by A J Rivers
“I know,” I sigh. “Did you get anything done?”
I glance back into the backseat at the stacks of folders he brought along, filled with paperwork for him to do while I was inside. Without security clearance, he wasn’t able to come into the office, so his plan was to hunker down in the car and take care of some of the administrative things he doesn’t particularly like but are an unavoidable part of his career as sheriff of Sherwood. It doesn’t look like any of the papers have been moved.
“I got kind of wrapped up in the book I was reading,” he admits.
I shrug. “That’s productive, too.”
“So, are you going to tell me what happened up there?”
We pull out of the parking deck and start toward my house. I didn’t relish the idea of taking on the drive between Sherwood and the Bureau headquarters twice in one day, so we’re going to stay the night. It’s only a few hours, but after the amount of travel I did with the last case Sam and I handled, I’m still going through road trip and flight detox.
I let out an aggravated sound and drop my head back against the headrest.
“Creagan. Creagan happened,” I tell him. “He stormed into the office and threw a complete fit over me being there.”
“Even after you told him about the video?” Sam asks.
“Even after we showed it to him. Mary Preston’s phone was put into evidence, and no one should have been able to access that video to send it to me. He all but accused Eric and me of stealing it.”
“And still no word on who sent it?”
I shake my head. “Eric traced the number, but it came from a burner phone. There’s no way of knowing who’s attached to it.”
“Is Eric going to keep looking into it?” Sam asks.
“I think so, but I can’t have anything to do with it. Creagan essentially told me if he finds out I’m still sniffing around Greg’s disappearance or the bombing, I’ll lose my job,” I say. “Or at least, not be a field agent anymore.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“What are you thinking about your future with the Bureau? You’ve been on leave for a few months now. You’re going to have to make a decision eventually,” he says.
It’s the question I’ve been anticipating and dreading. When I went on leave after a particularly harrowing case with Sam during the summer, it was open-ended. I knew I needed some time to piece myself back together, and I was still recovering from the case before that one and the emotional trauma it dragged me through. Creagan agreed, along with the therapist he strong-armed me into seeing for a few weeks and gave me his blessing to take all the time I needed. There was always the assumption I would be available for consultations while I was gone, and at some point, I’d feel back to normal and head back to my regular life.
But things have changed. My life isn’t the same as it was a few months ago and now the answer isn’t so clear.
“It’s not like I’ve really been on leave,” I answer, diverting attention away from what he’s really asking.
It’s true. It didn’t take long for me to realize I’m not good at just sitting around not doing anything. In addition to reacclimating myself with my hometown of Sherwood, I’ve been helping Sam with investigations and cases that come up, including an intense one a month ago.
“Which makes me wonder even more what you’re doing,” Sam says. “Are you going to go back full time? Or keep going like you are?”
Chapter Three
I’m still thinking about the question when we get to my house. There’s a lot to unpack in it. Despite how simple the words sound, Sam isn’t just asking about my work hours. He’s asking about all elements of my future, including his involvement in it. Being on leave means staying in the house where my grandparents lived, and where I stayed during my stints in Sherwood when I was younger. It means living a totally different life. It means being with Sam. Every day. Him swinging by for breakfast some mornings before work. Popping into the station to bring him lunch. Dinners together. Game night with Janet and Paul across the street. Curling up on the couch to watch movies. Things we couldn’t do if I came back to Quantico.
Coming back into full duty would mean leaving Sherwood again. I would move back here to the house my father left me when he disappeared and immerse myself once again into the world of the Bureau. I may see Sam on weekends or the occasional longer visit, but it would be a totally different life. One I don’t know if either of us could handle. It’s the exact reason I walked away from him when I went into training. I didn’t want to have to choose every day or wonder where my thoughts would be, so I made that choice once and forced my mind to stay on just my career. That choice meant leaving Sam behind.
And now that choice is back in front of me again.
“Have you thought about doing both?” Sam asks a few minutes later, once I’ve changed into stretch pants and a cozy sweatshirt and we’re perusing menus to order a late lunch.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Not coming back here full time,” he says. I look up at him, and he shakes his head, his eyes dropping to the menus as he sifts through them like he’s trying to look distracted from the topic. “Never mind. I’m sure this isn’t what you want to talk about right now.”
“It’s fine,” I shrug. I sit back against the couch and let out a long breath. “I actually have thought about it. It might be possible for me to step back from being fully active duty and take on more of a consultant role. They could call me in for the investigations they really need help on or for undercover work that would benefit from someone who isn’t in the field all the time.”
“And the rest of the time?” he asks.
I shrug and look over at him.
“That might be up to you.”
Our eyes meet.
“I could use more help around the station,” he admits. “You’ve been invaluable in the last couple of cases. If you had the time, I could hire you for a more permanent position than just deputization.”
