Be a Good Girl

by Tess Diamond

  Just looking at his face brought a rush of adolescent anger and annoyance to the surface, but Paul pushed it down. Hopefully, Ryan had just been a stupid egotistical kid who had changed. God knows, Paul had done and said some stupid shit as a teenager.

  “Harrison,” Ryan drawled, clearly trying to recover after being caught playing Candy Crush or whatever instead of working. “What are you doing here?”

  Paul wasn’t petty enough to flash his badge, so instead he just said, “I’m here on business. I need access to the records room.”

  Ryan’s eyebrows scrunched together. “I don’t think you’re authorized to do that.”

  Clearly, the guy hadn’t changed. “Is Sheriff Alan here?” he asked pointedly.

  “Alan’s on a call,” Ryan said. “We’ve been dealing with an arsonist this entire fire season. Looks like we’re finally gonna catch him.”

  “And they left you behind to watch the phones?” Paul asked innocently.

  Ryan’s mouth flattened. “You’re going to have to come back later,” he said firmly. “Maybe with a warrant.”

  Paul sighed, pulling out his phone. He dialed a number, raising the phone to his ear. “Hi, Sheriff,” he said, when Alan picked up. “It’s Paul Harrison.”

  “Paul!” Sheriff Alan, who’d been the sheriff ever since Baker retired after Cass’s murder, was a jovial man who looked like he belonged in a Santa suit more than with a sheriff’s badge. He was also a dedicated, loyal public servant with a keen mind. “Son of a gun, I heard you were in town for your daddy’s memorial. I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to make it, but Nancy said she had a nice talk with your momma. How are you?”

  “I’m good, Alan,” Paul said. “Listen, I’m actually at the department right now. I need access to the records room. There’s a cold case I’m looking into.”

  There was a pause, a weighted one, as Alan absorbed this information. “You looking into what I think you are?” he asked.

  Paul owed Alan a lot. When he graduated college, his grades were just barely enough to get him into Quantico. He’d never been good at tests, and that hurt him in the long run. But Alan had not only written him a recommendation, he’d gotten several of his high-connected law enforcement friends—and a politician—in Sacramento to write ones as well. Paul was pretty sure those letters were the reason he got into Quantico, where he was able to flourish and show what he was truly capable of.

  “Some new details have come to light,” Paul said. “I need to investigate.”

  Alan sighed. “I respect you too much to tell you no,” he said. “Plus, you could just make a few calls and get them yourself. Is it Clay who’s giving you a problem?”

  “That’s right,” Paul said.

  “Put me on speaker,” Alan said.

  Paul hit the button on his phone. “There you go, Alan.”

  “Clay!” Sheriff Alan barked, his voice changing from jovial to drill sergeant in one syllable. “Pull your head out of your ass and give Harrison access to the records room. The man’s FBI, for God’s sake!”

  A humiliated flush rose on Ryan’s cheeks. “Yes sir,” he ground out.

  “Thanks, Alan,” Paul said, turning the speaker off. “Hope to see you before I leave town.”

  “Keep me in the loop if you find something,” Alan said. “My boys are at your disposal once they catch this firebug.”

  “Good luck with that. I’ll let you go,” Paul said. “‘Bye now.”

  “See ya, Harrison,” Alan replied, hanging up.

  As soon as his boss wasn’t on the line, Ryan snarled, “You think you’re some big deal, don’t you, Harrison?”

  Paul raised an eyebrow. “Ryan, I just want access to the case files. If you haven’t left the petty shit behind in high school like I did, that’s your problem. Records room still in the same place?”

  Ryan nodded brusquely. “Access code is 5432.”

  “Thanks,” Paul said. “I’ll be leaving you to your very important work now.” The sarcasm dripped off his voice as he turned to leave the office and head up to the records room.

  “Tell Abby I said hi,” Ryan said pointedly.

  Paul stopped, knowing he was giving the guy the exact reaction he wanted. But then he turned, a wolfish smile on his face, all teeth and edge and warning. “I’m betting Abby wouldn’t like that,” he said.

