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

by A J Rivers

  Ruby grins, and I gesture toward the front door.

  “Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?” I ask.

  “I’d love to, but I actually have to run. My brother took my truck to go grab some things at the store, then we have to do another run from the storage unit full of,” she lets out a big sigh, “pretty much everything from my old apartment. Another time?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great. I’ll see you soon.”

  Ruby waves as she backs down the sidewalk, then turns and jogs across the street, ducking down to slip under the garage door.

  I go inside and head directly for the shower. When I get out, my phone is glowing. I pick it up and find three missed calls and a message from Bellamy to call her back.

  “Everything okay?” I ask when she picks up.

  I tip to the side to let my hair fall free, so I can rub it dry with a towel.

  “Where did the magic of our relationship go?” she starts. “When did you stop trying?”

  I laugh. “I’m sorry. Hi, Bellamy. How are you doing?”

  “I’m good. How are you?” she asks, all the sappy morose notes gone from her voice.

  “Just got out of the shower after a jog.”

  “Sounds fun. So, Eric asked me to look into a few more things for you,” she says.

  “About Greg?” I ask.

  “No, about the things you asked him to look into before he got wrapped up in the bombing investigation,” she explains.

  “Oh. You know, B, I love you, but anything you can do to look into those things, I could do myself. I asked Eric to do it because he has more skills and better equipment,” I tell her.

  “That’s true. However, I do have something you don’t.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Outside perspective and distance, which lets me make better decisions,” she deadpans.

  “I won’t argue with that,” I relent. “What did you find out?”

  “I wanted to find out more about the necklaces,” Bellamy says. “They’ve been bugging me.”

  “Me, too. Especially after seeing the picture of my mother and me wearing them when I was a little girl,” I nod. “But all I have is the necklaces. Nothing else. Not even a hint of when we got them other than when it was when I was really young.”

  “Ah, see, there’s my point. You’re only thinking about what the necklaces mean to you. I thought about them just as they are. Which led me to looking them up. I have pictures of them, and I scanned them in, then searched images for them. It took some time and fancy internet footwork, but I managed to track down the craftsman who made them,” she says.

  “Are they still making jewelry?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “Then how can we be sure these are actually the necklaces that belonged to my mother and me and not just ones that look the same?” I ask.

  The thought deflates me. It’s strange and unsettling to not remember the necklaces and to not have any idea how one of them ended up in a box stuffed in my couch cushions and the other brought by a man who then died on the front porch of the cabin I stayed in while undercover. But strange or not, it’s something. It gives me a connection to my mother and a clue about what might have happened in my past. If the necklaces aren’t the actual ones we owned, it has much less of an impact.

  “I spoke to the artist myself. She said they are a unique design, like everything else she makes, and they are the only two she ever made. In her workshop.” Bellamy pauses. “In Florida.”

  “In Florida?” I ask.

  “Yes. Long before you could just hop on someone’s Etsy shop and buy something online. She only sells in her physical shop in Florida. Which means…”

  “Which means we spent time in Florida while living in Iowa,” I connect the dots.

  “Exactly.”

  “And she remembers the necklaces? You’re absolutely sure she remembers them and not just something like them?” I ask.

  “She has a website now. It’s not for sales, it’s more of a gallery and lets people request commissions. But she has pictures of things she’s made in the past, but that aren’t available for recreation or sale. Your necklaces are in those pictures. I asked her about them, and she said she loves those necklaces. She very clearly remembers them, but doesn’t remember who bought them,” Bellamy says.

  “Well, it’s not much. But it’s definitely something,” I say.

  “And it’s not all,” she continues.

  “It’s not?”

  “Nope. I also looked into the house in Iowa. I went over the ownership records and identified exactly when your parents owned it after your grandparents, then when they sold it,” she tells me.

  “Who bought it?” I ask.

  “That’s the interesting thing. It wasn’t a person. It went to a company,” Bellamy says.

  “What company?”

  “It was called Spice Enya.”

  “Spice Enya? What the hell is that?”

  “I have no idea. I have searched everywhere, and I can’t find anything about it. There’s nothing. No website, no references in any news. By all rights, it doesn’t exist and never has.”

  Spice Enya. I strain, but the name doesn’t ring a bell. Unless an Irish singer has started a culinary company to boost her brand decades after her ‘90s relevance, I have no possible idea of what it could mean.

  But this company is connected to my parents. Somehow.

  Chapter Eight

  I’m officially stumped. With all my investigative skills and experience, this is one I just can’t figure out.

  Why the hell are there so many different kinds of tickets for carnival games?

  When Sam said I’d be helping him with the fundraiser, he more meant he was going to tell me there was a fundraiser, pick the theme, and then occasionally call in to see how I’m doing planning it. Honestly, it’s probably better this way. Streamlining the planning means not debating things like the merits of a funnel cake vendor versus a doughnut vendor. Funnel cakes win, clearly. But it also means not having much input when I get stuck on details. Like which of the damn tickets to choose. Large or small? Booklets or in a wheel? Is red too aggressive?

