Final vow, p.3
Final Vow, page 3
Kim notices him watching her. She gestures weakly toward him. “Is it okay if I pet him?”
I give Shadow a small nod. “Go say hi, buddy.”
He rises and pads over to the settee, his tail giving a gentle wag. Kim buries her trembling fingers in the thick fur at his neck. Shadow holds perfectly still, letting her pet him. Some of the tension seems to ease from her shoulders.
“He’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“He’s a good boy.” I give them a moment before asking, “Kim, how long have you known Samantha?”
She keeps her eyes on my K-9, petting his head. “Since fourth grade. We were in the same class, and she shared her fruit snacks with me when I forgot my lunch one day. We were inseparable after that.” A tear slides down her cheek. “We were on the dance team together in high school, stayed friends through college even though we went to different schools. She’s like a sister to me.”
Shadow leans into her touch, then turns and pads back to me, settling at my feet again. Kim watches him go, looking smaller without him beside her.
Hanks waits a beat, then asks, “When did you last see Samantha alive?”
She sips from the whiskey again. The ice has mostly melted now, diluting what’s left. “Maybe forty minutes before I… found her. We’d finished hair and makeup, and the photographer got some shots of all of us. Her mom helped her into her dress.” She stares into her glass. “She looked beautiful.”
“And then?”
“She asked for a few minutes alone. She wanted to pray, gather herself before the ceremony.” Kim’s throat bobs as she swallows.
“So, you left her in the bridal suite—alone?” Hanks prompts.
“Yeah. We all went out on the lawn.” She takes another drink, a longer one this time. “After a while, I started to get worried, I guess. I hadn’t heard from her. That wasn’t like Sam. She’d been texting me every five minutes with some crisis or another for weeks.” A weak laugh escapes her. “I thought maybe she hated her makeup and was trying to fix it or something. So I went to check on her.”
“Can you describe what you found?” Hanks asks quietly.
Her face crumples. “Sam was on the bed. Just… lying there. And her face was all…” She gestures vaguely at her own. “There was bruising on her neck. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t want to believe it. I shook her, but she wasn’t moving, and I started screaming and—”
She breaks off, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding herself together.
I lean forward. “You’re doing great, Kim. I know this is incredibly hard.”
She blows her nose into some tissues, then takes another drink.
Hanks gives her a moment before asking, “Did you touch anything else in the room? Move anything?”
“No.” Kim’s voice drops to a whisper. “I shouldn’t have touched her, should I?”
“You did what anyone would do.” I give her a steadying look. “You were trying to help your friend.”
She doesn’t look comforted, just wrings her hands and presses her lips tight.
Hanks shifts forward. “Any idea who might have done this? Sam have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?”
“No.” Kim shakes her head hard enough that a strand of dark hair falls loose. “Everyone loves Sam. Genuinely. She is… was funny and sweet and bubbly. The kind of person who always makes a big deal about your birthday and asks about your mom’s hip surgery.” Fresh tears spill down her cheeks. “And she and Benji were so in love…”
Something clouds her expression. Her mouth opens, then closes. She frowns down at her nearly empty glass like she’s just remembered something unpleasant.
Hanks and I both notice the shift. I tip my head. “Kim? What is it?”
Her jaw tightens. She glances toward the French doors, checking that no one’s lingering in the foyer beyond the beveled glass.
“Well,” she says slowly, “maybe not everyone loved her.”
Hanks’s pen hovers over his notepad.
Kim looks uneasy. “I don’t want to accuse anyone of anything.”
“Every detail helps,” I encourage her. “Even if it seems small.”
She sighs, seeming to deflate. “Maryanne Grant is a bitch.” Her tone is matter-of-fact.
“The groom’s mother?” I clarify, brows lifted.
She nods. “There was tension between her and Sam. But—” She catches herself, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine she’d actually do something like this.”
Hanks and I exchange a quick glance. When you work in law enforcement, you see a lot of people do things that the people who knew them would have sworn they’d never do.
