by Elle Gray
The screens go dark as Rick cuts off the news feed. Silence descends over the shop as we take in the toll of the tragedy Representative Hedlund engineered. The tragedy she is now trying to capitalize on.
“Did you notice that she didn’t mention her daughter once?” Mo points out.
“I’m guessing that ordering the gunfight that killed your own daughter doesn’t play well in the polls,” Astra says.
“On the other hand, showing that she’s so committed to this fight against terrorism that she’ll even order the death of her own daughter should have been good for a point or two bounce in the polls,” I offer.
There is a pall that’s been cast over the shop. Everybody’s feeling it. The energy that usually suffuses the place is absent, and everybody just seems to be suffering from an emotional hangover. The ending of our case—and how it ultimately turned out—is taking a toll on all of us.
What bothers me the most about how this all shook out is that the people in Haven did nothing wrong. Their only crime was in living differently. In wanting something other than society today has become. They wanted to live a simple, peaceful life, isolated and free from the world around them. And although it’s not one I would choose for myself, I can’t deny that I see the appeal.
Haven was much more than Silas Crawford. It was an idea and a belief, and those are greater than any one man. I would have liked to have seen if those beliefs and ideals could have withstood the absence of the man who found Haven. I like to think they could have. I would like to think the people could have collectively banded together and built Haven into something even greater than Crawford had ever intended. That they could have taken that next logical step and truly perfected it.
This case took something out of me. Out of my team. I think on some level, we all identified with somebody in this whole mess. We all recognized the idea behind Haven, and I think we all crave the sort of peace and happiness they found. Or perhaps I’m just projecting again. Either way, we’re all feeling a bit down in the wake of yesterday’s wholesale slaughter of people who just wanted to live their lives.
“The real tragedy here is that Hedlund isn’t ever going to face charges over this whole mess,” Mo says. “As far as I’m concerned, there are twenty-nine deaths on that woman’s conscience—including her own daughter’s.”
“People like Hedlund don’t get charged. They get promoted,” Astra mutters. “They get rewarded. Pats on the back and awards. Hell, they get highways and buildings named after them.”
“It’s depressing as hell to think about, but every word of what Astra just said is right. People like Hedlund are never held accountable. They never face repercussions for their actions. They just keep on going, destroying lives, and ruining everything they touch as they continue climbing that ladder. These people always, always fail upward.”
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket and call up my texts. It’s from Rosie, and when I read it, I feel an ice-cold hand wrap itself around my heart and squeeze.
My office. Now. Torres is here and on a warpath. Be ready.
Christ. Can’t I just have one day?
“Because today apparently couldn’t suck anymore, enter Deputy Chief Torres,” I mutter.
“What does that loser want?” Astra snaps.
My phone buzzes again, but this time it’s Annie. Her text is telling me she needs to talk to me right now. I shoot her a quick message back, telling her I’m in the middle of something and that I’d call her as soon as I can. I send the message, then look up at Astra again.
“Crap, I keep forgetting to call Annie. I’m sure she’s going to try to find a way to blame all of those deaths on me,” I tell Astra. “I can see the headline tomorrow—FBI Agent murders twenty-nine.”
“Good thing you have an alibi—you were in the situation room with the woman who planned the slaughter herself,” Astra says.
“That won’t stop her from trying, anyway. But I should go see what that putz wants,” I say. “While I’m gone, let’s start getting back into the Angel of Mercy case. Now that the Hedlund case is over, we should get back into the swing of things. And I want to nail Nurse Crane in the worst way possible. Do something unambiguously good.”
“And something that definitely won’t end up with a firefight and lots of people being killed,” Astra says.
“That, too.”
I head out of the shop and take the elevator up to the main floor, then make my way through the warren of corridors until I find myself standing outside Rosie’s office. Her assistant, Stephen, the prissiest and snobbiest person on the entire planet, is glaring at me. He’s preventing me from going in right now. I am in no mood for this rank pettiness, though. He is literally the gatekeeper right now.
“So, any chance of your letting me get in there today?” I ask. “I mean, she did text me to come. Even said it’s an emergency.”
He sighs. “Fine. Go in.”
“Thanks. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? Even a simpleton would get that.”
Before he can say anything, I disappear inside Rosie’s office and close the door behind me. Torres is standing off to the side staring at me. Rosie is sitting behind her desk, her expression dark, her face tight and pinched. But Torres is looking at me as though he’s the cat that ate the canary. He’s got a smug smile on his face that makes me want to smack him.
“What can I do for you, Deputy Chief?” I ask.
“You really think you’re so above the law that consequences don’t apply to you, don’t you?” he begins.
“My name isn’t Kathryn Hedlund, so, no. I don’t think that. Not at all, in fact,” I reply.
“Blake,” Rosie warns.
“Fine. I personally don’t believe I’m above the law. In fact, I go to great lengths to preserve and enforce the law,” I say. “But you obviously believe otherwise, so let’s unpack that. What is your gripe today, Deputy Chief?”
He smirks at me and shakes his head. He makes a show of smoothing out the lapels of his jacket, then straightening the badge-shaped SPD pin. He looks at me as he pulls at his cuffs and squares his shoulders.
