Page 33 of Killer Knows Best (Fallon Baxter FBI Mystery #4)

33

SPECIAL AGENT FALLON BAXTER

I flip through the battered pages of Delaney Riggs’ journal, the paper worn from countless turns of the page, tear stains—hers, not mine—and some crumbs of indiscernible food items. I’m hoping those are hers, although Buddy and I have been on a snacking spree.

Delaney’s handwriting slants across the page, delicate but rushed, as if she had so much to say and not enough time to get it all out. The words pull me in once again, offering another glimpse into her chaotic, tender, and oh-so heartbreaking life.

I skip around one last time, particularly to the parts that pertain to the library since that’s my destination tonight.

August 14th

I never thought I’d find peace in a place full of books. But here I am, spending my afternoons at the library, lost in fictional worlds that I never lived in but somehow understand. Phillis says I have a gift for research. Brenda just laughs and calls me “her little bookworm”. They’re more like mothers to me than my own mother has ever been. Some days, I wonder what it would have been like to have a mother who didn’t forget my birthday. Or didn’t choose a bottle of booze over me. Phillis gives me that. Brenda, too, in her own way. I don’t feel so invisible when I’m with them. Maybe that’s why I like it here. I’m not just disappearing between the shelves. I’m in a real world—one I’m hoping to one day understand.

September 5th

Back at the library. There’s something about this place. The quiet, the order of it all. It’s not like home—where everything feels like it could come apart any minute. I can breathe here. Phillis has been amazing, letting me organize the new shipments. Brenda, too, though she’s been distracted lately. Something is going on with her. She seems totally stressed. I don’t know what it is, but it’s like she’s holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it’s just the grief she’s still carrying. Sometimes I catch her staring at that picture of her husband she keeps on her desk, and I swear she’s talking to him. Not in a crazy way, more like she’s just keeping him close. I get that. We all need someone.

September 22n d

You know, I think I get it. I’m starting to understand why Phillis writes about death. She says it’s just another chapter in the story. But then again, I don’t know. She seems so sure about what comes after, like there’s some grand plan and we’re all just walking in that direction. Brenda nods along, but I think she’s just trying to believe it, too. I guess when you’ve lost so much, you have to hold onto something. Phillis lost her kid and Brenda lost her husband. I think those are two very different losses. But maybe not. I really wouldn’t know. They both seem really sad at times. Phillis says you can’t stay angry forever. You need to let the past go because we can’t bring all that negative energy into eternity where our real homes are. She says we’ll live in love and light forever once we cross over and enjoy days that know no end. We are infinite beings that never truly die. I like the sound of that. I like the sound of living forever in a place far better than this one.

I sigh as I inspect her loopy handwriting one more time.

Infinite beings.

Infinite .

Infinity?

I close the journal and think about how special Delaney’s time at the library felt to her. She certainly conveyed enough to convince me that it was a reprieve from her campus life. But it wasn’t books she was finding respite in. By the sound of this journal, it was people.

Soon, I’m in Jack’s truck and we’re on the road to the Blue Creek Public Library.

Jack’s hands are on the wheel while Buddy is curled up in the back seat, happily oblivious to what we might be diving into.

“You ready for this, Baxter?” Jack casts a quick glance my way.

“Does anyone ever feel ready for a seminar on grief?” I raise a brow his way as if daring him to say yes.

Wisely, he opts to chuckle under his breath. “Point taken. But hey, at least Buddy will lighten the mood. Everyone loves a dog.”

“Everyone but your mother,” I tease and we share a quiet laugh on Sandy’s behalf.

Far too soon the Blue Creek Library comes into view.

Blue Creek itself looks resplendent tonight with fall leaves swirling in the icy breeze and the streetlamps coating our world in an orange glow. A thin layer of frost clings to the windows of the cars lining the street, and I pull my jacket tighter around me as we step out of the truck.

The library’s conference room is already buzzing once we arrive.