Hanks narrows his eyes. “What tension?”
Kim sets down her glass and hugs herself, fingers digging into her bare arms. “I know I’m biased, okay? Sam was my best friend. But Maryanne was just… ugh.” Her nose wrinkles with distaste. “Judgmental. Always making snippy little comments about Sam’s choices—the flowers, the menu, the dress. Causing drama over nothing. Constantly trying to make herself the center of attention.”
“Anything threatening?” I ask.
“No. She’s exhausting.” Kim waves a hand. “But I honestly don’t think she hated Sam enough to do that to her.”
Hanks taps his pen against his notepad. “Can you give us some specifics?”
Kim’s eyes dart to the doors again. “Okay, but I’m not saying she’s a murderer.” She holds up a finger. “I just want that on the record.”
“Noted,” he says.
Kim takes a shuddering breath. “Well, to start with, guess who also wanted to wear white to the wedding?”
I gasp. “You’re kidding.”
“What?” Hanks looks between us, clearly missing the significance.
“Wearing white to someone else’s wedding is a huge faux pas,” I explain. “You’re supposed to let the bride be the only one in white.”
“Everyone knows. Everyone. But Maryanne bought this dress and swore up and down it was ‘cream.’” Kim makes air quotes with her fingers. “It was white. Lace. With a train.”
She laughs, but there’s no mirth in it. “Sam forced Benji to talk her out of it, and even then Maryanne pouted about it for weeks.”
Hanks is scribbling notes. “What else?”
“How much time do you have?” Kim’s tone has taken on a bitter edge, the words coming faster now. “She wanted to walk Benji down the aisle and give him away since she raised him as a single mom.”
I shrug. It’s not traditional, but it’s not unheard of.
“While Sam waited for him at the altar,” she continues.
I stop. “Wait, what?”
Kim’s dimpled chin juts forward. “Maryanne wanted to walk her precious baby boy down the aisle to the woman waiting to marry him. Like he was the bride.”
Even Hanks looks thrown. “Why?”
“Because he was just so special”—Kim’s tone goes high and saccharine—“and she raised him all by herself, and she just wanted one little moment to celebrate everything she’d sacrificed.” She drops the voice. “Oh, and she wanted to sing while she did it.”
Hanks curls his lip.
“‘Every Breath You Take’ by the Police.”
There’s a beat of silence. Hanks and I just stare at her in disbelief.
“The song about a stalker?” I ask, unable to keep the disgust out of my tone.
Kim almost smiles through her tears. “Sam and I had some good laughs over that one.”
I try to imagine it. An older woman in a white dress with a train, walking her adult son down the aisle while crooning, “I’ll be watching you,” to him. Or was it going to be directed at the bride as a threat? I can’t decide whether it’s more laughable or unsettling.
“What did Samantha and Benji have to say about that?” I ask.
Kim’s brief flash of dark humor fades. She tosses back the last of her drink. “Benji loves Sam. Loved her.” The correction seems to pain her. “But he’s a total pushover when it comes to his mom. He wanted to let Maryanne have her ‘special moment.’” More air quotes. “They came up with a compromise to let her sing at the reception.”
I dip my chin. “And Samantha was okay with that?”
“Sam was frustrated.” Kim pulls her knees up onto the settee, curling into herself. “I tried to tell her the real issue was Benji not having boundaries with his mother. But Sam just thought he had a soft heart. She got over it.” She pauses. “She always got over it.”
Was Sam a woman who kept smoothing things down and making peace? Did tensions boil over and lead to her death somehow?
“Is there more?” Hanks asks.
Kim scoffs. “God, yes. It was like that with everything. Maryanne wanted to invite thirty-five of her closest personal friends—including her hairdresser, and the guy who mows her lawn, her dental hygienist. She stuck her nose into every decision: the cake, the seating chart, the honeymoon plans. Sam has been so stressed over planning this wedding.”
