The Girl Next Door (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 4)

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 Next Door

  A.J. Rivers

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 50

  Epilogue

  More Emma Griffin FBI Mysteries

  Staying In Touch With A.J.

  Also by A.J. Rivers

  Prologue

  Five years ago

  “Mr. Burke, I’m sorry to have to do this at a time like this…”

  Travis Burke shook his head, fighting the stinging of tears in his eyes.

  “Ask me anything you want. Anything you think might help.”

  The officer nodded and gestured for him to stop pacing across the room and come sit on the couch. He sat but couldn’t bring himself to rest back against the cushions. Instead, he perched at the edge, his muscles ready to bring him back up again in an instant. His hands flattened on the upholstery beside him, and his thumbs brushed against the slightly rougher texture of the roses against the cream background. Mia loved those roses. It was the only thing in the furniture store she loved. After nearly an hour of wandering through all the displays, testing the couches, staring at them and wondering how they would fit into the rest of the house, this was the one she chose. Her face lit up the second she saw it, and when she sat down, he worried she wouldn’t get up long enough for them to deliver it.

  He didn’t love it then. He thought it was gaudy and belonged better in the house of a great-grandmother, ready to drape it in doilies and fill it with the smell of coordinating rose perfume and cookies, rather than that of a woman in her mid-thirties. Five years later, it still hadn’t grown on him much, but that night, he knew he’d never look at it the same. Every time he looked at it now, he’d see that glowing smile on her face. He still didn’t love it, but maybe now he would learn to.

  “When was the last time you saw your wife?” the officer asked.

  He didn’t know the officer’s name. Either she hadn’t told him yet, or he wasn’t paying attention when she said it. She sat on the dark blue easy chair Mia only relented to him adding into the living room because she said it brought out the dark blue accents scattered among the roses.

  “Um… two days ago,” he answered.

  The officer looked down at the pad in her hand like she was consulting notes she hadn’t taken. He tried to catch a look at the front of her uniform. The least he could do was be able to refer to her by name. Her uniform stretched tight over a bulletproof vest and contorted her name tag. Travis could only see the first few letters of her name.

  “Two days ago?” she asked. “Is it unusual for you to go that long without seeing her?”

  He could be offended by the question. In his situation, anyone would be. But he wasn’t. They’d been asked it a dozen times. He knew people didn’t understand. But that didn’t matter. It never had. They were the only ones that mattered, they always told each other. All that mattered was what they felt and how they looked at each other and their marriage. Who cared if anyone else thought it was unusual? Who cared if they thought it was strange?

  It never mattered what anyone else thought.

  But now it did.

  “No,” Travis told her, shaking his head. “It wasn’t. Mia sometimes does that.”

  “Does what? Leaves?”

  “Yes, but not in the way you mean. Mia is an artist. She’s incredible.” He gestured at the nearest wall, where four of Mia’s paintings hung in sequence. “And like most artists, sometimes she just needs to be in her own head. She needs to be able to dig into her thoughts and drag them kicking and screaming out of her head and onto the canvas, as she likes to say. Having another person near her, even me, could stop her flow. So, she goes to her studio.”

  “Her studio?” the officer asks.

  “It’s just an apartment across town. Appropriately, I guess, a studio. Just big enough to have her supplies on one side, a bed and some clothes on the other, a kitchen for when she decides to come to the surface to breathe, and a bathroom. Streamlined and basic, but that’s exactly the way she wants it.”

  He rubbed his hands along the couch cushions again. Her two worlds were so different in so many ways.

  “And she just goes there for days at a time?” the officer asked.

  “Yes. Sometimes. Sometimes it’s only for an hour or two. Sometimes over the weekend. Sometimes an extra day. But she keeps in touch. She calls and texts. Sometimes she sends me pictures of what she’s working on.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and pulled up the last image Mia sent him. “This is one of her most recent paintings. She sent it to me yesterday.”

  “Lovely. So, you did hear from her yesterday?”

  Travis didn’t like how dismissive her tone was. She was pushing his words away like there was no value in them, like she already understood the meaning and wasn’t willing to sift through for any further details.

  “Yes. You asked when I last saw her. That was two days ago. But I heard from her yesterday.”

  “And why do you think she’s missing?” the officer asked.

