The Girl and the Unlucky 13 (Emma Griffin™ FBI Mystery) A.J. Rivers (historical books to read TXT) 📖

“It’s not that I have a specific problem with her. She doesn’t even matter. I just don’t like the idea that Creagan’s attaching somebody to me. Especially not during an investigation. I don’t need an extra person latching on while I’m trying to solve these crimes,” I say.

“That’s how you got me,” Xavier points out. “I attached myself to you while you were investigating Lakyn’s disappearance. You briefly considered I might be a murderer, but I still latched myself onto you.”

“That’s kind of how you got me, too,” Dean adds. “You were figuring out the escape room from hell on that train and I just kind of joined in. And come to think of it, you thought I was a murderer, too, for a little while there.”

“See?” Xavier says.

“And remind me again, how did you and Sam reunite?” Dean asks, an edge of teasing on the words.

“Alright,” I roll my eyes, pushing them away from me as I turn back to the road. “I got it.”

“Did you ever suspect him of killing people, too?” Xavier asks. “That would give you the full collection.”

“Not that I can recall,” I shrug. “But my collection is still full.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Dean says, reaching into the snack basket for a strip of beef jerky. “You’ll probably just meet her, let her follow you around while we check in on the investigation, then you’ll give her your card, tell her good luck, and send her off on her way. Creagan will be off your back and you can go right back to your untamed rebel ways.”

I glare at him. “Eat your damn jerky.”

I didn’t want to pick Agent James up at her house. That just feels too familiar and uncomfortable. Instead, I asked her to meet us at the coffee shop in Harlan. I’m not sure what to expect as we pull up. I don’t particularly want to go inside and do the dance of “should we sit down and have some coffee before we go, or do we just hit the road?” Is there a conversation we need to have here?

I reach for my phone so I can call her to tell her to come out. Then I realize somebody is sitting at one of the tables scattered on the small patio out front. It’s difficult to see her.

“Is that her?” I ask, nodding toward the table.

Dean looks, tilting his head around as if trying to get a better view of her, then looks at me.

“How am I supposed to know that? I’ve never met her,” he says.

“Then why would you look?” I ask.

“Because you asked about her,” Dean says. “It’s just instinct to look in the direction somebody is indicating.”

“Hey! Are you Agent James?”

Dean and I look into the back seat and see Xavier hanging halfway out the window.

“How did he get the window open?” Dean asks.

“He pressed a button,” I say. “I don’t put child locks on them.”

“Maybe you should consider it,” Dean tells me.

“Why?” I ask. “He’s an adult. He can open windows with abandon.”

“Agent James?” Xavier calls out. “If you are Agent James of the FBI, please make yourself known. If you are not, disregard this comment.”

Dean gestures toward me and I shrug.

The woman at the table looks over at the car and stands up. She waves and Xavier slithers backward to drop back down into his seat.

“I think that’s her.”

“Thank you, Xavier,” I say. I let out a breath. “Let’s do this thing.”

We get out of the car and I realize the woman is already almost over to us, moving quickly and smiling widely enough to almost make me take a step back. Her dark hair is pulled up in a bun behind her head, dark sunglasses balanced in front of it rather than over her eyes. A black suit and crisp white shirt are cliche FBI. A cliche I’ve fallen right in line with plenty of times, admittedly, but still a cliche.

“Hi,” she greets us, already holding out her hand toward me when she’s still a few feet away. “I’m Aviva. Aviva James.”

“Aviva?” I ask. “Emma Griffin. Nice to meet you.” She takes my hand and shakes it firmly.

“That’s a beautiful name,” Dean comments. I glare over at him. He’s definitely noticed her big eyes and dark hair.

“Thank you. It means ‘life,’” she says.

“Actually, it means ‘springtime,’” Xavier corrects.

“Xavier,” I say under my breath.

“Your name,” Xavier continues. “You said it means life. Which I can understand, because it has many of the same sound cues as words that do evoke the concept of life. Vitality. Verve. Vital. Vivacious. Then, of course, viva. Which means live. ‘Vive la France’ and what have you. But Aviva is actually a Hebrew name that means springlike or fresh.”

“Xavier,” I murmur again. “We don’t correct people about what their names mean. If that’s what she says her name means, that’s what it means.”

“But it’s not,” he protests.

“It doesn’t matter,” I hiss.

“Yes, it does. It’s the meaning of the word. I can’t just say ‘hi, my name is Xavier, it means ‘Lord High Lizard King,’” he says.

“Xavier,” I warn.

He looks over at her and holds his hand out. “Hi. My name is Xavier Renton, it means Lord High Lizard King.”

“Nice to meet you, Xavier. I actually like springtime better for the meaning of my name,” she offers.

“Good. Because that’s what it means,” he says.

She shakes his hand. “Hi, I’m Aviva. It means ‘springtime.’ But my friends call me Ava.”

He looks at her for a second, then at Dean, then me, then back at her. “Was that just an added bit of information, or an invitation?”

Dean gently guides Xavier to the side so he can shake Ava’s hand.

“Hi, I’m Dean Steele. I’m a private investigator.”

“Ava,” she says, shaking his hand.

“I guess Dean is her friend,” Xavier whispers. “This could get confusing.”

“You’re Emma’s cousin,” Ava says. Her eyes then snap to me. “I’m sorry. That sounds completely creepy and stalker-like.” Her hand flies up to cover her mouth. “I shouldn’t