The Girl and the Secret Society (Emma Griffin FBI Mystery Book 9) Read online

  Dean laughs, and we move further into the house. For the next hour, we roam through the rooms as I tell him about the people who used to occupy them. I pull out all the stories about my grandparents that I usually keep tucked in the back of my mind. I try to remember funny things that they used to say or the way my grandmother smelled. Our grandmother.

  Thinking of it that way brings a twinge of guilt into the back of my mind. I want to share these memories with him. It's as if I want to carve them out of my own mind and duplicate them so that I can give them to Dean. He deserves to have them, too. This should have been his childhood just as much as it was mine.

  He should remember the smell of the Thanksgiving turkey fresh out of the oven. He should have been there to catch the football my father always insisted on hurling at me. His tongue should still hold onto the taste of the Russian angel wing cookies my mother made every Christmas. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he should have the imprint of my grandmother's laugh and the ice cream truck that came down the road every summer afternoon. He should remember sleeping with the windows thrown open, so the spring air brought in the smell of lilacs and jasmine from the trees outside.

  There were also memories I can’t share with him, but that he should have. That both of us should have. We should remember running around in the sprinkler together on a hot summer afternoon. We should have sneaked down the stairs and peeked into the living room to grab a glimpse of Christmas presents. Knowing us, we should have brainstormed together for weeks leading up to that moment to come up with elaborate plans to trap Santa. We should have had Easter egg hunts, birthday parties, campouts.

  There are whole lives we should have lived, but we never got the chance. I got far closer than he did. I have those memories and had those people as a part of my life when he never did. Both of us know why that version of our lives was never lived, but we don't talk about it.

  After I show him the entire house, I pull out some of the old photo albums, and we sit on the couch to go through them. He listens as I point out the faces in each of the images and tell him what was going on. I'm not expecting the emotion in his voice when he reaches forward and touches his fingertips to Grandpa's face. He's staring at something, his expression still and quiet.

  “I look like him,” Dean says. “My eyes. I never knew anyone who had my eyes.” We look at each other, and he gives me a faint smile. “Until you.”

  “Until my father,” I correct him. “You knew him first.”

  Dean nods and looks back at the picture. He's seeing the faces of his family for the first time. Features he couldn't identify in anyone around him when he was younger, and others he may have never noticed in himself, but sees now that they're right in front of him. It's been more than a year since he came into my life, and we've gotten closer as the months went by. Our work has kept us from being able to spend a lot of time together, but there's a bond that feels as if it was always there. A tie by merit of birth. Perhaps even stronger than with other relatives because our fathers are identical twins.

  “I did,” he admits. “But I didn't know what I was looking at. Now, I do. Our fathers look like their father, and I look like them.”

  He draws in a breath, and I lean down to catch his attention. "We didn't know about you. They didn't know about you. Never. Your mother knew my parents and stayed in touch with them, but she never said anything about you. She kept your paternity a secret your entire life. She was embarrassed about Jonah and the way he dropped her after their fling because of his obsession with my mother."

  "Wouldn't you be?” Dean asks.

  “Absolutely,” I say. “I think she was brave and strong as hell. She took care of you by herself and did everything she could to give you a good life. She had to make a really hard decision, one I don't envy at all. I don't doubt for a second she knew what Jonah was capable of and the type of person he is. She had to protect you, and that meant keeping you from the rest of us.”

  "I wish it hadn't," Dean sighs. "I grew up with no father, no grandparents, no siblings, no cousins. It was just Mom and me. I loved her, and I appreciate everything she ever did for me, even more now that I know how hard it was for her, but I always wanted to know who I was. I wanted a family.”

  "You have one now," I tell him. "And I'm glad to have you as a part of my life. It’s as if there was a piece I didn't realize was missing."

  "I knew it was missing. And I'm glad to have found it," he replies.

  The emotion is high in his eyes, and his strong, war-honed body is tense. I know what that means. He's closing up, getting overwhelmed by everything. Tugging the album into my lap, I close it and cover it with my arm like I'm blocking anything else from getting to him.

  "Are you hungry?" I ask. "I'm starving."

  Dean smiles, and the turmoil in his eyes fades. "Me, too."

  "Good," I say, setting the book firmly on the coffee table. "I'll find something."

  I bounce up from the couch and head into the kitchen, but the energy drains when I'm out of his sight. Pressing my hands to the counter, I hang my head and concentrate on the breaths coming in and out of my lungs. With each one, I brush away the thoughts and pain. I make myself come back into the moment, to right now when I can make a difference and change the course. I start searching the cabinets, refrigerator, and pantry, deciding not to think about anything else.

  A few moments later, I head back into the living room with an enormous bowl of pretzels in one hand and holding the necks of two bottles of beer in the other. I hand one of the bottles down to Dean.

  "So, it turns out being an adult on the road toward settling down means I only have grown up groceries in my kitchen," I say.

  "Grown-up groceries?" he raises an eyebrow.

  "The kind that requires time and cooking," I sigh, dropping back onto the couch and curling my legs under me. "So, I ordered a pizza."

