Chapter Twenty-Eight Keep Your Secrets, Ryan
twenty-eight
Keep Your Secrets, Ryan
Panic spikes as I try to edge away, but Zed glances at me, cutting off any escape.
“Ryan, this is Natalie. Her mother was Lydia Singh.” Each word drips with self-importance, like he’s curating some big story in real time.
The dark-haired woman offers me a stiff, tired smile. “Hi,” she says. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too.” My throat is so tight I can barely get the words out.
“Natalie’s been seeking answers for years about where her mother is,” Zed tells me, one eyebrow raised.
I hate the way he’s looking at me, expectant, as if I might be able to answer that question. Ugh. This guy is so nosy and obsessive. Determined to be part of this story, whether the people who were actually affected by it like it or not.
Not for the first time, I have to wonder if Zed is the one sending those texts, but I can’t imagine why he would want me to stop looking for clues. His entire life is searching for clues.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell Natalie, wishing I was anywhere but here. “It must be torture, not having any answers.”
I can’t look her in the eye. The guilt is too strong. I remember how Chase said he never feels guilty about anything, and I envy him right now, I really do.
Natalie nods. “It’s hard, for sure. Not knowing if I’ll ever get to bury her.”
My stomach twists, a painful knot forming. I want to flee, but all I can do is stand there, gulping down the shame burning in my chest.
“I’m sorry you’re going through this.” I don’t know what else to say, and I pray it sounds sincere.
“Thanks.” Natalie’s expression doesn’t change. She looks resigned. It’s a look I’ve seen on my own face in the mirror.
“Anyway, I, uh, have to go.” I give the most awkward wave on the planet and dart into the diner.
When the waitress leads me to a booth in the back, I practically hurl myself into it, overcome with relief.
That was awful.
I knew returning to Starling came with the risk of encountering my father’s victims, but it’s even worse than I anticipated. That bone-deep guilt.
I place my breakfast order, then sip on a coffee while I wait for either my food or Agent Foster, whichever arrives first. Foster wins.
The bell over the door dings a few minutes later, and he strides inside.
He kept his promise, leaving his federal agent getup at home.
In a baseball cap and University of Nashville sweatshirt, he makes a very convincing college boy.
Even his stride is less business and more swagger as he joins me in the booth.
“Hey,” Agent Foster says. “Thanks for agreeing to meet.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Polite, huh? What, are we playing good cop today?”
He chuckles. “I deserve that. Look, I know I was tough on you the other night. I apologize if I’ve made this any harder.”
I blink, feeling more thrown off by his apology than I ever was by his questions.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“Honestly, I’m still finding my footing here.
This is my first real case. Four months ago, I was still training at Quantico, trying to prove I belonged there.
Not an excuse for being rude. Just a reason.
So, to sum up, I’m sorry, and thank you for meeting me on a Sunday to let me apologize. ”
“Okay. Thanks, I guess.” I hesitate, remembering the reason I’m up this early. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Have you guys disclosed my identity to anyone? Because I’ve received a few texts from someone claiming to know who I am.”
He gives me a sharp look. “Show them to me.”
“Um. Well, I only have this latest one.” I unlock my phone and push it toward him. “I deleted the other ones, but they were basically the same as this one.”
Foster reads the message, a deep groove appearing in his forehead.
“I can see why this would alarm you. My gut says it’s just a prank or a fishing expedition.
You know, new girl in town, a bunch of nosy people asking questions.
I suspect the number is a burner, but if you want to give me your phone, our tech guys can poke around and see if they can trace it. ”
“I’m keeping my phone,” I say stubbornly.
“All right. Then forward me the message and we’ll investigate. In the meantime, I’d advise you to change your number.”
“Thank you.” I watch Agent Foster carefully, searching his face for any hint of a hidden motive. “So you just came here to apologize? Or was there something else?”
“Both. I realized I might’ve pushed you too hard. Especially considering the weight you’re carrying. I understand that this is your life, not just a case file.”
“Are you saying you don’t think I know where the bodies are?”
He doesn’t answer right away, which makes me uneasy. “Consciously, no.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t believe you consciously know the location. However, I think you might know more than you realize. Memories get buried deep, especially if they’re painful.”
I glance at the chipped edge of the tabletop, still feeling unsettled. “And you’re suggesting…what? I try to bring the memories to the surface somehow?”
I don’t tell him about my own theory that going to the studio might jog my memory, because right now, that’s all it is—a theory.
“Actually, yes. I know it might sound strange, but I was thinking we could try a hypnosis session, if you’re open to it. Just to see if anything surfaces.”
Disbelief has me laughing. “Hypnosis? Seriously? Is that what the FBI is into these days?”
He’s unbothered by my mocking tone. “We work with some very skilled therapists. A couple of licensed psychiatrists too. They’ve been quite useful in other cases, helping people suffering from PTSD resurface memories as to what might have happened in their past.”
