The Lost Sister (Blake Wilder FBI Mystery Thriller Book 7) Read online

  Copyright © 2021 by Elle Gray

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Note From Elle Gray

  Also by Elle Gray

  Prologue

  Central Hearing Facility, Hart Senate Office Building; Washington D.C.

  “In the two-plus hours I’ve been before this committee, I’m still not clear about what it is you want from me,” I say. “Why am I even here, Senators?”

  “We are reviewing your conduct, Agent Wilder. And the conduct of your entire CDAU team,” Senator Daniel Graham of Washington, Chair of the Senate Oversight Committee, cuts off his mic and leans back in his seat, a smug look on his face. “It is our duty to closely examine the parties involved in the massacre at Haven.”

  “As I’ve told you before, neither myself nor my team had anything to do with the situation you’re inquiring about,” I repeat with real heat in my voice. “Nothing at all.”

  “So, your testimony that you did not provide the intelligence to a combined ATF/FBI task force that led to a raid on the compound known as Haven?” he asks with a sneer in his voice. “A raid I remind you, that resulted in the deaths of twenty-seven alleged cult members as well as two federal agents?”

  It’s a question they’ve asked and I’ve answered half a dozen different ways already. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s answering the same questions over and over. Fighting off the irritation bubbling up inside of me, I lean forward and reach for the button to open the mic on the table before me. My lawyer, Betsy Dibble, puts her hand on my arm and leans over to whisper some advice, but I wave her off.

  “That was not my testimony as you well know, Senator Graham,” I reply sharply. “Unless you are having difficulty reading my report. In which case, I can explain it to you if you prefer—and don’t worry, I’ll be sure to use small words.”

  A smattering of chuckles breaks out around the hearing room—even among his fellow committee members—and Graham’s face darkens as he stares at me. Betsy pushes the button to close my mic and leans over to me, her expression stern, her eyes hard.

  “You’re making it very difficult for me to do my job,” she hisses. “You really don’t want to be insulting the committee members—”

  “He is deliberately misrepresenting my account for the benefit of the press,” I snap. “He’s grandstanding. They’re looking for a scapegoat for their absolute clusterfu—”

  “That’s what they do, Blake. But getting yourself censured or even worse, fired, because you can’t keep your cool, isn’t going to help anybody. Remember what Rosie told you,” she says, giving me a pointed look.

  I sit back in my chair but manage to maintain my composure. The Senate’s Central Hearing Room was built with one purpose in mind: intimidation. The desks of the committee members sit on a raised dais in a semi-circle in front of the small table my lawyer and I are seated at. They are all looking down on us, an obvious attempt to convey their power. The carpet is a deep blue, and the walls are made of highly polished light wood with windows set high in them.

  The rear wall of the chamber is made of granite and the seal of the US Senate is embossed upon it, highlighted by spotlights, another reminder of the gravitas of the chamber we’re sitting in. Behind me are half a dozen rows of chairs for spectators and behind them are half a dozen long tables used by the media. And on the floor in front of me, situated between our table and the committee members’ desks, are reporters and cameramen. The click and whirr of their cameras is as distracting as it is annoying.

  I’d be lying if I said I’m not a bundle of nerves right now. I’ve never been comfortable in front of the cameras. This entire dog and pony show is being photographed for posterity as well as being shown live around the nation—a fact that enrages me since this was originally supposed to be a confidential hearing. But good ol’ Senator Graham is not one to miss out on an opportunity to get his face in front of the cameras. He’s like a Kardashian that way.

  When Rosie first informed me that I was being dragged before a Senate Oversight Committee to testify about the incident out at Haven, she warned me they were collecting scalps. So far, the FBI SWAT commander and one of the chief deputies of the ATF who oversaw the joint task force have been relieved of their commands and are likely going to be fired. There is blood in the water, and they’re looking to add mine to the pool.

