by A J Rivers
“Clearly, you don't know Emma Griffin very well,” Sam comments, walking past with another plastic tray filled with bits of evidence.
He has spent the last month traveling back and forth between Harlan and Sherwood so he can keep up with his responsibilities as Sheriff while also continuing to help with the investigation here. It feels like most of the time we've been able to spend together has been out in this cornfield or running around from place to place in town trying to get somebody to listen to us.
But he's here. That means everything.
“We have to be able to give them a good reason,” Noah protests. “There has to be probable cause that would give us a reasonable need to go in there. Just saying that you know what's going on and you saw suspicious things while you were illegally accessing the building isn't enough. Anything you saw is inadmissible as evidence. We’d be wasting our time and effort going that route without clear-cut evidence.”
“What about everything that Xavier has told us?” I ask. “He's being held for a crime he didn't commit, and the people that are supposed to be watching over him used his heart condition to manipulate his state of mind so that he would be less trustworthy. But he has still been able to give us specific and reliable bits of information that have proven true every single time.”
“If you can understand them,” Noah points out.
“I can!” I say. “At least, most of the time. And now that he's being more closely monitored and hasn't been getting the huge doses of sugar to trigger his anxiety and panic attacks, he's much easier to understand. It's because of him that we even knew what the temple was, or to look for the black spheres. What he's given us and what I found should be more than enough to grant him a new trial. Finding Lakyn Monroe alone should be enough.”
“Her death didn't have anything to do with Andrew Eagan's murder. Xavier has been in prison for that murder for years. The two don't look connected,” he says.
“How can you possibly say that?” I ask, following the detectives as we head over to a large yellow plastic container of water set at the edge of the section of cornfield being excavated today. “She was working with him on that very case; she had gone into the temple and taken pictures of all of the evidence and was investigating it for him then she was murdered.”
“I know what it looks like. And I know what happened. But until we're able to get a warrant, we can't go into that temple. We can't collect any evidence. The pictures that she took, the pictures that you took, your eyewitness testimony. None of it matters if we can’t nail these guys, Emma. This has to be done the right way. I'm sorry.”
Noah walks around me and goes back to the section of the grid that has been formed over the cornfield. It's the only way to organize a search of this magnitude. The sprawling space has been cut into smaller pieces and strategically placed posts hold ropes that bisect each of the rows, creating neat little squares. Each of them is thoroughly searched for any sign of a body’s having been there, or for the remnants of one that have found its way to that spot.
Technicians collect dirt samples to analyze for body fluids that have sunk down into the dirt. Bits of bone, fabric, teeth, broken electronics, jewelry. They are all carefully sifted out of the dirt and collected into plastic trays that are photographed and recorded. It's all that's left of those lives.
A car door slams a few yards away. My jaw sets, and my hands briefly curl into fists at my sides when I see him. Long, determined strides bring me across the ground until I am steps away from Creagan.
“Why haven't you interceded?” It’s all I can do to keep from shouting at him.
“Good morning, Griffin,” he starts. “Nice to see the sun out after so many days of rain, isn't it?”
“Those days of rain have made mud, that is now covering the people digging bodies out of the cornfield. Enough bones to make at least fourteen people. And I know who did it. I can't do shit about it because I can't get back into that temple. Nobody will get me a warrant. So why haven't you done anything about it?” I demand.
“We have to tread lightly on this one, Griffin," Creagan says.
"Don't give me that," I snap. "The Bureau got involved in this because I fed you the information about Lakyn Monroe. You wanted in on it, and now I am. So, do something about it. You can supersede the authority of the local judges and get us into that temple."
"And if I storm in there demanding to be given full access without justifiable cause, it's just going to make drama. It could potentially taint the investigation. We have to be careful. You need to stay calm and steady on this one. We'll figure it out. But we have to be patient."
Chapter Three
Twenty years after death …
The weight of the dirt lifted off her bit by bit.
After so long, it had compressed down from the first loose shovelfuls that landed over her into a thick layer encasing her. The raindrops that fell as the ground closed around her had long since sunken down through her and into the earth below.
They had become part of the groundwater. They brought a little of her into the streams. They evaporated back up in the summer sun and rained back down. Countless times. Over and over. Raindrops fell and seeped down through the dirt, through the cotton fabric, through her. They washed into the river, flowed through the streets. Became drinking water, filled bathtubs, streamed through sprinklers that cast rainbows, water dancing on children's skin.
Bit by bit, the weight lifted.
There were voices around her now. Cries of shock and surprise. Questions. There would be so many more of those. Those first bits of sunlight in twenty years touching the sheet that only told the very beginning of all her secrets.
It took several sets of hands to lift her out. The sheet sagged with the weight of water and mud and what was left of her inside. They tried to do it with dignity. They tried to offer her some respect as they brought her up out of the darkness and into an afternoon so much warmer than the last one she ever felt.
