by A J Rivers
“The investigations Sam is managing are really intense. I don't feel right leaving him when I could help," I tell her. “I didn't choose to be a special agent out here rather than going back to Headquarters because I can't handle investigating or because I lost my interest in criminal justice. I just can't work near Creagan or deal with that atmosphere right now. And I feel like there might be more for me. I agreed to help Sam and the PD here when I’m not on a case. That’s why he deputized me. It’s not fair for me to just run off and leave him in the lurch.”
“Emma,” she starts, setting down the piece of roll she just tore off and wiping the icing off her fingertips with a paper towel. “Listen to me. You are an incredible investigator. You were an exceptional active field agent. And you are an exceptional resident agent doing remote work. No one is questioning that. If you hadn't decided to leave Headquarters, you would be there for the next five decades; I'm fully convinced. They would not be able to pry you out, and they wouldn't want to. And now Sherwood is lucky as hell to have you help when you do. But after everything you've gone through, that needs to be the last thing on your mind right now. I know you're trying, but you aren't all the way back to being you yet.”
“At some point, I'm going to have to stop riding the healing train and get back to normal life,” I tell her. “Don’t think I don’t know that Creagan has been purposely limiting how many cases he puts me on. Or that he’s only choosing cases that aren’t violent or too complicated. He’s doing his best to keep me in a protective bubble. Eventually I’m going to have to either push him to put me back into full active duty, or I’m going to have to figure out something else. I can’t just stay in this weird limbo forever.”
“Sure, but now isn't that time. No one is pressuring you or has any expectations for you. And it's not like you don't have the money after the settlement,” she points out. “You can afford to not be on constant active duty and to take the vacation time you have built up.”
I will likely never believe Creagan’s decision to sue the hospital on behalf of both Greg and me was anything more than a feeble attempt at starting to make amends for hiding the truth about my mother. I never would have pursued it on my own, but he insisted. The courts found the hospital responsible for their employee Martin Phillips’ drugging me and putting me in the morgue, and also Greg leaving unattended after discharge. The judge ruled the hospital didn't have enough fail-safes in place and was culpable for Greg’s death as well as the attack on me.
“Sam can't come,” I tell her. “He's stuck here working and doesn't have any vacation time to spare.”
“That doesn't stop you from getting a break,” Bellamy says.
“What about you?” I asked. “You and Eric.”
“What about me and Eric?” she asks, the emotion making her voice tight.
“I only meant why don't the two of you take the other spots? The trip is for three. Sam pointed out we haven't spent a lot of time together, just the three of us, in a really long time.”
I’m still reluctant about this whole thing, but Bellamy’s infectious attitude is starting to get to me. She’s right. I could use some time away. And how better to do that than with my two best friends in the world?
Chapter Nine
I spend Monday waiting for Sam to come home, distracting myself by trying to get ready for the trip. I've already started packing lists and preparations and am sitting on the living room couch researching Windsor Palms Resort on my tablet when he comes inside. Dropping the tablet to the cushion beside me, I jump up to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him.
“I missed you,” I tell him.
Sam smiles and nuzzles the curve of my neck.
“Not nearly as much as I missed you,” he says.
“How can you be so sure of that?” I ask, leaning back to look at him but keeping my arms in place.
“Because you had Bellamy here to entertain you. The two of you ate your body weight in junk food and probably spent the vast majority of the weekend talking and giggling. I had a bunch of sullen police officers who didn't want anything to do with the events or the training exercises, and I ate mostly fast food and cold pizza,” he says.
“You're right,” I tell him sympathetically. “You probably did miss me a lot more.”
He laughs and dips me back for a deep, searching kiss. When he brings me back to my feet, he looks over at the sofa where my tablet landed.
“What were you looking at so seriously over there?”
“I'm researching the resort,” I explain. “I'm trying to get my head wrapped around it and get ready for the whole experience.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I haven't been on a vacation like this in a really long time. The last time I was planning on going on a real vacation, a certain sheriff called to ask for my help with a case, and it's kind of been put off since then.”
My eyes slide over to meet his as I tease him. I frequently remind him the only reason I'm back in Sherwood is because he couldn't crack a case by himself, so he had to call in a ringer. The truth is, that case was brutal and complicated. And as awkwardly as it began between us, I couldn't be happier with where it's brought us.
“All the more reason this is the perfect time for you to go,” he offers. “But I want you to promise you're actually going to relax while you're on the island.”
“I will,” I reassure him.
“I mean actually relax, Emma. I want you to enjoy your trip, not spend the whole time thinking about Greg or Leviathan. No work. No investigations. No digging your fingers in cases back home. This is your chance to really rest and recuperate. And I think your therapist would really like to hear you are finally following her prescription,” he tells me.
I roll my eyes as I pick my tablet up again so I can show him the website for the resort.
“Prescribing a vacation is still not medically sound,” I tell him.
