by A J Rivers
I'm raging at her at this point. Gloria's image of peaceful convalescence be damned. I'm so pissed I can't see straight, and I need Lydia out of my sight.
"I'm sorry. I didn't want to interfere," she stammers.
"Then you need to take your own advice now. Get out,” I growl.
“Emma, I—”
“Get out!” I repeat angrily. “You need to stay away from me and everybody else involved in any of these investigations. You've already caused enough damage.”
She turns and rushes away. Gloria pokes her head out of the door and gives me a disapproving look.
“Emma,” she says. “Please.”
“Gloria, I'm sorry, but I have to go. Tell Millie I'll come back and see her soon and to let me know if she needs anything.”
She nods, and I jog to the elevator, in the opposite direction of where Lydia had made her way to the stairs. I'm already on the phone with Creagan by the time I cross the parking lot to my car.
“Did the DC police give you a key?” I rush out the instant he answers.
“Hell—a key?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”
“Back in DC. Did the police give you a key? I just talked to Lydia Walsh. She told me that Greg gave her a key to give to me the day he died. She gave it over to the police when they interviewed her. I know you knew they interviewed her, so do you have the key?”
I have no more patience left for this man. But his position in the Bureau means that as long as I am just an agent, I answer to him. He provides access to resources and privileges I don’t have at my level. Which means I just have to deal with his bull and work around him as much as I can.
“Griffin, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't heard anything about a key,” Creagan says. “Where are you?”
“I'm just leaving the Harlan hospital. I'm going back to my hotel,” I say. “I'll talk to you later. Call me if you find out anything new.”
Before he can respond, I hang up and get in my car. Taking a quick glance into the backseat, I toss my phone and purse onto the passenger seat and pull out of the lot, headed to my hotel room. Once inside, I call the detective who was in charge of what amounted to the Police Department investigation into Greg's disappearance and murder nearly three years ago.
“A key?” he asks. “I don't think I remember a key.”
“Think really hard,” I tell him, struggling to control the tone of my voice.
“Actually, now that you mention it, I do remember that blonde woman coming in to talk to us. You had seemed so interested in finding out why she was with Mr. Bailey, but she didn't really have any information to share that seemed to mean anything,” the detective says.
“I'm well aware that you dropped the ball on the chain of information,” I say. “That's not why I'm calling you. I talked to Lydia Walsh today, and she told me that she gave you a key when she went in for her interview. It was intended for me.”
“That's right,” he says. “She said he gave it to her before they parted ways that day. That it was supposed to go to you just in case.”
“So why didn't it?” I asked.
“She gave it over to us,” he says. “I guess it got put aside somewhere, and nobody thought to give it to you. I'm sorry about that.”
I cringe and wish I could remember one of those mantras my therapist taught me back when I was ordered to attend regular sessions with her. She told me they would calm me down and help me maintain control. This would be a fantastic time for me to put that to the test.
“What happened to it?” I ask, my hand clamped so tight over my temples I feel like I’m about to pop.
“If it wasn't in the evidence passed over to the Bureau, then one of the officers must have it. I'll have to speak with Agent Creagan about it. That could still be considered evidence,” he says.
“If you never processed it into evidence and didn't even consider an important, then Creagan doesn’t have it. I just spoke to him, and he said he’s never heard anything about it. It wasn't inventoried with the other evidence for the case and has never been mentioned. That key belongs to me. It was Greg's, and not only did Greg intend it for me, but he also left his entire estate to me. What he owned, I own now,” I say.
“I'll talk to all the officers and see if we can track it down,” he says.
“I suggest you look carefully,” I say and end the call.
Dragging my duffle bag out of the tiny compartment considered a closet in this room, I start pulling clothes from the dresser drawers as I call Creagan again.
“Do you need me for anything in particular? Is there something specific for this investigation that I need to be doing today or the next few days?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Why?”
“Then I need to take a couple of days away. I'm going back to DC to find that key and see if I can figure out what it means. I'll be accessible, so you can call me if you need anything or if anything in the investigation changes,” I say.
“All right, I'll see you when you get back,” he says.
I hang up without even knowing if I said goodbye or not. My next call is to Sam.
“You're going back to Sherwood tomorrow, right?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, sounding confused. “Is everything okay?”
“I'm going with you. But can we leave today?” I asked.
“Emma, what's going on?”
“I need to go back to DC. I have to go by headquarters and the police department, then I need to go back to Sherwood for a couple of days. A potentially important piece of evidence from Greg's case slipped through the cracks, and I have to find it. Especially now that I know Lydia was in touch with him because of something having to do with the Dragon. I need to figure this out,” I say.