Deputizing me during our first case together granted me the powers of the department and allowed me to work on the case, including gaining access to information not available to the public. But it wasn’t an official position.
“It’s definitely something to think about.”
A few minutes later, after we’ve settled on what we want to eat for lunch and ordered it, Sam is walking slowly around the house with a look of nostalgia on his face.
“It’s strange to be back here,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”
He only came to the house a few times during our college years. The house has changed a lot since then, but I can still see him standing in the living room talking to my father. They got along well in those brief interactions. They picked up from the time we spent together in Sherwood.
We grew up alongside each other in a fractured path. Sam was always the consistent and steady one. The one friendly face I could always count on no matter what. I popped in and out of his life unpredictably. He never knew when I’d be there or when I would leave. I’d be gone for weeks, months at a time. Years, even. But every time I came back to Sherwood, back to him, it was like nothing had ever changed.
“It has,” I confirm.
“It’s weird. It’s like I’m walking through the past and seeing part of your life I never got to at the same time,” he comments, tossing a rueful smile over his shoulder at me.
I made a lot of changes to the house after my father went missing. As soon as the deed to the house showed up with his signature shifting ownership and control of the property over to me, I knew everything had changed and would never be the same again. So much of me wanted to just stand still. I didn't want anything else to change. I wanted to keep it exactly as it was, so when he came back, he would fit right back in as if he'd never left. But at the same time, I couldn't let myself do that. Hovering and waiting, refusing to take a step ahead for fear of leaving my father behind, was only lea
ving myself behind. There was so much more to do, and I had to change my surroundings to fit that new life.
There is one room of the house I have barely touched. Sam wanders close to it now. The door stands shut, almost never opened. He hovers beside it, looking at the doorknob like he can see my father's hand turning it for the last time.
"It's still his office," I explain, even though he didn't ask the question. "I haven't been able to bring myself to change it."
"You never have to," he reassures me. "It's not hurting anyone to have it there."
I've often wondered if that's really true, but I don't say it. We walk around the house, sharing memories, talking about the few bits of art I have on display, and thumbing through the books I still have on my shelves years after the classes they belong to ended. The sound of the delivery driver knocking on the door stops our debate over a section in my worn Introduction to Criminal Justice text, and I hand the book over so I can go claim our Thai food.
Before opening the door, I steal another glance at him. I agree, it’s a little strange to have him here after the rift. For some time, I never thought he’d step foot near me again. But it also feels like he’s settling into an open space, like he’s what’s been missing from the house for all these years.
I open the door and take the heavy bag the driver holds out to me. Something over his shoulder catches my eye. I look over toward a car parked across the street. There is a man standing behind it. My heart squeezes in my chest, and my palms sting with tiny pricks. As soon as I look at him, he hurries to climb into the car and disappear behind the tinted windows. I’m still staring even after he speeds down the road.
“Ma’am?”
The delivery driver trying to get my attention makes me jump, and I look back at him. He’s holding the credit card receipt out toward me with a pen and looking at me with expectation in his eyes.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I take the receipt and pen, scribble my name, and shove it back at him with several folded bills as his tip. “Thanks.”
I dart back inside, closing the door behind me. I flip the lock and take a second with my back pressed against it.
“Are you alright?” Sam asks, coming toward me. “What’s wrong?”
“I saw him again,” I tell him.
“What do you mean? Saw who?”
“Remember a few weeks ago when I told you I thought I saw my father in my neighborhood? He was at the house next door a couple times?”
“Yes,” Sam says, his voice drawn out slightly to express his reluctance to fully accept what I’m saying I saw.
“I think I just saw him again.”
Sam takes the bag of food from me and wraps his other arm around my shoulders so he can guide me to the couch. He sits me down, sets the bag on the table, then comes to sit beside me.
“Emma, it wasn’t him. You know it wasn’t him. Right? Why would your father be lurking around your house, both your houses, and not come in or say anything to you?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
“Remember what we said before. Your brain wants to see him. It’s been so long, and you haven’t heard anything about where he went or how long he’s been gone. You miss him. You’ve been through a lot and you want to share it with him and get his input. It’s normal for you to think you see something when you want it that much.”
I nod and try to push the moment aside. Maybe this is just a wall in my path to fully moving on with my life. I’ve started living outside the bubble of the Bureau. Outside the life I crafted around my CIA father and the world I entered after my mother’s murder. Maybe seeing him is my brain just trying to drag me back.
I can’t let it.
