The Girl and the Secret Society (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 9)

by A J Rivers

  Copyright © 2020 by A.J. Rivers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  The Girl and the Secret Society

  A.J. Rivers

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Staying In Touch With A.J.

  Also by A.J. Rivers

  Prologue

  Four months ago …

  Lilith would never forget those screams.

  Loud, raw, ragged screams. The kind that cut deep and shivered along veins, turning blood to shattered glass and powder.

  There was nothing weak in those screams. That was a distinction she could always make and would always hold onto. Sometimes screams are full of anguish and desperation, pleading for mercy. Or they burst out from the deepest recesses of fear.

  But not these. These screams were primal. They ripped from the depths of her soul and lashed out for vengeance. They didn't ask for anything. They demanded. These were screams of a woman facing oncoming death with fury.

  She clawed for survival. Fought for breaths that were rightfully hers. Even without words, those screams asked: how dare they? How dare these men do this to her? Who did they think they were, that they could treat her like this? That they could take her life from her?

  Lilith knew who they were. She knew every one of their faces and the sounds of their voices. She knew the feeling of their breath on her skin.

  And they knew the woman screaming. Who they cruelly dragged across the dirt by dark hair that used to hang glossy and inky black to her waist. Lilith knew. She'd seen it before. But now the woman’s once-prized hair was matted and tangled. Studded with broken plants and mud. Chunks of it were left behind as she thrashed and fought to make every last moment she could drain out of life matter.

  But these moments were numbered. And dwindling.

  There was nothing she could do. There was nothing Lilith could do.

  She could only watch in horror and hope the men showed mercy even though the woman didn't ask for her suffering to end quickly.

  Lilith couldn't stop it any more than the woman being dragged could. The dark-haired woman could keep fighting. She didn't have to make it easy on them, but that didn't mean it would stop them. Nothing would. And nothing would save her. It was no coincidence they brought her out here. They hadn’t just stumbled upon the cornfield, scattered with bent, dead stalks frozen in the February chill. No, this was done with purpose. Always with purpose.

  By the time the ground would warm, and the days become long enough to plant the fields, there would be far less of her. A chill ran down Lilith's spine. She could already taste the dirt and blood in the air. The crops would grow up around her body, and no one would know. When the harvest came, she would be reduced to nothing. Scattered bones and nothing else. Overlooked by anyone who didn't know what he was looking at.

  But Lilith would know. The ground would know. This woman wasn't the first to feed the roots of the growing corn.

  It wasn't an accident that they were here. This was a killing ground.

  Lilith wanted to look away. But something kept her eyes locked on the men as they pummeled the woman into the ground. She didn't go easily. She didn't bow down the way some of them did. Some readily dropped down to their knees among the corn stalks, as if they thought they could earn the compassion of the people forcing them there. As if following instructions would be their way out.

  The dark-haired woman knew that wasn't the case. She had probably been told countless times to cooperate. To do what she was told, and that would give her the best chance of survival. But Lilith could see the woman knew there was no chance. Every bit of fight in her now was only to torment her tormentors. They would take her not because she offered herself up to them, but because they ripped her away.

  Lilith wanted to look away. But she couldn't. She bore witness in the last moments of lives that shouldn't have come to an end here. It is always an honor and celebration to be present for the first breaths of a life. Those earliest moments are beautiful and humbling. But the last moments are often in shadow. She saw them as the same. First moments are humbling because of the creation of newness and potential. The last humble because of what they leave behind.

  She bore witness to those moments, so the women were never forgotten. Even if their bones were never found, their names lost, their graves never dug, they existed. She made sure of it.

  They never knew she was there. The brutality of what she saw had singed her soul black. But she wouldn't turn away.

  No one should have to walk through the fire alone.

  The woman let out another scream, but a heavy boot crushed the sound. Lilith bit down on her lip as she watched. The desperation was hers now. The woman lying in the dirt couldn't fight against the four sets of hands holding her down. Each kick made her struggle a little less. But it was the knife blade that finally stopped her. The tip plunged down into the soft place where her pulse raced and ripped between her collarbones down through her belly.

  Then it was quiet.

  The men were in no hurry to get away. They made no moves to bury her or even scatter the remnants of last year's corn stalks over her body. There was no need to. No one would find her out here. No one even knew this field existed. In a few months, the stalks closer to the road would fill with laughter. People playing at harmless versions of what she just witnessed.

