Winter's Storm

by Mary Stone

  Summoning all of her willpower, she pointed a finger at him. “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows again. “Mmm, doggy style. One of my favorite positions.”

  She couldn’t help it. She laughed this time, then caved and broke off a small corner of a croissant. But the moment it hit her tongue, she already knew she wanted more and took the whole thing, practically inhaling it in one bite.

  “You’re so bad for me,” she groused as he held out the box for her to take another. “I’m done.” And miracle upon miracles, her willpower locked back into place and she turned her back on the pastries. She didn’t even turn around when Noah pulled on her braid, giving three gentle tugs.

  I. Love. You.

  She smiled at their own personal code.

  One tug meant, “I want sex.” She got that single tug a lot.

  Two tugs was a question. “You okay?”

  They’d recently added the three tugs, and this was the first time he’d done it in their office.

  “Gag,” someone muttered, and Winter whirled around to see Sun Ming standing at the opening of her cubicle, glaring at them both. “You two need to get a room.”

  Was it that obvious?

  “What did we do?” Noah asked while Winter just stared.

  Sun waved her hand between the two of them, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “You two just reek of sex.”

  Unable to help herself, Winter rubbed her chin on her shoulder, giving her armpit a delicate sniff. Just deodorant and the scented lotion Noah particularly liked.

  The big man laughed and thrust the pastry box out to Sun. “Here. Maybe a couple of these will sweeten your sour attitude.” When the surly agent didn’t take one, he did, popping it between his lips before closing the lid. “See you later,” he said around the donut that was half in and half out of his mouth.

  Winter was actually a little surprised by Sun’s attitude that morning. Although naturally hostile and bristly as a porcupine, the agent had softened a little over the past year.

  Emphasis on…a little.

  “Can I help you, Agent Ming?” Winter asked, using her own icy tone.

  “Thought you’d want to hear that Arkwell cut a deal.”

  Winter shouldn’t have been surprised, but her eyes widened just the same. “Nathan?” she asked, just to be sure.

  Sun rolled her eyes. “No, the sadistic son.” She threw up her hands. “Of course the senior Arkwell. He got a sweet deal too.”

  It was Winter’s turn to roll her eyes. “Did you really expect anything else?”

  Sun crossed her arms over her chest. “A girl can hope that white privilege and money doesn’t always win the day, but…” She shrugged.

  Winter wanted to argue about that, but Sun wasn’t wrong, unfortunately.

  “What was the deal?” she asked instead.

  A snort so loud that people turned their heads came out of the petite woman. “Pled down to a misdemeanor, so he got time served, a big fat fine, and three years of probation.” Another snort. “Oh, and community service.”

  As much as she hated the thought of anyone getting off so easily, Winter was happy for Nathanial Arkwell’s daughter, Maddie. The young woman had already experienced so much loss in her life. Her mother’s death, and her brother’s…whatever disorder his newest psychiatrist was calling it now. And though the former judge had made some terrible mistakes, he loved his daughter. It would be good for Maddie to have his solid presence in her life.

  At least, Winter hoped that would be the case.

  Who knew? After all, Nathan was also the father of a murderer, so perhaps nurture could trump nature where the brain was involved.

  She needed to talk to Autumn about that more. Just thinking of her friend sent a flurry of excitement through her. With the plea deal, that meant Cameron Arkwell wouldn’t be called to testify in his father’s trial. It meant Winter could now schedule a visit.

  “What?”

  Winter blinked, realized she was already reaching for her phone, having completely forgotten that Sun was still standing there.

  She gave her head a little shake. “Sorry, you just reminded me to do something.”

  “Do what?”

  Dammit. Sun could be so infuriatingly abrupt.

  “Something personal.”

  Sun narrowed her eyes. “My telling you about Nathan Arkwell’s plea deal reminded you of something personal?”

  What was this? An interrogation?

  “Actually, you did.” Winter pressed her lips together, wondering what would happen if she shared her desire to see the Arkwell son.

  Would Sun laugh? Think she was crazy?

  And why exactly did Winter care what the tiny scrap of an agent thought anyway?

  She decided to toss it out, see where it landed. Test the waters and any other clichés that applied. She leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m actually planning to interview Cameron Arkwell for a project I’m working on.”

  Sun’s eyes were tiny slits. “What project?”

  Winter was about to say “personal,” but she was already in for a penny so she might as well make it a pound. “To discover what makes him tick.”

  “Why do you care about that?”

  Gritting her teeth, Winter regretted bringing this up, but plowed on. “Because he is a young man with serious mental health issues, and I can’t help but wonder if he’ll be able to—”

  “Give you some insights into your brother,” Sun finished for her.

  Was she really that obvious?

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Sun took a step into her cubicle, leaned down, and lowered her voice. “Let me save you some time, Winter,” she said, not unkindly. “If your little brother spent more than one day with Kilroy, he won’t ever be the same again. And no matter how much research or wishful thinking, nothing will make it otherwise.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. This can’t be sugarcoated, Winter. The brother you knew is dead. He died thirteen years ago and whatever thing inhabits his body now will only hurt you in the end. Whether he is mean or simply pathetic, emotionally or physically, it will hurt you, and you’ll end up blaming yourself, thinking you should have had some superpower to make it different.”

