrets*

Book Twenty-Three — The Girl on the Road*

Book Twenty-Four — The Girl and the Unexpected Gifts*

Book Twenty-Five — The Girl and the Secret Passage*

Book Twenty-Six — The Girl and the Bride

Book Twenty-Seven — The Girl in Her Cabin

Book Twenty-Eight — The Girl Who Remembers

Ava James FBI Mysteries

Book One—The Woman at the Masked Gala*

Book Two—Ava James and the Forgotten Bones*

Book Three —The Couple Next Door*

Book Four — The Cabin on Willow Lake*

Book Five — The Lake House*

Book Six — The Ghost of Christmas*

Book Seven — The Rescue*

Book Eight — Murder in the Moonlight*

Book Nine — Behind the Mask*

Book Ten — The Invitation*

Book Eleven — The Girl in Hawaii*

Book Twelve — The Woman in the Window

Dean Steele FBI Mysteries

Book One—The Woman in the Woods*

Book Two —The Last Survivors

Book Three — No Escape

Book Four — The Garden of Secrets

Book Five — The Killer Among Us

Book Six — The Convict

Book Seven — The Last Promise

Bella Walker FBI Mystery Series

Book One—The Girl in Paradise*

Book Two—Murder on the Sea*

Book Three— The Last Aloha*

Other Standalone Novels

Gone Woman

* Also available in audio