"What?" I ask, surprised by the announcement.
"He wants to make it very clear you are still considered to be on leave and aren't being asked to be a part of the team for the investigation. But he also admits you might have more insight into Greg than the rest of us. You knew him in a different way and might be able to see things in the footage we can't. He's given you clearance to come back to the office and watch the rest of the videos. Purely in a consultant capacity."
"I'll be there," I tell him.
I hang up the phone and see Sam staring at me. My heart sinks as I realize I forgot he even came into the house with me.
"You'll be where?" he asks.
"There's more footage of the bus station that has Greg in it. Creagan is offering me clearance as a consultant to come and see the rest of the videos to find out if I notice anything they aren't," I explain.
"Back to the office?" he asks.
"Yes. He's concerned about the potential for copycats and doesn't want anything getting out. That includes the footage and any of the details of the case. That little piece Eric emailed me was the only bit Creagan is allowing outside the team, so if I'm going to be able to help, I have to go there," I continue.
"Can't they function without you? They are the FBI, aren't they?" he demands.
I'm taken aback by the sudden surge of anger.
“What's wrong with you?” I ask.
“I just don't understand why they need to call you with this. They're the ones who were supposed to be doing the investigation, not you. You're supposed to be on leave.”
“Yeah. And I have been for two months. This is the first time they've called me with anything. You're acting like I'm constantly on the phone with them, or they can't do anything without me,” I point out.
“It sure seems that way. The minute something serious happens, they’re on the phone with you,” Sam snips.
“Greg has been missing for almost two years. No one has any idea what happened to him. Then he suddenly showed up on surveillance before a public attack. Why can't you understand why they would want my opinion on this?” I ask.
“I just don't understand what they think you would be able to do. They have an entire team there working on it,” he argues.
“And I don't understand why you're so angry,” I fire back.
"I only want what's best for you."
"I don't think that's true. I think you only want what's best for you. You can't stand what I do or that I care about it. You've never been able to."
"Can you blame me?" he asks, his voice getting louder.
"You're in law enforcement, Sam. You've had cases that have stayed with you and that you've gone after tirelessly. Even when other people couldn't see what you did."
"But this isn't your case. You said it yourself. They only want you as a consultant," he points out.
"If there's anything I can do to help, I'm going to," I say.
"Why do you have to do this, Emma? Why is it so important for you to go back there and see the footage? Does Greg still matter to you that much? Is this all about him and the way your relationship ended?"
I draw in a breath to keep myself calm, refusing to even give that a response. I get to my feet, intending to go into the kitchen for a drink, but stop when I see the corner of the coffee table.
"The envelope," I say.
"What?" Sam asks.
"The envelope for the papers I got from Iowa. It was sitting on top of the stack of papers when I left this morning. Now it's on the table."
"You must have knocked it off when you sat down."
I shake my head. "No. I didn't."
Scooping up the papers, I sift through them.
"Stop changing the subject," he says.
"My father's certificate of live birth from the midwife is missing. It was right here near the top of the stack, and now it's gone."
"This is exactly what I'm talking about," he laments. "You get yourself so wrapped up in whatever you're investigating; you don't even think about anything else around you. You don't even see what else is happening. All that matters to you is getting that high of the next clue, the next thing to chase."
I glare at him, my jaw set hard enough to make the muscles ache at the hinge.
"Have you been hanging out with Pamela? Wearing your leopard print dress and gossiping with your gal pals? Go ahead. Take it a step further and say you think I've lost my mind," I snap.
"Emma, you're being ridiculous," he says, only making me angrier.
"Just stop," I tell him, walking around the table to go into the kitchen. "You're not making this situation any better.”
But Sam persists, following me as he lowers his voice back down.
"I don't think you've lost your mind. But I do think you let yourself get too immersed and need the time to rest. I've seen how these cases have affected you, how much you put yourself into them," he says.
"It's my career. I've put my entire life into it. Of all people, you should know that."
His eyes darken, and he straightens, pulling away from me slightly as his head bobs in a barely perceptible nod.
"I do," he says.
"Then you understand why I have to do this."
Sam shakes his head.
"No, Emma. I don't."
Chapter Twenty-One
It's been months since I've worn a suit when I wasn't in court, and I don't think my body has fully acclimated back to it yet. Jeans and t-shirts with my hair slung up in a ponytail are far more my speed. Perhaps the occasional sweater or a dress if the mood strikes me. Suits are reserved for when I have to appear in court for one of my cases, or when I have to meet with my superiors at the office. Especially after I've been gone for a while. I don't want to walk into the office in my favorite shirt I picked up during one of my trips to Florida and have Creagan think I don't have it in me anymore.
The suit also helps to keep my mind from wandering back to Sherwood and to Sam. I'm still aching over our last interaction. We haven't spoken since he walked out of my house after I told him I was coming back here. Not that we had much time to. My bags were packed, and I was on the road less than an hour later. The drive feels shorter than I expected it to, and it's still only the middle of the afternoon when I pull into a welcome center a short distance away from the FBI headquarters. I don't want to go back to my house. Not just yet. Instead, I go into one of the bathrooms and use my time-honored skills honed first by years of theater, then by going undercover, to change into my suit in just seconds. Back in my heels, I stare into the mirror and pull my hair down from its ponytail. Bending at the waist and giving it a puff brings it back to life, and a swipe of mascara wakes up my face.
Just like that, I've shifted back. It's dizzying to think of everything that's happened today. Breakfast with Sam. The confrontation with Payton and Ian. Conversation with Michael Blair. Finding the pictures in the storage unit. Then having my reality shattered and coming back here. It's far too much to crash into the space of just one day, and my mind is still reeling from it. But I can't let it. Not now. I need to get to the office and figure out what we're going to do next.
I try not to be aware of the people around me when I scan my identification and walk into the FBI headquarters. They're looking at me. I know they are. It's only to be expected. After having a crisis and nearly destroying an undercover operation left me confined to spending six months surfing my desk, I fell for and was nearly killed by a serial killer during my very next undercover gig. Considering that was rapidly followed by returning to the hometown no one knew I had, to uncover a kidnapper and ending up on leave, I'm a bit of a point of interest.