  "Good call," Dean says, clinking the neck of his beer against mine. As he takes a swig, he gestures to the TV he's turned on. "Have you seen this?"

  "What is it?" I ask.

  "That celebrity who's missing," he says.

  An image of a pretty woman with dark hair tumbling in slick curls down her shoulders appears on the screen above the reporter's head. The woman's eyes are so green they seem to glow from her image.

  "Her eyes can't actually be that color," I say.

  "They probably aren't," Dean acknowledges. "The only reason she's famous is because she's beautiful."

  "Lakyn Monroe has now been missing for four months. The reality star, thirty, rose to fame with her vlogs dedicated to theme park touring. She has since been featured on several reality and competition shows. Most recently, Monroe developed an interest in social justice and has been very outspoken about issues, including the conviction of innocent people and prison reform. She was last seen leaving a taping of a baking competition series to be aired later this year, where she served as a guest judge. Some bank account activity continued for several days afterward, but then stopped. No one has had contact with her since. Anyone with information is asked to contact the authorities."

  Chapter Three

  Dragon

  Six years ago …

  Everywhere he went, he was noticed. It was just the nature of who he was.

  As soon as he walked into a room, he felt eyes following him. They locked on him, unable to move away, even if the watchers feared him. They watched because they were afraid of what he would do if they didn’t keep him in sight, and they were even more afraid if he saw that they watched.

  Those who didn't fear him wanted him. They wanted his skin, his blood, his money, his time.

  Everywhere he went, he was noticed.

  But not by her. He walked into that club that night as he always did. Always at the same time. Predictable, but deliberately so. Anticipated. Unyielding. Even if something kept him and he arrived late, nothing changed. They were ready for him. Time bent to him.

  His table was always ready. Set on a platfor
m blocked by a velvet rope, it was as untouchable as he was.

  Only the very select chosen could walk past that velvet rope. They were granted this honor solely for his amusement.

  Even the ones who were most afraid secretly ached to be among those he chose. They wanted to know what it was like to catch his attention, even for an instant. Even just long enough to step up to his table. Every night he could have his choice. Every night he could take his pick.

  Until her.

  As soon as he walked into the club, every eye turned to him. At least, he thought they did. He was already nearly to his table when he noticed her. Standing close to the bar, one foot propped up on the lower rung of a stool, she didn't look his way. Her focus stayed on the drink in front of her. Long, black-taloned fingers played around the rim, twisting the glass, swirling the amber liquid.

  Behind him, the men who were nothing more than bodies with less value than his own almost walked into him. That was when he noticed he'd stopped moving. He stood, eyes on every inch of his skin, and watched her. She didn't move. She didn't glance up.

  Whispers rose up around them. He waited. She shifted only enough to lift the glass to her lips and tip some of the drink down her slender, pale throat. Her tongue swept a drop from her bottom lip as she set the drink down again.

  "Sir?"

  He didn't need to acknowledge the voice behind him. Without taking his gaze from the woman at the bar, he lifted his hand over his shoulder and gestured for one of the men to come closer. Hard, throbbing music covered the sound of his footstep, but Dragon knew he needed less than a breath before Kenton did as he was told. He pointed at the girl, then walked to his table.

  A hostess in a tiny silver skirt that shimmered like woven mercury released the velvet rope and watched him climb the stairs to the platform. She knew better than to say a word, but her face said everything. She was hoping. Every part of her was hoping. He walked past her and sat down, opening his hand for the drink the bartender had already sent.

  It burned down his throat and sharpened his focus as his man crossed to the bar. Dragon watched him carefully. He looked for the neon lights glowing down from the bar to show between them, for the man's hands to stay by his sides. He knew better than to try anything else. She was chosen. She was set apart.

  He knew nothing but to expect the same pattern every night. A murmured message. An eager nod. The woman brought to him and slipped behind the velvet rope. He didn't know there was anything else.

  Not until that night.

  The woman at the bar barely looked over at Kenton. She glanced his way only long enough to hear what he had to say, then turned back to her drink. Kenton paused, then leaned slightly toward her and said something else. The woman looked up at him and replied. A nod in his direction brought her eyes past Kenton's massive frame, beyond the velvet rope, and to the table.

  Dragon could see her eyes. Heavy lashes and deep color. But it was her lips. Red and glossy, unapologetic. Vibrant against her pale skin. He tilted his head toward hers and one corner of his mouth tilted up into an alluring smile.

  She looked back at her glass again, one fingertip tracing the edge. It swept across the glass, smooth and slow. Hypnotic. She climbed off the stool and reached down the front of the loose, gauzy black shirt she wore over a purple bra. Her fingertips came back out with cash she tossed on the counter. She walked away from the bar.

  And out of the club.

  Chapter Four

  Now

  "Who is this girl?" I ask.

  "What do you mean?" Dean asks.

  "It says she's a celebrity, but I don't know that I’ve ever heard of her."

  "You aren't exactly an authority when it comes to what's popular," Dean points out.

  I turn a glare at him, but it doesn't last long. He speaks the truth.

  I shrug. "Not enough space in my brain for drivel."

