by A J Rivers
"What reception?" I ask. I sag. "Did somebody else have one of those awkward video streaming weddings they think are spontaneous and cute? It isn't the idea of a streaming wedding I'm opposed to. It's a smart idea and economically responsible these days. It's the ones in which they pretend they just came up with this idea, even though everything has clearly been planned out and arranged for them."
I lean over the washing machine to turn on the water and tip detergent into it before tossing my tank top in, quickly followed by my shorts and socks.
"Who was it? Oh, no. Was it Pamela? I knew she was going too fast with that guy," I say.
"The Sherwood Community Center reception," Sam says.
I turn to face him and drop my hands to my hips. "That's tonight?"
"That's in half an hour," he says.
"I thought you said it was next week."
"I did. Last week."
"Well, shit. I just threw my good outfit in the washer," I say.
Sam looks me up and down, taking in my white bra and panty set.
"This is a pretty good look for you. But I don't think it's what they were hoping for."
I turn off the washer and head for the bathroom.
"Got it. Let me take a shower. It will be fine. I've gotten ready for things in less time," I say.
True to my word, I'm bathed, dressed, and trying to finagle hair and makeup in the car twenty minutes later. Fortunately, for the sake of time management, my days of hoping to pull off the glam makeup look went out right about the time glam Barbie did. A nice base, a few swipes, and a couple of brushes, and I'm good to go.
It's exciting heading for the reception. This has been a long time coming. After a string of horrific murders and kidnappings ended with me fighting the armed perpetrator in the hall of the old high school a few years ago, there was a lot of debate about what to do with the building. It wasn't as well outfitted and technologically advanced as the new school built on the other side of town several years ago. But it's still a solid building and surrounded by sports fields, a track, and beautiful landscapes.
Most people in Sherwood agreed it would be a shame to just get rid of the building. But we also didn't want it just sitting there to decay, a reminder of the horrible things that happened.
The final conclusion was to turn it into something good for everyone. A few community programs were being run out of schools and churches in the area, but the town committee decided it would be even better to have one place people could go. One place where they would be able to spend time with friends and family, get some exercise, participate in clubs, teams, and classes, and stay safe.
Dedicated to the memory of the victims from that string of crimes, it has finally come into being. Now after more than a year of planning and work, it's ready to open within the next couple of weeks. Heading up the childcare and afterschool program department is Bianca Hernandez, an old friend of Sam's who I met when I first came back to Sherwood. Her daughter was kidnapped in the crime spree but survived and gave us vital information that led to unraveling the mystery.
It's good to see Bianca thriving. She hasn't had the easiest go of things, but clawing her way out of addiction and fighting for her child has made her strong. I've watched how much she's put into creating the center, and I can't wait to see how it unfolds. I know it's going to be amazing for the entire community.
The school looks lit up and alive as we drive down the freshly paved road to the parking lot. I glance over toward the track looping around a soccer field to the side of the building. In the back of my mind, I can still see the shoe sitting in the middle of it. Sam's hand slipping into mine to help me out of the car helps the image go away.
Bands set up in different rooms throughout the school fill the brightly lit hallways with music, and tables weighed down with food from what seems like every restaurant in town create a party atmosphere inside. Members of the committee, as well as prominent members of the community who provided support for the center, roam around looking at displays presenting the activities and features the center will offer.
"Sheriff Johnson, good to see you," Mayor Tuttweiler says in his cheerful, booming voice as he walks up and gives Sam a hard handshake.
This is a man who is always on. An old school politician with snow-white hair and cheeks that glow red when he laughs, he's got a Santa vibe that just misses out on working because all six feet five inches of him is taut muscle. It never left after years in the military. He always speaks like he's at a podium but manages to come across as genuine rather than slimy. That's a feat these days.
"Hello, Mayor. Nice to see you, too. Glad you were able to come out and see the center," Sam says.
"Absolutely. It's a wonderful thing. A wonderful thing." He looks at me and offers a gentler hand. "And Emma. Oh, Agent Griffin. I'm sorry. I still have to get used to that."
I shake my head. "It's alright, Mayor. You taught my middle school civics class about local government and helped enough people do well on the test that we didn't have to do an extra project for that unit. I think you can call me Emma."
Sam and the mayor laugh, but he's distracted by another man walking up beside him. He swings his arm behind his back and gives him a pat.
"This is Judge Dermott Melville. He's an old friend. He wanted to come tonight and see what Sherwood made of this place."
"Nice to meet you," I say to the judge.
He gives me a wide grin. "You, too. I've heard a lot about you. Didn't know the Bureau had agents so pretty."
"Oh," I say, taken aback by the comment. "Well, thank you."
"Just like the military now. Wish they had some girls who look like the ones in uniform now when we were serving. Jimmy and I could tell you some stories about the girls we had to find out at the bars during the war, couldn't we?"