  Out here would look like nothing but dense rows of corn far into the distance. No one ventured this far. No one would see her. The crops would grow up around her, and she would be nothing.

  Chapter One

  Now

  Summer has officially set in. The battle with spring was pretty impressive there for a few weeks. I thought my jacket wearing might get a chance to trickle on a bit longer than usual. But the calendar page flipped over to June, and Mother Nature cranked up her thermostat.

  That was a couple of weeks ago, and now just the thought of a sweater makes my skin prickle and sweat bead up on the back of my neck. Spring was pa
rticularly rainy and cool this year, but summer has shown up to kick its ass. That would be why I'm sitting on my front porch with a glass of iced tea tucked into my cleavage as I stare past my feet, propped up on the railing, and will the mail to float to me.

  Unfortunately, it seems my training in The Force hasn't quite reached mastery yet. I'm actually going to have to get up and walk all the way down the sidewalk. With this much humidity in the air, it's possible I could just jump off the top step and swim my way there, but I’m not going to try that. I'm not up for risking face-planting onto the searing concrete sidewalk.

  I finally will myself to get up and put my glass down on the table beside my wicker couch. Sam insists that thing is called a loveseat, but I refuse to call it that. After some of the stuff I've seen, referring to anything I use on a regular basis as a “loveseat” icks me out a bit. And, no, the completely ridiculous nature of that aversion isn't lost on me. It's just one of the many fun after-effects of the years of service in my line of work. I can sit down and sip a cup of coffee next to a corpse without flinching, but start throwing around phrases like “loveseat” or “Tickle Me Elmo”, and I start feeling twitchy.

  Maybe that's what I'll put on my new business cards.

  Emma Griffin, FBI. Hunter of serial killers. Defender of justice. Uncomfortable with innuendoes that aren’t really innuendoes.

  Now that I’m actually standing up, I take a second to look down at the tiny couch and its accompanying chair and table. They are recent additions to my daily life, like the broad wooden porch they occupy, and I'm still trying to get used to them. After getting home from Windsor Island a few months ago, I had the nagging need for change. That stuck and stagnant feeling I’ve had for the last year or so had finally started to crack. Everything that happened at that resort woke me up and reminded me of who I was and why I did what I did.

  When I came home, the feeling hadn't changed. But neither had anything else. It was still the same life, the same surroundings, the same everything. In a lot of ways, that was fine. I still love living in Sherwood. I knew I was eventually going to figure out how to juggle this life and my career. But I needed a kick in the right direction. I had to have a change. Not the kind that found me chopping off all my hair and starving myself down to nothingness so I could pretend to be twenty again, or some spiritual quest that required filling my back room with crystals and tiny bottles of herbs.

  No, I needed a change to mark the break in the different sections of my life. I’ve come to the realization that my life isn't just a normal progression of chapters in which one closes and the next begins. Instead, I've adopted a choose-your-own-adventure style. My choices keep bringing me down different paths, but along many of the same types of journeys. I've learned from them, and I’ve been able to move on.

  Part of moving on was making the house more my own. Ever since moving back into it, I've found myself thinking about it as my grandparents’ house. Technically, that's what it is. They're the ones who bought it and lived here for decades. When this was my home as a child, it was because we were living with my grandparents. But now it's mine.

  Before my father left to go deep undercover in an effort to track down his brother and unravel the terrorist group Leviathan, he signed the deed over to me in full. It's mine, and when I came back from the island, I realized I wanted it to really feel like that. The changes I’d made inside were trivial. I’d consigned decorations from the rental management company to the attic. I’d painted a few walls. But for the most part, the overall look was still exactly as it had always been. The house needed a complete makeover, to include it as a distinct part of this new path.

  Which is where the porch came in, as a first step. I've always had a thing for big verandas. There's nothing quite like being able to sit out on the porch in the evening and watch life go by. The original porch on the house was small, but I had big dreams, and fortunately, a boyfriend with power tools and the ability to use them. It took a few weeks, but the fresh wood is now curing in the summer sun, and I have been putting the couch through its paces.