  “She didn’t come home when she said she would. I went to her studio to check on her. I even brought her favorite Indian food in case she was so wrapped up in her work she didn’t think about the time and was hungry. It’s happened before. She gets so invested in a project, it’s like it takes over her soul. She’ll go all day without stopping to eat and then gets sick. But she didn’t answer the door. I let myself in to look for her.”

  “So, you have a key?”

  The officer was hiding a lot in that little word, ‘so’.

  “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I? The apartment isn’t her escape from me.”

  “What did you find when you went in?”

  “Nothing. That’s the problem. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t at home, she wasn’t there, she wasn’t answering her phone or texts. Her car was still sitting in the parking lot. I called two or three dozen times. I left voicemails until the inbox wouldn’t accept anymore. I sat outside waiting, thinking she might hav
e gone for a walk, until it got dark. Then I came back here and waited for another couple hours before I called you.”

  “Would you bring us to the studio and let us look around?”

  “Sure. Just try not to touch too much. When she comes back, I don’t want her to be upset someone has messed with her art.”

  Chapter One

  Him

  One by one, the fires started. They were small at first. Exactly how he designed them. He wanted them to take hold and gain strength behind their burn before they were noticed. Fires that spread too rapidly call attention too quickly. That means people are more likely to get out of the building and there would only be a loss of structure.

  That wasn’t his intention.

  He wanted each of the blazes to burrow into the carpet, find fuel along the walls, and creep through the electrical wiring and ventilation systems. By the time these fires would be discovered, people would be surrounded. Fire would be everywhere, bursting from within the walls themselves, covering the doors, raining down on them. He didn’t mind if some escaped. It was inevitable that they would. But he wanted them to have to work for it.

  He wanted the fire department to scream down the streets and throw themselves into the blaze. He wanted hearts beating at speeds so intense they could simply give out at any minute. He wanted broken windows and flights of desperation, soundbites of goodbye calls filling the airwaves. He wanted the news to chronicle the gracious sloping lawns scattered with bodies, exhausted survivors, collapsed firefighters, ash, and glass.

  More than any of that, he wanted to make sure the trail was there. It wouldn’t be obvious. It wouldn’t glare out at anyone who looked or call attention to itself. He didn’t plan on using skywriting or taking over the lights of a marquee. No, this trail was subtle, encrypted in everything he did. That, too, was by design. The more subtle the trail, the more likely it was to be believed. No one would think someone brilliant and devious enough to create something like this would then drop breadcrumbs leading to themselves.

  It had to be just a trace, just a whisper. An imprint more than an announcement. A heavy hand could push his target over the edge and possibly into a net. But a light touch could weave the ropes that bind for eternity.

  The men he sent into the building came out casually through different exits. They were skilled now in the art of looking disconnected from anything happening around them. People always want to believe it would be obvious to identify someone willing and capable of doing something like this. Administrators of terror are solemn-faced and wear grungy clothes, black hoods to cover their faces, and gloves to disguise their fingerprints. They slouch and slither, scuttling away from their crimes. It’s easy to tell who they are because they couldn’t possibly be normal. Normal, like the rest of them. For most people, it’s unfathomable to believe they are as familiar as looking in a mirror.

  But that isn’t reality. Chaos comes wrapped in tailored suits and expensive haircuts. Expensive jewelry and well-kept hands. They don’t run from the tiny newborn burns strategically placed throughout the building. They ride elevators that would soon be inoperable and linger in the lobby to chat with security guards. They flirt with receptionists who, in moments, would feel the heat on their backs and stroll out into the parking lot talking on their phones and carrying briefcases. Every one of them had legitimate business there. Every one of them had their faces on cameras and etched into minds. They were so obvious, they were invisible.

  Custom silk and hand-stitched cotton covered the leviathan tattoos on their backs.

  Chapter Two

  Now

  “Play it again,” Eric says.

  I reach around him to start the short clip over again. It’s the Richmond station again, just minutes before the deadly attack. Just minutes before the explosion rippled through, killing over a dozen and ruining the lives of dozens more.

  And for some reason, my ex-boyfriend Greg Bailey was there, carrying something suspicious.

  Eric and I both listen as he slides something across the desk toward the woman behind it and leans forward.