  Winter wanted to punch the woman, but she was glued to her seat. Because, somewhere deep inside herself, she knew what Sun was telling her was true. Justin would be different. There was little doubt about that. But did that mean she shouldn’t reach out to him? Try to help him? Do…something?

  She lifted her chin. “I appreciate your honesty, Sun, but I can’t just turn my back so easily, and I’ll do anything I can to help or at the very least understand Justin better. And if spending a half-hour or so with a convicted felon helps me do that, then I don’t see the harm.”

  Sun took another step closer. “You can’t see the harm because you refuse to see the truth. Douglas Kilroy was a murdering bastard who used religion to make himself feel better about killing innocent people, including your parents. You know how easy it is for a predator to groom a child. They do it online, in person. It can take minutes or days.”

  Winter wanted to cover her ears. Sun was right, she didn’t want to see this, to hear.

  Sun went on. “Kilroy had him for a long time, Winter. We don’t know how long, and we don’t know where he was or who he was with when Kilroy wasn’t around. He could have handed him over to someone even worse. Why wouldn’t he? Don’t you think someone with a sadistic nature would find it amusing to watch his victim suffer even more?”

  “Stop.” Winter held up both hands, like she was warding off a physical blow. “Just stop. You aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know.”

  Sun just shook her head. “And yet you’re going to meet with Cameron Arkwell and soak up all of his bullshit like a thirsty little sponge? He’s a liar, and you think he’ll just spill the truth and give you real-life advice on how to deal with your psycho
path brother? I never thought you were that dumb.”

  Without another word, Sun turned on her heel and walked away.

  Winter could do nothing but listen to her heels as the sound of their clicking faded down the hall.

  Sun was right. God, she hated to admit that, and she’d never say the words out loud. But the woman had hit every nail in its very center, driving each and every syllable straight into her heart.

  And if Sun was right, then Aiden was right as well.

  Her jaw hurt from where she gritted her teeth. She didn’t want them to be right. None of them.

  She wanted a miracle.

  She wanted Justin to be happy and sane. She wanted him to have escaped Kilroy’s hold intact.

  Some people did.

  Human beings were highly resilient and could persevere in spite of tragedy. She did. Many other people did too.

  Was her brother one of them like she desperately hoped?

  Turning to face her computer, Winter dropped her head into her hands.

  Would a sane and happy brother leave her cryptic emails and reminders of a time when he had wanted to hurt her? Would he decapitate rats and leave bloody messages on the wall of their childhood home?

  She knew the answer, but she just didn’t have it in her to brush him off without at least trying to get through to him. And the only thing she could do right now was to prepare for their eventual meeting. Because she felt sure that day was coming. Soon.

  Picking up the phone, she dialed the number of the prison where Cameron Arkwell was being kept and requested a meeting with the convict for the next morning.

  Of course, Arkwell didn’t have to see her. He could simply deny the request and that would be that.

  She didn’t think he would. He would be curious, probably desperate for some company, longing for someone to torture yet again, even if it was only emotionally this time.

  After being told that someone would be in touch to confirm the time, if Arkwell approved, Winter hung up the phone. There really wasn’t much else she could do.

  It wasn’t much, but it was something. And sometimes, the little things meant everything.

  She just didn’t know if that would be good or bad.

  33

  The past twenty-four hours had been shit, and Aiden Parrish had only left the FBI building long enough to sleep for a bit, shower, and change. He’d been guzzling coffee since, but it wasn’t the caffeine that forced him to stuff his trembling fingers into his pockets. It was the sudden adrenaline rush he was trying to hide.

  Ryan O’Connelly’s face looked as grim as his own as he pulled up the video he’d found posted on some deep web forum only a few minutes ago. There would be no need to try to identify the victim. That much had been spelled out quite clearly.

  This man’s son, Phil Rossway, is a traitor to the cause. He sentenced his own father to death, and the execution was carried out by God himself. Burn in hell, Kevin Rossway, for spawning a traitor. Ten bitcoin to witness justice being served. #snuff #justiceprevails #execution #iamthestorm

  Even as Aiden’s eyes widened in surprise at how many bitcoin had been earned in the past hours—sixty damn thousand—Aiden concentrated on the last hashtag. I am the storm. And even as O’Connelly looked up at him, waiting for his nod to go on, Aiden hesitated. Did he really want to see this? Have one more horrible thing burned into his brain?

  He was sleeping less and less, drinking more and more. Guilt and anxiety were poor bedfellows best left to drown in a cup. Not that he couldn’t handle it. He was handling everything just fine. He just needed to solve this damn case so he could take a day or two off.

  He gave O’Connelly the nod, then braced himself as the video began to play, forcing his face to remain carefully neutral while he watched Phil Rossway’s father being killed.

  This wasn’t an execution.

  This was a slaughter.

  And the man wielding the knife was enjoying his work.

  Once it was over, Aiden said, “Play it again.” This time, he didn’t take his eyes away from the killer.

