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

by A J Rivers

  I take a few more steps down the hallway, then stop. My heart pounding is loud in my ears, and a shiver of disquiet goes down my spine. Taking out my phone, I dial Sam again as I'm heading back out of the hotel with every intention of getting in my car.

  But I hear a faint ringing somewhere in the hotel. I keep the call open, letting the ringing guide me back along the hallway in the opposite direction.

  "Sam?" I call out again.

  This time I hear a groan, and I repeat the call to continue faster toward the sound. It draws me around a corner in the hallway and toward a dark gap in the distance. As I approach, I realize the gap isn't a hole in the wall, but an open elevator shaft. The call ends, and I try to call again, but my phone won't respond.

  It takes all I have not to scream in frustration. Ten steps ago I had reception, but now suddenly it can't connect. I back up to call again, but it still won't connect. I continue down the hallway and shine the flashlight beam into the shaft. Footsteps come up behind me, but I don't have a chance to turn around. A hard push makes me stumble. I can't grab onto anything and fall into the shaft.

  Pain radiates through my hip and shoulder as I hit the top of the elevator several feet down from the door. Above me, the doors slam closed. Saturated darkness surrounds me. With no power in many years, there are no emergency lights, no glowing buttons, no exit signs. I dropped my phone as I fell, but heard it clang against the metal. Lowering myself carefully to a crouch, I touch the top of the elevator and feel around slowly. Finally, my fingertips find my phone, and I pick it up. The flashlight is off, and the screen is dark. I press the button on the side, but it does nothing.

  "Shit. No. No, no, no," I growl.

  I shake the phone. It's an idiotic compulsion, but one that pops to mind any time something unexpectedly doesn't work. I press the button again, but it still stays dark. Another profanity puffs out of me, and I hang my head for a second, gathering my thoughts. I have to think. I can't let the terror take over and make me lose control. If I'm going to get out, I need to get a hold of myself and think clearly.

  Pushing my phone into my pocket, I reach ahead of me in the darkness until I feel the metal cables holding the elevator. It occurs to me I don't really know how far I fell, or even which direction I'm facing now after crawling around trying to find my phone.

  My shoulder and hip still ache, but most of the pain has subsided. I don't feel seriously injured. I take hold of the cables and try to pull myself up onto them. It doesn't take me long to realize that is a futile effort. Even if I was able to scale the metal, the cables are positioned in the center of the elevator, several feet away from the doors. I likely wouldn't even be able to reach the doors, much less have the leverage to push them open. I climb down off the cables and take a step. My foot slides into the gap between the elevator and the shaft wall, making me stumble. I gasp and reach for the cables again.

  Once I'm steady, I unwedge my foot and sit down. It somehow seems even darker than it was when the doors first closed. My eyes aren't getting used to the darkness. The air in the shaft is getting colder, sinking through my clothes until I'm shivering.

  I try to come up with options. Without my phone, I can't call for help or use any light. The elevator is too far from the doors above me to reach. An instinctive fear in situations like this is that the air will run out. I know logically it's not going to happen, but that doesn't stop the nerves from starting to settle in.

  What the hell is going on? Where is Sam?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Above me, I can hear footsteps again. I shout out to Sam, but my voice only bounces around the shaft and comes back down on me. Seconds later, a tiny sound in the silence sends chills along my skin. It's like fingers drumming on the doors of the elevator. A slow, systematic popping against the metal. That's not Sam. He would never do something like this. I don't know who is in this hotel with me, but they have me trapped.

  A sudden wave of vertigo makes me feel like I'm sitting right on the edge of something, ready to fall. I push backward, and my hand slips across a change in the texture of the metal. I feel it again. It's a slight dip, almost like a gap in the top of the elevator. The hatch. Thank the universe for outdated technology. The building has obviously been abandoned long enough that the rules for elevator compliance hadn't updated by the time they closed. Today nobody trapped inside an elevator is wriggling their way up and out of a hatch onto the top of the car to try to get out. But when this elevator was built, it was equipped with a small door leading down into the car.

  There's no lock securing the door, and it only takes me a few moments to open the hatch. Stale, sickly smelling air rushes up out of the car. I don't know what's beneath me or what's going to happen when I drop down, but it might be my only chance. The average distance between floors in a building is ten to fifteen feet. Standing up and stretching my arms above me to feel where the elevator doors are tells me there's a very good chance the elevator is either at the bottom floor or very close. I'll take the possibility of getting out over sitting here and waiting for whoever’s done this to open those doors and come after me.

  I swing my legs over the side of the hatch so that they dip down into the cabin. Just as it is in the elevator shaft, it's complete darkness beneath me, so I have no way to prepare myself for what I might land on.

  I take a breath and let go.

  This fall is much shorter than the last one. I crumple to the ground and take a second to absorb the shock before climbing to my feet. Holding my hand out in front of me, I feel for the walls of the car. I'm still turned around, not sure which direction I'm facing. Finally, I find the rail weaving around the wall and follow it until I get to the buttons. From there, I run my hand over the door frame until I feel the crack between the car doors. I pry the doors open fairly easy and my heart sinks as I feel stone. The car isn't aligned with the doors to the floor.

