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.
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The Girl And The Deadly Express
A.J. Rivers
Contents
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
Epilogue
More Emma Griffin FBI Mysteries
Staying In Touch With A.J.
Also by A.J. Rivers
Chapter One
Him
Eighteen years ago…
It was never supposed to be this way.
He had everything in place. His life and hers were tailored to align. It was what was meant to happen. What was written out in the book of life. Blood and stardust and mothers’ milk formed into words that told their story. It was transcribed for them: laid out before them from the beginning. Her eyes shared their common past and in them, he saw his future. Drinking breath from her cupped hands would fill him with life. Give him immortality. As long as she breathed, he breathed. As long as their blood continued, he continued.
But it was never supposed to be this way.
Years were taken from him. From them. Those days were gone, dissolved away. All the possibilities of what could have been were set aflame. Injustice and the cruelty of others had reduced it to ashes. But he wasn’t going to give up. He would rise above, pull her from the ashes. Create something new. In the scars of what was left behind, they would find their beauty.
He didn’t know if he needed to forgive her. In all these years they spent apart, she never even glanced his way, never murmured his name. She never displayed what was truly in her heart. But he knew it was there. At the very core, buried where only Creation could hide and protect it, she held him. She held what they shared and what they would always share. Maybe it wasn’t her fault she’d lost sight of it. She had been misled, lured away from him by a pretender. Familiar eyes and a Cheshire smile. It was hard to pull away when it seemed so right.
It was up to him to help her. His mind was clear, his thoughts precise. He could see sharply through her confusion. She would know. He would reach within her and find what was hidden, draw it out, and show her. When there was no choice, when the fog was gone, she would see him.
Maybe it was better this way. He hadn’t thought about that. In the years that dragged on and the days that burned around him, he could only think of the pain and the injustice. The blank slates around him were torture. He could only let his mind etch them with the images of what slipped through his fingers. Every day the images grew, a thicket of vines devised of his imagination and studded with glass flowers. They bloomed and shattered, slicing deep until blood ran and tinted his vision red. It was all he could think about. It was the only way he could venture beyond the walls to where he was supposed to be and watch as what they created became reality.
Those walls were gone now. He emerged from the shards, and through the blood, he was purified. He could let go of the torment and see how it strengthened him. It only made his love deeper. It only proved his truth. Those trials and tribulations were what needed to be done to show his worth and sharpened his focus. Now he was ready. He would show her all he did for her, and she would be ready for the sacrifice. Then what was his and had been stolen would be restored. What was theirs and had been held away would be restored. Only then could they truly thrive.
Keeping the distance between them had been brutal. Another trial to prove himself. But it was his only choice. He had been cast out, tossed aside. Stricken from memory. But the erasure could never really be complete. Nothing could filter blood and empty minds. They could pretend. But he was there. He had always been there. He would always be there.
It was never supposed to be this way.
Yet it was and there was nothing he could do to change it now. Those days were gone. Those heartbeats were counted. He couldn’t have them back. But he could have the rest. He was cast aside, just like all the righteous. They clawed through and bore the pain to emerge powerful and anointed, and that was what he would do. He would prove himself to her. He wouldn’t let anything stand in his way. He would do what needed to be done to protect her and ensure she was never taken from him again.
It was never supposed to be this way.
But it wouldn’t be again. She would be his everything. Always.
Chapter Two
Two months ago…
I’m not sure why people bring flowers to the hospital. I can almost understand potted plants, but even that feels strange. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, here’s the obligation to sustain the life of another being. Cut flowers are completely beyond me. They’re lovely, don’t get me wrong. I love a good whiff of a rose as much as the next person. But it has always felt out of place and even a little morbid to walk into a hospital room with a handful of flowers chopped from their stems and slowly dying as a means of cheering someone up.
Maybe it’s an issue of perspective.
But that’s why the roses I’m holding as Sam and I walk into Pamela’s hospital room are shimmery and metallic, their red just a little too red and their thorns a mediocre little flick of black ink. Her eyes lock on them as soon as she sees them, and one dark blond eyebrow arches up.
“What are those?” she asks.
Her voice is gradually working its way above a strained whisper. She only winces slightly when the words push past the row of stitches across her throat. My hand shoots out toward her, presenting her with the bouquet.
