Lydia shrugs and takes a slight step back from me. "I thought he might be going to do something that had to do with his disappearance or an investigation, but I didn't ask. I figured if he wanted me to know, he would tell me."
"And when he was found dead that very night? You didn't bother to get in touch with anybody? You didn't call the police or try to find a way to contact me? You knew something must have happened, and you didn't do anything about it."
I'm raging at her at this point. Gloria's image of peaceful convalescence be damned. I'm so pissed I can't see straight, and I need Lydia out of my sight.
"I'm sorry. I didn't want to interfere," she stammers.
"Then you need to take your own advice now. Get out,” I growl.
“Emma, I—”
“Get out!” I repeat angrily. “You need to stay away from me and everybody else involved in any of these investigations. You've already caused enough damage.”
She turns and rushes away. Gloria pokes her head out of the door and gives me a disapproving look.
“Emma,” she says. “Please.”
“Gloria, I'm sorry, but I have to go. Tell Millie I'll come back and see her soon and to let me know if she needs anything.”
She nods, and I jog to the elevator, in the opposite direction of where Lydia had made her way to the stairs. I'm already on the phone with Creagan by the time I cross the parking lot to my car.
“Did the DC police give you a key?” I rush out the instant he answers.
“Hell—a key?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”
“Back in DC. Did the police give you a key? I just talked to Lydia Walsh. She told me that Greg gave her a key to give to me the day he died. She gave it over to the police when they interviewed her. I know you knew they interviewed her, so do you have the key?”
I have no more patience left for this man. But his position in the Bureau means that as long as I am just an agent, I answer to him. He provides access to resources and privileges I don’t have at my level. Which means I just have to deal with his bull and work around him as much as I can.
“Griffin, I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't heard anything about a key,” Creagan says. “Where are you?”
“I'm just leaving the Harlan hospital. I'm going back to my hotel,” I say. “I'll talk to you later. Call me if you find out anything new.”
Before he can respond, I hang up and get in my car. Taking a quick glance into the backseat, I toss my phone and purse onto the passenger seat and pull out of the lot, headed to my hotel room. Once inside, I call the detective who was in charge of what amounted to the Police Department investigation into Greg's disappearance and murder nearly three years ago.
“A key?” he asks. “I don't think I remember a key.”
“Think really hard,” I tell him, struggling to control the tone of my voice.
“Actually, now that you mention it, I do remember that blonde woman coming in to talk to us. You had seemed so interested in finding out why she was with Mr. Bailey, but she didn't really have any information to share that seemed to mean anything,” the detective says.
“I'm well aware that you dropped the ball on the chain of information,” I say. “That's not why I'm calling you. I talked to Lydia Walsh today, and she told me that she gave you a key when she went in for her interview. It was intended for me.”
“That's right,” he says. “She said he gave it to her before they parted ways that day. That it was supposed to go to you just in case.”
“So why didn't it?” I asked.
“She gave it over to us,” he says. “I guess it got put aside somewhere, and nobody thought to give it to you. I'm sorry about that.”
I cringe and wish I could remember one of those mantras my therapist taught me back when I was ordered to attend regular sessions with her. She told me they would calm me down and help me maintain control. This would be a fantastic time for me to put that to the test.
“What happened to it?” I ask, my hand clamped so tight over my temples I feel like I’m about to pop.
“If it wasn't in the evidence passed over to the Bureau, then one of the officers must have it. I'll have to speak with Agent Creagan about it. That could still be considered evidence,” he says.
“If you never processed it into evidence and didn't even consider an important, then Creagan doesn’t have it. I just spoke to him, and he said he’s never heard anything about it. It wasn't inventoried with the other evidence for the case and has never been mentioned. That key belongs to me. It was Greg's, and not only did Greg intend it for me, but he also left his entire estate to me. What he owned, I own now,” I say.
“I'll talk to all the officers and see if we can track it down,” he says.
“I suggest you look carefully,” I say and end the call.
Dragging my duffle bag out of the tiny compartment considered a closet in this room, I start pulling clothes from the dresser drawers as I call Creagan again.
“Do you need me for anything in particular? Is there something specific for this investigation that I need to be doing today or the next few days?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Why?”
“Then I need to take a couple of days away. I'm going back to DC to find that key and see if I can figure out what it means. I'll be accessible, so you can call me if you
