He lets out a long breath.
“You look good, Emma,” he says.
My hands tighten around the mug. I can’t do this. Not this. Not now.
“Sam, I didn’t stop in for breakfast with you because I was passing through. I’m here because you called me to ask for help. Let’s just skip by the Hallmark reunion and get to the point.”
Molly appears at the side of the table and looks between us awkwardly as she lowers the plates she’s carrying in each hand down to the table.
“Can I get anything else for you?” she asks.
We both shake our heads, and she walks away. I wait until she’s engrossed in gossip and refilling a coffee mug across the shop to lean slightly toward Sam.
“How did you get my phone number, anyway?” I whisper.
“I contacted the alumni association,” he tells me.
He picks up his knife and starts smearing softened butter on a piece of toast. I shake my head.
“My number isn’t listed in the directory.”
“No, but they have it from when you did that talk on young women in law enforcement a couple of years ago.”
“And they just gave it to you when you said you wanted it?” I ask.
“I told them who I was and that it was important.”
I sigh and pick up my fork to stab the yolk of one of my eggs. It oozes perfectly across the whites and puddles up near the butter-crisped edge.
“Well, I’m so glad they got so many valuable takeaways from my section on cyber safety and identity protection,” I mutter.
“I wouldn’t have had to do that if you didn’t make it impossible to find you,” he points out.
“It’s not impossible to find me. I just don’t make it so just anyone can get to me whenever they want to.”
Thoughts of the envelope and the necklace flash through my mind, and I shake them off.
“I didn’t realize I was just anyone,” he protests. “And it isn’t like I did it for no reason.”
“Sam, that’s not what I meant.”
“Remember, Emma; you’re the one who walked away. That wasn’t my decision.”
I close my eyes and hold my hands out to stop him.
“Stop. This isn’t why I’m here. I’m here because you asked for my help. Even though I’m still not certain why you did that,” I say.
“Because you’re the only person who I can think of who might have the insight we need to solve this. I don’t want any other children disappearing, Emma. Three is far too many as it is. We’ve been investigating and doing everything we can around the clock since we got the call about Alice Brooks, and we’ve gotten nowhere. We are no further along in finding her or figuring out who took her, then we were that first night. And now two other children are missing. Asking for help isn’t something I like doing. Trust me; if I didn’t feel like this was the only way, I never would have done it. But you know Sherwood. You know this place and its people. You know one of the families involved. And you have the skills from the Bureau to maybe see this in a way we can’t.”
“What do you mean I know one of the families involved?” I ask.
“The third child went missing yesterday morning. A little ten-year-old girl named Eva Francis.”
“Francis? As in Francis, the family who lived across the street from my grandparents?”
He nods.
“They still live there. Eva is their granddaughter. They have been raising her since she was just a few months old. Their son hooked up with some girl and got her pregnant after knowing her for just a few weeks. As soon as the baby was born, she left town. They only hear from her a few times a year when she sends a little bit of money and asks for pictures. Jimmy was by all accounts excited to be a father, but you can only straighten out a wire coat hanger but so much. Part of it’s bound to stay crooked. A few months after Eva was born, he got caught up with the wrong guys, decided to try to make some fast money, and landed an eight-year sentence. While he was in, he jumped a couple of other guys to prove his place in the hierarchy and ended up tacking on another five. He and Eva were already living with his parents, so they just took her on like she was their own. Raised her to be nothing like her parents. Now she’s gone.” He leans closer and drops his voice. “I need you, Emma. Please, say you’ll help me.”
A bright light flashing in my eyes stops me before I can answer him. My head snaps to the window, where a man in jeans and a button-down shirt rolled at his elbows takes another picture. He lifts his hand to his mouth and seems to mutter something like he’s recording what he’s saying.
“Who the hell is that?” I ask as Sam stands up sharply and stalks out of the coffee shop.
I rush to follow him, watching him step up close to the man, who stands his ground, not seeming bothered by Sam’s approach.
“Get out of here, William,” he growls. “I told you to stop sniffing around here. You come to the press conferences and nothing else.”
“Freedom of the press, Sam,” the man fires back with an expression I can only describe as a smirk.
“That’s Sheriff Johnson to you,” Sam tells him. “And you’ll do as I say, or I’ll bring you in for harassment and impeding an investigation.”
“Sheriff, I am not on your private property. I’m not bothering you in your home. I’m standing on a public sidewalk.”
“Taking a picture of me through a coffee shop window,” Sam points out.
I stride up to the two men and look the man in the eye.
“What’s going on here?” I ask.
“Emma, this is William Jennings, a pain in my ass.”
“You flatter me,” Jennings says, then turns his attention to me. “I’m actually a reporter.”
“I gathered that.” I narrow my eyes at him.
Jennings eyes me, and I notice a red light in his palm that tells me he’s recording the entire interaction.
“So, Sheriff, do you frequently include breakfast dates in your investigations? Are taxpayer dollars paying for this cozy little meeting?” he asks.
“This isn’t a date,” I tell him bluntly.
“And as a matter of fact, this is part of the investigation,” Sam tells him. “This is Emma Griffin. She’s with the FBI.”
I cringe internally at the same moment Jennings’s lips coil up like the Grinch’s.
“Oh, really?” he asks.
“I am not officially involved in the investigation, and neither is the Bureau,” I tell him. “I’m here in a consulting capacity because of my personal knowledge of the town.”
The reporter smiles and slips his phone into his pocket.
“Have a good day, Ms. Griffin. Sheriff,” he says, ducking into a black car parked nearby.
“Well, shit,” I murmur.
Chapter Thirteen
“Is something wrong?” Sam asks. “Was I not supposed to mention you’re with the Bureau?”
I shake my head, rubbing my eyes as we settle back into our seats.
“No. I mean, it’s not a secret. I’m not a covert agent, and I’ll just be sure to avoid this general area if I have to go undercover again at any point. It’s right there on my business card.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I told you when you called me. I’m supposed to be on vacation right now,” I say, heading back into the coffee shop to finish eating. “And I didn’t exactly tell my boss about the change of plans.”
“I don’t understand. Aren’t you allowed to do whatever you want with your vacation time?”
“Not when taking that vacation time off comes along with a therapist recommendation,” I tell him.
While my therapist wasn’t thrilled at the idea of me bounding off to Iowa when I told her about it, she has been a strong supporter of me taking a couple of weeks off and wasn’t shy about telling Creagan that.