by A J Rivers
“It didn't,” I say. “It made me confused and anxious. It wasn't until I was an adult that I realized I believed completely conflicting things about her death. But when you disappeared, too, I knew I had to do something about it. I couldn't just keep studying art and thinking everything in the world was fine. Because it wasn't. And I wanted to change that. So, I decided to join the Bureau.”
“I don't understand what that has to do with Sam.”
“Before I went into the academy, I knew that I couldn't stay with him. It just wouldn't work. Because he was so perfect. Because we were so good with each other. All I wanted was to be in Sherwood and have a home with him. Which would mean I would never be able to concentrate on investigations. I would never be able to really throw myself into the career I decided I wanted. I never wanted to be a woman who chose her work first and forgot about the little things. And I never wanted to neglect my work and possibly ruin an investigation or let a bad guy go because I was too focused on home.
“I broke up with Sam, so we’d never get to a point in our relationship when something was suffering. I always believed it was going to be my work. That I wouldn't be able to concentrate, or that I wouldn't feel comfortable doing investigations or field work because I wouldn't want to get hurt. But now I realize I didn't put my career at risk to be with Sam. I'm putting being with Sam at risk. I can't do that,” I say. “He doesn't deserve that.”
“Emma, what he deserves is you. Sam loves you. He always has. So, you forgot to make him cinnamon rolls. There was a lot going on. He understands. His father was sheriff before him. He knows what it is to be a part of law enforcement,” Dad says.
I shake my head slowly. “I just don't know. Every single fiber of my being wants to be with him. But I want him to be happy. I want him to be able to have the kind of life he imagined. What if I can't give that to him?”
The door opens, and Dean and Xavier come in chatting. They stop when Dean notices me brushing tears away from my cheeks.
"What's wrong?" he asks. "What happened?"
I shake my head and force a smile. "Nothing. I'm fine."
"Hey, son," Dad smiles, standing up and giving Dean first an awkward handshake, but then they pull each other into a hug.
"Hey, Uncle Ian," he says. "Good to see you."
"Good to see you, too."
"Dad, this is Xavier," I introduce. "Xavier, this is my father."
"Ian Griffin," Dad says, extending a hand toward Xavier.
Xavier hesitates and looks at Dad’s hand. Dad's eyes slide over to me, and I shake my head subtly. Dad lets his hand drop and continues smiling at Xavier.
"We have answers for you," Xavier says to me.
I almost want to laugh. He can't take himself off the track he was already on. He wasn't expecting my father to be here, so he can't change the direction of his thoughts to interact with him before getting out what they came to tell me.
“Go for it,” I say.
“It's about Lilith Duprey,” Xavier says. “We did what you asked and looked into her. And we found out something she kept buried underground, even when you tried to dig it up. The shape is still correct, but the weight is all wrong. Something is missing from it.”
“She wasn’t telling you the whole truth. Her husband was murdered ten years ago,” translates Dean.
“He was murdered?” I ask. “What happened?”
“Don't know,” Dean says. “It's still unsolved. But ten years ago is right about when Lilith started renting out her house in Salt Valley.”
“That's why she wanted me to know she was a widow,” I say. “She emphasized that over and over. She wanted me to know about his murder. That's why she moved. He was probably killed in the old house, and she didn't want to live there anymore.”
“That makes sense,” Dean says. “It also explains why it changed renters several times. Not many people like the idea of living in a house where someone died.”
“I wouldn't mind it,” Xavier chimes in.
We look at him, and his eyes widen slightly as if he didn't realize he said that out loud.
“You wouldn't?” I raise an eyebrow.
He shrugs. “At least that way, I know the people who lived there before me don't miss it. And I have to get used to feeling that way, don't I?”
I swallow hard and nod.
“What else?” I finally ask, trying to shake the emotion out of my head.
“Well, her husband was murdered, and she moved out of the house. But a decade before his murder, he was embroiled in a scandal,” Dean says.
“Embroiled, no less,” I note.
“I think that's the proper term when it involves politicians,” Xavier says.
“Her husband was a politician?” I ask.
“He was,” Xavier nods. “One of those white knight types. Loved by all. Always smiling. Too big a smile.”
“He's pretty much a folk hero," Dean says. “His name is still invoked to this day by the causes he championed.”
“And we all know how accurate those depictions are," I comment. “But this one has a past. So, what happened? What was the scandal?"
"We're not sure," Dean says.
"What?" I ask.
"We weren't able to find all the details yet," he tells me. "But we know it involves a woman named Lindsey Granger."
"Who is that? Another politician?" I ask.
"Another mystery," Xavier says. "We can only see her shadow."
I rub my temples with my fingertips. "This is insane. We've got another person who is missing, Lilith going from glamorous politician's wife to Green Acres. And somehow, in all this, she ends up wrapped up with a cult."
"Not a cult," Dad corrects me quickly.
"What?" I ask.
"The Order of Prometheus isn't a cult. It's a secret society, a fraternal order. It's not the same thing," he says.
