by A J Rivers
I didn’t want to go back. Everything I tried to understand the first go-round was now revealed to me. I know what happened to my mother. I know why my childhood was spent bouncing around and never really settling into one place. I know who I am. I had no interest in going over it again, or in adding Greg to the mix in a new way. I'd already talked about him. My therapist knew what I went through when he disappeared and how that played into my breakdown two years ago. I didn't want to go any deeper or talk about his death.
But I didn't have a choice. That dusty pink couch was waiting for me, and I had to fill it. But they couldn't force me to unzip my soul and spill my guts out. She could only sit there and wait. The words were mine, and I could choose when and if to say them. For those few weeks in the beginning, I barely spoke. I listened to her try to prod me along, only answering her questions with the simplest words I could, but I didn't offer her anything else. Not until October. Not until I couldn't breathe.
I slept almost the entire day after tearing the room in the attic apart. Sam gently washed my hands and wrapped them in bandages, then tucked me into bed and cared for me there until I felt like I was back in reality. The next day I walked back into my therapist's office and told her what happened.
She called it a breakthrough. I didn't care what she called it. All I knew is something shifted. I still wasn't able to come back up into the attic for a long time. Everything stayed exactly where I left it. I couldn't even go up to get the Christmas decorations or return them after the new year. But gradually, I chipped away. I brought myself through the house. To the bottom of the stairs. I opened the door. I turned on the single bulb that hung over it. Two weeks ago, I walked through the swaying light and climbed the stairs into the attic. The destruction was still there, and I put myself to the task of putting it all back together again.
The cuts on my hands are gone now, and I don't shake when I climb the stairs.
Sam comes up into the attic. I stretch my back to release the tension in the muscles. It's amazing how just crouching down to paint something as simple as a baseboard can create so much discomfort. He leans down and kisses me, putting his big strong hand right on the spot of my back that hurts. It's amazing how he can tell exactly what I need. I lean into his touch, letting the warmth of his skin sink through the baggy button-up shirt I have over my clothes.
“It's looking really good up here,” he tells me. “So, I see you went with the ecru.”
I look down at the section of the wall I just finished painting and narrow my eyes at him.
“That's eggshell,” I tell him. “Can't you tell the difference?”
But he looks at it; his head tilted to the side.
“Seriously?” he asks.
“I actually have no idea,” I smile. “It's white. I just got the first one on the shelf."
Sam laughs and shakes his head.
“Well, whatever color it is, you're doing a good job. Is the electricity still holding up?” he asks.
I reach over to the newly installed light switch and flick it up and down a few times to show off the bright bulbs that now fill the room with warm yellow light.
“Looking good. Hasn't lit any fires or anything,” I shrug.
“What do you know, I do have some skills," he teases.
I turn to him for another kiss.
"You have a lot of skills."
“Is there anything else you want to get done up here? Or are you good for a break?”
I look back into the room and let out a breath.
“A break seems like a good idea. Do you have something specific in mind?” I ask.
“Maybe the giant containers of biscuits and gravy from Pearl's I have downstairs,” he suggests.
“You always know just what to say,” I tell him.
Sam gives me his bright, boyish smile and reaches down to take my hand so he can guide me down to the kitchen. I stop by the bathroom first to wash my hands, and by the time I get to the kitchen, he has already spread the food out and is pouring fresh coffee into a mug for me.
“What time is it?” I ask, realizing I don't even know how long I've been up in the attic.
“About three,” he tells me. “Does that mean you haven't stopped since you went up there this morning?”
I accept the mug from him and take a long swallow.
“Maybe,” I shrug.
“You've got to stop doing that, Emma.”
“I know. I just want to get it done. It will feel so much better when I can pretend that room has always been a reading room,” I say.
“Are you really going to be able to do that?” he asks.
My eyes lift to him, and the words tumble down along the back of my spine.
"Let's eat before everything gets cold," I say.
He regrets the words now hanging in the air around us. I can see it in his eyes. But I won't say anything. I'll leave them alone and hope with enough breaths; they will dilute and fade away. In, out. In, out.
As I take my first bite of intensely buttery biscuit and rich pepper gravy, I notice a stack of envelopes sitting on the corner of the counter. I nod toward them.
“What's that?” I ask.
“I brought your mail in,” Sam says. “The box was getting a little full.”
He doesn't elaborate, but I know he worries about how accustomed I've gotten to the walls of my house. I work with him on cases occasionally, but if I don't have the distraction of an investigation or the mind-erasing routine of a night on the beat, this is where I stay. I know these walls, and they know me. He reaches for the stack and hands it to me. I sift through some junk mail and a couple of cards and letters from former colleagues at the Bureau. They've been trickling in for months now as people come to terms with me leaving Headquarters permanently.