  We went with a carnival theme because it seemed approachable and traditional. Everyone loves a carnival. Only now, I’m getting a glimpse of what goes into putting together a carnival and think I’m probably going to need to call in reinforcements. I’ve just made the executive decision to switch from choosing tickets to working on my vendors list when someone knocks on my front door.

  I toss the rest of a carrot stick in my mouth as I head to the door. It’s not Sam. He has a key, and I almost always know when he’s headed over, anyway. It might be Janet. The last time Eva got sick at school, Janet came here to ask if I could keep an eye on her while she finished up a last bit of work before bringing her to the doctor. But when I peek through the peephole, I see it isn’t her, either. It’s the woman I met yesterday.

  “Hi, Ruby,” I say as I open the door.

  She’s gripping a glass measuring cup and looks at me sheepishly.

  “Hi, Emma. This is so incredibly cliché of me, and I can’t believe I’m doing it, but… can I borrow a cup of sugar, neighbor? I thought I lugged some with me from my old place, but I guess I didn’t,” she says.

  I laugh and step back to gesture for her to come inside.

  “Absolutely,” I tell her. “Come on in.”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  Her eyes fall on the scattering of flyers, catalogues, and sample tickets on the coffee table. I flutter my hand in its direction.

  “I’m planning a carnival,” I tell her.

  “Oh, that sounds like fun,” she says enthusiastically.

  “Maybe,” I reply with a laugh. “I think I might be just a bit too wrapped up in the details to really have found the fun in it yet.”

  Ruby looks confused.

  “Doesn’t that make it difficult for you as an event planner?” she asks.

/>   I laugh and shake my head. “I am definitely not an event planner. This is a brand-new experience for me. I’m actually an FBI agent.” I glance at the table and shrug as I look back at her. “Who knows, though? Maybe I’ll catch the bug and it will inspire a new business.”

  “You’re an FBI agent?” she raises her eyebrows, sounding surprised.

  “I am.”

  “That’s amazing!”

  I don’t want to get into the usual conversation that follows that kind of response, so I point toward the kitchen.

  “Let me get that sugar for you. Can I make you a cup of coffee?” I ask.

  “That sounds really good,” she says. “Thanks.”

  We walk into the kitchen, and she sits at the table, still gripping the glass measuring cup between her hands even when she sets it on the table. I’m drawn to the whispers in her eyes. Everyone with a story has them. They cloud the color and darken the edges. Hers are there, and I find myself wanting to hear them.

  “Where are you from originally?” I ask.

  “A little town called Crozet,” she tells me.

  I nod. “Oh, I know Crozet. Nice place. What brings you to Sherwood?”

  I reach into the pantry and pull out the bag of sugar. One of these days, I’ll be like my grandmother and pour the sugar from the bag into a canister when I get home from the grocery store. Maybe I’ll even keep it out on the counter next to the flour and coffee. But that’s a step into settling into a place I haven’t fully taken yet.

  “Looking for a fresh start,” she says.

  She said the same thing yesterday but didn’t elaborate. I set the bag on the table beside her so she can pour the sugar into the measuring cup herself.

  “Chasing a new career?” I ask.

  It’s extremely unlikely. Sherwood has a lot to offer, but a booming job market isn’t exactly one of them. People living around here can stay comfortable, but it’s not a place people come to chase a dream. The question fulfills its purpose.

  “I wish,” Ruby says with a short, mirthless laugh. She stares at the cup in her hands for a few seconds before she straightens and reaches for the bag of sugar. “I’m actually running away from a bad relationship. I guess I shouldn’t put it like that. It makes me sound like a sullen teenager.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I assure her. “Problems with your ex-husband?”

  “My ex-husband is a pocket protector-wearing CPA with the intimidation factor of a bowl of vanilla pudding. And not even the French kind. Just plain, jiggly yellow. No, this is Frank. He never got so far as the husband status. But he definitely causes problems,” she says. She smooths off the sugar, then looks at me with an embarrassed expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you all this. We just met.”

  “No,” I smile, shaking my head. “It’s fine. Go ahead.”

  The machine finishes spitting out the first cup of coffee, and I slide the mug across the table to Ruby. Reaching into the refrigerator, I bring out the container of cream, then get a spoon out of the drawer for each of us. She scoops a spoonful from her measuring cup into her coffee and stirs absently.

  “Frank is the classic example of why women my age don’t want to date. He seemed perfect when I first met him,” she starts.

  “That should have tipped you off,” I comment, swirling a thick ribbon of cream into my coffee.

  She chuckles. “Probably should have. He was so sweet and caring. I was still getting over my divorce, which I guess I didn’t even realize. It’s not like my ex-husband, and I had some dramatic, passionate affair, and it consumed us or anything. We had a very quiet, very monochrome marriage. Eventually, I just wanted a bit more color. The split was quick and clean. We literally signed the papers during his lunch hour, and he helped me move into my new apartment that evening, then we had pizza together. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I really started to notice him not being around. Isn’t that strange? We rarely did anything together, and I thought we were totally disconnected. But then I was reading one night and found a line I thought was funny. I turned to the other side of the bed to tell him about it. And he wasn’t there. That’s when it hit me. Does that sound ridiculous?”

