Блейк Пирс - Once Trapped

She and her partner, Bill Jeffreys, had gone to the Farrells’ mansion to interview Morgan’s husband regarding the death of his own son.

She remembered how Morgan had seemed almost too weak to stand, clinging to the banister of the huge staircase for support while her husband presided over her as if she were some sort of trophy.

She remembered the look of vacant terror in the woman’s eyes.

She also remembered what Andrew Farrell had said about her as soon as she was out of earshot …

“A rather famous model when I married her—perhaps you’ve seen her on magazine covers.”

And regarding how much younger Morgan had been than himself, he’d added …

“A stepmother should never be older than her husband’s oldest children. I’ve made sure of that with all my wives.”

Riley now felt the same chill she’d felt back then.

Morgan had obviously been nothing more than a costly trinket for Andrew Farrell to show off in public—not a human being at all.

Finally Riley remembered what had happened to Andrew Farrell’s wife before Morgan.

She had committed suicide.

When Riley had given Morgan her FBI card, she’d been worried that the woman might meet the same fate—or die under other sinister circumstances. The last thing she had imagined was that Morgan would kill her husband—or anybody else for that matter.

Riley began to feel a familiar tingle—the kind of tingle she got whenever her instincts told her that things were not what they seemed.

Normally, that tingle was a signal for her to probe the matter more deeply.

But now?

No, it’s really none of my business, she told herself.

Or was it?

While she was puzzling things over, her phone rang again. This time she saw that the call was from Bill. She’d texted him that everything was all right and she’d be home tonight.

“Hi, Riley,” he said when she answered. “Just checking in. So everything went all right in Phoenix?”

“Thanks for calling, Bill,” she replied. “Yes, the adoption is final now.”

“Everything was thoroughly uneventful, I hope,” Bill asked.

Riley couldn’t help but laugh.

“Not exactly,” she said. “In fact, far from it. There was, uh, some violence involved. And a dog.”

She heard Bill chuckle as well.

“Violence and a dog? I’m intrigued! Tell me more!”

“I will when we see each other,” Riley said. “It’ll be a better story if I can tell you face to face.”

“I’m looking forward to it. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow in Quantico, then.”

Riley fell silent for a moment as she felt on the brink of a strange decision.

She said to Bill, “I don’t think so. I think maybe I’ll take a couple more days off.”

“Well, you certainly deserve it. Congratulations again.”

They ended the call, and Riley headed upstairs to her room. She turned on her computer.

Then she booked a flight to Atlanta for tomorrow morning.

By early afternoon the next day, Riley was sitting in the office of Atlanta’s police chief, Elmo Stiles. The large, gruff man didn’t seem at all happy with what Riley had been telling him.

He finally growled, “Let me get this straight, Agent Paige. You’ve come here all the way from Quantico to privately interview Morgan Farrell, who we’re holding in custody for the murder of her husband. But we didn’t ask for the FBI’s help. In fact, the case is now open and shut. We’ve got a confession and everything. Morgan is guilty, and that’s pretty much that. So what’s your business here?”

Riley tried to project an air of confidence.

“I told you before,” she said. “I need to talk to her about a completely separate matter—a different case altogether.”

Stiles squinted skeptically and said, “A different case that you can’t tell me anything about.”

“That’s right,” Riley said.

It was a lie, of course. For the thousandth time since she’d flown out of DC this morning, she wondered just what the hell she thought she was doing. She was used to bending the rules, but she was seriously crossing a line by pretending to be here on official FBI business.

Just why had she ever thought this might be a good idea?

“What if I say no?” Stiles said.

Riley knew perfectly well that this was the chief’s prerogative, and if he did say no, she’d have to comply. But she didn’t want to say so. She had to gear herself up for some serious bluffing.

She said, “Chief Stiles, believe me, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t a matter of utmost importance and urgency. I’m just not at liberty to say what it is.”

Chief Stiles drummed his fingers on his desk for a few moments.

Then he said, “Your reputation precedes you, Agent Paige.”

Riley cringed a little inside.

That could be a good thing or a bad thing, she thought.

She was well-known and respected throughout the law enforcement profession for her keen instincts, her ability to get into a killer’s mind, and her knack for solving seemingly unsolvable cases.

She was also known for sometimes being a nuisance and a loose cannon, and local authorities who had to work with her often took a dislike to her.

She didn’t know which of those reputations Chief Stiles might be referring to.

She wished she could read his expression better, but he had one of those faces that probably never looked pleased about much of anything.

What Riley really dreaded at this moment was the possibility that Stiles might do the most logical thing—pick up the phone and call Quantico to confirm that she was here on FBI business. If he did, nobody there would cover for her. In fact, she’d wind up in a good bit of trouble.

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time, she thought.

Finally Chief Stiles stopped drumming his fingers and got up from his desk.

He grumbled, “Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of FBI business. Come on, I’ll take you to Morgan Farrell’s jail cell.”

Suppressing a sigh of relief, Riley got up and followed Stiles out of his office. As he led her through the bustling police station, Riley wondered whether any of the cops around her might happen to be Jared Ruhl, the officer who had called her last night. She wouldn’t recognize him if she saw him. But might he know who she was?

Riley hoped not, for his sake as much as for her own. She remembered telling him over the phone about Morgan Farrell’s death …

“Frankly, it’s none of my business.”

It had been exactly the right thing for her to say, and it would be best for Ruhl if he thought Riley was sticking by her decision. It could be a big problem for him if Chief Stiles found out that he’d been making queries outside the department.

As Stiles led her into the women’s part of the jail, Riley was nearly deafened by the noise. Prisoners were pounding on bars and loudly arguing with one another, and now they started yelling at Riley as she walked past their cells.

Finally Stiles ordered a guard to open the cell occupied by Morgan Farrell, and Riley walked inside. The woman was sitting on the bed staring at the floor, seemingly unaware that anyone had arrived.

Riley was shocked by her appearance. Morgan was, as Riley remembered, extremely thin and fragile-looking. She looked even more so now, clad in an orange jumpsuit that looked way too big for her.

She also appeared to be deeply exhausted. The last time Riley had seen her, she’d been fully made up and looking like the model she had been before marrying Andrew Farrell. Without makeup, she looked shockingly waiflike. Riley thought that somebody who didn’t know anything about her might take her for a homeless woman.