The Girl and the Hunt (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 6)

by A J Rivers

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. He didn't want her to sacrifice the innocence of how she saw the world, the tenderness she was entitled to simply by merit of the few years she'd lived. It was his responsibility to be there for her. He was supposed to protect her, and that was more than just keeping her safe from harm. He was her father, and she should know she could trust him, and he would always be there to take care of her.

  But he never anticipated this. He’d made those promises to her the moment he found out Mariya was pregnant. Still so many months away from meeting his child, not even knowing if he was to have a son or a daughter. Every night, he waited for his wife to go to sleep, then scooted down on the bed, so his head rested next to her belly. It was just barely round then. Most people looking at her wouldn't even suspect she was pregnant. The new softness was easily covered with clothes, and even when she was wearing tight shirts, she thought showed off her belly, it looked more like she had just indulged in a few extra helpings at Christmas dinner. That wouldn't surprise anybody who knew her. Mariya loved Christmas and loaded the house with traditional Russian foods.

  That's how she told him about the baby. She'd been in the kitchen preparing angel wings. Sweet ribbons of pastry fried crisp and sprinkled with powdered sugar akin to the very best part of a funnel cake—the crunchy tips—only so much better. Ian could smell them where he sat in the living room next to the tree. It was already decorated, and he loved to sit in the darkened room and look at the strands of lights nestled in among the branches.

  Mariya had come in carrying a huge platter that she placed on the coffee table in front of the couch. He reached for the first angel wing without really paying attention to the platter, but when he went for his second, she pulled the plate away until he looked at it. That's when he noticed the picture in the middle. A fuzzy gray and white image he couldn't really discern. He knew what it was, but not quite what he was looking at. When Mariya finally pointed it out to him, he was so happy he thought he might explode.

  A few weeks later, after another ultrasound gave him a clear view of a tiny head and little fingers, he talked to his baby. He promised he would always take care of it. That he would never let anything happen to it. He told it there would be hard times in life, anger, sadness, disappointment, tears. But he would be there through all of it. He would do anything he could to help, to make things better.

  When he made those promises, it was with his hand rested on Mariya’s belly. He could feel her heartbeat and the rhythm of her breath. She always gave him strength and kept him together. He never realized how much until she wasn't there anymore. He never anticipated he would have to do without it. That he would have to do without her. When he made those promises to his unborn child, he never would have imagined a day would come when he couldn't fulfill them.

  But he couldn't. Not right then. Not without her. As much as he wanted to be the one to give Emma strength, Ian had to rely on her. Emma was there for him. She sat with him in silence, crying without speaking. But he couldn't see the tears. There is no sign of them as she lay there sleeping on the couch. He wondered if, in her sleep, she could smell the scent of her mother coming up off the blanket and that's what gave her peace. The smell and warmth would make it feel like Mariya was holding her again. She could hold on to that for a while longer.

  Ian took the syringe and carefully tucked the end into the corner of Emma's mouth. She moved only slightly, and he didn't hesitate. If he took too long dispensing the solution into her mouth, it could choke her. He pressed the plunger to release the sedatives, lightly stroking the front of her throat so Emma would swallow. Like he always did, he watched her for the next several minutes. She'd never had an adverse reaction, but he didn't want to risk it.

  When he was confident the medication had done its job and settled her even more deeply into sleep, he went about the unpleasant tasks of getting ready to go. It wasn't supposed to be happening this way. They were going to stay for a while this time. He was taking some time off from traveling, and after this last run, Mariya didn't have any planned for the next couple of weeks. They were going to tell Emma Easter morning that they were staying there in Florida for at least a few months.

  Now that was gone. It was time to run again.

  He packed bags with the speed of someone used to living life like a bullfrog. Hopping from lily pad to lily pad and hoping not to sink. He tossed the bags in the car, shoved pillows and blankets into the back seat, and added as much food as he could stuff into a box and a giant cooler filled with drinks. He took everything he could without going into the back of the house. He couldn't face it. Someone would come and handle the aftermath. They would make it as though nothing had ever happened. Mariya's blood would be rid from the house just as her spirit was.

  The last thing Ian put in the car was Emma. Nestling her down into the center back seat, surrounded by pillows and blankets, he protected her eyes and skin with a sheet he pulled down from the windows. Exhaustion would hit him soon. He hadn't slept in almost thirty-six hours, and the emotions he'd gone through left him feeling drained. But he had to go. He had to push for as long as he possibly could. He would get there. Then the work would begin.

  There was so much that had to be done. He had people to help him. Flocks that adored Mariya and would do anything they could to help him. Some things needed to be done just because they were what happened after a death. This wasn't a foreign concept to Ian. In his line of work, death wasn't a distant threat or an abstract idea like it was in other types of employment. It was a very real risk that could come to pass without warning. He’d watched it happen more times than he wanted to consider. They always knew that. Ian and Mariya had been planning for the eventuality of their deaths since the day they married. Not that they ever actually thought he'd have to face it.