I always knew there was going to be a time when I was going to have to make a final decision about the FBI. Creagan walked on eggshells around me for a good while after I discovered his prior knowledge of my mother’s involvement with Feathered Nest. It was a good choice on his part. He knew as well as I did that gave me leverage to make his life a living hell if I so chose. Both professionally and personally. But I focused on deciding my own future instead.
Since my first case back in Sherwood, when I was on modified leave, I always felt in the back of my mind that I would return to full duty at some point. My house was still sitting there waiting for me and I figured I’d move back eventually. The Headquarters was where I was used to being. But the longer I was away, and the more I've been through, the more obvious it's become that I can't go back to that. It was a safety hatch. A net I put under myself to make sure I always had another option. Just in case.
Just in case I couldn't bear to be back in the hometown I left behind.
Just in case I couldn't look at Sam's face and live with the choice I made.
Just in case I couldn't help being in this house, surrounded by memories of the days I spent here and the haunting thoughts of moments I never got to live.
But those fears didn't come true. It hasn't always been easy to be back here, but I can't look back. My house is still there, but now it’s what it was always meant to be. My father’s home. And I am now one of a little-known breed – FBI special agents living in communities and towns far away from any of the field offices.
Most people only think about the agents who are close to Headquarters in Quantico. Some others know about the field offices scattered across the country. Those offices ensure investigations involving areas that aren’t close to Virginia have access to the resources, technology, and agents they need.
Then there are those of us who live away from the offices. Often very specialized, these agents aren’t constantly working or out in the field. For some, such as hostage negotiators, they are brought in only during very specific situations when their individual skills are needed. For me, living in Sherwood as an agent means acting largely as a consultant and doing investigative work that can be done through research rather than
leg work. Remote work means I can stay in Sherwood and stay involved in cases through video chats and email rather than having to be in the Headquarters.
When I’m needed for an in-person investigation, I travel. But that has been extremely limited over the last year. I haven’t been out in the field or doing any undercover work since Greg’s death. My only in-person work has been at the Headquarters and the last time that happened was several months ago. My face is still too recognizable to many people. I made too much of a splash when everything went down with my father, Anson, and Jonah, and, finally, Greg. In a rare moment of seeing eye to eye, Creagan and I agreed it would probably be best if I stayed out of the public eye for at least a little while. I couldn’t risk doing an investigation and having key players immediately recognize me.
There are times when I really miss being right in the middle of all of it. Headquarters has an energy about it that I feed off of. But that’s not for me anymore. My life here in Sherwood is where I’m supposed to be. It lets me work with the Bureau, help Sam when he needs me, and continue contemplating what a future might look like as a private investigator. For the first time in my life, I feel like I actually have the ability to choose my future. I don’t have to be tied to my past and stay in the same place because it’s the path I’ve been following.
Finding the answers I sought for so many years set me free. I’ll never feel like I know everything. There will never be a time when I’m totally at peace over what happened. But that’s something I’ve learned to live with. It’s like the haunted energy of a place where a life was ripped away or a scar across my skin. It will always be there. Nothing will change it.
So much of it still haunts me. But it’s not about my mother anymore. That part of my life, I can move on from. I’m not ready to move on from Jonah. There’s too much that hasn’t been explained. There are too many questions that haven’t been answered and too many threats that still linger. But the feeling is different. When I started investigating my mother’s death and my father’s disappearance, the Bureau was there for me. They were my opportunity. With their resources and the training they could offer me, I could not only pursue the mysteries of my past, but find vengeance for others.
Now I’m not searching for that. The FBI didn’t even know Leviathan existed. My father was beginning to unravel it when he disappeared. Now he is heading up the investigation within the CIA and cooperating with the FBI. But even with that, the Bureau is putting little emphasis on uncovering the full extent of the organization. Or what it might have been responsible for over the years.
It makes it even more personal. I don’t need the Bureau to protect me anymore. I don’t need them to guide me. When I work on cases with them, I am doing just that. Working for them. It doesn’t feel like it’s about me anymore. I just have to decide if that’s enough for me.
Chapter Two
I'm almost to the bottom of the stack of mail when I get to a thicker envelope. The rest of the mail slips from my fingers when I see the return address.
“What's wrong?” Sam frowns. “What is that?”
“It's from the probate attorney,” I tell him.
Greg's murder was an incredible shock, but the aftermath threw me for even more of a loop. The days and weeks following the discovery of his body on the bloody sand were a blur of investigations and questions, trying to understand how it could possibly have happened.
He wasn't supposed to leave the hospital by himself. The incredible danger he was facing the entire time he was in the hospital was known to every person who worked in his ward. Even after Jonah and Anson were arrested, we knew that danger was still there and still had his floor on heightened security. It was going to get worse when he was released and didn't have the security and locked doors to keep him safe.