  “No,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Sometimes you’re so used to something that even when it’s gone, you don’t really notice it as long as you’re doing different things. Then it’s a totally mundane moment and it all hits you. That happened with my father. I thought I had processed he was gone, but then it was pizza night. He wasn’t there to order it, and I completely fell apart. I sat in the living room by myself and cried for hours.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your father,” Ruby says.

  I start to correct her, to tell her my father isn’t dead, but I stop myself. I just met her. I’m not going to get into that much detail about my past right now.

  “Thank you,” I smile.

  She takes another sip of her coffee and lets out another long sigh.

  “So, after the incident with the book, I got into a really dark place. I didn’t think I was going to struggle with not being married to James. I thought I was going to be so much happier. But I was sad and lonely, and felt like a failure. Like somehow, he couldn’t be an exciting husband because I wasn’t a good enough wife. Maybe there was something I needed to do more of, or better, to make him a better husband. Then I met Frank. He made me feel wanted and beautiful. He hung on my every word and always wanted to be with me. It was intoxicating. Then it changed.”

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “It wasn’t anything major at first. He would get upset if I wasn’t available to have plans with him. He was jealous when other men talked to me. He started commenting on what I was wearing and suggesting I choose something more modest or flattering. Then it just progressively got worse. He became controlling, then intimidating. The first time he hit me, I wasn’t even surprised. I hate to admit that. I should have been shocked and horrified, but I wasn’t. It’s like he’d needled me and needled me until I was just willing to accept anything from him. It took me months to get strong enough to get out.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I tell her, reaching out to squeeze her hand. It’s strange—I barely know this woman—but I feel a kinship with her. I am always glad to be there for any woman who has gone through what she has.

  She manages a smile.

  “Thanks. How about you? Anyone special in your life?”

  Just as she asks, my phone rings. I excuse myself and go back into the living room to find it and smile when I see Sam’s name on the screen.

  “Calling to tell me you have the fundraiser all planned, and I don’t have to pick a ticket style?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Not exactly. I just wanted to make sure we’re still on for dinner tonight.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good. I’ll call ahead of time and reserve our usual table,” he jokes.

  “It’s so impressive you can always get us the best spots.”

  “Anything for you. I’ve gotta go. Apparently, someone went for a joy ride in a stolen car last night and hit a few things along the way.” I can practically hear the roll of his eyes through the phone.

  “That’s going to be fun,” I say, walking back into the kitchen. “I’ll see you tonight.” I hang up and notice Ruby watching me. I wave the phone back and forth. “Speak of the devil. That was Sam, the man I’m seeing.”

  “Oh,” she says, giving me a smile that says she is ready for some good old-fashioned girl talk. “What’s he like?”

  “Pretty amazing. I’ve known him most of my life. He’s actually the local sheriff.”

  “Wow,” she says, looking slightly deflated. “Sounds wonderful. You must feel so safe.”

  I sit down across from her and take a long sip of my coffee, pondering her words.

  She’s right. I should.

  Chapter Nine

  Him

  The empty room sent a cold chill down the back of his neck. It shouldn’t have been empty.
Just hours before, Finn was there. He’d put him there himself. Ensured he was in place and unable to leave. Finn had been too loud recently. Saying too much, pushing back too much. Simply too much. He was going to change that. He would make sure he had the loyalty and devotion the tattoo on Finn’s back required.

  But now he was gone. Somehow Finn slipped away and now was loose, unrestrained, and among outsiders. There was no telling what he was going to do. He had to stop him. To find him and ensure he remembered his place.

  Storming out of the room, he went to where the others gathered, the ones still there. Some were out on missions, serving him the way they should be. But most were there. Most stared at him reverently when he stepped into the room and leaned closer to him as he walked past, hoping to catch his attention. They hoped to be chosen by him. They wanted him to show them favor. But that wasn’t why he was there. Not that night. None in the room had gained his trust. Not yet. But they could. The chance was there if they wanted it.

  “Where is he?” he barked. “Where is Finn?”

  Every eye in the room locked onto another. They searched each other. They dug past the surface, burrowed into each other, tried to find the information. Even if the one who held it wasn’t going to speak, someone might see it. They might catch sight of the secret flitting across their vision and reach out to grab it so they could present it to him like an offering. People carried whispers in their eyes. He’d heard that. A long time ago.

  Someone in this room carried that secret. Someone knew how Finn had got out of that room. He couldn’t have done it alone. Someone knew how he got out and where he was now. All he needed to do was draw it out.

  He could smell their desperation to please him. It filled his lungs. There was a time when that devotion was heady, almost dizzying. He loved the way it felt to have them right on the tips of his fingers, easy to manipulate. The best part was that none of them were weak. He had his fill of weak, moldable people. People who didn’t have spines of their own, so they needed his words and validation to hold them up.