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

at her, surprised by the question. He grabs his head on either side and lifts, miming picking himself up, stands and moves over a few inches, then mimes putting himself down. Ava keeps staring at him, then turns a questioning look to me.

“Children being labeled and put on the conveyor belt adults choose for them so they can get processed through the factory of life,” I explain. Her expression doesn’t change. “It comes with time.”

She nods. “Well, the label they gave me was introvert. I’ve always been awkward around people. My best friend always used to tease me for being both the coolest and the least cool person she had ever met.”

“I know you’re living in Harlan now. Where does she live?” I ask.

Ava looks down at her lap and shakes her head. “She’s…she’s not around anymore.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head again, a little harder this time. “It happened a long time ago. I would never want you to think I’m trying to step on your toes or get in your way at all. You have no idea how much I admire you. You intimidate the living hell out of me, both professionally and personally. That might have translated into my being too eager.”

“You don’t need to be intimidated by me,” I tell her. “I’m sorry for being so harsh on you. You’re right. I haven’t been offering the support I should have been, and that’s not going to give you the experience you need, either. You’re going to be a strong agent, Ava. Don’t let anybody make you afraid. But maybe follow your lead investigator a little better.”

I smile at her and she returns it. I don’t know if this counts as a breakthrough, but I feel I know her better now.

“Not to ruin this beautiful moment,” Xavier says, “but do you think we should tell Misty the spring flag she still has hanging outside her house is no longer seasonally appropriate?”

I look over at him where he’s sitting, the remote poised in his hand, staring at the TV.

“What are you talking about, Xavier?” I ask.

He gestures at the TV with the remote. “The news cameras keep focusing on the flag. It has butterflies and daffodils on it. Actually, I think those are jonquils. Commonly mistaken for daffodils, but easily distinguishable by their leaf shape and the distinctive characteristic of a hollow stem.”

I get up and move quickly over to him to look at the TV. I was hoping I wouldn’t see it, but there it is. Ashley’s house fills the screen with a bright red “Breaking News” banner splashed across the bottom.

“What the hell is going on?” I ask.

“What is it?” Ava asks, coming over to us.

“We’re at the house of Ashley Stevenson, the kidnapping victim who recently miraculously returned home after five years of captivity. Police were called this morning to respond to signs of vandalism on the house. Upon arrival, officers discovered the house had been breached and Ashley was attacked.”

“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing my phone and running for the door without caring if anyone is behind me.

Fifty

“What’s going on here?” I demand when I get to the house.

“I’m sorry, this is a closed scene,” a young officer says, one hand gripping her belt and the other held up toward my chest as though she’s directing traffic and I’m an offending vehicle. “You can’t go any further.”

“Bullshit, I can’t,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my badge and holding it up so she gets a clear view of it. “Agent Emma Griffin. FBI.”

Her face goes pale and then red, and she stammers for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry, Agent. I didn’t recognize you.”

“Where is the officer in charge?” I demand.

She points me toward the door and I duck under the police tape to go across the yard. Two large investigative trucks parked in the driveway blocked the view of the garage when I was out on the street and crossing the yard, but now I see the door clearly.

Bright red paint forms a “13” in the middle of the door, the long drips sliding down toward the pavement like blood.

“Agent Griffin,” calls a detective with whom I’ve interacted several times before, as he comes toward me.

“What is this?” I ask before he even gets to me.

“The house was broken into and vandalized,” he says.

“I can see that,” I say. “Why wasn’t I informed of what was going on? This is directly involved in my investigation. And where the hell were the officers assigned to monitor the house and the family?”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Everything happened so quickly. A neighbor noticed the graffiti and called emergency dispatch. When they got here, Ashley came stumbling out with a wound to her side. They found broken glass and other signs someone got inside.”

“You mean the injured girl wasn’t enough of an indicator of that?” I ask. “I want to know why I wasn’t notified and had to find out about this on the news.”

“The scene has been extremely chaotic. Two ambulances were necessary and the neighbors were all coming over here…”

“Two? Two ambulances?” I ask. “Who else was injured?”

“No one. A woman identified as Mary Grey, Misty’s mother, collapsed and needed to be taken to the hospital as well,” he says.

I let out an exasperated growl. “This is ridiculous. I should have been notified immediately. The scene better be thoroughly documented and all information sent to me. I also want a full explanation of why the surveillance team didn’t stop this from happening.”

“Are you leaving?” he asks as I turn away.

“I need to get to the hospital and find out if she is alright. I’m already behind,” I say, storming back to my car.

When I get to the hospital, it’s in an uproar, the way it had been the day Ashley reappeared. Media swarm the area in front of the doors. I have to force my way through to get inside. I flash my credentials to the security guard and head up to