He nudges the mayor, and they laugh. I hope we're not about to hear any of those stories, but I'm not so lucky. Sam and I finally manage to extricate ourselves ten minutes later and head for the food.
"Wow," I say as we load up our plates and find a quiet corner.
"Yeah," Sam says. "I didn't know Mayor Tuttweiler had it in him."
"You mean good ol' Jimmy? It doesn't really shock me. It kind of fits in with his personality. Big and loud and boisterous, just all polished and prettied up for politics. I just didn't necessarily need to hear about it."
Sam laughs, and I reach for a tiny cup of pastry filled with mushrooms and onions. Just as I'm about to put it in my mouth, my phone alerts in the pocket of my dress. I have a soft place in my heart for whoever decided to start putting pockets in dresses, but they are only really effective when I have a hand to reach into them. Sam takes my plate, and I pull out my phone. It's an email from Eric.
There's an attachment and a one-line message.
"Who is she?"
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dragon
Six years ago…
All around them, people tried to pretend they weren't watching. But there were more eyes on him now than there ever had been.
They weren't just curious now. Envy and bitterness joined the questions all those eyes silently asked. He had no need to answer them. No compulsion to satisfy that curiosity.
Every one of them noticed the days ticking past with her still sitting on the platform, her chair pulled close to his at the table. No one else had been invited again. Not since he saw her. Not that the women didn't still wait and hope. They saw her sitting there. They saw the way his arm draped casually across in the back of her chair or around her waist. They saw his lips brush against the side of her neck and the way she laughed and curled against him.
But they still waited. They still hoped for the moment when he would lose interest in her the way he always had with everyone else before. And hoped even more to be the ones to fall into the place she would leave empty.
He had never done this before. There had never been this long a time when the same woman occupied the space beside him. They were ethereal and c
hanging. They fit his mood and the way his day had gone. They were as much like ordering from the menu as the drink in his hand.
But not anymore. Not since he saw her.
None of them could understand what she had done. She was beautiful. But that wasn't enough. They couldn't figure out what it was that kept her sitting there.
Neither could he. There was just something about her, something intangible he had never seen before. And he couldn't get enough of her.
Ariella slid closer to him; her thigh pressed against his. He slid his hand between her knees, feeling the warmth of her skin through her sheer black pantyhose. She nuzzled her face against the side of his neck.
"It's getting late," she whispered.
He knew what that meant. It was what she said before she stepped down from the platform and disappeared into the night. She never let him go with her. She never offered to stay.
"Let me drive you home tonight," he said.
Ariella shook her head. Her hair sent up the smell of citrus and sugar.
"I don't need you to," she said.
"But do you want me to?" he asked, a smile curving his lips just enough for her to see it.
"I walk," she said. "It's not far enough to drive."
"Then let me walk with you."
She paused just for a moment, her eyes locking onto his, and a slow smile mirrored his.
"If you'd like to."
He stood and took her hand.
"Have my car ready when I get back," he said to his men and then nodded.
They hadn't gotten used to her. They watched her with the kind of caution he should have been feeling.
He walked her out into the cool night and held her hand as they made their way down the sidewalk. This was the way she had gone when he’d chased her, and he wondered how much farther he would have had to go if she hadn't stopped when she did. That was the first night she’d sat at his table with him. After their kiss, he’d brought her back to the bar and onto the platform. She hadn’t resisted it.
They got to the corner, and he followed her lead as she turned. After another block, she started across an alley. He didn't like that. His muscles tensed, and his shoulders squared as he looked around, making sure they were the only ones there. Alleys like that often hid the unsavory. Not like him. The lowlife scum who could only dream of living his life. They thought they were like him, but they never would be.
She paused at the bottom of steps leading up to an apartment building.
"Goodnight," she said.
"I'm not done walking you home," he said.
He guided her up the stairs, and she smiled as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
It wasn't a question. More a confirmation.
"What if I'm not done seeing you tonight?" he asked, leaning down to kiss the side of her neck.
She sighed at first, tilting her head to give him more access, then tucked her head against his and moved away.
"Goodnight," she said.
"Why?" he asked.
She looked at him, her eyes searching his.
"What's your name?"
"Dragon," he said.
She shook her head. "Not what people call you. What is your name?"
His eyes narrowed at her. "Why?"
"Why do I want to know your name?" she asked with a hint of laughter in her voice.
"Yes."
"Because I want to know you. I want to know who you are."
Discomfort moved through him, battling the draw to her. It won.
"You know enough," he said.
He reached to pull her back to him, but she resisted. She pressed a hand to his chest and eased him back from her.
"Then you do, too," she said.