  Now that he was, he had to tie up all the loose ends of her life. Make all those arrangements that seem so simple from a distance but become an impossible web when you're standing in it. Especially since he had to do it twice.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Now

  I don't know what it is or how long it's going to last, but Nicolas and I have come to some sort of tenuous agreement. I'm going to take full advantage of it. The less I have to grapple with him, the more mental energy I'll have to concentrate on figuring this out. I take out my phone, setting it on the table so the three of us can see it. I pull up the picture of the note I had Sam snap before turning it over as evidence and swipe my fingers across the screen to zoom in, so it's easier to read.

  You missed the tea party, Emma.

  It was lovely.

  Spice tea and cake.

  The last, but not the first.

  It's a shame it's still cold.

  No flowers for the party.

  But not too much of a loss.

  I've always thought roses should be read.

  These remind me of her funeral.

  Such a simple casket.

  Is that why it seemed so light?

  I know.

  Come find out.

  Catch me

  "You missed the tea party," I read, tracing my finger across the first line of the note. "Did you find anything that suggested they ate or drank anything? Cups, food, anything?"

  Nicolas shakes his head. "There was nothing out of place in the kitchen and nothing on the table or in the living room."

  "How about the teapot?" I ask. "Did you check it and make sure there was nothing in it?"

  "There was no teapot in the kitchen,” Nicolas says.

  “Are you sure?” I ask. “Did you look carefully?”

  “I mean, we didn't scour the house looking for a teapot. It didn't seem like it meant anything,” he says.

  “There are teacups on display in the china cabinet,” I point out. “Right inside her living room. Why would she have teacups and not a teapot?”

  “I don't know,” Nicolas admits. “I can have the team look around the house more carefully if you think it m
ight be something.”

  “That would be good. What about this part? ‘The last but not the first’. The first tea party? He's been here before. He didn't choose her and then show up here and murder her. He's interacted with her before,” I say.

  "So, it's someone from Feathered Nest?" Nicolas asks.

  I make an unsure face and shake my head. "I don't think so. I mean, it's possible, but that doesn't fit with all the other pieces. Whoever this is has been trailing me along from place to place to place. If they were just from Feathered Nest, I don't think they would do that. The first piece of engagement I can trace is a bombing in Richmond that happened after I left."

  "The one that happened just before Jake Logan's hearing?" he asks.

  "Yes. This person was involved in that somehow, but I don't know exactly how."

  "What do you mean involved?"

  "He sent me a piece of video that was taken by a girl killed in the explosion. The only way it could be accessed was through her personal cloud. The Bureau has been working on tracing the message and figuring out how the cloud was accessed but hasn't been able to pinpoint it," I explain.

  "And you think that's the first time he engaged with you? His first… turn?

  “I'm not positive, but that's the one we have solid evidence of. I just don't see somebody from Feathered Nest going to that extreme,” I say.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” he asks. “Are you trying to say something about people from Feathered Nest?”

  “Only that there are plenty of other ways somebody from this town could torture me,” I point out.

  “So, we need to figure out who has been visiting,” Sam says.

  “When?” Nicolas asks. “It doesn't say anything about any other time this guy was here. Just that it wasn't the first time he had a tea party with Marren.”

  “Then we cast a wide net. Check in with as many people as possible. Find out if they had friends or family members visiting. See if any of the property owners around here got interest in their houses. We start like dropping a pebble in a pond. The ripples start close, then spread out. Look at the smallest ripples first,” Sam tells him.

  “Check last summer,” I add.

  “Why?” Sam asks.

  “’No flowers for the party’. They didn't have any for the party because it's too cold. It's too cold right now for her flower vines to be blooming," I say.

  "The vines are right outside the house," Sam points out. "Anyone who gets near her house would see them. They're there all year."

  “The vines are there,” I specify. “But the note specifically mentions the flowers. This guy knows what color Marren’s roses are, which means he had to be here while they were blooming. Late spring or summer.”

  “What I don't understand is why he would go to this much trouble, only to misspell a word,” Nicolas says. He points at the screen. "’I've always thought roses should be read’. 'Read' instead of 'red'. That seems pretty careless for somebody who goes to this much detail.”

  “It's not careless,” I tell him. “It's intentional. Everything he does is intentional.”

  “Then what does it mean? Why would he spell it like that?” Nicolas asks.

  "I don't know," I admit. “Something to do with reading? But reading what?”

  I shake my head slowly, staring at the note, trying to make sense of it. My lips move slowly as I murmur the words over to myself.

  "Such a simple casket," Nicolas whispers a second later.

  My head snaps to him. "What?"

  He points at the phone, running his finger along one of the lines.

  "Such a simple casket. When I first read the note, I thought it was talking about Marren. That roses made him think of her funeral like he's fantasizing about it. It's awkward wording, saying it 'reminds' him, but it was the only thing I could think of. But now that I'm looking at it again, I'm noticing these lines. 'Such a simple casket. Is that why it seemed so light?' He's not thinking about a funeral that's coming, he's thinking about one he's already been to."