  She recommended Betsy to me, and I liked her from the start. Betsy is smart, fierce, and has been operating in DC circles for a long time. She knows the players and knows how to navigate the political waters well. She’s been representing law enforcement officers for years and has developed a healthy dislike of Congresspeople who try to throw them under the bus for their own political gain. Like Rosie, she’s a no-nonsense sort of woman who cuts through the crap. Plus, she’s not afraid to let me get my verbal jabs in, only stepping in when she thinks I’m about to cross the line.

  “So, what is your testimony then, SSA Wilder?” Graham intones, trying to reassert his control over the hearing.

  “The intel I provided was in connection to another totally unrelated case. I was investigating a murder and a string of disappearances,” I say evenly. “As it turned out, there was nothing illegal happening at the compound. Everybody was there voluntarily. Those responsible for the murder of Stacy Burkett were apprehended and that was that. Or, it should have been.”

  “And yet, it wasn’t,” Senator Graham presses.

  “No, apparently not,” I reply. “The intelligence my team developed over the course of our investigation was then used by—a third party—to initiate the raid that left, as you noted earlier, twenty-seven residents of Haven and two federal officers dead.”

  “And you had no knowledge that this raid was being planned?” asks Senator Marie Addair from Massachusetts, in her thick Boston accent.

  “No ma’am, I did not,” I answer.

  “Are you sure about that, Agent Wilder?” Graham asks.

  “I’m positive,” I reply.

  Betsy already told me to avoid bringing Representative Hedlund’s name into this proceeding. She said it would only touch off a war we don’t want to fight right now. I’m aware that Hedlund threw me under the bus and tried to downplay her own involvement in the incident. If she could have, Hedlund would have denied her involvement at all. She was the one who used her connections to initiate the raid. If not for her, there wouldn’t have been a raid at all—an
d all those people would still be alive.

  But out of some petty vindictiveness toward her daughter, who preferred living on the compound out there than being a prop in her mother’s endless political campaigns, Hedlund set the wheels for that tragedy in motion. I tried to stop her. Tried to get her to call it off. But she wasn’t having it, and when it went wrong, she immediately found a scapegoat. Me.

  “If not you, then who planned this raid, Agent Wilder?” Graham asks.

  I sigh and glance at Betsy who shakes her head at me subtly. I grit my teeth and growl under my breath. This is getting tiresome. And I hate the idea that I’m providing cover of any kind for Hedlund. It doesn’t sit right with me, and honestly, I don’t know why they’d want me to keep Hedlund’s name out of my testimony. All Betsy would say is that we don’t want to take her on right now and that we’ll burn her down later.

  But I’m not a very patient woman. When somebody punches me, I punch them back. That’s just the way the world works as far as I’m concerned. An eye for an eye and the truth will out are a couple of the mottos I live by. And I don’t see why Hedlund deserves cover of any kind whatsoever. As far as I’m concerned, we should just let the chips fall where they may. I certainly have nothing to hide.

  “Agent Wilder?” Graham presses. “I asked you a question.”

  “You can speak to Representative Kathryn Hedlund about that,” I tell him. “It was my understanding that she used her connections to get the task force put together and obtained operational approval for the raid.”

  A smattering of surprised murmurs flutters around the room. The clicking of the cameras grows louder as the photographers and journalists snap up the tasty morsel I just dropped. Most of these hearings are scripted and uneventful. Surprises rarely come out of them. So, when something noteworthy is said, it usually creates a buzz for at least one or two news cycles. Glad I could help sell some papers.

  Beside me, I can feel Betsy tense up and I don’t have to look at her to know she’s got a frown on her face. But like the true professional she is, Betsy acts outwardly like she knew I was going to say what I did. Graham clears his throat and looks at me curiously.

  “Let me get this straight,” he frowns. “You’re accusing Representative Hedlund of organizing this botched raid?”

  “I’m not accusing her of anything, Senator. I merely said you might want to speak with her,” I correct him. “I’ll leave the witch-hunting to the professionals.”