I lean back, the carved wood of the chair digging into my spine.
“It was a nightmare,” Kim groans. “But Sam handled it with grace. She’d call me to vent, we’d laugh about whatever ridiculous thing Maryanne had done, and she’d move on.” Her eyes well up again. “I offered to take care of Maryanne a few times. She always said she’d let me know if it came to that.”
The joke falls flat considering the circumstances. Kim seems to realize it, her face falling.
Hanks makes a note. “Anything else we should know about Maryanne?”
Kim hesitates. She picks at a loose thread on her dress, not meeting our eyes. “There’s one more thing. It’s stupid, probably.”
“Tell us anyway.”
“Benji was engaged before. I don’t know much about it—neither did Sam, really. It didn’t work out, obviously. Sam thought they were just young and not compatible. It was like ten years ago or something.” She shrugs. “Long enough ago to get over it, right? But Maryanne was always comparing Sam to this other girl. Trish. ‘Trish would never have chosen those centerpieces. Trish had such classic taste. Trish would have let me wear whatever I wanted.’” Kim rolls her eyes. “I used to tell Sam, if Maryanne loves Trish so much, why doesn’t she marry her?”
I file the name away. Something to look into.
“But none of this,” Hanks says slowly, “was enough to make you think Maryanne might actually hurt Samantha?”
Kim stares at the cold fireplace, at the dark mouth of the hearth.
“No,” she finally says. “I mean… no. Right?” She looks at us, and there’s something almost pleading in her expression. Like she wants us to reassure her. “That would be crazy. You don’t kill someone over wedding drama.”
I tend to agree with her, but at this point, we can’t rule anything out. Besides, there may have been more to the animosity than what Kim knew.
“I don’t know who did this,” she whispers. “I just know Sam didn’t deserve it. Today was supposed to be perfect. She was supposed to get her happy ending.”
She presses her hand to her mouth, choking back a sob.
I want to comfort her, but there’s nothing I can say that will make this better. Her best friend is dead. No words can fix that.
Hanks and I exchange a wordless look, and I know we’re both on the same page. It’s time to speak with Benji Grant and his mother, Maryanne.
CHAPTER 4
The roar of a jet taking off rattles the windows of the FBI Portland Field Office, but Avery Carver doesn’t even look up. After five years in this building, she’s learned to tune out the constant thunder of PDX. Planes landing, planes departing, the steady pulse of travelers coming and going while she sits here, surrounded by case files and cold coffee, trying to put monsters behind bars.
She stands, rolling the tension from her shoulders. Her cubicle is neat, organized—everything in its place. A habit she developed in the ER. The skills transferred surprisingly well to federal law enforcement. Different kind of trauma, same need for precision.
Through the window, she can just see the Columbia River glinting in the afternoon sun, the border between Oregon and Washington cutting through the water like an invisible line. Avery gathers the folder from her desk—thick with witness statements, surveillance reports, and enough documented abuse to make her stomach turn—and heads for the elevator.
The bullpen is busy for a Saturday, agents putting in overtime hunched over computers or murmuring into phones. A few acknowledge her as she passes. She nods back but doesn’t stop to chat.
She’s never been good at the social parts of this job. The water cooler conversations, the happy hours, the casual intimacy of coworkers who share too much about their weekends and their marriages and their kids’ soccer games. She keeps her distance. Has to. Her secrets could cost her more than just her career.
The only exception is Laurel, who practically adopted her whether she liked it or not. Still, as much as Avery wants to open up about what really happened to her now-deceased husband on their honeymoon, she simply can’t. It’s been on the tip of her tongue while they shared wine in Laurel’s living room and her husband put the kids to sleep. But she just can’t bring herself to tell the awful truth. Can’t risk losing not only an ally, but a friend.
The elevator deposits her on the top floor, where the carpet is thicker and the offices have actual doors. ASAC Laurel Lewis’s corner office has a view of the river and a brass nameplate that Avery has always thought doesn’t do the woman justice. Laurel is the reason Avery survived her first year here.