It’s a modest gathering—maybe fifty people scattered across folding chairs, chatting, and sipping on steaming cups of coffee. The scent of fresh-brewed caffeine mingles with the sweetness of a few desserts laid out on a small table in the back. Mostly brownies, and a couple dozen cookies in the mix.

I take another look around at the room and it feels warm and cozy. Although far too warm and cozy for what we’re here to investigate.

There’s a large cardboard sign that sits at the entry that reads Welcome to Pathways of Peace. Tonight’s special guest speaker is author Phillipa Hazelwood .

A small crowd quickly amasses around Buddy, and soon he’s wagging his tail and sitting tall as hands from every direction try to get in on the action.

“Looks like Buddy is already a hit,” I whisper to Jack as a few attendees smile and wave at the furry guest of honor.

“Good thing,” he says, scanning the crowd. “We might need him to get people talking.”

I nod. “He’s basically a dog-shaped icebreaker.”

The space is simple—cream-colored walls, dim lighting, and a podium set up at the front. There’s a small table next to the podium with a framed picture of a young girl on it and there’s something haunting about her smile.

The air smells faintly of old books and a sterile scent that gives the impression that someone wiped down every surface with bleach an hour ago.

It’s calm and it feels so very normal in here—I’m actually starting to look forward to an uneventful night. But I know better than to trust appearances.

We’re all urged to take our seats and Jack and I find a spot up front and next to the desserts. Judging by the stack of cookies in Jack’s hand, it seems our seating choice was intentional.

Brenda Billings is first up at bat as she steps up to the podium. Her eyes are somber as she looks out over the room. She’s dressed in a plain dark dress and her dark hair is pulled back tight.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Brenda begins with an affable smile, and yet her voice is already thick with emotion.

Most likely grief. She did lose her husband. In fact, everyone in this room has lost someone or they wouldn’t be on the proverbial pathway to peace—sans Jack and me. But I guess Jack lost his father in a way since he rarely talks about him. I’m guessing he’s just out of the picture, dead or alive. And my own father has passed, violently so. And then, there’s the case of the missing sister.

I sigh hard at the thought of Erin and her unwillingness to let us know she’s still breathing. It’s selfish. But maybe she’s okay with the fact she needs to be a little selfish right now to survive. My father made sure we all paid a rather selfish price before he hit the ground after that bullet hit him.

I know that Erin needs to heal. But does she need to wound the rest of us while doing so?

“I met Phillis shortly after my husband passed away,” Brenda continues. “It was a dark time, and I thought I might never climb out of it. But Phillis, well, she showed me a new way of seeing things. A new way of understanding death.” She sniffs over at her friend. “Phillis’ own daughter passed away not long before I lost my husband.”

Brenda gestures to the photo of a beautiful young woman, a redhead with a winning smile. She looks about thirty. I stare at it for a beat longer than I should, surprised by how much older Phillis’ daughter looks than I thought. Somehow, I had imagined someone younger, a child maybe. I guess it makes sense. Phillis herself is an older woman.

“Phillis helped me see the light, so to speak,” Brenda goes on. “Most people believe in an afterlife. The good Lord Himself says He placed eternity in the hearts of men. If anyone can make you believe in seeing your loved ones again, it’s Phillis Hazelwood.” She pauses, glancing at Jack and me. “Eternity”—she repeats softly—“and all of its symbols have been explored in great depth in Phillis’ wonderful and thoughtful book. Let’s give a warm round of applause for best-selling author Phillipa Hazelwood.”

The room breaks out in polite applause as Phillis takes the stage. Her red hair is neatly combed and curled under her neck. She’s donned a maroon pantsuit with a shiny gold brooch of a heart that looks as if it’s split in two. Her expression is calm but distant as if she’s already halfway in another world. She’s an older woman, but she carries herself like someone who’s already faced the worst life has to offer.

Death will do that to a person. Just ask the roster of women who were taken off this planet by a cold-hearted killer.

But then again, someone has made sure we can’t ask them anything ever again.