She knows something. It's in there. I just have to help her find it. And get her to tell me.
"What. Are. You. Doing. Here?" I ask Lydia in a low, hissing whisper when we get out into the hallway.
"I'm visiting Millie and making sure she's alright," Lydia responds.
Her eyes flicker back in the direction of the door, and the muscles through my body tense up. In my mind, I can see her checking on Greg the same way. I still don't know exactly what happened the day he was discharged from the hospital and left with her. All I know is that he was supposed to wait there for me or another member of the team, and instead, he walked out with her. The surveillance footage showing him walking across the parking lot with her is the last image of him alive I ever saw.
He was dead mere hours later.
"You don't even know her," I say. "You never even spoke to her before she was shot."
Lydia seems to think about this for a few seconds, then her shoulders drop, and she lets out a sigh.
"I just want to help, Emma," she says.
"Help with what?"
"The investigation."
"You are not a part of this investigation, Lydia. You need to stop interfering," I say.
"I'm not interfering. I want to be a part of it. I think I could be a valuable asset. I do know a few things about digging into cold cases," she says. "And I've already found out a few interesting things. Did you know Lilith Duprey, the woman who lives behind the cornfield where the bodies were found, hasn't always lived in Harlan?"
"Yes, I did know that. I found that out when we found out that she owns the house in Salt Valley, where Mason Goldman has been living."
"Right. But she also hasn't always lived in Salt Valley. As a matter of fact, she has never lived this far away from a city. She wasn't exactly a nature girl in her younger days."
I blink, almost incredulous at what this woman is trying to tell me.
"So?" I ask.
"So, why would a woman who has always lived in cities and is used to the finer things in life suddenly decide to settle in the middle of nowhere?"
I take a step closer to her. "Lydia, stop. This is serious. It's not a game. You need to back off and let the real investigators handle this before you hurt the investigation."
"Fine," she says, holding up her hands in a show of surrender and stepping back from me. "I just thought I could help. I'll leave."
"Thank you," I say, turning back toward Millie's room.
"Oh," she adds, making me turn around. "I meant to ask you. What was the key for?"
"What key?" I ask.
"The key Greg gave me to give to you."
Chapter Five
Those words stop me still. It takes a second before I'm able to really process them and respond.
"Which key? Why did Greg give to you to give to me? I don't know what you're talking about. You never gave me a key," I say.
"That's because I don't have it anymore," Lydia says.
"What do you mean you don't have it anymore?" I ask, stepping toward her again. "Where is it?"
"I gave it to the police when I talked to them about Greg's death," she says.
"Why the hell would you give it to the police?" I demand, my voice creeping higher again.
Lydia recoils slightly from my reaction. "He gave it to me the day he left the hospital. I told you we had made plans to get together, but he said there was something he had to do first. He gave me the key and said just in case, to make sure you got it. I didn't know how to get it to you, then when the police questioned me, I told them about it. They asked me for it, and I gave it to them. I figured they would make sure you got it because you were working with them."
"I wasn't working with them," I say angrily. "I was working with the FBI. The local police department didn't do shit about his murder and still haven't. How could you just let him hand you a key like that and walk away? He said he wanted you to give it to me 'just in case'. That means he thought something was going to happen."
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.