  The man wore a white disposable jumpsuit that grew redder and redder as the minutes passed. The hood covered his hair and was tied so tight around his face that only a small circle for his eyes remained open. Dark glasses covered those eyes, gloves covered the hands.

  There wasn’t even a millimeter of the killer left open to examine. No hair color. And he hadn’t spoken a word, so there were no verbal clues left either.

  He looked to be about six feet tall, and his body shape was difficult to distinguish under the heft of the billowing suit.

  “We need to find out the brand of that suit, see if we can locate the point of purchase.” But even as Aiden gave the order, he knew the possibility of finding the suspect that way was slim to none. They had to try, though.

  “Screenshot the knife, blow it up for better examination.”

  The room itself left no clues. Paneled walls. Dirty wood floors. Rusty radiator. The killer had been careful to zoom in on only what needed to be shown.

  “He’s comfortable, and isn’t afraid of being caught,” Aiden murmured. “He’s arrogant, and his ego may end up being his downfall.”

  Aiden looked down at the official transcript from the call the killer had made to Phil Rossway’s phone earlier.

  Subject A: Perfect timing, Phil. Tell me that you have what I asked for.

  Phil Rossway: Yes, I have it. Where, um, can we meet?

  Even as Aiden read the response, he could feel the hacker’s nerves. Was that what had tipped the suspect off?

  Subject A: Sorry, I seem to be indisposed at the moment. Load it onto the secure server as I requested.

  Phil Rossway: I…I…I…

  Yes. The stuttering, the hesitation had been the tipoff. They should have coached Rossway better before they’d instructed him to call. They should have gone over every possible scenario over and over.

  Kevin Rossway’s death was Aiden’s fault, he knew. It was his fault because he’d rushed something that had no business being rushed.

  Guilt tore at him, much like the knife that had torn at Kevin Rossway’s body. God, he needed a drink.

  Subject A: Speak!

  Phil Rossway: I need to meet with you, point out some, um, things that you’ll find interesting.

  Subject A: He’s dead. You just killed him, you know that? You just killed your father.

  Phil Rossway had been nearly incoherent when they received the text message shortly after. He’d identified the man in the text picture as his father. The man had a wound high on his shoulder, and Aiden already knew it was the source of the blood splatter in Kevin Rossway’s home.

  The message had read: If you don’t follow orders within the next 60 mins, he’s dead.

  Rossway had tried, screaming over and over that he needed a computer and that White Ghost, as the man had instructed him to call him, had wanted contact information on every police officer and detective in Virginia. He also wanted contact information on every FBI agent.

  Rossway had been in the process of hacking the FBI system when they’d come pounding at his door. Ava Welford had come in to assist, generating a false report with false information to upload to the remote server White Ghost had indicated.

  The ruse clearly hadn’t worked.

  Aiden knew that for a fact because the father had been killed anyway. Or, had White Ghost killed the man for spite?

  He’d already been in contact with the local police departments, asking them to help cover all the fake address locations. If White Ghost showed up at one of the addresses, they’d have him.

  Maybe.

  “What do we do next?” O’Connelly asked, and Aiden just stared at the man, trying to sort through all of his options.

  “We don’t tell Phil Rossway about his father. Not yet. We need the sketch artist drawing of White Ghost nailed down first.”

  That had to be the priority.

  They also needed to find the more accurate l
ocation of where the suspect’s cellular device had been. Aiden picked up the phone and called Ava Welford’s extension.

  “Welford,” she said, her voice sounding tired.

  “Update.”

  The woman didn’t need to ask who was speaking or what kind of update was needed. She and her team had been working to pinpoint White Ghost’s exact location. The man had enough technological savvy to have bounced his cell around from tower to tower. It wouldn’t save him from being pinpointed, but it would slow them down.

  “We have three possible locations left, pinpointed down to just under a mile.”

  Christ. That didn’t help much. And did it really matter?

  White Ghost would have been long gone by then, and the only advantage would be to comb the space he’d evacuated with a fine-tooth comb, hopefully find a nice juicy thumbprint that would lead them straight to the bastard.

  “Okay. Let me know what you find.”

  He tossed the phone onto the cradle, then picked it back up and called the extension of the bureau’s lead sketch artist.

  “Where are you with the Rossway case?”

  “Hello, Agent Parrish,” came the overly cheerful response. “I hope you’re having a wonderful day too.”

  Aiden always thought artists were temperamental, but Jana White—not to be confused with Vanna White, she always added to her introductions—was irritatingly cheerful.

  “Fabulous,” he deadpanned. “What’s the status?”

  “Well…” he heard typing in the background, “if you’ll look at your email in three…two…” Aiden gritted his teeth, “one, you’ll see for yourself.”

  “Thanks, Jana. You’re a peach.” He actually managed to make the words sound like he gave a shit and was rewarded with a cheerful laugh. He hung up on the sound, then pressed his palms into his eyes.

  Allowing himself only five seconds of this very unpersonal personal time, he dropped his hands and moved to his laptop, opening the lid. He felt O’Connelly’s eyes on him as he accessed his email and clicked on his newest message.