The Girl and the Unlucky 13 (Emma Griffin™ FBI Mystery)

by A J Rivers

  I get up and start toward my car. A few steps away, I turn back to them.

  “Ava, talk to the police who investigated the house. Find out everything they know. Ask if they tested the blood in the mirror and on the living room floor. Then tell them to search under the front porch. They’ll probably need to dig,” I say.

  She smiles softly and nods.

  I run the rest of the way to the car and jump in, headed straight for Mary Gray’s house. Before I left the hospital earlier, Misty told me that was where they would be staying once Ashley was discharged. She didn’t want to stay at the house that had already been invaded.

  There’s a light glowing on the front porch when I pull up to the address Misty gave me. I ring the doorbell and a bewildered John answers.

  “Emma. I didn’t expect you here tonight,” he frowns. “We’re just settling in.”

  “I know,” I say. “I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I need to speak with Ashley.”

  He hesitates, but then agrees and steps aside to let me in.

  “She’s in pain from the stab wound. She went right upstairs to rest when we got her here.”

  He leads me to the room and gestures to the closed door.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He walks away and I knock.

  “Yes?” Ashley says from the other side.

  “It’s Emma,” I say.

  “Come in.”

  I open the door just enough to slip inside and close it behind me. Ashley is curled up in a chair near a bay window that looks out over the lawn. The curtains ripple in a soft breeze coming in. There isn’t a single shred of fear or worry in her eyes as she sits there.

  “The doctors didn’t want to keep you overnight?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “They stitched me up and said I would probably do better recovering at home.”

  I nod and walk closer. “There are a couple of things I wanted to ask you about. Just some things that confused me and I wanted to straighten them out.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks. Could you tell me again how you were able to get out of that house?”

  “It was the only time I ever saw the door to that room open. It must have been a mistake, but I took the opportunity. I ran and I went out the front door.”

  “And Wolf didn’t notice?”

  “He was too busy preparing for my appointment later. I told you that that client liked themes, so Wolf must have been in the room putting up the props and scenery,” she says.

  “And you heard about the vigil on the news because he would let you watch it with him. Which means you weren’t at that house for very long. You must have been somewhere else just a couple of days before then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about the nail polish.”

  Her head tilts the side curiously.

  “Nail polish?”

  “You said the room with the vanity was where you got ready. And the vanity mirror wasn’t broken when you left.”

  “No.”

  “Someone was injured in that room. The mirror has blood on it. They went in and removed every piece of evidence that could relate to you, but they weren’t able to fix the mirror. Maybe they didn’t have time, maybe they thought people would think that it was just because the house is old.”

  “You keep saying ‘they’,” Ashley points out. “I told you it was Wolf. He must have killed J and cleaned up everything to stop him from being able to tell anybody I was there.”

  “When we were first searching the room, we found a stain on the floor. It was red nail polish. As if a bottle had tipped off the side of the vanity and spilled. Before it could get cleaned up, it had dried most of the way. In the pictures of you right when you got to the vigil, you have on nail polish. But just one nail. And only a little bit.”

  “I was doing my nails when I noticed the door,” she says.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head and sitting down in the chair across from her. “I don’t think that’s how it happened. It wasn’t all the way dry when somebody tried to clean it up. Most of the way, but there was still enough moisture in it to pry part of it up. Which means that you were there just a few minutes before that room got cleaned. Whatever happened in that room, you were there. You saw it.”

  She stares at me silently for a few seconds, then turns serenely to look out the window.

  “Do you think I’ll be able to go to the beach soon? I would love to build a sandcastle.”

  “There was a picture of the family at the beach building sandcastles on the news. Along with the picture of you holding a cat, which I know wasn’t your pet. Leona is allergic to them. You never owned a cat,” I say.

  Ashley glances over her shoulder at me and lets out a soft laugh.

  “I must be remembering wrong.”

  “Ashley,” I say, sliding to the edge of the seat and meeting her eyes. “I need you to tell me what happened in that house. You didn’t just walk out. Something happened that morning. What was it?”

  “I told you, the door was open and I left.”

  There’s no anxiety, no tension in her words. Just smooth, soft delivery.

  “The break-in this morning. You said the window in your room broke and he came in. How is that possible? You were on the second floor. He could have climbed up onto the roof of the porch, but how could no one have noticed him? And you say he didn’t even chase you? He went through all that effort to vandalize the garage and climb into your room, but he gave up after cutting you once?”

  Ashley shrugs one shoulder. “I came to him on Friday the thirteenth. Maybe the bad luck is just catching up with him.”

  My stomach turns and my heart drops in my chest.

  “The day you went missing wasn’t a Friday,” I say. “But you were born on Friday the thirteenth.”

  She looks toward the door to her room and gestures for me to get closer. As if she needs to tell me something. I lean toward her. She puts her mouth so close to my ear that I can feel the heat of her breath trail down the side of my neck.

