by A J Rivers
“I’m fine. I'm surprised you didn't hear all the hospital gossip,” I start. “Is that a thing? That's a thing, right? Hospital gossip. People talking about each other and their ailments?”
“You would have to ask somebody else,” Millie shrugs. ”I'm not exactly the gossip type.”
“That's true,” I nod. “You're not. But, in the interest of talking about people, I hear your big brother went on vacation this morning. That must be nice. Does he travel a lot? Go to the same place every year?"
She looks at me strangely. "Which brother?"
"Sterling," I tell her. "I figured there might be somewhere he likes to go whenever he decides to take a break from all the stress in his career and everything. Maybe a beach house? A mountain lodge? Skiing?”
I'm trying to sound as casual and breezy as I can, but I'm afraid it's coming across as faintly maniacal. Millie looks worried as she shakes her head.
“No,” she says. “Not that I know of. He isn't exactly the vacationing type. He prefers to be buried in work all the time.”
An interesting turn of phrase there, I think to myself.
“So, you don't have a family vacation house or anything? When I was growing up, we used to go to Florida a lot. I really love it there. It's still probably my favorite place in the world other than Sherwood.”
I lean a little closer. “And sometimes I think I might actually like it more than Sherwood. But don't tell Sherwood that. It would upset it. Oh, no. I've been spending too much time with Xavier.”
“Emma, what's going on?” Millie asks, breaking me out of my brief existential spiral.
“I just wanted to come by and check on you and see if you're feeling better. How your recovery is going,” I say.
“And to ask me about my brother's vacation?” she asks.
I let out a sigh.
“I guess I'm not good at gossip, either.”
“No, you're not. Why are you so fixated on his going away for a few days?” she asks.
“Why are you?” I counter. “I can see it all over your face. Don't act as if nobody knows where he is.”
She draws in a breath and holds it for a second, seeming to hope a few extra seconds will somehow soften her words.
“I don't know where he is, Emma. I don't know where he would have gone. I know you think he did something horrible…”
“I know he did something horrible, Millie. A lot of horrible things,” I say.
“But you can't prove it,” she says.
“I can if someone helps me,” I say. “Someone who knows him better than I do.”
“I can't help you, Emma,” she says sadly, for what must be the ten millionth time in all these conversations. “I just can't.”
“Emma, if you get any more visitors, we're going to have to put a turnstile up at your room door,” Gloria calls over from the doorway, making me turn and look over my shoulder at her.
“I have another visitor?” I frown.
“Yep,” she says. “Want me to wheel you back over there?”
"No, I think I can do it.”
"Your arm is not going to be very happy with all this exertion," she points out. "Don't you want your sutures to heal so you can eventually get out of here?"
"It's that 'eventually' you threw in there that brings it all home," I mutter with a roll of my eyes.
"Come on," Gloria smiles. "Enjoy the ride."
"You could probably say 'wheeeeeee' in the hallway while she's going, and she wouldn't be able to do anything about it," Millie cuts in.
Gloria points a warning finger at her. "Don't you go giving her ideas. You haven't been any trouble since you got here, so don't start now on account of Emma. You're getting out of here soon.”
The news that she won’t have to stay in the hospital for much longer should make Millie happy. Instead, I notice her face fall. She swallows and turns away to look out the window.
That stays with me as Gloria takes hold of the wheelchair handles and steers me back toward my room.
"Wheee," I say softly as we turn the corner.
She laughs and shakes her head. “None of that, now. Be a good role model.”
“For who?” I ask. “The other adults recovering in the hospital?”
We get to my room, and she pushes me inside.
“You two, be nice. I don't want to have to come and break anything else up between you,” she says.
I don't need any explanation for why she would say that. I can already see it. Sitting in the chair next to my bed, her eyes sideways, trying to read as much of the case notes piled on my side table as she can, is Lydia.
“What are you doing here?” I narrow my eyes in frustration.
“Emma,” Gloria says. “Play nice.”
“Hi, Lydia,” I say. The nurse walks out of the room and closes the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard you got hurt,” Lydia says. “What happened?”
“I got hurt,” I tell her, climbing out of my wheelchair and getting into bed.
“Were you at the corn maze?” she asks. “I heard there was a lot of commotion up there the other night, and somebody got taken away in an ambulance. Was it you? And if it was, were you there because you were talking to Lilith Duprey?”
“Lydia, I tried to tell you. You are not part of this investigation,” I say.
“Hear me out,” she holds out a hand to stop me. “I know you've been asking around about her. You've gone and spoken to her a couple of times. There's something about her that interests you, and I think I have more information about her that you might like to hear. It could be helpful.”
“Fine,” I sigh, figuring any information she might be able to give me could be useful. “What have you got?”
Lydia grins and reaches into the bag at her feet to pull out a manila envelope. She hands it to me.