“Let me finish up what I'm doing right now, then I'll come back to the hotel and get packed. We can leave as soon as you want to,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
He hangs up, and I toss my phone to the bed so I can finish packing up. By the time he gets to the hotel an hour and a half later, I've already stacked clothes for him on the bed and have packed up his toiletries. Which he promptly unpacks so he can take a shower to wash the cornfield off him. Fortunately, he is the quintessential male when it comes to showering and is out, dressed, and ready to go within fifteen minutes.
We hit the road for the few hours it will take to get to the DC area. I call my father on the way. After the long day and a long drive, we'll want to stay the night with him before heading to Sherwood tomorrow.
Chapter Six
It was good to see my father and spend a little time with him. Even if it was just one night. It's been a while since we had a visit of any real length. I've been so wrapped up in everything going on in Harlan, and he has been doing his own investigations, sending us in opposite directions a good bit of the time.
But in a lot of ways, that feels normal. Growing up, I was never sure if I was going to wake up in the morning to both of my parents still in the house like they were when I went to bed. For a while there, I couldn't even be sure I was going to wake up in the same house where I went to bed.
They were always traveling, always going off to work on something I didn't know about. It wasn't until I was older that I understood how important my father's work was. His role in the CIA influenced him to ensure I trained in martial arts from the time I was old enough to kick and not fall over. It kept his eyes sharp, his awareness precise, and his family always moving.
It wasn't until I was an adult that I actually understood why my mother would sometimes leave. As far as I knew when I was young, she didn't work like my father did. She stayed at home with me. Occasionally, she left and would be gone for a few days, but I never questioned it. They never let me feel fear or worry, so I also didn't feel the need to know where she was.
Not until she died. It took another seventeen years for me to uncover the truth. To find out what an amazin
g woman she actually was, and about all the lives she saved without my ever even knowing it. By then, I had been without my father for a decade. Now that he's back in my life, it's wonderful just to have the option to go see him when I can.
It felt good to settle into my old room, in the house I lived in by myself from the time I was eighteen until he came back. We talked over breakfast, but I didn't venture too far into everything we had been investigating. I didn't want my entire relationship with him to be about work.
Now that I'm back in Sherwood, I kind of wish I had taken that opportunity to see if he had any insights or ideas. I'm sitting in the living room of what was my grandparents’ house, but that is now my home. The key I picked up from the police department, after we found it in a little-used corner of the evidence room, flips over and over in my palm as I try to figure out why Greg would have given it to Lydia to give to me.
He didn't tell her what it was for, or why I needed to have it.
It doesn't look like a house key. I wouldn't need it anyway. I've already emptied out Greg’s apartment and sold it. All the personal papers his lawyer gave me after the will was probated are spread out on the table in front of me. I’ve dug through them several times, looking to see if I might have missed a deed or a description of another piece of property.
There is nothing. I don't have any notes, any mysterious letters. No treasure map. There's nothing that gives me any indication of what this key belongs to.
For a brief moment, I wonder if it could have anything to do with the bombing at the bus station when he was still in Jonah's grasp. At the time, nobody knew where he was or what had happened to him. He had been missing for over a year, only to resurface on surveillance footage walking through a bus station in Richmond. He was seen going to the back of the station near the lockers, then walking over to the information desk, then leaving seconds before the entire building exploded.
But the key doesn't look like it fits a locker. And it wouldn't make sense for that to be why he had it, either. We’d already talked about the bombing, and he’d had every opportunity to give me that key himself. I knew he was there for Jonah, which would mean whatever was put into that locker was not intended for me.
I stand up and make my way up to the attic. One corner has been devoted to Greg's belongings that I haven't figured out what to do with yet. Most of his things have already been sold or donated, but the remaining handful that I haven’t decided about yet are relegated to the attic. Every now and then, I go up and look at them, waiting for some sign as to what I'm supposed to do with them.
They all have different reasons for being there. For a trunk, four metal boxes, a jewelry box, and a wooden chest, it's all the same reason. They're locked, and I haven't been able to get inside. A couple of them feel very light, as if they may just be empty. But I don't feel comfortable getting rid of them until I know what's inside.
With this key, I might get the answer.
I kneel down in front of the pile of his belongings and reach for the first metal box. It's military green with a silver handle. Not very heavy. It makes no noise when I tilt it back and forth. Resting the box in my lap, I try to put the key into it. It doesn't fit. I flip it over and come at it at different angles, but I can't make it work. Setting that box aside, I move on to the next.
After all of the metal boxes prove to be dead ends, I try the jewelry box. Rocking it back and forth creates a small, dull rattle inside. My heart sinks a little when I think about what might be making that sound. I already knew he was planning to ask me to marry him. A couple of times, he had even given hints that he had chosen the ring.
By the sound, it seems he definitely had.
I've just finished testing the wooden chest when I hear Sam calling from downstairs. His footsteps rattle the stairs coming up into the attic.
“Any of them?” he asks.
I shake my head and roll back from my knees to stand up.