“Dark chocolate,” I tell her. “With those little crispy rice doodads.”
“I do enjoy a doodad,” Pamela says, accepting the flowers and peeling back a corner of red foil to reveal some of the chocolate.
“Can I get you some water for those?” Sam asks.
“Well, chocolate really does go better with wine, but I don’t think the doctors are going to let me have a vase of cabernet for a while.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask. “I know that’s kind of a stupid question, considering, but it’s the social contract. I ask; you lie.”
Pamela manages a smile. “I’m actually doing better. Still hurts, but
it’s healing. No infections, so I’m grateful for that. It could have been a lot worse.”
“I’m sure this is going to come out sounding a lot different than I intend it to… but I’m glad Sarah’s knife was so sharp,” I tell her.
She laughs, then cringes. “I appreciate the sentiment.”
The truth is, the fact that Sarah Mueller used an extremely sharp knife when she slit Pamela’s throat in that cemetery is the only reason Pamela is still alive. If it was dull, it could have mangled the flesh and torn apart the blood vessels and arteries so much they couldn’t have been pieced back together. Pamela only lived because of the combination of a very sharp blade and a last-second movement that let the knife slice cleanly through. The smooth cut made it possible for the doctors to stem the bleeding and piece her back together.
The same couldn’t be said for Sarah. After everything she put Sherwood through, all the lies and deceit, murder and a gunshot victim, everything just to try to discredit me, all she had to show for it was a bloody death on a stranger’s grave. My bullet tore through her in the instant after she cut Pamela’s throat. She was dead in the next.
It was too good for her. I know I shouldn’t say that about another human being, especially after everything I’ve done to try to save lives. But it might be because of everything I’ve done that makes me say that.
Sarah was so focused on her perception that I destroyed her life by having her boyfriend arrested for murder, she couldn’t think of anything but bringing me down. She genuinely believed if she could make me look like I had lost touch with reality and my crumbling mental health had become dangerous to the people around me, Travis Burke would be given a new trial for the murder of his wife. A murder that became my first case with the FBI. The complicated, disturbing chain of events created by that belief left a young woman dead, an innocent man struggling with a gunshot wound, my new friend in the hospital, and a town of shattered lives.
And it almost worked. Not that it would have ever led to the Burke case being reopened. That evidence was indisputable, and in the years that have passed since proving his involvement, Burke went on record more than once talking about his wife’s murder. It would have done nothing to benefit either of them, but Sarah still almost turned the entire town of Sherwood against me. Her twisted game of stealing the name and story of Pamela’s cousin to create a neighbor no one believed I met nearly ruined my life. She nearly stripped me of my reputation, my job, my relationship with Sam, and my future. And not only had my time in jail and public ridicule nearly broken me down, had I not fought with every fiber of my being, she would have cost Pamela her life as well. It was poetic justice Sarah Mueller, died on the grave of the woman she used and defamed to torment me.
“Kevin had his second hearing today,” Sam tells Pamela.
I wait for the emotion. I’m honestly not sure which one it’s going to be. There are several different options for how she could react to the man who betrayed her. He said he did it for her, but we all knew Kevin really teamed up with Sarah to save his own ass. She dangled the juicy gossip of his affair with Pamela in front of him and threatened to toss it to his wife like a piece of meat to the lions. It likely would have ended much the same way for both him and Pamela. The only way to keep her mouth shut was to do exactly what she said, which amounted to accomplice to murder. And attempted murder, if we could prove he really did try to run Pamela off the road the day of the poisoning.
“What happened?” she asks, her face like stone.
There’s the Pamela I know.
“A lot of arguing. Legal mumbo jumbo, essentially. Because Sarah is dead, there’s no one for him to inform on to make a plea. Prosecutors don’t really care if he can spill everything about a dead woman. But his attorneys are arguing he shouldn’t be held culpable for Nicole Bowman’s death because of Sarah’s hold over him. The whole thing could go one of three ways. It could either get really nasty and drag on for months or even years. They could offer him a plea based on what they can prove his level of involvement was with the totality of the crimes. Or they could come to the conclusion he wasn’t responsible and drop all charges against him. I highly doubt it will end up as the third option,” I explain.