“She moved to Salt Valley twenty years ago. Ten years later, she moved to the farm,” she says.
“I know,” I nod. “When her husband was murdered.”
“Yes,” she says. “But do you know why she moved to Salt Valley?”
“Some sort of political scandal,” I say. “I don't know the details.”
“I do,” she says.
I'm instantly intrigued, but I don't want to encourage her too much, so I give a nod. “Go ahead.”
“Twenty years ago, Lilith's husband, Michael Duprey, was fairly early in his political career. He had already served a few years, was building up his name. But then rumors started swirling around that he was involved with a woman named Lindsey Granger.”
“Who is she?”
“An intern,” Lydia says.
“Of course she was,” I say.
“Exactly. So, they denied it. He denied and denied and denied. She would never make a public statement. They were never seen in public together or photographed after the rumors started. But there were still people talking. Then, it stopped.”
“Why did it stop?” I ask.
“Because she suddenly was just… gone.”
“Gone? What happened to her?”
“That's the big question,” Lydia tells me. “Nobody's really sure. She was seen going to a hotel, then nothing. People came up with all sorts of explanations, but nothing ever panned out. Michael, Lilith, and his daughter from a previous marriage, Rachel, put up a major united front. All of a sudden, they were this perfect, happy family. But here's the thing. Rachel was seen far more often than Lilith, and it was well known that the two of them didn't get along.”
“So, he was using his little girl as a political bargaining chip. That happens,” I comment.
“She wasn't a little girl,” Lydia says. “Michael was much older than Lilith, and Rachel was already in college by the time all this was going on. She was well on her way to a political career herself. She stepped right into the role of campaigning for her father. She was his face of the youth. And when all the rumors were going around, she was extremely outspoken supporting him. That was the one tim
e she and Lilith seemed to come together. Rachel seemed to take massive offense that anyone would think that her father would have an affair, first off, and second, that he would do anything to hurt a woman. She was determined to prove Lindsey was fine, and the affair never happened.”
"Did she?"
"Not exactly. There were some sightings of Lindsey after that, but she never came back to Virginia to tell her side of the story. After that, most people started believing Rachel's story that Lindsey had tried to blackmail her father, and it didn't work because he was above reproach. Then when she realized that her grift had failed, Lindsey left in shame to start a new life. Since then, Michael skyrocketed in his political career, became an activist and advocate, and built a nice extra stream of income with motivational speaking and self-help seminars."
"Until he was murdered," I point out.
"Yes, that kind of put a damper on things. But thanks to Rachel's indomitable spirit, he might just be more popular now than he was even when he was alive. From what I’ve heard, the two women haven't spoken since his death, with both of them saying the other was responsible for all kinds of different reasons. Rachel inherited the majority of his estate, and they went their separate ways."
"If Lilith inherited anything, where did it go?" I ask. "She lives in that tiny cabin and doesn't seem to have much to her name."
"No idea," Lydia says. “For some reason, all that money is just missing.” She leans back and smiles. “So, what do you think?”
“What do you mean, what do I think?”
“Did I prove I'm a good enough investigator? Can I help?” she asks, her face lit up with hope.
I tilt my head this way and that, considering it, but let out a sigh. More for appearances than anything else.
“You aren't an investigator, Lydia,” I tell her. “You run an online sleuth website. A database of cold cases. You don't have the skills or the training to actually investigate something that's big and potentially dangerous. You could get hurt. You could compromise the work that's already been done. I really appreciate it that you found these things out, but I need you to just stay out of my way.”
The smile fades from her face.
“Fine,” she says. “I'll back off.” She scoops her bag off the floor and storms toward the door. She stops just before walking out and turns to face me.
“But one day, Emma, you’re going to have to forgive me for what happened to Greg. I might be convenient, but I’m not the one you should be blaming.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Lydia’s words hang over me, haunting me long after she leaves. But I can't think about that right now. I don't have time to think about that right now. There are so many other things I have to figure out.
The details she gave me about Lilith and her past tumble around in my mind. It seems as if they're trying to fall into place. They're trying to make sense. I'm just not there yet.
Opening the folder Lydia gave me, I read through all the information again. She's included notes about everything she told me, as well as printouts from Rachel Duprey's website. The contact page has a picture of her. It's the quintessential image of a young woman in politics. Three-quarter profile, arms crossed at her waist. Slim navy pinstripes with a royal blue shirt underneath. Dark red hair swept up in a chignon shows off a long neck with a single delicate gold chain that drops a pendant right between her collar bones.
Her makeup is pristine and understated. The smile on her lips somewhere between reassuring and smug. I flip through the rest of the pages and find more images of her. These are less manufactured. They show her at various charity events and volunteer occasions. In some of them, her shirt is emblazoned with her father's name.
This is a woman who was deeply affected by her father's death and has carried him with her since then. I can understand that. I connect with her in that way, and it makes me want to know more about her. She was extremely young to be so involved in her father's political career, but it's obvious she burrowed her way in as soon as she could and never let go.