  “Give this to Emma Griffin,” I say right after Greg does. “That’s what he says. He says to give whatever it is he’s handing over to me. By name.”

  “Yeah,” Eric nods. “That’s definitely what it sounds like.”

  “That’s not what it sounds like, Eric. That’s what he says. How many other words are there that can be easily confused with ‘Emma Griffin’?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Probably none.” He scans back through the footage again and zooms in as close as he can on Greg’s hand. “I wish I could figure out what he’s handing her. He’s holding it in such a weird way I can’t tell what it is.”

  “I’ve been trying to figure it out, too. Maybe it’s a note?” I suggest.

  “Or the key to the locker he stashed whatever he had in that bag in,” Eric points out.

  “What’s going on here?” a deep voice demands from the doorway. I turn and see Creagan bearing down on us, his eyes dark and angry. “Griffin, what are you doing here? You have no active cases you are working on right now.”

  “I know, sir. But I might have uncovered new evidence in Greg’s disappearance, and possibly the bombing at the bus station,” I tell him.

  “I thought I made myself very clear your consultation on that case was over, and you were no longer to be involved.”

  “Yes, but if you will just hear me out,” I attempt.

  “She got an anonymous message containing a piece of video from just before the bombing,” Eric cuts in. “Greg Bailey is in it.”

  Creagan furrows his brow, then stomps up to the desk and peers at the computer screen. Eric repeats the video clip I sent to him two days ago, when I received it during game night with Janet, Paul, and Sam. I watch my supervisor out of the corner of my eye as he watches the clip. Rather than showing interest, his expression gets more tense and angry.

  “Where did you get this?” he demands.

  “Eric told you. It was sent to me directly by a number I don’t recognize. It didn’t have a name or any other information on it. It just said ‘listen carefully’ and had this video attached.”

  “That woman is Mary Preston, one of the victims of the bombing,” Creagan points out.

  “I know. She was a vlogger. She must have recorded this video on her phone while making one of her videos. She didn’t know what she was recording behind her.”

  “That phone was taken from underneath her body and processed into evidence. None of the content on it has been distributed to the public, and no one should have access to it. Except for those who are working on the case,” Creagan sneers.

  Eric looks at him, obviously offended by the accusation.

  “I had nothing to do with this, if that’s what you’re implying. I haven’t even seen this footage. There are other people working on processing everything they can get from the electronic devices gathered at the scene. I haven’t gotten anywhere near Mary’s or any other phone,” he tells him.

  Creagan ignores him and turns to face me.

  “Listen to me carefully, Griffin. This is not your case. Neither one of them. You are not to be involved in any way. You are not an active agent, and you are not a consultant. You do not have clearance and are not privy to any further information. You will have no further part in either investigation. Do I make myself expressly clear?”

  I draw myself up, hoping the deep breath I pull in is enough to quash the angry outburst trying to work its way up my throat. Finally, it settles enough for me to respond.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, because I don’t want to have to deactivate your access badge for the building and remove you from duty entirely. Eric, get her out of the building.”

  He turns and storms out of the office. I know he’s going to lurk nearby, out of sight, but still watching to make sure I leave. Eric and I exchange glances. He shakes his head slightly before gesturing for me to walk out first.<
br />
  I leave the headquarters building and pull my jacket around myself as I head for the parking deck. The temperature is dropping, but most of the chill came from Creagan. My head’s tucked down, and I’m going over everything that happened in the office as I approach my car.

  “I take it that didn’t go as planned?”

  I look up and see Sam leaned back against the hood of the car, his ankles crossed in front of him, and his arms over his hips casually.

  “Not exactly.” I walk around to the passenger side, feeling like I’m probably not in a place to take the responsibility of a vehicle in my hands right now. “But at least you didn’t have to wait too long.”

  “I’d have waited as long as you needed me to,” he says, cranking the engine.

  I smile at him. There’s a big difference between the last time I came to headquarters to talk about Greg and this time. Last time, just a couple of months ago, I came alone. I didn’t know if Sam was even going to be a part of my life anymore. I thought we had come back to the same crossroads we already did seven years ago. When I left Sherwood and him behind to focus on my FBI training and the career ahead. This time, he’s right beside me. He came along for support, and I’m even happier to have him than I thought I was going to be.