That's why he was supposed to wait. As soon as it came time for him to be discharged, it was arranged for me to pick him up at the hospital and escort him to his welcome home party and then to the secure location where he would continue his recovery. It was all planned out. The Bureau had arranged for a safe house, and he would be monitored and protected as long as it was necessary. But for some reason, he left. For some reason, he didn't wait.
When he walked out of the hospital, it was with only a blonde woman, no one recognized and who still had no name or connection. Days went by, and we still couldn't untangle this newest knot. And the realities of his death settled in.
It wasn't just coping with the reality that he was murdered. It wasn't just having to completely adjust a thought process that had already been altered long after I thought I might never see Greg again. He broke things off with me out of nowhere. Then he disappeared in an instant, and no one knew what happened to him. Then he appeared again, beaten, and brutalized, and my world became one that included him again. Not in the way it used to. It would never include him in that way again. But he was there. He was alive, and he held secrets and information critical to me being able to understand my uncle and the vicious way he destroyed my family.
Then just as quickly, he was gone once more. Only this time, it was permanent. There was nothing abstract about it now. When he went missing, I never truly let myself believe he was gone. I never talked about him in the past tense or thought about how he might have died. It's not that I had any sort of intuition, or I heard his voice at night or anything. It just never felt right to think of him as being dead when I couldn't think that way about my father after his own disappearance. There were enough people in my life who were truly gone. I could never again think of my mother as possibly being alive somewhere, and I couldn't bring myself to disrespect that by putting Greg or my father in that place.
Now I know the answer to both of those mysteries. I know my father is back in the house where he was living before he disappeared, re-assimilating himself to a more normal daily life.
And Greg is dead.
Less than two weeks after the discovery of his body, a lawyer contacted me. Jeffrey Grammer was his name. He was the last person I expected to hear from, and the news he offered me was so shocking, so unexpected it took a few days to even fully process it: Greg had no family. None that he was close enough to for an ongoing relationship, anyway. There might have been relatives scattered around, the kind with shared blood but not shared thought. According to Mr. Grammer, who came to my house and sat at the very edge of the couch like he wanted to be able to get up and run at any second, that was the reason Greg made the decision he did.
Mr. Grammer was the executor of Greg's will. It was surreal enough to hear those words. Of course, I knew Greg had a will. That was the kind of person he was. Like my parents. Like me. Making a will is the cautious, responsible thing to do when you work in this field. It was perfectly on-brand for Greg.
But that didn't make it any easier to hear the lawyer talk about it. Hearing that was so final. More final, even, than viewing Greg's body. I could reduce his body to nothing but an object, another detail of a crime scene, just like I do with every other crime I investigate. I could make myself look past the scar on his arm that I knew came from a car accident when he was a teenager. I could make myself look past the tattoo on his thigh most people didn't know about that commemorated his father's death in the military. I could even look past the lingering signs of injuries he sustained when he was being held captive by Jonah.
All of those were just details. But the lawyer coming to my house to read his will was closing his life. There was nothing left after that. Everything he'd ever done or accomplished was now a legacy. Everything he owned was now… mine.
Except for a few specific things he left to Eric, the entire estate came to me once probate went through.
I didn't understand what the lawyer was saying when he told me that. It had to be a mistake, or I just misunderstood him. But he repeated it. He showed me the document, signed by a fully stable and functional version of Greg Bailey.
The envelope crackles under my finger as I slip it under the flap to take out the sheaf
of paper inside. I've been expecting this. The lawyer told me it could take months for probate to go through, but as the months slipped further and further toward a year, I thought maybe he figured out it was a mistake. There had to be someone else. But the paper in my hands now tells me that's not the case.
"The probate is finished," I read to Sam. "The bank will transfer the funds into my account within the week, and I can claim the physical assets at my convenience." Breath streams out of my lungs as I read the paper again. "It just still feels so strange."
"His will was very clear," Sam says. "You read it yourself."
"I know," I sigh, nodding. "But that doesn't mean I understand it."
"You were important to him."
"We broke up."
"You know why."
It feels like a lifetime ago that Greg ended our relationship and then disappeared so soon after. For a long time, I wondered what happened to make him suddenly break up with me. I wouldn't let myself feel the relief that came along with the end of the relationship because nobody knew what happened to Greg. It didn't feel right to be something close to happy that the relationship was gone when he was, too. But over time, I allowed the honesty to come and the relief to settle in.
Him disappearing didn't change the time we spent together, or that I still considered him a friend. I could worry about him and fear for what might be happening to him while also being true to the reality that we weren't right for each other. That we never were.
When I found out what happened to him, that the uncle I never knew I had abducted him under false pretenses, I finally understood why a relationship that seemed to be moving along steadily ended so abruptly.