Maybe there's more she can tell me. An insight the interviewers weren't able to pick up on. Understanding what happened to Michael Duprey and his career is a starting place to understand how Lilith toppled so far.
Grabbing my phone from the night table, I call the private number Lydia scrawled across the top of the contact page printout. I don't know how she got it. I don't even know if I want to know how she got it. But before the third ring, Rachel answers.
"Hello?”
“Hi, is this Rachel Duprey?” I ask.
There’s a pause before she answers.
“Yes, this is Rachel Duprey. How did you get this number?"
"Hi, Rachel, this is Emma Griffin,” I say.
There's a brief pause on the other end of the line.
“I'm sorry, have we met?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “We haven't.”
“Any requests for appearances or business propositions that should be made through the foundation's direct line, not my personal line,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Wait,” I say. “I'm not calling for a business proposition or request for an appearance. I'm actually with the FBI. I’m Agent Emma Griffin.”
“Oh,” she says. “What can I do for you, Agent Griffin?”
“I am looking into a series of events, and they seem to have a tie to your father,” I say.
“My father?” she asks. “What could it have to do with my father?”
“I'm actually not entirely sure at this moment,” I tell her. “We're still pretty early in the investigation. Which is why I'm calling you. I wanted to get your personal perspective and insights into the situation with Lindsey Granger.”
“I'm going to stop you right there,” she says. “There was no situation with Lindsey Granger. That was blown up by the media and turned into a smear campaign that dramatically affected my father's personal and professional life. He never fully recovered from the serious damage that was done with those rumors. They were baseless and indefensible.”
“So, there was no relationship there?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “She was an intern who worked in the same building as my father. They may have walked past each other in the morning or stood in line for coffee a couple of times. It didn't go any further than that.”
“Several sources say he was familiar enough with her to know her name and to be concerned about her when she seemed to disappear,” I say.
“He knew her name because she was another human being,” Rachel replies. “That was the type of man my father was. He cared about people. All people. It didn't matter to him what their job was or where they came from. If there was a human being in his vicinity, he was going to anything he could to help him or her. She worked in his building, so he learned her name. If he walked past her, he would say hello to her. And of course, he was concerned. Everybody was. But to speak to your choice of language, Lindsey Granger did not ‘disappear’. She left town because she was humiliated after attempting to destroy the life of an honest, loving, and honorable man who refused her advances, then would not back down when she attempted to blackmail him.”
“How would she blackmail him if nothing ever happened between them?” I ask.
“You work for the FBI, Agent Griffin?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “For a number of years.”
“Then surely you're familiar with lying and faking evidence. My father would never do the things that woman said he did. She did the best thing she possibly could by leaving and never showing her face around here again. It gave us all time to heal and move past her. That's what we've done, Miss Griffin. We've moved on. That was a long time ago, and I don't appreciate my father's name being dragged through the mud yet again. I won't speak about this again,” she says.
“Then will you talk to me about his death?” I ask.
“Good day, Agent Griffin.”
She hangs up, and I pull the phone down to stare at it.
“Well, that didn't go exactly as I planned,” I mutter to myself.
The interaction was harsh and intense. I can understand that. This is a woman who has been through a lot, and it all happened in the spotlight. I still get protective and defensive when people talk about my mother and her murder. Rachel probably just wants to put the entire situation with Lindsey Granger in the past and never have to think about it again.
I'm certain she never wants to think about her father's murder again.
But I can't accommodate her just yet. I’m not convinced this is over.
The next morning, I start my day with two fantastic pieces of news. I’m on the phone with Sam as he tells me he’s coming in later that afternoon, just as, when the doctor appears at my door with a stack of papers in his hand on a smile on his face.
“Hey, babe,” I tell Sam. “I've got to go. The doctor is here with papers, and either he needs me to start signing away pieces of my body for experimentation, or he's going to discharge me.”
“Make sure he contacts me first,” he jokes. “I have dibs on a few of those parts.”
“I'll see you soon. Love you.”
I hang up and look at the doctor with hope.
“So, we thought we would start from the bottom and work our way up. The first thing we're going to do is amputate your feet. Actually, we’ll probably start with your toes. Maximum surface area and all,” he starts, barely suppressing his smile.
"Alright," I say, "but I have to warn you, a couple of those toes have been broken a few times, so they might not be the most responsive when it comes time to reanimate them."
The doctor laughs and comes to my bedside with my discharge papers.
"Your release papers," he says. "I've included aftercare instructions for your cut, as well as some lifestyle recommendations to keep your health up. There's a prescription for painkillers and antibiotics. You'll only need the antibiotics for a few days, with any luck. If you notice any symptoms that suggest the infection has come back…"
"I am to promptly remove my arm so I don't end up here again," I say.