  “Maybe I’m just the girl who cried Wolf.”

  Fifty-Two

  I’m up for the rest of the night, digging through every bit of documentation and evidence I’ve gathered through this investigation. I watch the same footage over and over. I read every news article and look through every police report. I go back to the statements every member of Ashley’s family gave the day she went missing and compare them to what her friends said that day, and with each new version of their stories after.

  The traffic violations and vehicle registrations Dean was able to find for me give me more insight, but there are still gaps. Still so many questions with answers just out of my grasp. Ashley’s words crawl down my spine and leave me with an ever-tightening band clenched around my chest.

  As soon as the sun comes up, I’m at the hospital. The administrator isn’t happy to see me, but I don’t care.

  “I need to know who handled Ashley Stevenson’s DNA test,” I tell him. “Who took her blood and who processed it.”

  “The sample was taken by the doctor on duty that night. It was supervised by another doctor and by a detective. It was then sent to the lab at Gunther Memorial.”

  I’ve been pacing across his office, but those words stop my feet.

  “Gunther Memorial?” I ask.

  “Yes,” he says. “They have an on-site lab used for processing blood samples for DNA testing as well as a variety of other purposes. It’s regularly used by the police department.”

  “And it was sent before the transfer request came,” I say.

  His expression looks like that thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

  “Yes,” he confirms.

  “Damn it.”

  Without further explanation, I run out of the office and head out of the hospital. My phone is already ringing when I get behind the wheel.

  “Dean,” I say when he answers. “Remember the rehab center I showed you? I need you to look on the website f
or me and find the staff page. There’s a nurse who was recently honored for twenty years of volunteering there. Her name is Jessica Blanchett.”

  I wait for a few seconds while he searches.

  “Alright, I found it. She’s a nurse with a special interest in helping those with addictions live healthier lifestyles. Recently marked twenty years volunteering her time at River Bend. When she isn’t volunteering, she uses her exceptional nursing skills and compassionate nature to care for patients at Gunther Memorial Hospital.”

  “Shit,” I mutter. “Okay, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Name it.”

  “Work with Ava and figure out how to get our hands on court records, arrest records, anything that will tell us when Misty went into River Bend and for what. John made it sound as if it was voluntary, but I don’t think it was. Figure out why she was there. Then see if you can track anyone else who was sent there in the two years before she went.”

  “Anything to narrow it down?” he asks.

  “Look for links to her time there. People who were sent by the same judge or with similar charges. Talk to the judges if you can. That might be easier than getting subpoenas for the court records,” I say.

  “Where are you going to be?”

  “Gunther Memorial,” I say. “Then to the courthouse.”

  I get to the hospital in record time and ask for Jessica Blanchett at the information desk. The man behind the desk directs me to the fifth floor and I ride the elevator up. I have no intention of talking to her. Not yet. I just need to see her. To make sure I’m on the right track.

  It’s not a track I want to be on. It’s making me feel sick and it’s sending prickly, painful heat along the back of my neck and through my chest. But it’s slowly falling together.

  One glance at Jessica tells me it’s the same person. I already knew it was, but seeing her changes things. She’s distinctly older than in the picture with Misty that John showed me. Not just because of the years that have passed. This is the kind of age that comes from what a person’s been dragged through over those years.

  I watch her for a few moments, then leave.

  My next stop is the courthouse. I go to the Department of Vital Records to access public documents. Scanning through the weeks surrounding the day Ashley was born, I find exactly what I was expecting to. Or, more precisely, don’t find it.

  It takes two more days for us to gather all the information from the judges and the rehab center. Every moment of those days, I’m on edge. I’m waiting for the next phone call, the next alert. I visit Ashley each day, but she tells me nothing else. It’s more of the same. More memories rattled off from the statements Misty made, more carefully crafted recollections.

  On the second day, she sits next to Leona on the couch and I notice the older sister swallow, the color in her cheeks draining away. She looks as if she’s going to be sick. Ashley’s hand moves in a slow crawl across the cushion toward Leona’s and when her fingertips touch the back of her hand, Leona stands and rushes out of the room.

  “She’s just scared,” Misty says, trying to comfort Ashley. “This has all been a lot for her.”

  When the information finally comes, Dean, Xavier, Ava, and I sit around it, scouring it for any detail that might fit. I haven’t told them what I’m thinking yet. I can’t seem to make the words roll down my tongue. Once they are out, there’s no putting them back; I don’t know if I’m ready to take that step. Soon. Once I know.

  It doesn’t seem real. I want it to be what the girls told me. As horrible as the stories have been, I want the timeline to be true. But there’s a voice that’s missing. One that’s been here the whole time and yet none of us has heard it. That’s where the problem lies. I just have to get to the answer.

  “This man,” I say, pointing at the record in front of me. “He was in the center twice.”

  “Not when Misty was there, though,” Ava says.