"How do you know about the Order of Prometheus?" I ask. "Did the CIA investigate it?"
I haven't even considered the possibility, but now that the thought has gone through my mind, I'm excited. If Dad has already investigated it, he might be able to give me more insight into it and help trap them.
"No," he says. "I haven't investigated it. I'm in it."
Chapter Twenty
Ten years after death…
She couldn't cry. The dead don't mourn. At least, not from their graves.
After ten years, she no longer had eyes to cry. The sockets in her skull would be forever empty, with only raindrops to pretend at tears.
But even if she could cry, even if she could mourn, would she?
Were there ever tears cried for her? Did he ever, even once, stop and wonder what was happening to her?
It wasn't easy now. His skull still had eyes, but they couldn't see anything. Hers closed before her face dropped into the puddle, in the seconds after her heart stopped and her brain flashed in an instant of vibrant, explosive life.
His stayed open. They locked on the black and white floor and the rivulets of blood that flowed along the narrow seams between the tiles. Each tiny hexagon was nestled down into that floor individually. The grout crisp and white. It was just slightly uneven, making the blood pool and dip until it formed brilliant scarlet shapes that led away from him toward the slice of sunlight coming through the curtains.
Maybe he saw that sunlight in those last flashes of brain activity. Or maybe he saw her.
Her before the dirt, before the rain, before the sheet, before the puddle. Her before the cloud-covered starlight and the angry words. Her when he still knew what she looked like.
No one would come to tell her that he was gone. No one would whisper the words to her grave and hope the water seeping through her could carry them up to where she might hear them. No one knew she was there. And it seemed no one ever would.
But maybe there was someone who knew. Someone who would never say it but could feel it.
Chapter Twenty-One
“What do you mean you're in it?” My mouth is g
aping open.
I have no idea how long it's been since my father announced he was a member of The Order Of Prometheus. The shock makes it feel as if it could have been hours. Hopefully, it was only a few seconds.
“I'm a member,” he shrugs. “So was your grandfather and your great-grandfather.”
I close my eyes, shaking my head. My brain feels as if it's rejecting the words, it just won't accept them and let them fully process so I can understand what he's saying.
“I don't understand,” I say. “How could you be a member? I’d never even heard of it before I came here.”
“As I said, Emma, it's a secret society. It's not something the members talk about. The men in my family have a tradition of joining. We join at eighteen,” he says. He looks over at Dean. “J—your father was in it with me.”
I feel as if I'm going to be sick. My stomach surges, and my throat tightens up. I look over at Dean. His face is like a stone.
“Who did you kill?” Xavier asks.
I have to give it to him. He's able to put a voice to things I can't claw out of the corners of my brain.
Dad looks at him with surprise.
“I didn't kill anybody,” he says.
“I suppose that's what they all say,” Xavier says. “That is the point, isn't it? To kill and make sure somebody else takes the blame for it?”
“No,” Dad says. “I didn't kill anyone. I belong to a different chapter of The Order. That's what I've been trying to tell you. This chapter in Harlan isn't like the others. This chapter has gone rogue. But the problem is, the ties of brotherhood are tight. Loyalty runs deep. It’ll be next to impossible to get people to talk.”
“Even if they know something horrible is happening?” I ask.
“Most likely, they don't talk to other chapters about what they do. And if they do talk about it, it's to people they know or have the same mind. The Order operates in individual chapters, but we don't monitor or govern each other. Something poisoned this chapter and twisted it into something The Order doesn't stand for. But anything that happens is protected by secrets and oaths. Just like anything else that happens within The Order, they aren't going to talk about the murders. They've become ritual just like everything else. They're part of how these people operate, and they don't differentiate them from any other element of The Order.”
“So, what you're telling me is I'm never going to be able to prove it. Every one of them is just going to back each other up, and I'm never going to be able to prove the truth,” I say.
“Not necessarily,” he replies. “It will be difficult. I'm not going to lie about that. You just have to find a way to prove it without relying on one of them to tell you.”
My brain is so saturated with thoughts and questions, I barely even notice when the doctor comes in and asks everybody to step out so he can check my sutures. I expect him to discharge me so I can get back to work. Instead, he tells me exactly what he feared has happened.
“We tried to clean the cut as thoroughly as possible, but that doesn't always work. There are now signs of infection,” he says.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Because of the size of the cut and the potential for the infection to get very serious, very quickly, you're going to have to stay here for another night so we can administer antibiotics.”
“Can't I just fill them at the pharmacy?” I ask.
“It's not that easy,” he says. “In order to effectively combat the infection and ensure it does not worsen into a very serious condition, the antibiotic needs to be administered through your IV. If you respond well, you'll be able to be discharged tomorrow afternoon.”
He starts to leave, then hesitates. “While you're here, you really should try to relax. Your stress levels are extremely high. Getting some rest will help your body recover and recuperate.”
I can't rest. Even after he leaves, I can't make my mind or my body fully relax. I'm awake late into the night and have only just drifted off to sleep when my room door opens.