  “Abby doesn’t like a lot of things that are good for her,” Ryan said. “It’s the way women are.”

  “How’s that misogynistic worldview working for you?” Paul asked, disgusted, and Ryan’s lips curled in a sneer as he shifted from foot to foot like a boxer prepping for a match.

  The tension in the room made Paul feel like he was walking on a razor wire. Guys like Ryan were pretty predictable—unless they snapped.

  And he remembered all too well the one time he witnessed Ryan snapping. Because when he was still playing baseball, he’d been the one to restrain Ryan from nearly killing some kid on the rival team. Paul had come on the field just as Ryan had started kicking the guy’s head in with his cleats—if Paul hadn’t dragged him away, there would’ve been permanent damage. After that, Paul had watched him like a hawk whenever Ryan was with Abby, worried that his explosive temper would someday be directed at her.

  When they broke up, Paul had been relieved, even though Abby had seemed heartbroken. But just a month later, Cass was killed, and all thoughts about Ryan Clay and the possible threat he posed had fled Paul’s mind.

  He wasn’t intimidated by this guy even though he knew what his type was capable of. Because he knew exactly what he was capable of, and Ryan wasn’t even on the same stratosphere.

  Paul wasn’t the type to throw his power around. Why would he? People looked at him and saw a tall, affable guy who they wanted to trust. It came in damn useful in his line of work.

  But he’d spent almost twenty years training in various martial arts. It was one of the reasons it still killed him that Mancuso had gotten the better of him in the Thebes case. He should’ve been able to adapt in that moment, but he hadn’t, because his concern for his team had distracted him.

  It was a hard lesson to learn. But he was man enough to learn it.

  Without another word, Paul just turned and left the office, heading upstairs. He was halfway up to the third floor when he heard footsteps behind him.

  God, was the asshole really following him? Paul didn’t turn back, he just reached the top floor and walked over to the records room door, punching in the code and opening it. File cabinets lined the walls, with evidence boxes on free-standing shelves in the middle of the room. Paul flipped on the lights, and they flickered a few times before finally beaming bright.

  “What are you looking for, anyway?” Ryan asked, coming up behind him.

  “It’s need-to-know,” Paul said, heading over to the filing cabinet marked M. He turned to look at Ryan. “I’m good on my own.”

  Ryan folded his arms across his chest, his chin tilting up. “I’ve got more right to be here than you, Harrison.”

  Paul rolled his eyes, jerking open the filing cabinet. “Fine. Stand there like an ass.” He leafed through the files in the cabinet, pulling out the thick one labeled MARTIN, CASSANDRA. He set it on top of the cabinet, noting the case number, and then going over to the shelf, where the evidence boxes were. But the box with Cass’s case number on it wasn’t there.

  “Where do you guys store the evidence for closed cases?” Paul asked.

  “Basement,” Ryan said.

  Paul checked the time on his phone. It was too late to grub through the basement today and make it to dinner on time. He’d already canceled lunch on his mom, so there’d be hell to pay if he didn’t show for dinner with Abby and Zooey in tow.

  “Okay. I guess I’ll be back tomorrow, then.” He grabbed the case file, tucking it under his arm, and walked past Ryan, who was still standing there like he thought he was some sort of guard of the records room.

  God, that guy was a piece of work, Paul thought as he ma
de his way out of the sheriff’s station and back to his mother’s house. The sun was starting to dip in the sky, and the wind chimes on the porch tinkled and danced in the breeze as he parked Abby’s truck and got out.

  “Hey, stranger,” called Rose, his youngest sister, from the porch swing. “You keep disappearing on us.”

  “Abby wanted me to do something for her,” he said, smiling and walking up to sit next to her.

  “Oh, really, now?” Rose asked.

  “It’s not like that,” he said. Were all his sisters going to give him a hard time about Abby tonight? Probably. They clearly were gearing up for their torture-our-only-brother time.