Chapter Four
Him
He drove away fast enough to get away from her curious eyes, but not fast enough to draw any more attention. The last thing he needed was to get pulled over and have to hover nearby her house for any longer than he already was. Especially if that meant the cop who was there at the house with her would come sniffing around. That’s the thing about police officers. They’re all the same. Every one of them. Anything another officer was doing is their business, too. If they see something happening or a crime being committed, even if it was already being handled, they proudly come puff up their chests and offer their assistance.
That was definitely something he needed to avoid. He couldn't let Emma or the sheriff get any closer to him. He already didn't know why they were there at the house. It was a shock to show up and see the car sitting in the driveway. It was even more of a shock to stand at just the right angle to peek through the front window and see their silhouettes in the living room. When Emma opened the door to the food delivery driver, he wanted to just stand there and look at her. It had been a while since he got a glimpse of her. Pulling back and staying away was one of the hardest things he had to do, but there was no choice. He couldn't keep risking it, being so close to her. He knew she saw him. A couple times now, she'd locked eyes with him and stared at his face in a way that couldn't be accidental.
She never said anything. He didn't know what he would do if she did.
He didn't come to the house that day to see her. If he had known she was going to be there, especially with the sheriff, he wouldn't have come. The whole purpose of coming was to slip inside unnoticed. The police had long since stopped their continuous surveillance of the house. For several weeks they were there twenty-four hours a day, watching every inch of the perimeter, focusing on the doors and the windows, not allowing anyone or anything anywhere close. Except for Bellamy. She was able to slip past and go inside whenever she pleased.
It was torturous having to stay far beyond the surroundings of the house, only able to stare at it, knowing he couldn't get inside again. A single step onto the lawn would have gotten him arrested and everything would be over in an instant.
The house itself would have been so easy, but for this. Locks were nothing to him. Security systems were easy to move past and manipulate. Only the barrier of the police kept him back.
There were times when he watched Bellamy go inside and wondered if she might be his way inside. He could convince her to allow him to slip inside. He could make it so she left a path open for him. It wouldn't be the first time he took the people in Emma's life into his hands and twisted them to his own uses.
But he held himself back. She was too close. For now, he had to keep her in reserve. If the time came, he would use her, but that time wasn't now.
Over time, the police became less insistent about being at Emma's house all the time. Nothing happened. Of course it hadn't. He was all that would happen, and he wouldn't get near the house. They watched, day after day, as nothing affected the house. No one got near it. There were no incidents to seem like she was in any danger or under any threat. Eventually, the frequency of the patrols lessened and lessened until they just went gliding past in their patrol car every few days, just to make sure nothing had happened while they were gone.
It made it safe for him to test them. He got closer and walked across the grass. He touched the doors and tested the windows. When no one came to stop him, he made plans to come back after his next job. It would be the perfect time. He would have more to bring into the house and deftly plant among her possessions. Not where she would easily find them. He didn't want Emma to come into the house and know anything was different. He wanted the papers and tiny, almost inconsequential details to sift down in among everything else in the house, so it was like they were always there.
That was critical. They couldn't stand out. The bits and pieces of another life he wanted to graft onto the life once lived within that house had to be almost unnoticeable. They had to seem like something that was there all along, so when it was found, it fit seamlessly. That would be the only way to convince her and everyone else who were watching that it was real.
He was chipping away at what they thought. Breaking down their view of reality and rebuilding what he wanted them to believe a little
bit at a time. It would take patience, but that was a skill he honed long ago. So many years. So much time lost. But he could take it back. He could make up for it. All this would be worth it soon.
He just wished he knew why she was there. He hated when something didn't make sense to him. When he didn't understand what was happening and control slipped away from him.
They couldn't be staying long. Sherwood couldn't be without its sheriff. Not now, when it was still fragile from the horrors it already faced and still holding its breath to see if tragedy really did come in threes.
And maybe it would.
Chapter Five
Two weeks later
"Are you alright? You look exhausted."
Sam runs his hand down the side of my face as he sets the chair down in the middle of the living room. We’ve been emptying the storage unit containing possessions my grandparents and father left behind in the house before it became a rental in the weeks since we found out about it. There wasn't much inside, to begin with, but I didn't want to just bring it all over in one fell swoop and overwhelm myself. Instead, I've taken it slow. An occasional transaction.
All around the house now are the things put into it before it was first rented out. More generic, store-bought things. The kind of decor the management company thought would make it more appealing as a furnished home in a fairly sleepy town. There are still a few signs of my family. I found them when I first came back here over the summer to help Sam with a case that was confounding and terrifying him. I had thought then that it would only be for a few days, and I walked into the house almost like one of those new renters. I saw the house as temporary, even with eyes that saw memories in every floorboard and tile and wall and door.
Gradually the memories took over. The realization that the house is truly mine—not a rental, not something offered to me to borrow for a time—settled in. It's more my home every day. That means I want to strip away the generic touches and replace them with what belonged there all along.