  "My mother's," I say softly.

  "Emma, I thought your mother didn't have a funeral," Sam says. "She was cremated."

  My mind immediately goes to the urn sitting on my mantle. It's been in every home I've ever lived in, taking up a prominent space so I can always feel like she’s with me. No one's ever seen me do it, but there have been times when I've taken the urn down and sat with it, talking as if she was right there. It's comforting in a way and devastating in another.

  “She was,” I say. “I have her urn. She wasn't scattered or interred anywhere, and there was no memorial service. But remember what Bellamy found in Florida. That obituary for my mother mentioned a funeral service. Then not-quite-Greg’s name in the guest book. Maybe there really was a service. Just with no body.”

  “No body?” Nicolas asks.

  “The date of the funeral listed in the obituary is after my mother was cremated. My father and I weren't even in Florida at the time. If there was a funeral service for her, none of my family was at it, including her,” I say. "I would say that would be a hell of a light casket."

  “But did she have red roses?” Sam asks.

  What he's really asking dawns on me.

  “Because if she did, this person was there,” I say. “Or at least knows about it.”

  “Maybe you should call Bellamy,” Sam says.

  I snatch my phone up and start pacing as I dial her up. My best friend answers on the second ring.

  “Are you doing okay?” she asks.

  I spoke to her while we were still at Marren's house, waiting for LaRoche to release us from the scene. I filled her in on what was going on and asked her to tell Eric. They've been taking shifts at the hospital with Greg, only leaving him without one of them when it was absolutely necessary. Even then, there is always another guard there to make sure no one gets in the room with Greg.

  "As well as can be expected," I tell her. "I need you to do something for me. Go back through everything you got when you were in Florida and send me what you know about the funeral home. If you have a copy of my mother's obituary, that would be really helpful."

  "I'll send it to you as soon as I can," she says.

  "Thank you, Bells. I really appreciate everything you do for me."

  "Of course," she says. "Anything. Always."

  As I hang up the phone, my eyes fall on the wooden bookshelves built into the wall. The leather spines look soft and worn. I turn to Nicolas.

  "Marren was a teacher, right?" I ask. "I remember her saying something about that when I talked to her."

  He nods.

  "High school."

  "That's right. She taught Jake Logan. Said he was smart and creative," I say. "And such a good boy for driving people home from the tavern at night so they'd be safe."

  "That's one way to put it," Sam rolls his eyes.

  "Can you get me into her house?" I ask Nicolas.

  "Now?" he asks. "The scene is already secure for the night."

  "There's something I need to check," I tell him.

  "I'll bring you first thing in the morning. I should be getting home anyway. I have a feeling sleep is going to be at a premium for a while."

  It's not good enough for me, but I'll have to accept it. He leaves and I go change into pajamas. There's nothing in the house to eat, and the one restaurant in town other than the tavern still open is a pizza shop that doesn't deliver. Sam dutifully calls in our order, kisses me, and heads out to pick it up, leaving me curled up on the couch, staring at my phone, and waiting.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The edges of the sky are still pink. I can barely feel my hand wrapped around the first cup of coffee brewed at the bakery on Main Street this morning. Moss crunches under my feet as I walk across Marren's front yard. It would look like a Thomas Kinkade painting if it wasn't for the garish bright yellow crime scene tape draped across the front, slicing through the tranquil morning. I shift my weight back and forth on my feet, trying
to warm up. This is one of those February mornings where the weather goes back a couple of months, and it feels like the dead of winter rather than the cusp of spring. It's almost like Mother Nature is taunting us. Giving us one last blast of bone-shattering chill before finally thawing out. It's the meteorological opposite of the calm before the storm.

  “Have you talked to him yet?” Sam asks, coming toward me with a bag of donuts.

  I wasn't interested in any of the muffins or pastries the bakery had on display when we arrived just after the key turned in the door. All that mattered to me was the coffee dripping down from the old-fashioned copper pot on the back counter. No, this was a morning that called for donuts, which meant sending Sam to the tiny shop near the town green to grab a few of the delectable glazed rings I formed an attachment to in the early mornings a year ago.

  “I called him. He answered. At least, I think it was him. There weren’t really words coming through the other end of the line. More just grumbles and scratchy sounds,” I tell him.

  “Well, it is barely dawn,” he points out.

  “Nicolas told me he would bring me inside the house first thing in the morning,” I insist.

  “I don't think he meant the first thing that the Earth sees in the morning,” he says. “More like first thing after he got out of bed and became a functional human.”

  “I don't have time for that, Sam. He needs to get here. If that means he is only semi-functional, then so be it. All he needs to do is unlock a door.”

  The lockbox on the front door looks like the police put the cute little house in shackles. It's meant to keep out prying eyes and would-be sensationalist reporters looking to sell grisly shots to tabloids and ghoul sites. And FBI agents who would rather be doing things on their own rather than having the local police force hovering over my every move.