“And yet, here you are ready to be a good patient and follow doctor's orders,” he comments. I shake my head and look down at the tablet, but Sam catches my chin and turns my face back to him. “I'm serious, Emma. Have fun. Be silly. Enjoy your time with your friends. Don't let anything follow you there."
*****
Those words are still haunting me a little less than two weeks later when Sam drops me off at the airport for my flight. I turn to look at him, and he leans to rest his forehead against mine.
“You really didn't need to drive me all the way out here,” I tell him. “I could have driven myself.”
“I know,” he says. “But I'm about to spend an entire week without you. You better believe I'm going to squeeze every minute out of the time before you leave as I can.”
“Still,” I say. “It's a really long drive for you to bring me here and then just turn around and go back to Sherwood.”
“It's a pretty drive,” he shrugs. “Besides, nowhere is ever too far if it's for you.” He touches his lips to mine with a sweet kiss, and my resolve to leave almost disintegrates. Just before I tell him I can't go, he pulls back and nods toward the doors. “You better go. They're waiting for you.”
I kiss him one more time before getting out of the car and handing the redcap attendant the suitcase I'm checking. I sling my bag over my shoulder and grab my duffel bag, then wave to Sam one more time.
“I love you. I'll call you when I get there,” I tell him.
“You better,” he grins. “I don't like the idea of you being up in the air without me there to cushion you if you fall.”
“Not too late to join us,” I say, lifting my eyebrows at him. “Spontaneous vacation? You could buy a whole new wardrobe when you get to the island.”
My efforts to tempt Sam into throwing caution and responsibility to the wind and joining me fail. He blows me a kiss before pulling away from the curb and driving away. I watch him for a few seconds before following the attendant into the terminal. I've barely stepped inside when his words suddenly go from an annoying whisper in th
e back of my mind to a throbbing taunt.
“Don't let anything follow you there.”
My eyes sweep through the large space of the airport, digging into the crowds and scanning faces. I catch every movement, taking note of every detail of my surroundings. Paying attention keeps me in control. It makes sure I notice if something is out of place or about to become dangerous. But I can't always tell.
It's not always obvious. People want to think of dangers lurking in the shadows and hiding away, but sometimes the most treacherous encounters are in full view and glowing in the sunlight.
“Ma'am?”
The voice beside me makes me jump. I whip around toward it. The white-haired redcap attendant looks almost as startled as I was.
“Sorry,” I manage, pressing my hand to my heart. “What were you saying?”
“I was just pointing out those are the machines for you to check in for your flight,” he explains, nodding forward toward a bank of computers in front of me.
“Thank you,” I smile.
I dig through my bag for my ID and walk up to the nearest terminal. He sets my luggage beside me and holds up his hand to gesture to another representative.
“Jonathan here will help you the rest of the way with checking your bags,” he tells me.
I offer him a tip to thank him for his help before turning my focus on the man who has stepped up to my luggage. His uniform is neat and pristine; his blond hair cut precisely. He almost looks like he would fit in better in the military than at the airport. He stands by as I go through the steps of checking in for my flight, then puts tags on my suitcase and carries it away.
I check the time and realize I’m early. Way early. Eric and Bellamy probably won't be here for almost another hour. At least it gives me the time to get through security and maybe settle in with a snack to wait.
It's a relaxing thought, but it doesn't convince my brain to stop spinning. I still feel jumpy as I make my way toward the security checkpoint, unpleasant anticipation tingling in my fingertips and along my spine. As much as I try not to, I'm waiting for something to happen. I know Jonah and Anson are in prison. Checking the database gives me real-time updates as to their status, and as of last night, neither of them have been moved or had anything change. The prosecutor also assured me I would be given plenty of notice before anything happened with either of them, including moving facilities.
But does that really mean anything? Jonah is the revered head of a sprawling, dizzyingly complex organization made up of an army of devoted followers ready to offer up their lives at his pleasure. They would offer up the lives of others without hesitation. And Anson was once one of those followers.
I'm still not entirely convinced he turned away from Jonah as much as he has claimed in the year following his arrest. Everything he did to me was for Jonah's attention. Anson said he felt Jonah had lost his grip. He wanted to prove himself smarter, more capable, and more powerful by tormenting me and bringing me down. I think he was desperate for Jonah's approval. His beloved leader didn't fawn on him the way he used to, and Anson wanted to reclaim that high.
In the end, it landed both men in tiny cells that are just the beginning of a long series of similar cells that will define their existence until their corpses can be tossed out with the trash. Or, that's the intention. I can't forget just how wide-reaching and complex their network is. They are connected to a staggering number of people from all walks of life. Both wield tremendous influence, especially Jonah. Just being in custody doesn't necessarily stop them from anything. Jonah can still easily contact people on the outside and give his commands. Anson may not have that type of sway over other members of the hierarchy, but he does have intense intelligence that could allow him to create all kinds of mayhem.