  “I know. But that’s the point. He was there when Jessica was there. His charges line up. I need to call John.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s going to be able to get me information no one else can.”

  “About the center?”

  “About Misty.”

  An hour later, I’m sitting in a rock garden outside the hospital with John. I’ve been as careful as I can to skirt around what I think is happening while still letting him know how important it is for him to get me the information I’m asking for.

  “But we weren’t married when she was in the center. We didn’t get married until I got out a few months after her. I wouldn’t be able to access her financial records from then.”

  “You were in rehab for months after she got out. I’m assuming when you were discharged, you didn’t have a whole lot to your name. Didn’t have a great job to go back into or somewhere to live. Right?”

  “That’s right,” he says, sounding uncomfortable at the memory.

  ‘So, you probably moved in with Misty. When she put you on her bank account it helped you get on your feet,” I say.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Then you have access. It’s the same bank account as before you were listed on it. Now that you are, you can request statements. I know I’m asking a lot. But I need you to do this. It’s critical,” I say. “I really don’t want to have to go through the time and the effort to convince the courts to request the information. That could take weeks that we don’t have.”

  “Do you really think it will tell you what you need to know?”

  “Yes,” I nod.

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  Fifty-Three

  “Can I help you with something?” Jessica Blanchett asks me when she comes around the side of the nurse’s station.

  The nearly twenty-four hours it took for John to get me the financial records from the bank was enough time to sift through everything else and find the pieces of my theory. Now it’s just a matter of making sure those pieces fit together.

  “Yes,” I say. “Actually, I think you can. You work at River Bend rehabilitation center, right?”

  “Yes,” she says. “I volunteer at the center as much as I can.”

  “That’s very admirable,” I say. “Can I ask why you started doing that?”

  “My brother had problems with addiction,” she says. “I knew from a very young age I wanted to help people who are struggling.”

  “I can understand that,” I tell her. “I’m working with a family right now to investigate a disappearance. Do you remember a patient you worked with eighteen years ago, Misty Gray?”

  “I can’t discuss the patients I work with,” she says.

  “I’m not asking for any details,” I say. “I just want to know if you remember her. If it helps, I already know the two of you were rather close. I’ve seen the picture of you two comparing your pregnant bellies.”

  She takes a breath. “I remember her. It was so sweet. I couldn’t believe a person like her had ended up in that center. And I hated myself every time I thought that. That’s the kind of thinking that alienates people with addiction problems from the rest of society. It’s as though we think they should be degenerates or some sort of lesser humans. But I couldn’t help it. That was what I thought when I met her. She was kind and shy. Nervous. It was obvious I was going through a lot and didn’t want to talk to people about it.”

  “But the two of you bonded over being pregnant,” I say.

  “Yes,” she says. “We were just a couple of days apart. We were going through it together. I don’t have any sisters or close girlfriends, so it was nice having somebody I could talk to.”

  “She gave birth here, didn’t she?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Jessica says. “After her discharge.”

  “Were you there for her labor and delivery?”

  “I was,” she says. She’s starting to get warier of me.

  “That must have been really special,” I say. “Being able to go through that together and watch her give bir
th. But if you were only a few days away from your own due date, why were you still working? I would think you would be on maternity leave by then.”

  “I wasn’t at my due date quite yet.”

  “Oh, Misty delivered early?”

  “Not dangerously so, but enough that she was there before I went on leave. I was very glad to be able to witness that with her,” she says.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “Your child. What did you have? A girl or a boy?”

  “Oh,” she says. “A boy.”

  “Do you have any pictures? I don’t have any children, so I get my fix from other people.”

  “No,” she says. “I don’t have any pictures with me. I’m sorry. I’m not understanding what you need from me.”

  I smile at her. “It’s okay. I’ve got everything I need. Thank you for speaking with me.” I start to turn away, then turn back. “That cut on the side of your face looks as if it was pretty serious. What happened?”

  Jessica lifts her fingertips to rest on the healing wound that covers one corner of her forehead and goes into her hair.

  “I’m just clumsy,” she tells me. “I tripped and hit my head on the corner of a table.”

  I smile again. “I hate it when things like that happen. You should have seen me the last time I moved. I was a mess of bumps and bruises. Anyway, I hope it feels better soon. Thank you again.”

  By this point, my car seems to know the way to the other hospital without my even having to steer it. I get inside and go directly to Mary Gray’s room. I’m not expecting anyone to be there; I’m surprised to see Leona and Ashley sitting beside the bed. Ashley’s holding her grandmother’s hand, but Leona seems more focused on her sister, her body curled slightly away as she watches her carefully.

  “Ashley,” I say.

  She turns to me and smiles. “Hi, Emma. I was here having my stitches checked, so I thought I would stop in and see Gran.”

  “Grandma,” Leona whispers.

  “I was just telling her tomorrow is Friday the thirteenth. I hope everything will be okay. You never know what might happen on that day. Right, Leona?”