  Rose was the daughter most like their mother. She had eschewed traditional college and instead had thrown herself full tilt into orchard management, a farm girl through and through. Paul didn’t think Rose would ever want to leave Castella Rock.

  There was one in each generation. The one to take up the mantle of this land that had been in their family for so long. Rose was the one. Paul was thankful, because he and his other sisters—even Faye, with all her hands-on business sense—weren’t suited for it.

  Rose was the shortest in the family, barely topping five feet. All the height was used up before we got to you, sweetheart, I’m sorry, his dad used to say with a laugh. Her blond hair was like corn silk, and her little nose was always just a bit pink, because she forgot to wear her hat while working in the orchard.

  “Faye and Georgia inside?” he asked.

  “Mom’s making meatballs,” Rose said. “And Mara Skyped in. You missed it.”

  Their middle sister, Mara, was currently overseas working with Doctors without Borders. An OB/GYN, she provided vital maternal care in war-torn countries, which meant she’d missed almost as many family events as Paul had, something the two of them had bonded about through the years.

  “Is that Paul?” Georgia peeked her head out of the screen door. “Faye! Paul’s here!”

  There was the sound of skipping footsteps, and Faye, his bombastic, wild, ready-for-anything sister came bounding out. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head haphazardly, and she was wearing an apron that said KISS THE COOK.

  “Finally,” Faye said. “What took you so long?”

  “Abby,” Rose replied.

  “Ah,” Faye said knowingly.

  “It’s always Abby, isn’t it?” Georgia asked with a pointed grin.

  “All of you, stop,” Paul said. “Abby is a friend. And she is going to be here in about ten minutes with one of my colleagues from work, so please don’t embarrass me.”

  His sisters all blinked innocently at him, and Rose got up to stand next to her sisters, linking arms with them as they smiled at him. “Us?” Georgia batted her eyes.

  “Embarrass you?” Faye said.

  “We’d never!” Rose added.

  Oh, God. He was so doomed. Why had he let his mother talk him into this when he called to cancel lunch?

  “Oh, look, there they are!” Georgia called out, looking over his shoulder.

  Paul turned, to see Zooey and Abby making their way up the drive. Abby spotted them and waved. She was holding something in her hands—it looked like banana bread. How she’d managed to pull that together in the time it took him to get Cass’s case file, he had no idea.

  Abby always had a certain kind of capable magic about her. Maybe it was because she’d grown up without a mom; she’d kind of been forced to mother herself.

  “Abby!” Rose bounded down the steps, hugging her. Paul hadn’t realized the two had grown close, but he guessed it made sense. Abby had an entire orchard on her hands now, and Rose did more and more of the day-to-day work for their mom these days. The two probably had a lot in common now.

  “You must be Zooey,” said Georgia with a warm smile when the women made their way up the steps. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  “Seriously, we never get to meet Paul’s co-workers,” Faye said. “I’m Faye. This is Georgia. And Rose.”

  “It’s nice to meet all of you,” Zooey said. “I’ve heard a lot about all of you.”

  “You better not be tellin’ stories about us,” Georgia scolded Paul.

  “All good things,” Zooey reassured her, winking at Paul.

  “Now I know she’s lying,” Faye joked, drawing Zooey inside the orchard house.

  His mother had always prided herself on making a warm home—and she’d always succeeded. Filled with light and with art—a potpourri from a local artist, drawings by each of her children when they were little, and even a few prints of her favorite fairy tales—it was a bright, cheerful home with old, creaky wood floors and seven different ways of sneaking out, if you were clever and quiet.

  “You must tell us why you’re here,” Faye was saying to Zooey.

  “It’s business, Faye,” Paul said warningly.

  Faye rolled her eyes. “Next thing you know, you’re gonna be all, ‘It’s classified, Faye.’” She lowered her voice in a mimicry of Paul’s, making the rest of her sisters and Zooey laugh.

  “Hey.” Paul grabbed Abby’s hand as his sisters brought Zooey into the kitchen to introduce her to their mother. He tugged her into the space under the stairs, where it was quiet and secluded. “I got the file.”