Placing the sheet down carefully on a blue tarp spread across the ground, they took pictures and spoke in hushed tones. It seemed as if they were buying time. For now, it was just a wet, deteriorating sheet. Once white and crisp, now dingy and fraying. It was just a sheet. Even if they could feel the drag of what was inside pulling it down. Even if they could see the discoloration on the fabric where the years and the raindrops melted her away.
Finally, there were no more pictures to take. They couldn't hesitate any longer. Gloved hands carefully unwrapped the layers to reveal her bones.
Fabric still clung to them. Bits of a long jacket and outdated dress. A necklace hung from her spine and tangled with her collarbone.
More pictures, measurements, and notes. Carefully moving each bone would reveal a ring long ago released from a finger as it lost its flesh.
“Any ID?” one of the voices asked.
“No,” another responded. “No ID, no wallet, no phone. Nothing.”
“So, who is she?”
Chapter Four
“Hey, Emma,” the nurse at the station waves as I walk out of the elevator.
“Hey, Gloria,” I smile. “How are you doing this afternoon?”
“Good,” she says. “Fall allergies are starting to get to me.”
“Well,” I say, “it's a good thing you work in a hospital. Just raid the drug cabinet.”
She laughs. “I think that's one of those perks, isn't it? It's listed in my benefits package as a bonus.”
“Exactly,” I say. “How is she today? Is she awake?”
“She's up,” Gloria tells me. “She seems to be recovering really well. The infection is gone, and the doctors say they can see the light at the end of the tunnel.”
“That's great,” I tell her. “I'm going to go back and see her, okay?”
“Sure. You know where to find her,” she says.
I flash the round, redheaded nurse a grin and head down the hallway to the last room on the left. It's the one with the best window on the floor.
I made sure of that. Rapping my knuckles on the partially open door, it edges the rest of the way open, and I step inside.
“Hello?” I whisper in.
“Emma?” Millie answers, pushing herself to sit up a little higher on the reclined back of the hospital bed.
“Hey,” I say. “I'm not interrupting anything, am I? You're not training for a marathon or getting ready for a grand ball, or anything, right?”
She laughs. “Nope, just finished with my thirty-mile run for the day. My glam team is supposed to show up in a couple of hours, but the red carpet can wait for a visit from you.”
I settle into the chair beside her bed. It's hard to see her like this so long after the shooting. But when the bullet tore through her chest, it caused extensive damage, and she's had to undergo several surgeries over the last month-and-a-half. There have been a few times when the doctors weren't sure they would be able to keep her here.
But she has turned the corner and is looking stronger. There's more color in her cheeks, and she seems to have more energy.
“How are you feeling today? Gloria tells me things are going pretty well,” I say.
Millie nods. “The last surgery was a success. I've gotten rid of the infection, and the doctors think I'm really on my way to recovery now. I might actually be able to get out of here in a couple of weeks.”
“That would be great,” I tell her. “I'm sure you're looking forward to not being in a hospital bed.”
“Definitely,” she says. “Not necessarily looking forward to going back to my house and seeing what that aftermath is like. A couple of months with no one inside probably isn't too kind to things like the food left in my refrigerator.”
“Don't worry about that,” I say. “I'll make sure it's ready for you before you go home.”
“You don't have to do that, Emma,” she protests. “You've already done so much for me.”
"Again, don't worry about it. You can't go through this alone. So, I'm here to be your not-alone person," I say.
"And I really appreciate it. I just wish I could help you."
I shift around in my seat a little. Moving a little closer, I put one hand on the bed beside her.
“I think you can, Millie,” I say. “I know you said you don't remember anything you said to me…”
“I don't,” she says. “I'm sorry. Everything the day I got shot is a blur. All I remember is getting up in the morning and going into work. The next thing I knew, I was waking up here after my first surgery. I don't remember anything else.”
“Nothing? You don't remember anything?”
“I'm sorry, Emma. I wish I did,” she says. “I keep thinking about it and trying to remember, but I just can't.”
“We were in the parking lot,” I tell her, going into the same story I've gone over with her probably a hundred times since she's been in the hospital. “I was walking across the parking lot to my car, and you came out of the bank. You said you needed to talk to me about something. You needed to tell me something about your brother. You looked as if it was really serious. Then the car came up, and you were shot. Before you passed out, you told me to stop your brother. That I should look at the alibis.”
She shakes her head. “None of that sounds familiar. I don't remember any of it.”
“But can you remember what you wanted to tell me? Or think of something you might want to say? Because I did exactly what you said. I looked at all the alibis, and that's what helped me figure out what happened. I know about The Order, Millie. I know about the temple and the wheel. I know about the elder members sponsoring new members with an initiation that involves… murder. But I think you know more,” I say.
Some of the color that gave me so much hope when I first came into the room disappears. Her eyes are a little wider, a sheer veil of tears over them. She shakes her head. I'm about to ask another question when the door opens again, and someone comes into the room.
I turn to look over my shoulder and feel my jaw tighten and my eyes narrow.