It has been a year with no sign of retaliation, but the comfort and reassurance that once brought me has faded. The more time that ticks by, the more the anticipation grows. Especially in places like this, I'm waiting for something to happen. Even more than the tearing feeling of the anticipation is the heaviness in how I look at myself. I hate feeling uncomfortable or afraid, waiting for them to strike.
I just want to get on with my life.
Chapter Ten
One year ago…
"Are you going to be alright?" Van asked.
Emma tossed her notebook and pen onto the table and set her bag on the floor beneath it. She shot a look at the other agent as she unbuttoned the front of her jacket and sat down.
"Yes," she answered.
"It's just that… this is different."
"Why is that?" she asked.
Van was getting uncomfortable. His broad shoulders flexed and moved backward like he was trying to make his chest look bigger. He bent his neck back and forth in little, subtle movements to keep away the creeping unease of her resistance. It had been a while since the two of them had worked together. The last time they were in direct contact was before her undercover assignment in Feathered Nest.
He was critical of the assignment, going to little effort to cover his disdain and opinion that obviously she wasn't capable of handling the work on her own. He made sure she knew his opinion, too. To hear him tell it, she was barely doing any work at all. From his perspective, she was just buttering up the situation. When it got down to it, and there was actual work to be done, that's when the boys from the Bureau would be called in.
The outcome of that assignment quieted him but didn't convince him of anything else. The disbelief and lack of confidence in her just turned into brooding that never went away. They hadn't worked on the same team since.
In a way, it was still hurtful to her. Van had been one of the first agents she met when she started working, and they got along. It wasn't until she got acknowledgements for her work and started getting more of the complex and important assignments that the cracks in his respect for her started to show.
He had always said they had her back, but she came to realize that didn't mean from him what it meant from others. From Van, having her back didn’t mean they were behind her and were going to support her. Instead, he meant the guys were there to pick up her slack when she couldn't handle the job.
She never had to call in that favor.
"I know you've done this before. I mean, you've sat down with other criminals. But this one is… personal."
"You mean like Jake was personal?" she asked. Van stiffened. "I'm touched by your compassion," she said flatly, "but I can handle this."
He stormed out of the room, slamming the door. It rattled the doorframe, but not Emma. That reaction was nothing new. There was still a twinge of pain though. She’d once thought of Van as a friend, but it was far from the first time she encountered men, agents and otherwise, who didn't believe she could do her job without their help. The Bureau was still massively male-dominated, and she’d had to claw and fight her way through school and training just to be seen as valid and gain the respect of her peers. It didn't bother her that much. All it really did was make her more determined. It drove her harder and made her better.
She thought about what Van had said. The word ‘criminal’ didn't sit right with her. That's what he was, obviously, but it felt flimsy. A gossamer word that settled onto the surface of what he had done but didn't bind it up the way it deserved. That same word could be applied to a kid who slipped a bottle of soda into his jacket pocket before walking out of a convenience store or a woman who left her baby in the car while she ran into the grocery store. The same word that could be used for a drunk driver who blew through a red light and smashed into another car in an intersection, or a corporate executive skimming profits off the top. All committed crimes. All were, technically, criminals. Yet the word felt strange being applied to all of them.
And even more to the man brought into the room in shackles and pushed down into the chair across the table from her. A handcuff closed tightly around the leg of the table secured the chains linking his feet and hands, so he couldn't move far from the chair.
/> He looked at her with an unsettling blend of emotion in his eyes. There was anger and hurt there, but against the backdrop of rage was a veil of softness and longing, like light glowing behind the clouds in a storm.
They still looked just like hers.
“You came,” Jonah said.
The tone in his voice made Emma's spine tighten, but she showed no emotion.
"What did you do?" she asked.
The sick smile melted from Jonah's face. He tilted his head to the side, looking at her like he was bewildered by the question.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"To Greg. What did you do to him?"
"Emma," he started, the words coming out like a breath. "I thought we went over all this during my interrogation. And I believe you have a written statement from him describing his time with me."
He spoke about it with the same weight as he would a leisurely visit, and Emma had to fight to maintain control of her reaction.
“You know what I'm talking about,” she said. “Three days ago. What did you do?”
“I don't understand. I was here three days ago. You know that,” Jonah answered. “I don't know about anything that happened outside of these walls. You'll have to ask Greg if you think something happened.”
Her hands clamped down so hard on the edge of the table; it felt like her knuckles might break. Her teeth ground down into each other until her jaw ached.
“Greg is dead,” she growled.
His eyes widened slightly, and he sat back in his chair.
“Oh,” he said. “I didn't know.”
“Don't play that game,” Emma warned. “I know you had something to do with it.”
“I didn't,” Jonah said. “I didn't even know about his death. How did it happen?”
“You tell me,” she told him.
“Emma, I'm telling you the truth. Whatever might have happened to Greg wasn't me. I had nothing to do with it.”
“You're trying to tell me you did everything you could to kill him before dumping him in my yard, you went to the hospital to lurk over him, but I'm supposed to believe that he was murdered within a few hours of finally being discharged from the hospital and you didn't have anything to do with it?”