“I tested everything I could find up here with a lock. The key doesn't fit in any of them. Which actually brings to mind another question as to where the keys are for all of these boxes? For a man so meticulously organized as Greg, he seemed to have a problem keeping track of where his keys went,” I say.
“Don't all guys?” Sam shrugs.
I rise up on my toes to give him a kiss. “That would be why you have that little keychain that screams when you click the button on the remote.”
“Ah,” he says, following me as I make my way down the steps. “But you didn't keep in mind the logical fallacy of that, which is that I no longer know where the remote is.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I set the key down on the kitchen counter and start the coffeemaker. There are two grocery bags sitting on the kitchen table that weren't there when I went up to the attic. I nod toward them.
“What's that?” I asked.
“You haven't been home for a while, so I thought I would pick up a couple of essentials for you,” he shrugs.
I use my fingertip to pull one of the bags open and peek inside. My eyes slide over to him.
“Yeast and brown sugar?” I raise an eyebrow with a teasing grin.
“Cinnamon rolls are essential,” he offers. “And I've been doing without them for almost two months. I am dangerously depleted in all of the vitamins and minerals they supply.”
“We can't have that. What kind of girlfriend would I be if I let you wallow away without all those essential cinnamon roll nutrients?”
“Well, let's be honest. You'd be the kind that's out solving murders and trying to take down a really messed up secret society. That can be a little time consuming,” he says.
I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. "I tell you what. I'll make up a few batches and put them in the freezer. That way, all you have to do when you are home and feel the need for a cinnamon roll is pop them out, let them thaw, and bake them."
"I can live with that," he says. I smile and make my way back over to the coffeemaker. "Oh. I forgot to mention, Gabriel says hi."
"Gabriel from the grocery store?" I ask.
Sam pulls a bunch of grapes out of one of the bags and rinses them in the sink before pulling several off and popping them in his mouth.
"Yep. He's been back for a few weeks. I went through his line today, and he asked about you. He said he thought you had started going to a different grocery store," he says.
Laughing, I reach for a couple of mugs. "He thinks I'm cheating on him with a different store? Where? There's only that store and the corner market in Sherwood."
"Long-distance grocery store cheating," he shrugs. "Anyway, I filled him in on what you are up to, and he said to say hi."
"Oh. Well, that's nice. I'm glad to hear he's doing okay. I was worried about him after his grandmother died."
"He seems to be in good spirits."
The grapes go into the fruit bowl on the kitchen table, and he reaches back into the bag. Out comes a package of candy corn, and I shake my head.
"Cinnamon rolls, grapes, and candy corn. All the major food groups," I say.
He peers into the bag. "I bought stuff for chili, too."
Chapter Seven
A couple of hours later, the chill of the evening has set in enough to justify thick socks with my leggings and a floppy sweatshirt that stretches down to the middle of my thighs. It is my official “fall-at-home” uniform, and I'm beyond thrilled to actually be in it. Memories of the scorching heat of this summer are still lingering with me, and I'm grateful for every cool breeze.
The chili is just about done simmering on the stove as I pull a cast-iron skillet of cornbread out of the oven. The butter and bacon fat melted into the bottom sizzles. It'll form into a sturdy crust on the bread, making it perfect for standing up to the thick chili.
Inverting the pan onto a metal rack, I leave it to cool for a couple of minutes while I ladle big bowls of chili. I sprinkle each one of them with cheese and add spoons before setting them on a tray. The cornbread is still technically
too hot for me to slice, but I'm not feeling particularly patient. The house smells warm and full of spices, and I want to bury myself in the food.
Once thick wedges of the bread are added to the tray, I pick it up and head outside. Sam stands beside the fire pit he built me. Flames jump and spark into the night sky. There's something masculine and primal about him building a fire and standing there with a long stick, prodding the flames, to grow. It stirs up all kinds of feelings in me. I have to set the tray down and wrap my arms around him from behind.
My hands flatten on his chest and stomach, and I nuzzle close to the curve of his neck. His clothes smell like smoke, but his skin is all fresh, clean Sam. He pats my hand on his chest and leans back against me, so we prop each other up.
When he's done stoking the flames, he tosses the stick down beside the fire pit, and we pick up our food to carry over to the wooden glider sitting to the side of the fire. One of my grandmother's quilts is already draped across the back, and we nestle down into it, pulling it around our shoulders to ward off the chilly night air.
We eat in silence for a few minutes, just enjoying the sensory layers of the evening around us. The touch of the cold air in contrast to the heat radiating from the fire. The smell of the wood-burning and the spices in the food. The night sounds of birds and insects who still haven't given up but will soon quiet down for winter.
When Sam speaks, his voice sounds almost impossibly loud against the crackling of the flames.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say.
“I haven't wanted to mention it because I don't want to upset you. But I've heard you talk about the Dragon a couple of times. I know he has to do with an undercover assignment you did early in your career with the Bureau, but you’ve never really given me all the details.”
