Copyright © 2020 by A.J. Rivers
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The Girl in Dangerous Waters
A.J. Rivers
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Staying In Touch With A.J.
Also by A.J. Rivers
Prologue
One year ago…
"A single bullet wound to the base of the skull."
"Sounds like an execution. Were there any other injuries?" I ask.
“Nothing separate from what he was already recovering from in the hospital,” the medical examiner tells me. “The abrasions on his face are from the sand.”
I nod.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
Tightly coiled dark hair bound up in a ponytail at the back of her head bounces slightly as she pulls the sheet back up over Greg's face. The sight of it catches my breath in my throat. I've seen it before, but this time there's no question. I know it's him.
I take a step back, waiting for her to slide the slab back into the morgue drawer and close the heavy metal door over it. Our eyes meet. She gives me a look that's something close to pity. It's a look I've been getting a lot recently, but I've more than had my fill. Without another word, I turn and leave.
Stepping out into the hallway is a relief. The last time I was in a morgue was in the hospital. I was stretched out on one of those slabs, drugged, and hidden behind the heavy metal door. Dean rescued me from the drawer before I froze to death, but there is no rescuing Greg. No getting him out. He will lie there alone in the dark and cold while we try to unravel what happened to him.
"He wasn't supposed to leave alone," I say, storming down the hallway past Eric, who waits for me against the wall. "He was supposed to wait at the hospital until he could be discharged with a guard. What was he thinking, walking out of that hospital without one of us? Or at least another agent?"
"Did Dr. Galvan find out anything else?" he asks.
"Same as the initial findings. Single bullet hole to the back of the head. She said there were no other signs of injury. I guess you don't really need any other injuries when you get a point-blank hole to the skull,” I explain.
He follows me through the building and out into the thin, bright sunlight of the afternoon. The towering mirrored building is stark and sterile. The trees planted along the sidewalk in front of it don’t do much to soften its appearance. Somehow the rays of light bouncing off the sharp corners and expanses of metal and glass make them feel colder.
“Sounds like an execution,” Eric muses.
“That's exactly what I said,” I tell him, yanking gloves onto my hands. But there's something about it that doesn't sit well with me.
“What?” he asks.
“He was standing.” We make our way down the sidewalk. “I got a chance to look at the crime scene photos. The sand isn't disrupted in a way that would indicate he was kneeling when he was shot. The trajectory also shows the gun wasn't pointed downwards when it was shot but held straight ahead at very close range. Greg also has a few scratches on the side of his face where he hit the sand as he fell. After the gunshot. That means he was just standing there when someone walked up behind him and shot him in the back of the head.”
"Not all hits have the victim kneeling," Eric points out. "It could have just as easily been an execution with him standing."
"I know that. But think about where he was. It's not like he was in the woods at night or inside a building where he could be trapped. He was found dead on the beach at the edge of the water. There was no indication he was killed somewhere else and dumped, and the time of death puts him being shot before sunset. After what he went through, Greg wouldn't just let someone march him out across the sand and then stand there while they shot him."
I shake my head, still staring straight ahead as we walk. "I need to look at the crime scene images again."
“Creagan is already pretty jumpy about this. He's not going to like you getting involved," Eric says.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and turn to him, stepping up close so I can stare directly into his eyes.
"Creagan can shove a flute up his ass and play ‘Dixie’ with a straw. After the shit he pulled with my mother's death and dangling me like a piece of raw meat in front of a serial killer, he knows better than to get in my way right now."
Eric gives a slightly shaky nod, and I continue down the sidewalk. A few seconds later, he takes several jogging steps to catch up with me.
“When all this has settled down a bit, remind me to have you explain the physiology of what you just said,” he says.
“Do you want a demonstration?” I ask.
“Not necessary. Especially if it includes visual aids.”
“Then you'll just have to use your imagination,” I offer.
Just as I expected, Creagan doesn't show his face as we enter the war room that has been set up to manage the investigation into Greg's murder. In the days since his body was found, a frustratingly minuscule amount of progress has been made into finding out what happened. This room contains everything investigators have uncovered, but the shreds are still scattered around, like pieces of a puzzle yet to be