  Next up will be the backyard. I haven't settled on exactly what I'm going to do with it. Sam has visions of a patio with a massive grill and smoker. Bellamy wants a pool. I told her she doesn't have a say. And I'm leaning toward a raised container vegetable garden. Perhaps a gazebo. Maybe a little outdoor dining area where I can come out in the evening with a drink and watch the lightning bugs flit around in the summer air.

  These might not seem like the biggest or most impactful decisions, but they make a major difference to me. Just seeing those little changes— the little differences that set this part of my life apart from what was behind it— is significant.

  As I make my way down the sidewalk toward the mailbox, a car pulls up in front of my house, and I see something else that is a fairly new addition to my life. A bit older than the porch, perhaps, but not by a whole lot.

  “Dean!” I call as the driver's door opens, a genuine grin on my face.

  “Hey, cousin,” he says, climbing out and returning my grin with one of his own. “How are you doing?”

  “I feel like I might melt and become one with my sidewalk. And you?” I ask.

  We meet at the mailbox, and he gathers me into a tight hug. Dean is stronger than he realizes sometimes, and it often feels like there's a fine line between a hug that's a sign of affection and a bear hug that's a form of physical restraint. Considering his line of work, he may experience that fine line, too.

  “It definitely got hot early this year,” Dean says, stepping back from me.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask, going to the mailbox and pulling out the stack of envelopes and circulars.

  “You said if I had time in between jobs and ever found myself up around this area, I should come by,” he shrugs. “So, here I am. I hope it's not a bad time.”

  “Not at all,” I tell him. “I'm really glad to see you. Are you going to be able to stay awhile?”

  “A few days,” he says. “I grabbed a room at the hotel in town, and they said they have plenty of availability so I can kind of come and go.”

  “You are not staying in a hotel,” I frown. “You're going to stay right here with me.”

  “You sure you have the space?” he asks.

  I turn around and sweep my hand through the air, putting the house on display. “I live alone, Dean.”

  He laughs. "Alright. Fair enough. I can call and cancel my reservation."

  "Good. Come on inside."

  Two military-issue duffel bags come out of the trunk, and we head for the front door.

  "Sam and you still aren't living together?" he raises an eyebrow. “I really don’t want to intrude…”

  I shake my head. "It’s fine, Dean. And no, not officially. But we spend most of our time together, so it's kind of hard to tell. He's knee-deep in paperwork today, but he'll be over in a while."

  I step up on the porch, and a thought hits me. "You know, it would be silly for you to stay in a hotel when visiting me no matter where I lived, but especially here."

  "Why?" he asks, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and looking at me questioningly.

  "Because this is your grandparents' house too. Welcome home."

  Chapter Two

  Dean lets out a breath and looks around. "Wow. I didn't think about that. But I guess you're right. It is.”

  I nod. “Absolutely. Let me show you around.” I gesture at the porch. “That's not original. Sam just added it on a few weeks ago. I suddenly felt the need for a porch.”

  “It's a good porch,” Dean nods.

  I smile and open the door. "That's the only thing I've really changed. I mean, other than paint and stuff. The house itself is the same way it was when they lived here." It suddenly occurs to me that just like the house represents change to me, it gives a glimpse into even more change for Dean. "I have pictures of it from back then, and even from before I was born. Would you want to see them?"

  Dean looks a
t me right in the eyes for a few seconds. He's thinking about it. I can see the hesitation in that look. It's the same kind of hesitation I felt before opening the room up in the attic. I decide not to mention that particular renovation to him. Not yet. After all, the room wasn't sealed up when I was young. It was open just like it is now. Until he's ready to confront it, Dean doesn't need to face all the bitterness and pain of his father's legacy.

  "Sure," he says.

  I nod, smiling. "I'll get them out later. Let me show you the house." We step inside, and I wave my hands around the space.

  “This is the living room. Over there is where we always had the Christmas tree, and everybody hung out. When I was little, there was this big ugly brown and green recliner in that corner. It's where Grandpa always sat. It was really funny because he was one of the most vibrant and energetic people I've ever known. He was always up doing something, getting his hands into things. But come evening, he sat down in that recliner and was all of a sudden a shriveled-up old man. He would sit there and act like he couldn't move and sometimes would nap with his mouth open.”

  “Huh,” Dean notes. “I always wondered where I got that.”

  “Well, if Sam is to be believed, it's a family trait,” I say.