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

by A J Rivers

  “You did?” I ask, my attention finally pulled away from the computer.

  “Yes. And here's the thing. You were right. Her date of death is listed as April 17th, 2003, just as you said. It also mentioned the funeral home where her viewing was being held,” she says.

  I shake my head, squeezing my eyes against the thought of it.

  “She didn't have a viewing,” I say. “She was immediately cremated.”

  “As you've told me. Which intrigued me, so I went back to the funeral home with a copy of the information, hoping that might persuade them a little. But they still wouldn't talk. I figured I was going to need something else and was about to leave, but as soon as the funeral director walked out of the room, another attendant came up to me. He's only been working there for a few months, so he obviously didn't have any information you could give me about your mother, but he told me I was not the first person to come by recently and ask about her.”

  “Why would somebody else be asking about my mother's funeral?” I frown.

  “He didn't know. All he could tell me was a man came by a couple of weeks ago and spoke to the owner. I spoke to the owner, too, but the attendant specifically said that man was in the office with him for much longer than I was, and they kept the door closed the entire time. But that's not the strangest thing about it. Right before he left, the man walked up to that attendant and said he wanted it to sign the condolence book.”

  “That's an odd request,” I note. “Was he there for a viewing or funeral, and just stopped by to ask about my mother?”

  “No. He walked in, spoke to the director, then asked to sign the condolence book,” Bellamy tells me.

  “Did he let you see it?“ I asked.

  “He did. I looked over every signature in that book around the time he remembered that man coming in, and one name in particular jumped out at me. Gregory Ronald Bailey.”

  She says each name slowly, enunciating the syllables to make sure it gets through to me. But I didn't need the emphasis. The shock and confusion burst behind my eyes like a blow to the head.

  "Greg Bailey," I say. "But his middle name is Ryan, not Ronald."

  "I know, but what if that was the point? What if he signed his name wrong on purpose? Who else do you know with that name?" she asks.

  It only takes a few seconds for the realization to hit me.

  "Ron Murdock." The man who dropped dead on my porch in Feathered Nest a few months ago after delivering a message to me while I was supposed to be undercover.

  She makes an affirming sound, and I shake my head. "What the hell is going on?"

  "What do you mean?"

  It's not Bellamy's voice, but Sam's. I look up and see him walking slowly up the sidewalk toward me.

  "B, I've gotta go. Thank you for calling me. Let me know if you find out anything else," I tell her. “Love you.”

  "I will. There are a few more things I want to check out. Love you too."

  I press the button to end the call and set the computer on the small table in front of me, lowering the screen slightly so Sam can’t see my research.

  "Is it alright that I'm here?" he asks, gesturing at the porch while hesitating with one boot on the bottom step.

  "Of course," I nod.

  "Was that Bellamy?" he asks. "Is everything okay?"

  He walks up the steps and leans against the post.

  "Yeah, that was her. Um," I glance down at my phone, then back at Sam, wondering how much to share with him. We haven't spoken since I left the hospital parking lot a few days ago, and I'm not sure he wants to get tossed into the fray with me. "She's actually in Florida looking into my mother's death."

  "She is?"

  "Remember, I told you she found the person who made the necklaces."

  "That seems like a pretty tenuous reason to go all the way to Florida," he points out.

  An irrational amount of frustration rushes up inside me.

  "You know what? Don't worry about it. Is there something I can do for you?" I ask.

  "No. We just haven't talked. I wanted to check on you. I'm sorry that came out like that. Tell me what's going on."

  I tell him about the discrepancy with my mother's death and Bellamy's visit to the funeral home. He seems intrigued by the potential link between the strange middle name and Ron Murdock, but not entirely convinced.

  "It could be someone with the same name," he offers. "Greg Bailey isn't exactly an outlandish name."

  "No, it's not. I'm sure there are plenty of others. There may even be a few right there in the area. But what are the chances someone with the same name as my missing ex-boyfriend would go to the funeral home asking about my mother's death?" I ask.

  He gives a relenting nod. "That would be a pretty extraordinary coincidence."

  "Yeah. There seem to be a lot of those going around recently," I mutter, adjusting the quilt around my shoulders.

  There's a tense silence for too long, and it's finally Sam who breaks it.

  "Let's go ahead and say that it really is Greg, and he was trying to send you some kind of message. How would he even know about Ron Murdock?"

  I sigh. "That one I can't explain. He had already been missing for almost a year by the time Murdock was killed."

  "Do you think Greg could have killed him?" Sam asks. "And didn't you say you don't think Ron Murdock was even the man's actual name?"

  "I don't know. I really don't. It's all just… a lot," I tell him. I sigh. "Can we change the subject? How has work been?"

  "Well, they finished the official investigation into Nicole's death."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  "They finished the investigation already?" I ask. "That didn't take long."

  "Apparently, it would have been a lot longer if they had to identify a foodborne pathogen. But like you said, that's not what it was," Sam explains. "They tested all the food at Pearl’s and all the ingredients still present for a whole host of pathogens but concluded it wasn't any of them. The issue wasn't one of food safety."