“I hope not. He deserves at least something,” Pamela tells me. Apparently, Pamela’s good will toward him has worn off, the more she healed.
Sam and I stay a little longer, then leave Pamela to her painkiller drip and an afternoon of trashy TV in between naps. Her hospital stay shouldn’t last too much longer. A couple more days and the doctors will send her packing, but for now, she needs the rest.
We stop by Pearl’s Diner on the way back to my house. Pearl Holloway looks older these days. Not that anyone blames her. She’s probably faring far better than most people would after going through what she did. I’m sure she thought the mass poisoning and murder of Nicole Bowman at her diner would be the worst thing she could weather, but she was wrong. Now she faces the reality that her grandson Kevin was at least partly responsible and is trickling his way through the justice system.
But Pearl is a strong woman. A throwback to another time when people had the fortitude to get through and the perseverance to want to. She’s keeping her head up and her business open. I know one day soon, the crowds will come back. The whispering will stop. One day it will all be back to normal. Until then, I keep stopping by for a hug and lunch. It might be a while before I’m able to stomach biscuits and gravy or chocolate cake, but for now, the turkey club with a side of potato salad and slabs of lemon bars will do me just fine.
Rather than staying at the Diner, we bring our food back to my house and sit in the living room. Cold weather always makes me want to be home. The promise of a cold December is certainly nipping at my nose.
“Were you able to get in touch with Creagan?” Sam asks.
He scoops up some of his potato salad with a house-made potato chip. One of Pearl’s specialties.
“That’s an aggressive potato-eating approach you’ve got going there,” I observe.
“It gives me all the textures,” he offers with a grin.
The small home gym he has in the back room of his house is a wonder of body-sculpting technology. He eats like that and still manages to have a body that would be right at home in art history books.
“Anyway. Yes, I did talk to Creagan. He wants to have a conference so we can get everything officially worked out,” I tell him, plucking the toothpick out of one half of my sandwich, so I can take a bite.
“How does that make you feel?” he asks.
I slide my eyes over to him and shake my head. “Nope. None of that. I’ve had enough of that. My personal growth might have brought me to a place where I’m willing to admit therapy can be beneficial, but I’m still not into people tiptoeing through the tulips of my mind. Not about this, anyway. Other stuff, maybe sometimes. But this… this, I’ve got under control.”
“So, you’re positive about this? You’re sure this is what you want?” he asks.
“If I wasn’t, it’s not what I would be doing.”
“When are you meeting with him?”
“He says he’s not going to have time until after the holidays. We’ll put something together then,” I tell him.
“So, you have time to change your mind.”
“Are you afraid I’m going to?”
“Are you going to?”
I put down my sandwich and reach out to take Sam’s hands.
“Listen to me,” I say. “I’ve thought about this a lot, and this is what I want. The FBI has always been my dream, and it still is. But that doesn’t mean I have to be right there near Quantico. It doesn’t mean I have to be in the headquarters all the time. Plenty of agents live and work in other places.”
“It hasn’t always been your dream,” he points out.
I let out a breath. When he looks at me, Sam still sees the girl he knew when we were growing up in Sherwood. The teenager he fell in love with so long ago. The high school sweet
heart. The girl with the paintbrush in her hand and ink stains on her fingers. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked inside myself and seen that girl.
“It’s my dream now. But I can follow it in a different capacity from Sherwood,” I tell him. “Can’t you be happy about that?”
He leans forward and kisses me. “Yes. I can be happy about that.”
Chapter Three
It didn't feel like Thanksgiving a couple of weeks ago when Sam mentioned it. The cold was in the air, and the leaves had already turned brown and made their way down to the grass, but the feeling just wasn't there. It still isn't. Not really. Not the way it used to be. Thanksgiving always used to be one of my favorite holidays. Possibly my favorite. But this year, I just can't find that feeling, that nostalgic tug in my belly that always used to come when I thought about things like turkeys and cornucopias and the Macy's day parade.
Not that I'm not thankful. If anything, I'm more thankful this year than I have been in most other years in recent memory. There's no shortage of things for me to feel thankful for and grateful about. Not the least of which is simply being alive to see another Thanksgiving. But there's an almost flat feeling to it this year like I never got the running start I needed earlier in the fall to make the big leap into the holiday season.