It’s Lydia Walsh. She nearly stomped all over our investigation, but that’s not the reason I’m mad at her. I’m mad at her because she randomly showed up at my ex-boyfriend Greg’s hospital bed, discharged him somehow, and less than an hour later, he wound up dead. And she still has the nerve to proclaim her innocence.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I'm here to see Millie,” she protests. The liar.
“You have no reason to be here,” I say. “You need to go.”
“I don't think that's your decision, Agent Griffin,” Lydia shoots back. “If you can come here to visit her, then I can, too.”
“I know exactly why you're here,” I snap. “And you need to stop.”
“What's going on in here?” Gloria asks, coming into the room and looking between Lydia and me with her eyebrows knitted together and a concerned expression in her eyes. “We don't need shouting on this floor. People are trying to recuperate.”
“I'm sorry,” I say. “Lydia, can you step outside and speak with me for a minute?”
“Sure,” Lydia replies coolly.
I look over at Millie. “I'll be right back.”
Millie nods, swallowing hard. Gloria fills her a glass of ice water and brings it over to her with a straw, standing by her side while she sips it. I feel guilty for upsetting her, but I can't just ignore what happened the day she was shot. As she walked across that parking lot, she told me she needed to talk to me about her brother. Only seconds later, the bullets tore through her, and she collapsed into my arms. While I tried to stop the bleeding, she told me to stop him.
She knows something. It's in there. I just have to help her find it. And get her to tell me.
"What. Are. You. Doing. Here?" I ask Lydia in a low, hissing whisper when we get out into the hallway.
"I'm visiting Millie and making sure she's alright," Lydia responds.
Her eyes flicker back in the direction of the door, and the muscles through my body tense up. In my mind, I can see her checking on Greg the same way. I still don't know exactly what happened the day he was discharged from the hospital and left with her. All I know is that he was supposed to wait there for me or another member of the team, and instead, he walked out with her. The surveillance footage showing him walking across the parking lot with her is the last image of him alive I ever saw.
He was dead mere hours later.
"You don't even know her," I say. "You never even spoke to her before she was shot."
Lydia seems to think about this for a few seconds, then her shoulders drop, and she lets out a sigh.
"I just want to help, Emma," she says.
"Help with what?"
"The investigation."
"You are not a part of this investigation, Lydia. You need to stop interfering," I say.
"I'm not interfering. I want to be a part of it. I think I could be a valuable asset. I do know a few things about digging into cold cases," she says. "And I've already found out a few interesting things. Did you know Lilith Duprey, the woman who lives behind the cornfield where the bodies were found, hasn't always lived in Harlan?"
"Yes, I did know that. I found that out when we found out that she owns the house in Salt Valley, where Mason Goldman has been living."
"Right. But she also hasn't always lived in Salt Valley. As a matter of fact, she has never lived this far away from a city. She wasn't exactly a nature girl in her younger days."
I blink, almost incredulous at what this woman is trying to tell me.
"So?" I ask.
"So, why would a woman who has always lived in cities and is used to the finer things in life suddenly decide to settle in the middle of nowhere?"
I take a step closer to her. "Lydia, stop. This is serious. It's not a game. You need to back off and let the real investigators handle this before you hurt the investigation."
"Fine," she says, holding up her hands in a show of surrender and stepping back from me. "I just thought I could help. I'l
l leave."
"Thank you," I say, turning back toward Millie's room.
"Oh," she adds, making me turn around. "I meant to ask you. What was the key for?"
"What key?" I ask.
"The key Greg gave me to give to you."
Chapter Five
Those words stop me still. It takes a second before I'm able to really process them and respond.
"Which key? Why did Greg give to you to give to me? I don't know what you're talking about. You never gave me a key," I say.
"That's because I don't have it anymore," Lydia says.
"What do you mean you don't have it anymore?" I ask, stepping toward her again. "Where is it?"
"I gave it to the police when I talked to them about Greg's death," she says.
"Why the hell would you give it to the police?" I demand, my voice creeping higher again.
Lydia recoils slightly from my reaction. "He gave it to me the day he left the hospital. I told you we had made plans to get together, but he said there was something he had to do first. He gave me the key and said just in case, to make sure you got it. I didn't know how to get it to you, then when the police questioned me, I told them about it. They asked me for it, and I gave it to them. I figured they would make sure you got it because you were working with them."
"I wasn't working with them," I say angrily. "I was working with the FBI. The local police department didn't do shit about his murder and still haven't. How could you just let him hand you a key like that and walk away? He said he wanted you to give it to me 'just in case'. That means he thought something was going to happen."
Lydia shrugs and takes a slight step back from me. "I thought he might be going to do something that had to do with his disappearance or an investigation, but I didn't ask. I figured if he wanted me to know, he would tell me."
"And when he was found dead that very night? You didn't bother to get in touch with anybody? You didn't call the police or try to find a way to contact me? You knew something must have happened, and you didn't do anything about it."
