by A J Rivers
"Who is Ruby Baker, Pamela? I know you know who she is."
"How dare you?" she asks as Sam takes me by the hand and pulls me away.
The cold air from outside hits me, helping to start cooling the burning on my face, but I'm trembling.
"What do you think you're doing?" I ask.
"Emma, I'm done. I am so extremely done with this," he sighs, pressing his finger and thumb into the bridge of his nose. "This is not the time nor the place for you to be doing this."
I rake my fingers back through my hair. "This wasn't my intention. But I couldn't help it."
Suddenly, Pamela comes storming out of the funeral home. I'm expecting to see a wave of people following her, ready to watch the drama, but mercifully, they don't.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" she demands, stomping up to me. There are tears in her eyes, and her jaw shakes as she stares me down. "How dare you come in there and talk to me about Ruby?"
"Pamela, go back inside," he says.
"I'm not going to…"
"Pamela, now," Sam commands.
She glares at me for another intense second, then turns and takes long strides back into the funeral home.
Sam turns exhausted eyes back to me.
"Get in your car and drive home," he says. "I'm going to follow you to make sure you actually go."
"I need to tell you what's going on," I argue.
"You need to go home."
His voice is low and even; simmering just below his normal tone. I get into my car and take one last look at the parking lot as I drive out, catching sight of Kevin’s green sports car as I go. True to his word, Sam follows me all the way to my house and pulls into the driveway behind me like he's trying to block me from going anywhere. We get out, and I walk up to him.
"Sam, you need to listen to me. Pamela is involved in all of this."
"Emma, you need to get over this ridiculous feud with her. It's one thing not to get along, but you can't do this. You're crossing a line," he says.
I take out my phone and pull up the same pages I had on my computer the night before. Turning the screen to Sam, I point at it.
"See that woman? That's Ruby Baker," I say.
"That's an obituary," he points out.
"I know that. It says Ruby has been dead for over a year," I tell him. "Domestic violence."
"Are you seriously telling me the woman you supposedly saw moving in across the street is a ghost?" he asks. "That's your story now?"
"No. I don't think she's a ghost. But there's something going on, and Pamela may know what. Look. Read it."
He scans through, muttering as he reads, and I can pinpoint the moment he gets to the significant information because his voice trails off for a second.
"Survived by grandmother Esther Bryan, mother and father Jill and Kody Bryan, uncle Jason Bryan, aunt Celia Akon, brother Michael Bryan, and cousins Lily, Anna, and Burke Akon, and Pamela Bryan."
"And look at this," I say, taking the phone from his hand and shifting to another image. "This is her memorial page. It has pictures from her funeral. There's Pamela, right in the front row of the burial."
"Emma, this doesn't prove anything," he says, handing the phone back to me.
I scoff and push past him, hurrying up the steps onto my porch and walking into the house. He follows close behind me, and I whip around to face him as soon as we are inside.
"What do you think I did, Sam? Do you think I stalked Pamela online until I found some horrific family tragedy, stole the woman's name, and created the entire thing? Just for shits and giggles?" I shout.
"Emma, I don't know what's going on, but it has to stop. For everyone's sake, and for yours. You are losing credibility, and people are getting suspicious of you. You need to stay back and just be quiet for a while. I called Dr. Villa on the way. He's going to come over and bring you something to help you sleep."
"What?" I sputter incredulously. "You convinced a doctor to prescribe me medication?"
"It's just mild sleeping pills. You need to sleep," he says.
The house suddenly feels hot and suffocating. I pull off my long black wool jacket and toss it onto the couch. Sam takes a long step toward me.
"What's that?" he demands.
I loosen the holster from my hip. "I'm sure you recognize it."
"When did you start carrying a gun again?" he asks, his voice rising louder and slightly higher. "You said Creagan took it."
"He did. This is a new one."
"He took your gun because you were going on mental health leave. You're still on leave, Emma. You shouldn't be doing this. First, you're seeing things and coming up with outlandish stories. Now you're carrying a gun again. What is going on?"