He didn't realize she already had the keys in her hands until the door was open, and she stepped through it. Dragon lunged at it and pulled on the handle, but it wouldn't budge. He was instantly desperate but angry. She was getting too close. He was allowing her too close. No woman knew him.
But maybe she was different.
Chapter Thirty
Now
"What do you think?" Sam asks.
I hear the question, but it doesn't completely sink in.
"Huh?" I ask, turning away from the window to look at him.
He glances away from the windshield just long enough to flash me a smile.
"I asked what you think. About teaching the criminal justice class at the Community Center," he says.
The director of the project approached us right as Sam and I were starting to leave and asked if I would be interested in teaching a limited series adult education class about criminal justice. I could pick out some of my favorite cases and talk about them or pick different topics for each class. It came as such a surprise I didn't know how to respond, so she said I could have time to think about it. They weren't going to be offering the classes until later in the fall, anyway.
"Um, I'm not really sure," I tell him.
He looks over at me again, this time with a more concerned expression on his face.
"You okay?" he asks.
My hand tightens around my phone. "There's something I need to show you."
"This is seriously inconvenient," Dean grumbles.
"It's not ideal," I say.
"You're the one who jumped ship, so you aren't around anymore," Eric points out.
"Eric," Bellamy scolds.
"She didn't jump ship,” Sam says defensively. "She came home."
"Alright, enough," Dad says, interjecting in that voice that makes all of us behave even though we're grown adults. "I don't think any of us is going to try to say this is the perfect way for us to be together, but it's the only option right now. So, instead of everybody complaining and being difficult, let's just talk about what's going on.”
“Thank you,” I say. I hope he can see I'm looking at him, but I still haven't quite gotten the hang of using video chats like this. Having everybody's picture up on the screen at the same time is distracting, and I'm not sure where I'm looking at any given moment. “I'm going to put the picture up on the screen.”
I click a few commands, and the image of my computer screen shows up beside the pictures of Dean, Bellamy, Eric, and my father. I pull up the picture of Lakyn from the conference and zoom in on it.
“That's her,” Bellamy says, the words coming out in a breath.
I nod, staring at the picture of the blonde woman. She's turned to face the camera more than she was in the security footage of her walking out of the hospital with Greg, but it's unmistakable. This is the same woman with whom Greg inexplicably left the hospital after being discharged, even though he was supposed to wait for one of us. The same woman who walked across the parking lot with him then disappeared out of frame.
It's the same woman whom none of us have been able to identify, and who hasn't come forward even after news of his death featured on every media outlet for weeks. For almost a year and a half now, all of us have been trying to figure out who this woman is and what she was doing with Greg. Now suddenly, she's right here in front of us. Appearing in the back of a picture of another person who has seemed to simply disappear.
“I don't understand,” Dean frowns. “What is she doing there?”
“She must be waiting to talk to Lakyn,” I say. “To me, she looks as if she's just casually standing there, expecting to talk with her. I don't think she looks agitated or worried about anything, do you?”
“No,” everyone agrees.
“And you still have no clue who she is?” Dad asks.
“None,” I shake my head. “I haven't been able to find anything that says who's in this picture. The article it was attached to doesn't say anything about her; there's no caption other than identifying Lakyn. I still have no idea.”
“It can't be a coincidence that she's now linked to two people who have not…met the best of fates,” Eric points.
"We still don't know what happened t
o Lakyn,” I reply. “She could very well have just walked away.”
"I still don't think so, Emma," Bellamy says.
"I know. I know you don't," I say.
"And there aren't any coincidences. Things like this don't just happen," Sam says.
I can remember a time when he wouldn't have been that sure about that assertion. Sam used to be a lot more carefree. A lot more immediately trusting and willing to accept what was going on around him. I know I'm responsible for the changes that have come to him. In a way, I feel guilty about it. I never wanted to take that from him.
But Sam is strong. He has never been naive or gullible. I've given him openings to walk away. There have been so many times I've sat with him and just asked him to tell me to leave. I told him I would understand if he wanted his life to go back to the way it was before he called me and asked for my help on those cases. And I would. It would crack something inside me, and I would never be the same. But I would know he was safe.
Sam has never taken me up on it. Every time I gave him those options, he stopped me. The last time, he said to never do it again. He doesn't want to walk away. He doesn't want to go back.
“Do you still think she just walked away, Emma?" Dean asks. "Really believe it?"
"Right now, I don't know what I think," I say. “Part of me still completely believes she could have created this entire thing. But now that I'm learning more about what she's been doing with the prisons, and I see this picture, I'm not as sure.”
“I think you need to tell Detective White about this,” Dean says. “If this is all connected, he should know what's going on.”
“I know,” I say. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Sam and I look at each other. His hand slides over to hold mine.
“You have to go back,” he says.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “I think I do.”