She knocks twice.
“Come in.”
Laurel sits behind her desk, glasses perched on her nose, reading something on her computer screen with the kind of focused intensity that means someone, somewhere, is about to have a very bad day. Her natural hair is braided back over each ear and gathered in a low bun. Big gold floral studs catch the light when she turns her head. The dark teal of her suit makes her warm brown skin glow.
She looks up when Avery enters, and her expression shifts from concentration to something warmer. “Avery. Sit down.” Her gaze drifts back to her computer screen as she taps a few last words out, then turns fully to face her. She raises a brow. “You look like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin.”
“Too much coffee,” Avery jokes as she takes the chair across from Laurel’s desk but doesn’t relax into it. She sets the folder on the polished wood between them. In reality, she’s too keyed up. “I need to talk to you about the Zion House case.”
Laurel pulls off her glasses. “The cult. Where are we?”
“The warrant application is with the US Attorney’s office. I’ve been in contact with their team—they’re confident it’ll go through. Could be any day now.” She’s stretching the truth a bit but was given hints that the reception would be favorable. Avery leans forward, palms flat on her thighs. “When it does, I want to be ready to move. Immediately.”
Laurel leans back, the stem of her glasses between her teeth. “Walk me through what ‘ready to move’ looks like.”
Avery has rehearsed this pitch a dozen times in her head. She launches into it now, ticking off points on her fingers. “Multistate operation. The main compound is in southern Utah, right near the Arizona border, but we’ve identified satellite locations in northern Utah, Nevada, and Colorado. My team has documented vans transporting women and girls between sites—clear evidence of trafficking across state lines.”
Laurel’s expression reveals nothing. “I’ve seen the reports.”
“Then you know this isn’t a small operation. Jebediah Walker and the other church elders have been running this thing for decades. Polygamy, child marriage, systematic abuse. We’ve got testimony from over a dozen survivors.”
Laurel nods slowly, but her expression hasn’t changed. “I’m not disputing the merit of the case, Avery. You know that.”
Avery flashes her eyes. “Then what’s the holdup?”
“Resources.” Laurel spreads her hands and sets the glasses aside. “Budget. The reality of coordinating with multiple agencies when everyone’s watching their spending.”
Avery’s jaw tightens. She figured this was coming. “So we let them keep abusing people because it’s expensive to stop them?”
“That’s not what I said.” Laurel gives her a gently reproachful look. A reminder that she’s still the boss, friend or not. “I’m telling you the landscape. These religious groups—”
“Cults.”
Laurel pauses, inclines her head in acknowledgment. “They often fight to self-govern, police themselves. And we’re in the United States of America.” She sighs, leaning back in her chair. “Religious freedom, baby. It’s touchy.”
“Seems pretty clear-cut to me.” Avery can hear the edge in her own voice and doesn’t bother to soften it. “We’re not talking about unconventional worship practices. We’re talking about child brides.”
The words hang in the air between them. She thinks about Eden Mercer—the cop in Nightfall desperate to save her family from the life she risked everything to escape. She’d only been fourteen. Avery’s stomach twists in revulsion. Older, actually, than some of the girls whose movement she’s been tracking recently, girls destined to be married off to old bastards.
Avery only made it to the honeymoon before she saw her husband for what he really was. She’d been a grown woman with a support network and a career, and she still almost didn’t make it out. She can’t imagine being a child, trapped in a world where the abuse is sanctified, where everyone around you insists it’s “God’s will.”
It makes her sick. And fiercely determined to burn the whole thing down.
Laurel is studying her with those intelligent dark eyes. “You seem personally invested in this one.”
Avery forces herself to take a breath. “You know I’ve been in touch with one of the survivors, Eden Mercer, who’s now in law enforcement. Her nineteen-year-old brother was taken back to their stronghold six weeks ago. She’s been waiting for us to move while God knows what’s being done to him. I can’t help but feel for her.”