  "Says the woman who I know for a fact spent last Saturday watching Don Knotts movies because I called you during one, and Sam said you were on your third."

  "That's not drivel. That's… cultivated frivolity." Dean lifts his eyebrows at me, and I relent. "Alright, so I don't have enough space in my brain for contemporary drivel. I just can't deal with all the insta-stars who are famous because they are celebrities because they are famous for being celebrities. You really look into them, and they are Norma Jean down the block at the drugstore."

  "I don't know her," he says, grabbing a handful of tiny pretzel twists and tipping them into his mouth.

  "Yes, you do," I say.

  A knock on the front door announces the arrival of our pizza, and I get up to get it.

  "Oh, right. That movie with, um… with the union," Dean says, raising up a fist.

  I let out a short laugh and set the pizza on the table before heading to the kitchen for plates and napkins.

  "That would be Norma Rae," I tell him when I come back in. "Norma Jean is Marilyn Monroe when she was still redheaded and boring, which brings me to my next question. Lakyn Monroe? Seriously? Is that actually her name?"

  Dean narrows his eyes at me over his first bite into double pepperoni and pineapple pizza. "How would I know that?"

  I reach into the box and shift a slice over onto my plate. "You're the one who was interested in the news report."

  "Because she's been missing for four months, not because I have a picture of her surrounded by candles I light every night while I listen to her album," he protests.

  "Does she sing?" I ask.

  He rolls his eyes. "I don't know."

  "Alright." I wipe glorious pizza grease off my lips and promise myself a few extra laps around the neighborhood. "What do you know about her?"

  "Just like the news report said, she started doing those video blog things while she toured theme parks. That's what got people's attention," Dean explains.

  "Theme parks?"

  "Yeah. Apparently, people get really invested in watching other people walk around theme parks and talk about what they are doing. They ride rides and talk about the food they're eating and stuff," he says.

  The description strikes me, and I glance down at my pizza for a second. "Like Mary Preston."

  The look that flickers across Dean's face tells me he didn't make the connection either until that moment. "A more specific version, but essentially."

  I can still see Mary’s face. Young and beautiful. She thought she was just starting out, that she was going to find fame through the videos she posted. She died thinking that. Her phone recorded the last seconds of her life before a bomb decimated the bus station where she sat, waiting for her next adventure.

  She wasn't famous. Not yet, anyway. But she was getting there. Her videos got hundreds of comments from people devoted to her every move. She seemed so confident in those videos, so sure of herself. The reality was she was desperate for the attention. Mary clung to every one of those comments. They fulfilled her, defined her.

  They were what ultimately destroyed her. Her need to draw life and validation from those comments is what let Anson infiltrate her very being. She didn't matter to him. To him, Mary was a collection of convenient syllables, an easily manipulated mind, and a camera.

  "And she's just gone?" I say, wanting to move on from the painful thoughts of Mary.

  "Apparently." Dean reaches for his third slice of pizza. "Like it said, she'd gotten onto some shows and got a flash of fame. A couple of people saw her leaving the lot where she filmed the baking show, and she hasn't been seen or heard from since. It was just like that."

  "And her car?" I ask. "Did they find it?"

  "No. She just disappeared into thin air." He cringes. "I'm sorry."

  I shake my head. "It's fine. But we both know people don't just disappear. No matter how much it seems like it, they're there." I pluck a chunk of pineapple out of my slice and think for a few seconds. "If this girl is famous and has been missing for four months, how have I not heard about it?"

  "Her fame was starting to fade. That
baking show was the first thing she did not on her own internet channel for a while. It seems she stopped worrying so much about staying famous and got wrapped up in a bunch of causes."

  "Like the innocent people being convicted," I note.

  "That's the one I've heard the most about. But getting tangled up with criminals doesn’t quite have the playful, innocent sex appeal the theme park videos had. So, I guess even vanished, she's not getting as much screen time," he says.

  "Depending on who she got herself involved with, it might also be a tactic of the investigation," I say. Dean's eyes slide over to me, and I hold up my hands to display my innocence. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not doing anything. I was just making an observation."

  "Sure. I definitely believe that."

  I roll my eyes and take another bite. "Okay, moving on. Tell me about work. Since you've come here to hang out for a bit, can I assume that means you are between cases?"

  "Not exactly. I finished up a few smaller investigations, but I'm still working on that case with the missing man. The bank is only about an hour and a half from here, so when I needed a break, I decided to take you up on your offer," he says.

  "The same case? You mean the guy with the strange bank account? He disappeared, and then you found out he's married to some woman who nobody knew existed?" I ask.

  "That's the one."

  "That's a long investigation. Have you found out anything?"

  "Not for a while. It was just the same information, the same video feeds. Nothing new. We haven't been able to track anything or get any clue what might have happened. But then it started getting more complicated."

  "What happened?" I ask.

  "His wife showed up at the bank," he explains.

  That wasn't what I was expecting when he said it was getting more complicated.

  "His wife? She just walked into the bank? Where was he?" I ask.

  "No one knows. She went up to a teller and asked to check the balance. Then she spent less than three minutes with a safe deposit box and left."