  “Did you check the ME’s report for the missing pages?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not yet. But the evidence from the case, it wasn’t in the records room. I’m gonna have to go tomorrow and get it out of the basement.”

  Her eyes widened. “You think Sheriff Alan will let us have it?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Clay was there, by the way. Christ, that guy’s grown into an even bigger ass since I last saw him.”

  Abby sighed. “Yeah, I know. Ever since Georgia beat his dad in the mayor’s race, he’s gotten an even bigger chip on his shoulder. I think that’s one of the reasons he joined the department. He wanted to feel like a big man again.”

  “That’s the worst reason to join law enforcement,” Paul said, disgusted. “It’s dangerous.”

  “I know,” Abby said. “But it is what it is. I don’t think Ryan’s actually a risk to anyone. He’s just a jerk.”

  Paul didn’t want to tell her about how Ryan had steered the conversation toward her. She didn’t need that on her mind—not with everything else happening. “We can go over the file after dinner at your place,” he said as his mother called, “Abby? Paul? Where are you two?”

  “Coming, Mom!” he said.

  He looked down, realizing he was still holding Abby’s hand, and he let go, feeling a strange sense of loss when he did. He cleared his throat. “We should go.”

  “Yeah,” Abby said. She licked her lips, and his eyes darted to the spot, unable to look away for a moment. “Meatballs await.”

  Chapter 17

  My dear Paeon,

  Another two years have passed. Doesn’t time fly?

  Or maybe it doesn’t, for you. Apologies. There I go again, making the mistake of thinking we are the same.

  The years have made it very clear we aren’t. After all, you are who you are. And I am who I am.

  The Harvest is coming. Can you feel it? So much fruit, ripe on the vine, ready for the picking. The choices are dizzying. The array bright and beautiful and endless in its possibilities.

  And it’s all mine.

  Does that rankle you? That your student outpaced you in every way? You rot in there, while I’m out here, with the harvest to myself.

  You should have listened.

  You should have learned.

  Have you learned, dear friend?

  Or must I teach you another lesson?

  Yours, sincerely,

  Antaeus

  Chapter 18

  Antaeus—

  A sweet little fox visited last week. I sent her your way.

  Happy hunting, my young pupil.

  This time, the lesson to be learned is yours.

  —Paeon

  Chapter 19

  T
he next morning, Abby, Zooey, and Paul met at the Winthrop farmhouse to pore over the ME’s report. But their triumph at securing the original file was short-lived.

  “This is the same exact one with the missing pages,” Zooey said in frustration, tossing the file on the desk.

  Paul frowned. “Files get moved, things get lost. You know how it is.”

  “I want to talk to the ME,” Zooey said. “This . . .” She leaned over to look at the report. “Dr. August Jeffrey. Is he still the ME?”

  “Yep,” Abby said. “He’s where I got my version of the file.”

  “Okay, so he’s friendly,” Zooey said, looking hopefully at Paul. “I need to know all the facts here, Paul, in order to discover anything science-wise. There could have been forensic evidence they didn’t have the money to test. The FBI took over so fast, things could’ve got lost in communication. There’s a million reasons things can get overlooked on a rural case like this, so why not go straight to the source?”

  “I can take her to talk to Dr. Jeffrey while you search the basement for the evidence boxes,” Abby offered.

  “Okay,” Paul said. “It’s a plan.”

  “You ready now?” Abby asked Zooey.

  She nodded, getting out of the chair and grabbing her bag, slinging it over her shoulders.

  “Good luck at the sheriff’s station, boss,” she said.

  “Feed Roscoe for me, will you?” Abby asked.

  “You’re always trying to get me to do your chores, Winny,” he said, with a roguish smile that made her stomach twist.

  “Thank you,” she said pointedly. “See you later.”

  “So give me the rundown on the ME. What’s he like?” Zooey asked after they’d loaded up into Abby’s truck and merged onto the highway.