by A J Rivers
“Let me get you another one of those,” he said.
She shook her head. “I'm alright. Thank you.”
“I invited you to my table,” he said.
She was unaffected by the revelation and only gave a bob of her head.
“I know,” she said.
“Why didn't you come sit with me?”
She looked at him again, something approaching a smile tilting up her glossy red lips.
“Just wasn't interested,” she said.
“You have a man somewhere?” he asked.
She finished off her drink and shook her head, shifting her position, so she leaned to the side against the bar.
“No,” she said.
“Then why'd you turn down my invitation?”
“Was it an invitation or a command?”
He licked his lips, his smile wider. This woman was getting to him. It shocked him as much as it intrigued him. She turned back around and faced the bar, her elbows propped on it as she twisted her glass around in the shallow pool of condensation on the polished wood.
"You look different tonight."
"I was at a party," she said as if it explained the way she’d looked the first time he’d seen her.
"I like this," he said and waited for her reaction. When none came, he took a step closer. Breathed in sweet citrus. "Come sit with me."
She glanced over, and her eyes dropped to the stool beside her.
"Sit with me," she said.
He couldn't walk away from her. All around him, there were women vying for a single drop of his attention, just for a second to know he noticed they existed. Yet he couldn't move away from her. She had a grip on him without even touching him.
He stared at her for a few seconds, waiting for her to relent. Her expression never changed. Finally, he slid onto the stool and was rewarded with a slight smile on those full ruby lips.
Everywhere he went, he was noticed. Now, she noticed him, too.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Ariella."
He offered his hand, and she rested hers in his palm. Her skin looked milky against the gold tint the sun baked into his. As if she only existed in the shadows. Only came out at night to tempt him.
"I'm called Dragon."
Chapter Seven
Now
“So, silver lining to my forgetting I was supposed to bake a cake today is, you get to see the infamous Sherwood grocery store,” I say.
Dean looks at me from the passenger seat and laughs.
“Infamous because it's in Sherwood?" he asks.
"Um… yes," I say. "But, also, it means you can get the food you like to have at the house while you're staying with me."
"Is this the same grocery store where you won the murder vacation?” Dean asks.
I hold up my hand like I'm displaying his point.
“There you go. That's why it's the infamous Sherwood grocery store,” I say.
He laughs. "So, has anything else come out of that whole situation? Did anybody ever find the owner of the island and the resort?”
“You mean the mysterious Mr. Windsor?” I shake my head. “No. It turns out even the people working at the resort didn't know how to get in touch with him. They only spoke to him when he called. The person they thought was him was actually a representative of his sent to the resort.”
“A representative?” Dean asked. “I thought he actually went sometimes.”
“I thought so, too. But when people have been asking around, nobody has been able to give any indication that they’ve actually had a conversation with him in person. It's completely bizarre. He owns the company through a holding company that is listed as an anonymous LLC. The actual identity of the owner and any other members of the board, if there are any, aren't public record.”
“But since the resort was being used both for smuggling drugs and as part of a human trafficking ring, there has to be something the authorities can do. It can't possibly just continue operating because the owner's name isn't publicly listed,” Dean says.
“No, it can't. The resort has been shut down, and everyone who doesn't have a legal residence on the island has been removed. But the investigation is still trying to untangle everything else.”
“What about the employees who were providing the drugs and trafficking women? Aren't they talking?” Dean asks.
“That's the thing; those are two separate issues. The drugs were fairly well-known among most of the people who went to the resort. It was just one of those perks, and as completely bizarre as it might sound, a lot of them genuinely believe because they were in international waters, they could get away with using them,” I say.
"Can they?" Dean asks. "I mean… if the island truly is located in international waters, does American law apply?"
“And you just stumbled on another reason this is a particularly fun investigation. The thing is, nobody seems to know. Until the task forces are able to clearly identify the owner of the islands, it's difficult to establish nationality. Despite common perception, most private islands aren't actually sovereign. They're owned by individuals, but they are still pieces of countries. It's just like buying a plot of land in a neighborhood or a house on a section of a mountain. The person doesn't become a government by owning that land,” I explain.
“So, it's possible Windsor Island actually is owned by another country?" Dean asks.
"That's the general consensus. Which just leads into another mess of confusion. Apparently, there are a few nations in the running to claim ownership of the island. It has tribal links to a couple of different places, and even though there are no true direct descendants left of the tribe that originally lived there, a few places in the surrounding area have anecdotal evidence.”
“What does that mean?” he asks.
“Oral histories of the people living on surrounding islands and a couple of nearby nations include taking ownership of a piece of land in the general area where Windsor Island is now. But the island has always maintained a relationship with the nearby mainland. When the first murder happened, the resort needed to call in police since there weren't any on the island. So, it's possible the mainland has claim. The investigators have to figure out who has verifiable domain over the island. It won't change the ownership issue, but it will define which laws are technically in place.”