  "Then what was it?"

  "All the victims’ symptoms were pretty severe, but they didn't last too long. Most who went into the hospital in apparently bad condition got better within just a couple of hours. The vast majority were recovered and able to go home the next day. Only very few continued to have lingering symptoms. Severe stomach cramps, muscle contractions, vomiting. A couple of the patients showed heartbeat disruptions, and that’s what tipped off the doctors. It was the effects of emetine."

  "Emetine?" I repeat. “I've heard that before. As in ipecac?”

  “One and the same. Some of the food was still around from being tested, so they tested it for emetine, and there it was. Somebody must have thought it was a good idea for a funny joke but didn't realize how severe the effect would be.”

  “So, not food poisoning. Just good old-fashioned regular poisoning,” I say.

  “You can put it that way,” he says.

  “Where was it? What food was it in? Not everybody was affected.”

  “The only place they were able to find it was in the gravy. Apparently, a lot of people were in the mood for biscuits and gravy that day, which is why so many were people affected.”

  I look at Sam incredulously.

  “A lot of people were in the mood for it, including us. We both ate most of what was on our plates, but neither one of us had any symptoms. Neither did Jacqueline. I saw her table. Both she and Nicole were eating biscuits and gravy, but Jacqueline didn't have any symptoms at all. That still doesn't explain what happened to Nicole. The doctors said she died of anaphylactic shock. How is that possible when there weren't any hazelnuts in the restaurant?”

  “I don't know,” he shrugs. “We're still hoping to figure that out. I did want to let you know that there's going to be a visitation for her in the morning. I would understand if you don't want to go…”

  “I want to go,” I interrupt.

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “Sam, I was with her m
other while Violet tried to save her life. The least I can do is pay my respects.”

  “The public hours are early because Jacqueline wants a few private hours just for the family before the closed memorial service tomorrow. If you want to ride with me, I’ll bring you.”

  “Sure,” I tell him. “Did you send people back to the hotel?”

  The question is awkward, tacked on to the end of the conversation, but he hasn't mentioned the incident, and I need to know. I can't just let him gloss over it and continue to pretend like nothing happened when I know for a fact it did.

  “Yes,” he tells me. “I told you I would, so I did.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “Nothing. They didn't find anything, Emma. They searched the entire area around the hotel. They made a five-mile radius, far further than a person could have walked in the time between us leaving and the team getting there. There was no sign of anyone who could have done what you described,” he tells me.

  “Someone was in that hotel,” I tell him for what feels like the thousandth time. “I heard footsteps and the phone ringing. And somebody knocked me down into that elevator shaft. There was somebody there. They were chasing me when I got out and found you.”

  “It's an old, nearly crumbling building,” he says. “I'm not going to lie and say there haven't been times when I thought it was downright creepy. Buildings like that play tricks with your head. They can make noise and cast shadows. It's easy to get it confused and think something's happening when it really isn't.”

  “I don't need you to explain perception to me,” I tell him. “This isn't the first time I've been in an abandoned building. And trust me, it wasn't the foundation settling or the walls cracking that was playing tricks with my head.”

  “They looked, Emma. They searched as far as they could. If there was someone in that hotel who ran, they would have found him. I hate that you went through whatever you did, and I wasn't there to help you. You were obviously scared, but you were also in pain. You know what pain can do to your thoughts. Getting hurt only heightened your fear and made you interpret things wrong.”

  “I didn't hurt my ankle until I was climbing out of that elevator, and whoever the hell was in there was coming down after me. I didn't need anything to heighten my fear at that point. I was pretty well scared shitless already,” I retort, anger flaring back up again.

  “Again, I'm sorry you went through what you did. I'm sorry whatever miscommunication happened that led you there and put you in that type of position. I want to believe what you're saying because then there'd be somebody to blame.”

  “I don't think you do,” I say.

  “Why would you say that?” he asks, his face shocked.

  “Because if you did, you would try harder.”

  The tension between us is almost tangible. I want it to go away and go back to the way we were. But I'm still struggling with Sam not fully trusting me and believing what I tell him. He comes and sits beside me, turning so he can look into my face.

  "Emma, I'm not against you. I'm right here. Right beside you. And that's where I want to be. I'm not trying to push you away or make you feel like I don't care. I'm doing everything I can to help you figure this out, but I'm at a loss. I don't know what you expect me to do," he says.

  "I expect you to trust me," I say. "To help me."

  "I do trust you, just like I always have. But I can't help you with something I haven't seen or experienced.”

  "You have experienced it, Sam. You were there when I found the noose. You were there when I barely got out of the hotel. And you were there when everyone got sick."

  "You found a prop at an old haunted house. I know you were terrified in that hotel. I still don't understand how you got there, but it was an accident. The incident at Pearl's was a prank. It went wrong, but that's all it was," he says.