I place my gun on the coffee table.
"When I agreed to stay here, I tried to let go. Everyone kept telling me I needed a break and to give my brain a chance to heal. So, that's what I tried to do. I tried to push aside my instincts and let go of my training. To just go about everyday life. Not always thinking about what was around me, not always being primed and ready, analyzing and collecting information, readying myself. I thought maybe that would take me off the edge. Being on leave meant not acting like an agent with every breath. Now I know putting those things aside only made the stress worse. I am a federal agent, Sam. This is who I am. It's why I left, and it didn't change when I came back. It's time I remember my life again."
A knock on the door makes Sam's head snap around. He crosses the room and opens it. Dr. Villa smiles in through the storm door at us, and Sam lets him the rest of the way in.
"Thank you for coming," Sam says. He looks outside, then over at me. "I'm going to go. I haven't forgotten who you are, Emma. And neither have you. Stay home. Stop all this. Get the rest and the help you need."
Chapter Forty
Dr. Villa talks to me about my struggles sleeping for a few minutes, then writes out a prescription. He reaches into his old-fashioned black leather bag and pulls out a blister pack with two pills.
"Go ahead and do whatever you need to do to get ready for bed. Take a shower, put on comfortable clothes, put on your favorite TV show. Then take these. They act quickly, so make sure you're ready before you take them. These are stronger than the prescription I just gave you. They’ll get you to sleep in a short time so you can start catching up on your rest.”
"What are the side effects?" I ask.
"Mild dizziness, headache, nausea. Nothing severe. They're all listed on the information you'll get when you fill the prescription. And trust me, Emma, none of the side effects are worse than what's happening to your body when you're only getting a couple of hours of sleep for a long period of time. Sleep deprivation can have a tremendous impact on your health and well-being. It's important to get yourself back on track and stay that way. I promise you will feel much better soon."
His white hair and round cheeks would make him fit right into a nostalgic painting of the mid-century that never was, and I'm almost expecting him to take out a lollipop to reward me for being a good patient. Instead, he snaps the bag shut and heads to the front door.
"Thank you. I'm sorry Sam had you come out here. I could have just gone to you," I say.
"And yet, you haven't," he points out. "But that's why I still do house calls. Now, you should make it a point to come see me in about two weeks to check in about how these are working for you. We'll decide then if you need to keep taking them or if we should change the dose or anything. Get comfortable and take those pills. I'll see you soon."
I contemplate the pills in my hand as I lock the door behind the doctor and head toward the back of the house. I've never been one to reach for a bottle when I need sleep. Too many experiences watching addicts try to pry themselves out of the grip of whatever substance took has always made me hesitate, even when going for a Tylenol. If there's one thing I can say about my career is that it's exceptional for keeping your life on the straight and narrow. For most people.
In the bathroom, I le
an on the counter with both hands and stare into the mirror. Dull eyes stare back at me. My skin has a gray cast, and I can't remember the last time I put on even my customary swipe of mascara. I look down at my phone. It sits on the counter, dark. After Eric described the possibility of the programs controlling the device, I've barely touched it. The next time I go up to the gun range, I'll bring it to him and let him look over it. He might be able to find the program and deactivate it. But that will still leave me with the question of who put it on my phone and why.
The sudden wave of questions and confusion crashing through my brain makes me dizzy. I can't get past the look on Pamela's face when I mentioned Ruby. I expected her to react, of course. It's why I asked about her. I wanted to see the look on her face and hear any explanations she tried to give. But the reaction wasn't what I thought it would be. It wasn't the face of someone shocked to be discovered or anxious about coming up with something to cover up what they did. She looked hurt and even offended. It doesn't tell me anything specific. I can't go on just a few seconds of reaction to determine what was going through her mind, but it makes me pause. It gives the entire situation another level of confusion, and my brain feels drained.