I open my eyes just enough to see Xavier slip inside and walk over to the couch.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't mean to wake you up.”
“It's fine,” I say. “Are you here alone? Where's Dean?”
“He's down in the cafeteria,” Xavier says. “I wanted to return the favor. You always came to see me. So now I'm coming to see you.”
I pull myself up to sit a little straighter and manage a smile.
“I think it's a little different,” I say.
He nods seriously. “You're right. It is. They never had me hooked up to anything.”
I look over at the IV and the fluids still dripping down into my vein.
“That's true,” I chuckle weakly.
He sits down on the couch and stares into the space in front of him. His hands are folded in his lap, and he doesn't move for several long seconds.
"Something on your mind?" I ask.
"When a farmer sows seeds, he does it the same way every time. He scatters grass seed for the fields to feed livestock or for wildflowers. He builds mounds for pumpkins. He digs deep trenches for corn. Everything is done the same way. He doesn't suddenly start scattering pumpkins or digging trenches for wildflowers."
"Right," I say.
"Those bones in the cornfield were all treated the same. Except for Lakyn and the cage. But even she was left out on the ground. They were scattered."
"Yes."
"So, if that's the way that farmer sows his crops, he always scatters, why did he suddenly dig a trench?"
That's why he's staring into the distance. He's not here with me. Xavier is back in the cornfield, looking at the grave. He's fixated on it, drawn to it for some reason, and he can't let go.
"Maybe it's a different kind of crop?" I offer, trying to put my mind into the type of space where murders are treated differently depending on the purpose behind it, like Lakyn’s versus Andrew’s.
"Or a different farmer."
"What's bothering you, Xavier?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I don't know. It just doesn't fit the puzzle. The grave is too far from the other bodies and too precise. Someone took the time to dig that grave, put a wrapped body into it, and cover it up. None of the others was treated that way."
He sinks into thought again, and the room goes silent. A few moments later, he looks over at me, his eyes clearer, almost as if I'm looking at a different person. "The judge went on vacation."
I blink. "The judge? Sterling Jennings?"
He nods. "Dean and I were going to talk to him to see if we could catch him in another lie about Mason Goldman. I had everything ready. The script, the camera, the lights. But then when we got there, our star player was… gone. On vacation.”
I would have loved to have heard the types of questions that Xavier wanted to ask the judge. Even more than that, I would have liked to see how he would react to having to sit there and look at Xavier, knowing what he did. And knowing that Xavier knows.
Even someone as cold as Sterling Jennings would have to react to that.
“Do you know where he went?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “His secretary just mentioned that he’s gone.”
“I don't like that,” I say.
“Why?” he asks.
“I don't like not knowing where he is. Especially considering my father tried to order dinner last night and found out that Lorenzo Tarasco’s restaurant is temporarily closed for vacation.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dean comes in a few minutes later, and we explain the situation. With a promise to check in on the other men, Xavier and Dean leave. I call my nurse, and a bright, familiar smile shines at the doorway seconds later.
“Gloria,” I frown. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm a nurse,” she says. “I'm working. What are you doing here?”
“Apparently being a very bad patient,” I tell her. “According to the doctor, I
need to rest and not be so stressed.”
“Why do I have a feeling you're going to ask me to go against those orders?” she asks, a hint of a smile in her voice.
“Because I'm going to ask you to go against those orders,” I admit. “But only briefly. I promise it won't be anything crazy.”
“What do you need?” she asks.
“I want to go up and see Millie. I just want to check in on her and see how she's doing. I promise I won't scream at anybody while I'm up there,” I say.
She thinks about it for a few seconds. “Okay. According to your chart, you're only getting fluids right now. You're not due for another dose of antibiotics for another few hours. If I can trust that you don't have a getaway car waiting for you on the ground floor and you're just going to disappear, I'll put you in a wheelchair and let you go over there.”
“The back half of my current outfit is missing, Gloria,” I comment. “I don't think I'm much of a flight risk.”
“Don't think I don't know that gorgeous man with the big muscles brought you clothes,” she whispers conspiratorially.
For a few seconds, I don't know who she's talking about. Then it hits me.
“You mean Dean?” I ask.
“I don't care who he is. He's spectacular,” she says. “Well done.”
I make a face at her. “He's also my cousin. That's just weird. But I'll forgive you if you get this thing out of my arm and get me my wheelchair.”
“So what you’re saying is, he’s available?”
“Can you please get me the wheelchair?”
“Oh, fine.”
I flash a wide grin to encourage her along, and she shakes her head. Minutes later, I'm wheeling my way down the hallway to Millie's room. Gloria was nice enough to bring me a blanket to wrap around me as well, but I have every intention of going back to the room and putting some actual clothes on as soon as I'm done talking to Millie.
She’s sitting up in her bed, looking perkier than the last time I saw her. Some of the pep drains out of her face when she sees me.
“Emma,” she gasps. “What happened? Are you okay?”