I bite my lip, wondering if the FBI has access to my childhood medical records.
Because I do have PTSD. The child psychologist I saw when I first moved in with Gran said as much, though I only saw him for a year after my mom’s murder.
At the time, I was happy to stop the appointments.
They were long and boring and got in the way of my Saturday morning cartoons.
Besides, I didn’t feel they accomplished anything.
My nightmares still came, no matter how much we talked about my father and that night and all the horrible things he did.
So what was the point of therapy if it didn’t freaking work?
“I saw a news report once that said the whole repressed memory thing is junk,” I inform Foster. “That the hypnotist was planting false suggestions in the victims’ heads, making them believe they’d seen something they really hadn’t—”
“Well, yes. That’s always a danger. But like I said, these aren’t quacks.
They’re professionals we’ve consulted with before.
” He shrugs. “I think it wouldn’t hurt to try to jog your memory.
Wouldn’t you like to figure out why your father was under the impression that the daughter he last saw when she was seven might know where he took his victims? ”
Gnawing on the inside of my cheek, I consider this hypnosis plan, even as a part of me recoils from the idea. Unbeknownst to him, we share a common goal. This is the precise reason I woke up early and drove to my old property. To answer that question.
“All right.” I let out a slow breath, nodding. “I’ll do it.”
My easy acquiescence startles him. Then he offers me a small, grateful nod, his expression unexpectedly soft. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything close to vulnerability in his face, and it’s throwing me off-balance.
“Thank you,” Foster says. “I think you’re incredibly brave for agreeing, and I promise you that either I or Agent Kulpa will be there with you the entire time.”
“I’m not promising answers,” I say with a pointed look. “It might not work.”
“All we’re asking is that you try,” he assures me. “If we can arrange a last-minute session, how’s sometime this week? Perhaps Thursday after school?”
“I’ll check with my aunt, but it should be fine.” I pause. “Anything else?” It’s a bit rude, but I don’t particularly want to have breakfast with this man. My appetite is already starting to leave me at the thought of letting a shrink take a crowbar to my brain and poke around inside.
“Not even going to let me order a coffee, huh?” His smile is wry.
I shrug in response, and Foster seems to get the hint, sliding out of the booth.
“I’ll text you later with the details. And you have my number now,” he reminds me. “You can call or text me anytime, no matter how late.”
He chooses the worst possible moment to utter those words—just as Chase Hedlund is striding past the booth.
Shit.
Chase tenses when he notices me. His gray eyes shift to Agent Foster, and he makes a scornful noise under his breath.
“Later, Ryan,” Foster says as if he’s a regular old college bro.
The moment he’s gone, Chase slides into the booth, shaking his head as he lets out an angry laugh. “Well. I guess I know why you dumped Everett. I’m almost impressed by how fast you move.”
I try to think of a suitable excuse, but all of them are flimsy. I finally say, “He’s just a friend.”
Chase snorts. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Much to my relief, the waitress returns and sets a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. She startles when she realizes Foster is now Chase.
“Oh. Mornin’, hon,” she greets him. “What can I do ya for?”
I gape at him as he proceeds to order, but wait until the server hurries off before I fix him with a glare. “I’m not having breakfast with you.”
“It sort of looks like you are.”
Ugh. I hate this guy. “Why are you up so early, anyway?” I demand. “It’s Sunday.”
He rolls his eyes. “I mean, I’d like to say I scheduled an early-morning date too, but I save my hookups for after dark.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like? I’m listening.” He crosses his arms, not budging from the booth.
I want to smack that smug expression off his face. I stick my fork into my scrambled eggs and take a huge bite. Staring at him while I chew.
“Whatever,” he says. “Keep your secrets, Ryan.”
He has no idea.
I eat my breakfast in stony silence, while Chase sips the coffee that the waitress brings him and mocks me over the rim of the cup.
I ignore him, my mind running over my plans for later.
If I’m sneaking out and returning to my old property tonight, I’ll need to take my aunt’s or uncle’s vehicle again.
It’s easy to do that in the morning—there are tons of reasons I might have to go somewhere—but late at night?
If one of them wakes up and finds me gone, it’ll raise their suspicions for sure.
I bring my coffee cup to my lips, suddenly studying Chase from across the booth. “You want to go somewhere tonight?” The question pops out before I can stop it.
Although it does gratify me to see him lose that cool, steady Chase facade for a moment. “What?”
I give him a little shrug. “I need a ride to the Thorn property. Maybe around midnight?”
He stares at me. “Why?”
“Because I need to go there.”
“Why?” he repeats.
I grit my teeth. Maybe asking him was a mistake. Am I really going to let Chase in on this?
“Is this about the reward money?” he says when I don’t respond.
I jump at the excuse he feeds me. “Obviously. So, are you in?”
No matter how much he distrusts me, it’s clear he can’t fight his curiosity. After a beat, he shrugs too and says, “Sure, what the hell. I’ll pick you up at midnight.”