  Above me, I hear a horrible grinding sound of metal on metal. The doors are opening. Panic rises in me, and I crouch down to the floor, running my hands down the brick. A gasp of relief bursts out of me when I feel the texture and temperature change to cold, smooth metal. The car is still several feet above the station for the first floor, but it's something.

  I hunker down to the floor and brace my feet against the back of the elevator. Thankful for my height and my years of strength training, I dig my fingers into the space between the doors and go to work prying them open. I'm running on hope that the elevator is old enough to not have the restrictors in place that would prevent the doors from opening. My fingers ache and strain. I take a deep breath and yank with everything I have. After several long, silent seconds of this, it doesn't feel like the doors are going to move, but finally, they slip and create a small gap.

  I listen, waiting for more sound from above. It's gone quiet, but I don't know what that means. I pull up to a crouch for leverage to keep prying. The grinding sound starts above me again at the same time, the doors in front of me pull apart. The cold and darkness amplify my fear. But I have to keep going. If I stay, whoever trapped me in here will find me. Or I could try to escape. Maybe I’ll be playing right into their hands. But I don’t care. I’m not waiting around like a sitting duck.

  It feels like time is sliding by too fast. I can't keep up. I keep having to stop, to catch my breath, and try to pull the doors open more. Just a little more. That’s all I need.

  With one heaving groan, I pull them apart enough to squeeze through. A small amount of light filters through, and without wasting any further seconds, I stick my legs down through the hole. I push forward and out just as I hear the heavy thud of something hit the top of the elevator car. I hit the floor and feel pain twinge in my ankle. I can't bother with it now. I scramble up, ignoring the pain as I run through the bottom floor of the building. I didn't see this portion when I was first going through the hotel. It takes some time to figure out where the elevator is positioned relative to the front door and the stairs. I hear the grinding of the me
tal again and run for the first door I see.

  It opens out into a kitchen. Several windows high on the wall allow some moonlight into the space, and I can see the shapes of the counter, prep stations, and large refrigerators. At the back of the room, a narrow door likely leads out to the back of the hotel. Like the front door, it's been breached, and for the first time, I'm thankful for the idiocy of vandals. I run out of the back and through the tiny gravel back parking lot toward the access road, coming around the corner just as headlights wash across my face.

  Tires squeal as the car slams to a stop.

  "Emma!" Sam's voice comes at me through the blinding glare of the lights.

  I continue toward him, and he meets me a few yards away, gathering me into a hug.

  "Thank god you're here," I gasp, finally allowing my body to catch up with me.

  "What are you doing here? What's going on?" he asks.

  "There's someone in there. Someone is inside. They pushed me down the elevator shaft."

  "What?" he asks. "You have to slow down. What happened?"

  "I was in the upstairs hallway, and someone pushed me into the elevator shaft. They were coming after me,” I tell him through heavy pants.

  Sam's eyes snap to the hotel, and he guides me behind him by my shoulders.

  "Go get in the car. Lock the door and don't open it."

  He pulls his gun out and heads for the door. As he approaches, he leans toward the radio on his chest to call for backup. I don't want him to go inside alone. I hate the idea of him being in there. As if he can hear my doubts, he turns back over his shoulder.

  "Get in the car, Emma," he commands.

  I go for his car rather than my own, wanting the comfort of being near him. I sit in the silence, waiting. I don't want to say it this time or admit it's what's going through my mind, but I know I'm waiting for a gunshot. Ten minutes pass before another squad car comes into the lot, filling the space with even more light. Blue beams across the pavement make my eyes ache. Savannah and Daniel, two of the other officers, rush up to Sam's car and peer through the window in at me.

  “What's going on, Emma?” Daniel asks.

  “Sam is inside,” I say. “You need to get in there with him. He shouldn't be alone.”

  Both officers rush into the building, their hands going for their guns as they do. Savannah steps up behind Daniel, her hand resting on the back of his shoulder as they prepare to enter the unknown. It seems like forever, but all I can do is sit there by myself. At any moment, I'm expecting someone to dash from behind the building to the car and get inside. But I don't see any movement near the dilapidated hotel or the parking lot until the front door opens again and all three officers come out.

  I open the door and step out. My ankle feels weaker, and I limp over to see him. He shakes his head.

  “There's no one in there,” he says.

  “What do you mean there's no one in there?” I ask. “Someone was there.”

  “Emma, we searched every single room. That was no one there. I found the elevator shaft, and I can see where you got in, but I didn't see anyone else there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I'm completely bewildered as Sam sends Savannah and Daniel back to the station, then climbs into the car beside me. I'm back in my own car, my hands gripping the steering wheel even though I'm not going anywhere. I watch the blue light disappear as they head off. There's no more reason to warn anyone. They decided there's no emergency. I finally turn to Sam.

  “I heard your phone,” I say.

  He looks at me strangely.

  “My phone?”