"And that will determine what charges can be brought up against the resort and the guests who used the… amenities. But it doesn't really help with unraveling the rest of the ring," Dean muses.
"Exactly. The one thing that Mr. Windsor, whoever he is, has going for him is that the managers who coordinated the trafficking ring have been very clear the ring is separate from him. He didn't orchestrate it or have anything to do with it. Now, they won't give any indication of who is in the upper level of the ring, but that's something."
"You sound like you're more involved with the investigation than I thought you wanted to be," he points out.
"I'm not actually involved. The Bureau created a task force to manage everything that went on. Eventually, it will break down to dealing with the drugs and the trafficking separately, but even though it's been a few months, it's still really in its infancy. Since I was there and solved the murders, I've been questioned several times. The investigators are keeping me up to date and have been trying to get me more involved, but I'm staying out of it."
"Are you really?" Dean asks as we pull into the parking lot of the grocery store.
I turn off the engine and sigh, dropping my hands onto the steering wheel. "Sort of?"
Dean laughs. "That's convincing."
I roll my eyes and release my seatbelt. "Nobody knows who this Mr. Windsor is. He's obviously fairly reclusive and doesn't want a lot of attention drawn to him."
"Right," Dean says.
We climb out of the car, and I look at him through the glare bouncing off the top of the car.
"So, why the sweepstakes?" I wonder.
I shut the door, and we s
tart across the lot.
"What do you mean? What about the sweepstakes?”
"This guy doesn't even want people to know who he is. His resort is extremely popular among a highly exclusive clientele, willing to come and shell out massive amounts of money on luxury accommodations and perks that aren't going to show up in a brochure. But he all of a sudden decides he wants to do a sweepstakes to give away a vacation?"
“Well, you did mention something about a festival, and the giveaway was focused on that,” Dean says.
“Yeah, a festival that didn't happen because of the murders.”
“That's not exactly something that could have been predicted.”
“No, but you would think if there was going to be a massive festival going on, there would have been some other preparations underway. Somebody would have mentioned something. Not that it didn't exist, but it obviously wasn't as big a deal as it was made out to be, not big enough for a vacation to be planned around it and given away. The resort definitely didn't need the attention. In fact, after being there for far too long, I can tell you the people who frequented it would much rather not have a bunch of new people flooding the resort. They were very content with their little in-crowd.”
"Then how did you end up winning?" he asks. I glance over at him with a raised eyebrow, and he nods. "Ah. Another element of the unknown."
"You're catching on to the theme. The sweepstakes seemed to be a surprise to everybody at the resort, too. Constance at the front desk specifically mentioned when I checked in that they didn't know about the sweepstakes until they were informed of my win and my arrival date. But she ended up being all wrapped up in the trafficking ring, so it's not that she just wasn't in the know. It just all strikes me as very strange. What good would it do to bring me out there? Why would people running a resort propped up by simultaneously operating drug and human trafficking rings want to bring in an FBI agent?"
"Someone found out about the plan to murder that girl and wanted to do something about it?"
We step through the sliding doors into the bracing cold of the heavily air-conditioned store. I chase out the humid outdoor air threatening to steam the insides of my lungs with a deep breath.
"By calling in a federal agent with no jurisdiction to happen to be in the right place at the right time to hear the woman who found the body screaming? That doesn't seem very efficient. Besides, there was no plan. Not a long, drawn-out one, anyway. Rose died because she was going to leave with Emmanuel and reveal the secrets of the resort," I say.
"But you don't think the sweepstakes was real?" he asks.
"At this point, no."
I yank a cart from the row lined up at the front windows. "But I don't know how. The manager wasn't confused or surprised when Gabriel told me I won. She knew all about it, gave me all the information. Which means it came from somewhere else. I just don't know who would want me there. Or why."
Chapter Eight
“Fair enough,” Dean says. “Quick change of topic.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved. “Sam and I have been over this so much. I just need it out of my head right now.”
“That was actually a really good transition,” Dean chuckles.
“What do you mean?”
“I just want to ask you… what's going on with you and Sam?”
“The… same thing that’s always going on with us?” I raise an eyebrow.
“No, more like… why don't you live together?”
“Oh,” I say, heading into the baking aisle to start gathering up the ingredients I need. “That is quite the detour, isn't it?”
“I'm sorry. Should I not have asked that? Am I being too nosy?” he asks.
“No,” I shrug. “No, really, it's fine. It's not as if it's a sensitive subject or anything. The truth is, we're really good. We're in a great place in our relationship, and I guess we just don't want to mess with that. As I told you, we're not officially living together, but we spend more of our time together than not. We have a good, steady rhythm of life.”
"Are you saying that genuinely, or is there something you're trying to compensate for with an excessive amount of canned icing?"
I look down in the cart and see the growing pile of frosting in various flavors. I've already tossed in five, and I have two more gripped in my hands. Cream Cheese and Chocolate Fudge.