I set the pills down in the center of the counter and undress. A long, blisteringly hot shower makes my muscles feel loose, and it seems to take extra strength just to pull on a pair of stretch pants and a sweatshirt. I carry the pills with me into the kitchen to get a drink and gather a few snacks. Going back into my bedroom, I follow doctor's orders and put on a marathon of one of my favorite shows. The packet of pills flips back and forth across my palm as I continue to consider it.
What if this really is all in my head? Is it possible I could have slipped so far into sleep deprivation and stress that maybe I read the obituary of Pamela's cousin, forgot it, and my brain has crafted the story into a new reality?
I pop both pills out of the packet into my palm.
Maybe the noose really was just a prop. Before Everly Zara, I likely wouldn't have thought anything of it. I'm so far removed from my teenage years that I don't remember hearing stories of kids doing ridiculous things like that. If I'm honest, I can probably come up with a few stories of my own.
The pills go down with a swig of tea.
I can't explain the texts, but that doesn't mean there was someone in the hotel. Like Sam said, it was dark and confusing. The sounds could have been anything. Maybe I'm not remembering well. Maybe I did trip.
I slip beneath the covers and rest back against my pillows. My body melts down into the bed and every part feels heavy, dragged down by impending sleep. I can't focus on the show. My eyelids pull down, and just before I fall completely to sleep, a final thought rushes through my mind.
She called her Nikki.
Waking up is a completely disorienting experience. It feels like I haven't moved since I got into bed, and my joints ache from staying in the same position for so long. I have no idea what time it is, but the bright, saturated sunlight coming through the window tells me it's not the pre-dawn hours I usually greet when my eyes open for the first time every day. The TV is still on, and I stare at the screen for a few seconds. It's an odd juxtaposition. Just waking up from a long night of sleep and staring into the middle of an episode on TV that usually burns through the latest hours of the night. It's like I missed something. Like the whole world has gotten started without me, and now I'm going to have to catch up.
I pull myself up and check the clock. It's already mid-morning. The day really has started without me. It's strange to think of the hours churning on and the lives steadily unfolding while I was so deeply asleep. As I walk toward the kitchen for coffee, thoughts start to reformulate in the back of my mind. Something pricks and stings, just past my awareness, like I know it happened and can just barely perceive the memory but can't take hold and drag it up into my consciousness.
The house feels cold around me, like my body still isn't quite awake and every sensation is too intense. A few steps later, what my brain was trying to reach hits me.
A shrill beep in the middle of the night. Sounds I couldn't react to because the sedatives kept my body captive even in the brief moments my mind woke up. A thought flashing through.
They called her Nikki.
The cold air gets sharper. It draws me along the hallway. I walk into the kitchen, the thought swelling bigger and bigger in my head, and see the backdoor standing open by several inches. A cold wind flows in, and I wrap my arms tightly around myself to block the feeling. Now I know I heard the high-pitched beeping while I slept. It was the sound of the alarm as someone opened the back door. I rush across the room and look at the door. It isn't damaged in any way. It wasn't forced or broken open. It was opened with a key.
I close it firmly and turn around to reach for the phone. My gaze hits the kitchen table. I had been so focused on the open door when I got into the room, I didn't even notice there's something sitting in the middle of the table. A plate with a slice of chocolate cake holds down the corner of a piece of paper, weighing it down so it couldn't flutter away in the wind let in by the open door. I look down at it.
Have you figured it out yet?
Chapter Forty-One
I get dressed as fast as I can and use the landline in my kitchen to call Eric.
"What number is this?" he asks when he answers.
"It's my landline," I tell him.
"Did you lose your cell again?"
"No. But I can't risk using it. Listen. I need you to get all my case files and send them to me. Everything I've ever worked on. Back from the beginning. I need as much information as you can give me about them, alright?"
"Emma, what's going on?" he asks.
"I can't get into it right now. I just need you to do that for me. When we get off the phone, call Sam for me. Tell him someone was in my house and to look in the kitchen. I've got to go," I say.