  “In the hotel. I heard your phone. I got your text messages asking me to come here and meet you, and I went inside. I couldn't find you, so I called your phone. I could hear it ringing. That's why I went down that hallway,” I tell him.

  “Emma, I wasn't here. I don't know what you heard, but it wasn't my phone. You saw me drive up, and I didn't text you. I tried to call you, but it went straight to voicemail.”

  “You did text me,” I fire back, with more irritation than I mean to. “It said you needed me and gave me the address to come here. Then when I got here, I texted you back and asked if you were here because I didn't see your car. You sent another message that said to come inside. That's why I went in.”

  He looks at me strangely.

  “I didn't text you. I called you earlier to ask if you wanted to come out here with me, but that was it. I responded to the call and didn't see any signs of a break-in. I mean, the doors were unlocked, but I'm sure they've been that way for a long time. Nobody takes care of this place, and people probably go in and out all the time. I swept it and left.”

  “Who called to report the break-in?” I asked.

  “They didn't leave a name. They just called, said there was something going on here, and we needed to respond, then hung up. Stuff like that happens sometimes. Nine times out of ten, it's a prank, but there is always that possibility of a tenth time, so we have to investigate everything. Why didn't you call me?”

  “I just told you, I did. I called you a few times, and I could hear the phone ringing, but you never answered. Then I tried to call you again, and my phone wouldn't work. It wouldn't even turn the flashlight on. Why would you text me to come out here if you left?”

  “I told you, I didn't text you. Look,” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He pulls up the ongoing thread of our text message conversation. I'm the type of person who erases my texts at the end of every day, so it's somewhat mind-boggling to see the days and weeks unfolding on his screen. “See? Nothing. No texts to you and no texts back to me. No phone calls from you, either. But you can see I called you.”

  “I did get a call from you. My phone stopped working, and I haven't been able to get it back on.”

  “Let me look at it,” he says. “I might be able to fix it.”

  I hand him my phone, and the moment he hits the power button, it pops back on. I stare at the screen, dumbfounded. Snatching it back from him, I flip through the screen.

  “It would not turn on when I was inside. I tried over and over again. It just stayed black,” I say.

  “Show me the messages,” he says.

  I pull up my texts, but they're blank.

  “No. No, that's not right," I say. I turn the phone off and turn it back on, then check the texts again. Nothing. "I don't understand what's happening."

  "I'm going to take you home," Sam says. "You can tell me what happened."

  My mind won't stop spinning the entire way back to my house. I can't think clearly, much less put anything into words. Sam doesn't push me, but drives silently, occasionally glancing over at me as if to check and see if I'm ready to talk. When we get back to my house, I disappear into the shower. The pain through my body has gotten worse, but the hot water rinsing away the dust and grime makes me feel a little better. Sam is in the kitchen making tea when I get out. Even my thickest sweatsuit isn't enough to take the chill out of my bones, and I curl up in the corner of the couch, wrapping a blanket around myself and holding the tea close.

  "How would I know where you were if you didn't send me the address?" I finally ask.

  Sam shrugs and shakes his head.

  “I must have mentioned it to you when I called,” he says.

  “No. You didn't. You just said you got a call for a break-in. You didn't mention where it was. I didn't find out until I got the address in that text.”

  “Emma, I can't explain that. All I can tell you is I didn't send you a text. Not one telling you I needed you, and not one giving you the address to get there. I would have no reason to do that,” Sam says.

  “Then how did you know where to find me?” I asked.

  “The GPS tracker,” he tells me.

  As soon as he says it, I remember. Shortly after the incident at the cult, Sam insisted on some extra security measures. One was attaching a GPS unit to my car and making me promise to keep the location tracker in my phone activated
at all times. That would allow him to find me like it did today.

  I run my fingers back through my hair, kind of shaking my head.

  “Sam, someone was there. Someone pushed me into that elevator shaft. I didn't just fall. And there was somebody coming after me when I was trying to get out.”

  “We searched. There was no one. Let me see your ankle. You're limping pretty badly,” he says.

  "No. You don't believe me. You think I'm making it up," I say.

  "I don't think you're making it up. I don't know what happened. You were obviously afraid when I got there, but we didn't find anyone there."

  "They could have gotten out through the back the way I did," I point out.

  "Daniel went directly to the back door and didn't see anyone. I'll send someone to search the area if it will make you feel better."

  "But you think I'm imagining things," I snap. It’s a little unfair, but I’m hurting and tired and irritated. It's obvious he's trying, but he can't bring himself to believe what I'm saying. “Don’t you?”

  "I'm going to send them out to search the area and see if they can find anyone," he says, conveniently ignoring my pointed question.

  He steps out of the room to make the call. When he comes back, he reaches for my leg. "Let me see your ankle."

  I relent to him checking it and cringe as he presses his fingers into the tender area around the joint.

  "Why would I hear your phone ringing?" I ask.

  He shakes his head. "I honestly don't know." He lifts my leg and kisses my ankle. "It's not broken. Probably a strain. But if it still hurts in a day or two, you should have it seen to make sure there's no hairline fracture."