I roll my eyes. “Are you done primping, princess?”
“Take it down a couple of notches, Blake.”
I turn to Rosie. “Did you know the Deputy Chief here is running a pool around the SPD?” I ask. “Apparently, people are betting on how long it will take him to indict me for Gina Aoki’s murder—a murder he knows damn well I had nothing to do with.”
Torres looks at Rosie and shrugs. “I have no knowledge of that. Nor would I condone it.”
“Uh-huh,” Rosie says. “Blake’s here now, as requested. So, do you mind telling us what this is all about? We both have important work to be doing.”
Torres swivels his eyes over to me again, that cocksure smirk on his face. “Where were you last night, Agent Wilder?”
“I was at home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, I was home alone last night.”
Torres’ smirk gets even greasier. “So, there’s nobody who can verify the fact that you were home last night?”
“That’s usually what being home alone means,” I snap. “Mind telling me what this little song and dance is all about?”
“Who’s Mark Walton to you?”
I freeze in place and feel my heart stop dead in my chest. What in the hell is he playing at here? But then the fear melts away, replaced by burning anger. Torres is now crossing a line and violating my personal space. My personal life. To what end, though? What sort of leverage does he think Mark gives him? What does he know about Mark? Does he somehow know Mark was a plant in my life? An imposter? And if so, how?
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” I start. “My personal life is my own and—”
“So, your relationship with him is—personal?”
“What are you driving at, Deputy Chief?” Rosie cuts in. “I’m getting tired of these games. Get to the point or get out.”
Torres’ face darkens. He was obviously enjoying himself. Just like the bully he is, he wants to drag the drama on for a little while longer and doesn’t appreciate Rosie’s raining on his parade. My phone buzzes with an incoming text. It’s Annie again—911 this time. I shoot her a quick reply telling her I’m in a meeting and will touch base later, and to stop blowing up my phone. She doesn’t reply again, so I think I’m in the clear. For now.
“I ask again, who is Mark Walton to you, Agent Wilder?”
“He was somebody I was seeing for awhile,” I shrug. “Again, my personal life is not your business.”
“It is when the people in your life turn up dead, Agent Wilder.”
I cock my head at him, sure I’m not following. “What did you say?”
“Mark Walton is the second person connected to you who’s turned up dead. First, Gina Aoki, and now him,” Torres says. “That’s some string of bad luck, isn’t it?”
I’m hearing his words, but they make absolutely no sense to me. I look at Torres, confused, trying to understand what he’s saying. But no matter how many times I replay the words in my head, they don’t make sense. I turn to Rosie. She’s looking back at me with wide eyes and an expression of confusion I’m sure matches my own. I turn back to Torres again and see that cocksure little smile on his face and feel the anger within me snuffed out by confusion and fear.
“What are you talking about?” I frown. “Mark isn’t dead—”
“Oh, but I’m afraid he is,” Torres interrupts. “His body was found in the duck pond at Wilbury Park. He’d been beaten and then shot at close range. Two in the back of the head, in fact. Say, isn’t that the exact way your parents were killed? A double-tap to the back of the head? Odd coincidence, that.”
“Deputy Chief Torres, do you have proof to back up your claims?” Rosie asks.
“We found a hair on him that looks a lot like hers.”
“They were seeing each other, so that’s not very surprising, now, is it?
I slump down into the chair and bury my face in my hands, trying to get my mind around all this. Given the fact that Mark was a spy, somebody who was planted in my life to watch me, I shouldn’t be feeling anything about his death. Maybe relief. Maybe joy. But not this. I feel I’ve been punched in the gut. I’m finding it hard to breathe and my heart is beating a staccato rhythm inside of me.
It makes no sense, given who—and what—he was, but I’m actually feeling grief. Sadness. Even though he betrayed me, I still opened myself up to him. I gave him pieces of myself and my heart I’d never given to anybody before. Before I found out what he was, I allowed myself to care for him very deeply. Care for him in ways I’d never cared for anybody before. And now he’s dead. I can’t help but feel that sharp stab of grief and loss. It’s surprising to me, but I had never been able to entirely shut that off.
“That’s two people around you dead, Wilder,” he says. “And I’ve never believed in coincidences. Where there’s smoke, there is usually fire.”
I turn and look at him, though my vision is blurry with the tears welling in my eyes. I fight them off and fight to maintain my composure. I will not give him the satisfaction of letting him see my emotions. I grit my teeth and narrow my eyes at him.
“It’s easy to see the fire through the smoke if you’re the one intentionally setting it,” I hiss.
“You have no alibi for either murder,” he counters. “And your hair was found on Walton. Do you really think a jury won’t be able to connect the dots?”
“And what would be my motivation for killing him?” I ask.
Torres shrugs. “Don’t rightly know. Jealousy? You catch him with another woman?” he asks. “Maybe he tried to break up with you.”
“You’re so full of crap. You know I’m not good for either of these murders,” I growl. “You know it every bit as well as I do.”
“I don’t know anything, other than that you have a lot of anger and hostility in you. You tend to fly off the handle a lot,” he says. “So, maybe you two had a fight and it just got out of hand. Is that what happened?”