Before he can protest, I hang up. I take my phone, compromised even as it is, and snap a photo of the cake and the note.
Just woke up to the back door open and found this on my kitchen table, I send him, attaching the file. The phone tries to send, but the text won’t go through. Of course. Just my luck. I’ll have to hand it over to show Sam directly when I see him.
I stuff my phone into my pocket and put my gun in its holster. Throwing on my coat, I run out to my car and head directly for Pearl's Diner. Rather than parking at the curb, I follow along the side street until I find the entrance to the alley. My car bounces slightly as it leaves the pavement and hits the gravel, the tires crunching along until I get to the space behind the restaurant. As I park, the back door to the diner opens and Kevin walks out carrying two large black bags of trash. He tosses them into the dumpster, then turns and looks at me, tenting his hand over his eyes to block out the sunlight.
"Hey, Emma," he calls when I climb out of the car. He takes a few swaggering steps toward me. "Couldn't find a good parking space up front?"
"I actually came to look around back here. I realized when I got home the other day, I couldn't find my bracelet. The clasp on it breaks all the time, so I thought I'd come back here and see if it might have fallen off while I was here."
He glances around at the gravel. It's not deep, and patches of dirt show through where the rocks have worn away. Kevin kicks at one of them, moving individual rocks around in a feeble attempt at searching.
"I haven't seen anything like that around here, but you're welcome to have a look. You know, my wife used to have a bracelet that broke all the time like that. I eventually brought it up to the jeweler and he changed the clasp on it."
"I'll have to look into that," I tell him, bending over like I'm searching the ground for something. "It must be a run of bad luck. I woke up this morning and found my back door standing wide open."
"Standing open?" he asks.
“Yep,” I nod. “I walked into the kitchen to make some coffee, and there it was, just standing open."
“Do you think som
ebody got inside?” he asks.
I stand up straight and walk over closer to the green car parked near the dumpster.
“I don't think so. I have an alarm system, so I would have heard it. Last night, my neighbor came over to chat for a little bit, and I must have just not closed the door all the way when she left. She prefers going to the back door because she says the front is too formal.” I force a laugh. “She's new in town, so I think she's pretty eager to make friends.”
“New neighbor?” Kevin asks.
I look back over my shoulder at him casually.
“Her name is Ruby Baker. Do you know her?”
Kevin shakes his head.
“Can't say I do.”
I shrug. “Like I said, she's pretty new in town. Maybe I'll bring her in here to eat sometime soon. I think the two of you would get along. She's a big animal lover. Well, I don't see my bracelet anywhere. I must have dropped it somewhere else. Thanks for helping me look.” I walk back toward my car, then turn back to him. “I forgot to ask. Are you feeling better?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I saw you driving to the hospital when everyone was sick. I figured you must have gotten pretty sick. Having to taste everything you cook, you must have eaten quite a bit of the gravy. I was surprised when I saw you. You drove right past me. Down on Miller's Road?”
He looks at me like he's thinking for a few seconds, then tilts his head back and opens his mouth.
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah. That whole day is so much of a blur. I've never been so sick in my whole life. How are you getting on with your recovery?” he asks.
“Oh, I didn't get sick. Sam and I were fine,” I tell him.
He looks briefly bewildered.
“You were fine? Don't you usually come in for lunch at 12:30?” he asks.
I hold back the hint of a smile that tries to make its way onto my lips.
“I do,” I confirm. “But not that day. We got there early. Lucky, I guess. Have a good rest of your day.”
Turning my car around, I drive away from the back of the diner. Instead of turning onto the street beside it, I cross over and go into the alley behind the small shops on the next block. I drive ahead a few yards and pull into the small alcove of parking spots behind a beauty parlor. There's just enough of my car sitting out from behind the wall that I can look through my back windshield and see the street beside Pearl's Diner. It takes a few minutes, but just as I expected, the green sports car pulls out and drives away.