"No," I say, holding up the cans to emphasize them. "These are in case everything goes terribly wrong with my recipes, and I have to cobble together a cupcake mosaic in the shape of a game board in the very short amount of time I have left before Janet's party. And because Sam likes to eat the chocolate one in bed, straight out of the can."
"Well, that was unnecessary."
"On a couple of levels, but it's him. That's Sam. I know that about him when nobody else does."
"Except me, now, which… thanks."
"Okay, I'm sorry. The point is, I like that I know that about him. I like that I'm the one who taunts him about it but ends up bringing it to him. Everybody else knows this big Sheriff Samuel Johnson persona he puts on for the town. But I know Sam, the boy who rescued my ball for me when I was a little girl and kicked it into the street. The guy who held my hand for the first time when I was twelve and we went to a movie for the first time without any parents. The teenager who made me feel beautiful and safe and loved. The one who I poured everything out to when I had nightmares about my mother, and again when my father disappeared. I see the man who I knew I wanted to marry, so I left him behind to go into the Bureau. And the man who loves me despite that and everything else I drag into his life pretty much every day."
It’s a lot for walking down a grocery store aisle tossing cake-making supplies into my cart, but Dean isn't the first to ask that question. Plenty of others have wondered the same thing. They might not have asked the same questions, but the way they look at us is enough. The way they call him my “boyfriend”, in a slight whisper as if I might be offended by it. Right down to the way each of us has gotten individual wedding invitations that offered plus-ones.
The thing is, I'm not offended by it. I don't feel as if I have to follow anybody else's pattern or live up to what anybody else thinks I should be doing. Sam and I are happy just the way we are.
"Is this one of those situations when you don't talk about the future because you're both in law enforcement and you don't want to set yourselves up?" Dean asks.
“Set ourselves up for what?” He looks at me in that way that means he doesn't want to say it, and I know exactly what he's thinking. “The chance that one of us will get hurt or die in the line of duty? That's not just an abstract to us, Dean. You should probably realize that by now. He and I have faced horrible things together. There have been moments in the last couple of years when each of us has wondered if the other was going to survive. That doesn't make us hesitant to be together. It makes us happy that we have the chance," I say.
"Have you ever thought about anything else?” he asks.
“Of course we have. This also isn't the kind of relationship where we pretend the future doesn't exist or get weirded out by acknowledging it. Neither one of us questions that we want to be together. We just agreed from the beginning to take things slow. Though, at this point, we might have reached glacier pace. If it was anybody else at our age, I would probably say we should be married by now. Or at least engaged.”
“No, I get it,” Dean says. “You're super independent. Besides, after everything you've been through, I can understand your being uncertain.”
I smile and toss a few bags of the kinds of snack foods I'm definitely not supposed to eat but are just too good to pass up into my cart. It's getting to be a fat and sugar extravaganza in there, and I kind of just want to climb in. But I'm an adult, so I don't get to do things like that. I'll just wait until bed and crawl in beside Sam with an extra spoon.
“That's the thing, Dean. I'm not uncertain. Not even a little bit. Of everything in my entire life, Sam is what I am most certain about. H
e has been there for me since we were kids. Even when I walked away from him, I did it because I knew what I wanted. I knew if I didn't, I would never leave Sherwood. I'd spend the rest of my life with him, right here. That hasn't changed," I say.
"So, why did you leave?" Dean asks.
"Because I had to. There were things I needed to do. But I still found my way back to him. And I'm happy where we are. Not because I don't want to be anything else. Not because I'm afraid of moving ahead. Just because I'm happy. You talked about the upheaval and confusion in my life. And you're right. I've had plenty of that. But it didn't make me not want a commitment. It makes me feel good to just have something solid and real."
"I'm happy for you, Emma."
"You know what? I am, too. But I won't be if I have to face Janet with a plate of birthday s'mores rather than a cake, so let's get back to the house."
We get to the front of the store, and I look up and down the registers, then frown.
"What's wrong?" Dean asks.
I glance over at him. "Huh? Oh. Nothing. It's just that Gabriel isn't here. He hasn't been the last few times I've been shopping." I join a line, and when I get to the register, the cashier smiles at me. "Hey, Lucy."
"Hey, Emma. How are you doing?"
"Good. This is my cousin, Dean. He's visiting for a bit," I point to Dean behind me and see Lucy blush.
"Nice to meet you," Dean says.
She keeps smiling, but not saying anything, so I decide to rescue her.
"I haven't seen Gabriel for the last couple of weeks. Does he still work here?" I ask.
"He does," Lucy says. "He's been on leave. His grandmother passed. He's supposed to be back next week."
My heart aches for the young, hopeful man who came to Sherwood to take care of the grandmother he loved so much. He expected this to happen. He wasn't waiting for a miracle or planning for her to suddenly get up and make his favorite stuffed grape leaves he told me about after one grocery trip when I dipped into the marinated olive bar. Gabriel came only to show her the same love she’d shown him in the last part of her life.
