Save Me (The Archer Brothers 3)

“Can I help you?” the small-framed woman asks us. She doesn’t look familiar and I don’t believe she’s the same woman who lived here six months ago.

Cara flashes her badge and the woman’s eyes go wide.

“I’m SA Hughes and this is SA Riggs. We’re with the FBI,” she says as the woman’s face pales. I guess I’d be shitting bricks if the FBI came knocking on my door, too.

“Ma’am, we have reason to believe that a crime took place in this house approximately six years ago. How long have you lived here?”

“Um …” She stalls before shrugging.

“You’re not sure how long you’ve lived here?”

She drops her head, giving it a slight shake. When she glances at us, fear is written all over her face.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Is there a reason for you to be?” Cara returns the question.

“Shit. Look, I’m not supposed to be here, okay? I met him at bar and his wife is out of town. Fuck,” she says as things start turning frantic.

“I see. Well, why don’t you go on home?”

She nods. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.” She grabs her purse and bolts down the stairs without shutting the door. We wait until she’s down the street before stepping in.

“Well that was easy.” Cara pulls on some gloves, then hands me a matching pair. “Put these on before you touch anything. I don’t have to tell you how important it is that you put everything back in its place.”

“I know this is my house, but what am I looking for?”

Cara lifts the corner of a painting off the wall. “Anything that looks familiar, and also in places where you hid shit.”

I take off up the stairs, pulling my gloves on as I do. I had various hiding spots throughout the house for many things: money, guns, and passports. My job was dangerous, and the last thing I wanted was for people to show up at my front door and find anything untoward.

I pause at what would’ve been Claire’s room and rest my hand on the doorknob, but don’t enter. I’m not sure I can bring myself to go in there yet. Instead I go into the bathroom where the remnants from last night’s rendezvous are still present. This guy’s a fucking douche for cheating on his wife.

Getting down on my knees, I open the cabinet doors under the sink. Much to my surprise there’s only towels under there, making it easy for me to pull them out.

In the back corner there’s a small hole. Using the tip of a hairbrush I found on the counter, I lift up the piece of plywood and take a deep breath. When I look, I can’t contain my excitement and let out a, “Yeehaw.”

Sitting there nice and pretty, covered in a layer of dust is my Glock 19, along with the ammo that I need. I pick her up and use the towel that’s on the floor to clean her off. She hasn’t been fired in so long, I’ll have to take her to the gun range and if Cara lets me keep my new identification, I’ll be able to do just that.

Putting everything back the way I found it, I shake off the clump of dust and put that in the garbage. No one will check there for anything suspicious anyway.

Next, I go into what would’ve been min

e and Penny’s bedroom and head right to the closet. My side was always the left, so I look on the right, where Penny kept her shoe rack. The rack in here looks like it’s the same, but it probably isn’t. I move the two boxes that are in the way of where I need to be and get back down on my knees. I pull at the carpet, but it doesn’t budge.

“Fuck,” I say. I continue to run my hands along the edge where the wall meets the carpet, but nothing comes lose.

“Does this look familiar?” Cara says from behind me. I turn to see a red box with a red ribbon. I gave this box to Penny for our first Christmas and she used it to put things she wanted to keep in there.

“Penny had a box like that,” I say as I reach for it. It’s not heavy, but there’s definitely stuff in there.

Taking a deep breath, I lift the lid and immediately fight back the onslaught of tears. Inside, staring back at me is a picture of Penny, Claire, and me days before I deployed. The next picture is just Claire along with most of the pile. When I get to the last one, there’s a face and it’s circled in red marker or crayon. When I flip it over, I almost lose the contents of my stomach at what I’m reading.

‘If you’re finding this and I’m not here, this man is responsible. His name is Ted Lawson.’

Cara must see my turmoil because she takes the picture from me. “Lawson,” she says, and I nod. “Where’s this taken?”

“I took it. I remember the day. We were outside playing and this car pulled up. He got out and looked around. He watched us for a few minutes until I said something. He never answered and I snapped the picture. I took it to security to find out who he was, but no one remembered seeing him. I meant to follow up—”