I shake my head and refuse to look at him. As I stare into nothing, Astra’s words from the other day echo through my mind. He is going to wage a PR war against me. He is trying to smear me. He knows damn well I had nothing to do with either murder, but he thinks if he layers on enough innuendo and accusation, facts or not, he is going to cause me problems in the Bureau. If he keeps this up, all but calling me a serial killer, somebody up the command structure is going to see me as a liability to the Bureau’s image and kick me loose.
“This the time you want to get out ahead of all this, Wilder,” Torres pushes. “Now’s the time to confess and let us help you.”
I shake my head. “My God, how did somebody so bad at cop work become the Deputy Chief?” I ask. “I’d be willing to bet you went through ChapStick like crazy. I bet your lips got really dry and cracked after all the ass you had to kiss to get to where you are.”
His expression darkens for a moment before he’s able to reel it back in and put that arrogant smirk back on his face again.
“Your time is up, Wilder.”
“If you keep this up, I’m going to rain hell down on you, Deputy Chief. If you persist in this, the gloves are definitely coming off,” I say, my voice low and dripping with rage.
“Easy. Both of you,” Rosie orders. “Deputy Chief, I sure don’t appreciate your coming in here and ambushing my agent with what are, so far, baseless accusations.”
“I have proof,” he says.
“And what is it?” Rosie asks.
“You’ll see it when it’s time.”
“You have nothing, because I didn’t kill anybody!” I raise my voice. “But if you’re going to proceed with this trumped-up charge, then you had best prepare yourself for the fight of your life. And when I’m done with you, you’ll be lucky if you can still score a job as night-shift security down at the mall.”
“Deputy Chief, I have, as a courtesy, let you come in to talk to Blake several times now,” Rosie says. “And each time, you have come in and thrown baseless accusations all over the place like glitter, hoping enough of it will stick to her that it will cause problems for her in the Bureau. I will not be a party to this attempted character assassination any longer. Leave the field office now. You are no longer welcome in my building.”
Torres smirks, his eyes glued to mine. “Last chance to get out in front of all this,” he says. “Last chance to come clean.”
“Get out of my office and get out of my building, Deputy Chief,” Roses growls as she gets to her feet.
“Consider this your official notice that you are a suspect in two homicides, Agent Wilder,” he says with a slow smile. “Don’t leave town, because I’ll be in touch. We’re going to want to have you in for questioning. Soon.”
Torres chuckles and finally walks out of his own accord. I bury my face in my hands and sob—and I don’t know why. Rosie gives me a minute before she takes my hands in hers and forces me to look up at her. She gives me a tight smile and a look of calm reassurance.
“We’re going to fight him with everything we have,” she tells me. “We know he’s got nothing on you. And if he persists, we will absolutely bury him, Blake. Trust me, everything is going to be all right. You are going to be all right. I promise you.”
My smile is weak and shaky. And though I want to believe her, I just don’t right now. I feel as if my entire world is crashing down around me in a fiery heap. Not only is there nothing I can do about it, I feel anything I do is only throwing more gasoline onto it. And underneath all of that is the maddening and inexplicable grief I feel over Mark’s death.
My world is falling to pieces and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Epilogue
Residence of Annie Cuppin, Belltown District; Seattle, WA
I pull to a stop in Annie’s driveway, cut the engine, and sit there for a few minutes, the reality of the last couple of hours starting to sin
k deeply into my bones. The grief I felt about Mark’s death is still there, but it’s now being tempered by the white-hot rage I feel about Torres’ trying to throw me under the bus. Trying to frame me for a murder—two murders—he knows I didn’t do. That’s a situation I’m going to need to handle, there’s no question.
As I think about Torres’ description of how Mark’s body was found, I get angrier. And that is soon followed by a wave of fear so thick, I’m practically choking on it. The thought that pops into my mind is accompanied by Fish’s voice—trust no one and watch my back. The next thought that pops into my mind is that this is the Đavole. The assassin is already here and is just letting me know by killing somebody he thought was close to me.
Or perhaps he was under orders to kill Mark? If the Thirteen thought he was compromised or had his cover blown, he might become expendable to them. They might engage the Đavole to cut their losses for them. But even in that scenario, I don’t see a happy ending for me. If I blew Mark’s cover, and they know I’m getting close to some answers about the deaths of my folks, they’d be highly motivated to keep me quiet. Forever.
There are so many questions, and more are piling up each and every day. But I want to feel that there are answers on the horizon. It seems things are gaining momentum—but I know I’m not in control right now. I’m reacting to events rather than taking control and leading the way. That needs to change. And it needs to change soon.
I sigh as I get out of the car, trying like hell to get rid of the heaviness in my heart. Mark doesn’t deserve it. He lied to me. Used me. He treated me like an idiot. It’s not the first time I ever got played in my life, but it is the worst case of it. When I was younger, I’d usually been able to figure out in time that I was being played. And when I did figure it out, I’d put a stop to it immediately—usually in the form of some public humiliation or another. But Mark? Never saw it coming. He had me fooled every which way he could.