  "I'm sure Jacqueline agrees it was a hell of a prank," I spit, standing and gathering my things to go back inside.

  Sam reaches for my hand as I gather the quilt around me, but I pull away.

  “Emma…”

  “I’ll drive myself to the visitation.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Him

  “You know, I thought we had an understanding. From the very beginning, I told you exactly what I needed from you, and promised if you just fulfilled those things for me, everything would work out fine. Didn’t I?”

  The man stretched on the floor in front of him growled through gritted teeth as the hot piece of metal sliced through his skin. It was sharp enough to cut through but kept just dull enough to need pressure.

  He called this man Lamb. He was so easily led. Not that he believed it would be very difficult to persuade him. He watched him for weeks, getting accustomed to his patterns and knowing his habits. In that time, he learned there was little change from day to day in his life. He kept to his schedule. He followed the same routes. He ate the same foods. By the second week, he could predict nearly every move Lamb was going to make. There were few surprises. And even when there was a change, when something shifted, or he was forced to contend with something new in his path, Lamb managed it with a steady calm, then went back to his routine.

  But there was an exception. He never stepped away from the call of duty. When there was a need, he didn’t hesitate. He did as he was told and followed through to the fullest of his ability. And it was those abilities that surprised him most about Lamb. Quiet and unextraordinary on the surface, he hid a brilliant mind and sharp physical skills that made him an asset. He only needed to draw him in. And there was only one way he was going to do that. It was immediately obvious. And immediately effective.

  “Yes, I will admit, I deceived you at first. But I didn’t really lie. Not fully. I told you exactly who I was, you only thought something else. That’s because you didn’t know the truth. Just like Emma doesn’t. But she will. That’s the point of this. Don’t you remember that? Don’t you want to protect her? Make sure she has a good life? Keep her away from the threats and dangers? She doesn’t know. It’s up to me to keep her safe, and I entrusted you to help me.”

  “I did help you,” Lamb hissed.

  “But then you lied to me.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  The metal cut in again, making another notch in already blood-stained skin.

  “How did you do it?” he asked.

  “I didn’t,” Lamb protested. “I don’t know how it happened.”

  Another cut. It would be a slow process for Lamb. It didn’t have to be that way. It could have been so much simpler. He was willing to honor Lamb, to raise him up above even those who had proven themselves for so long. Once he was away from Emma, there was nothing to hold against Lamb. His skills, knowledge, and abilities would be so helpful, incredibly valuable to the mission. Both his dreams of Emma and the larger mission they followed each day. If only it had been as easy to convince him of the gift as it was to be welcomed into the ranks. Lamb would have earned an outline on his back rather than the row of notches in his skin.

  But he would keep trying. He could be forgiving. He knew not everyone came naturally to the mission. Some wouldn’t understand the value they could have. They would resist. He didn’t give up easily. He rarely threw his recruited away. And he wouldn’t throw Lamb away. There was still worth in him. Still value. He just needed to train him and bring him fully into the fold, so he understood his place and was ready to give himself wholly to the mission.

  He had never failed to break a recruit. One way or another.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I can't be on the porch anymore. What felt like freedom when I first got home and took my place on the wicker couch now feels like exposure. I walk into my house, not caring if Sam follows me. He does and closes the front door behind him, turning the lock in place and checking it twice. It's a habit I’ve noticed he picked up in the last several months. I know for a fact he didn't used to do that. When we were younger, he never locked the door. His mother used to
tease him that he felt like he was insulting the people around him if he kept his house secured. Even as a sheriff, he always kept it unlocked, to prove some point to the people that the town was safe.

  Now he grapples with me regularly, trying to convince me to add more locks to my doors even after I relented and agreed to an alarm on my windows and back door.

  My computer comes with me into my bedroom. I open it the rest of the way and put it on my bed, scanning the screen again. There's no mistaking what I'm seeing. It's not a different woman with the same name. It's not a mistake. It's a picture of Ruby, smiling at the camera from a face surrounded by a cloud of dark curls. She looks over one shoulder with a lovely grin, clad in a cream-colored floral dress. The picture is old, obviously from when she was much younger and hadn't yet had her run-in with Frank, who stole her security, her independence, the flowers on her clothes, and the light in her eyes. I thought he stole her life. But the words on the screen tell me there wasn't one to steal.

  She was buried over a year ago.

  "Emma, I have to go."

  "I'll see you tomorrow," I tell him.

  There's silence on the other side of the door. I can almost see him standing there, considering what to say next.

  "Alright," he finally says.

  I hear him walk away and the door close behind him. I sit down on the bed and pull my computer closer. Another scan through the search results brings up an obituary. Then a memorial page. My stomach turns. They're all there. They're all her. By all signs, I lent sugar to a dead woman.

  The more I read, the more the shaking feeling in my chest hardens. The more my blood runs cold. I grab my phone and make a call, but there's no answer. Not willing to wait, I rush out to my car and head into town. As soon as I pull into the Lionheart parking lot, I notice the windows are dark.