  There’s more murmured laughter around the chamber and Graham’s face grows dark. He stares at me as if he hates me—which is pretty much the same way Congresswoman Hedlund looked at me. And I’m sure dragging her name into this hearing isn’t going to endear me to her anymore. Not that I really care about her or how she feels about me. In my mind, Hedlund is complicit in twenty-nine deaths and should be charged with them.

  But I know it’s a pipe dream. Which is why I am so willing to drag her name through the mud here and now. If nothing else, I want people to see her for what she is. I want people to see her for the bloodthirsty, petty tyrant she truly is. I want them to see her not as the champion of traditional family values she pretends to be. But as the conniving and callous piece of garbage who would murder her own daughter rather than let the girl live her own life on her own terms instead of as a useful tool for her mother’s ambitions.

  “Do you regret your role in the events at Haven, Agent Wilder?” Graham sneers.

  “I’m sorry for everybody who lost their lives, Senator. And if I had a role, I would certainly regret it,” I say. “But I had no role in the planning or execution of the raid. If you’re looking for somebody to apologize for it, you should start with Representative Hedlund.”

  “These are very serious allegations you’re making, Agent Wilder,” Senator Ray Dockweiler of West Virginia intones solemnly. “Do you have any evidence to back up those claims, young lady?”

  I glance at Betsy who gives me a reluctant nod. “You can look at the video footage from inside the situation room on the day in question, Senators,” I say. “That should show you very clearly and very definitively who was calling the shots and directing the raid.”

  Graham shares a look with some of his colleagues and I can see he’s surprised by my statement. He gives the chamber a moment to quiet down before he bangs his gavel on the desk.

  “Settle down, everybody,” Graham calls.

  The chamber slowly grows quiet, and he turns his eyes back to me. “There is footage of the situation room on the day in question?” he asks incredulously. “Then why has the Bureau not offered up this alleged surveillance video to this committee?”

  “That’s above my pay grade. You’re going to need to request it through the proper channels,” I tell him.

  Graham exchanges glances with some of his colleagues again. It’s clearly not the answer he was expecting. He raps his gavel on the desk again, calling the chamber to order, then turns his gaze to me.

  “I’ll do that, Agent Wilder. I’ll be sure to do that,” he says. “I’m looking forward to seeing what’s on this alleged surveillance video.”

  One

  Cockeysville, MD; seventeen years ago

  The day was bright and warm and as I bounded down the sidewalk with a smile on my face, heading for home, I was feeling good. Happy. And why not? I’d just aced a couple of exams, had a good day at school, and my folks would be taking me to dinner at Francelli’s—my favorite restaurant. All in all, I thought it was turning out to be a really great day.

  “How are you doin’, Blake?”

  “I’m good, Mrs. Castaneda! Your flowers are gorgeous!”

  Mrs. Castaneda had lived in the house next door longer than I’d been alive. She was always kind and had a nice word and a smile for everybody. She also used to bring fresh baked cookies around. My folks said that with her kids having already moved out and her husband passing on a couple of years before, she was lonely. But she never seemed that way to me. She always seemed pleasant and caring.

  “Thank you, dear,” she called back to me.

  I waved to her as I turned onto the walk that led up to the front door. I bounced up the steps, singing to myself. I opened the door and before I even set foot inside, I knew something was wrong. Call it a sixth sense or whatever, but I knew something wasn’t right.

  “Mom? Dad?” I called out.

  I stood at the threshold, half-in and half-out, not sure if I should go inside or turn and run. My heart raced, my stomach churned, and I was caught somewhere between fight and flight.

  “Mom!” I yelled louder. “Dad!”

  There was nothing but silence beyond the front door. I noticed that all the drapes had been drawn, the blinds all closed. The interior of the house was dim and there was a strange odor in the air. With my heart hammering inside of me, I stepped into the house. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I didn’t get the feeling somebody was lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce on me. The house felt—empty. But not in the way it felt when my parents went out or anything like that. There was an eerie oppressiveness to the empty feeling inside the house.

  Swallowing hard, I stepped lightly into the foyer and looked around, peering into the pockets of gloom. Even though I was shaking like a leaf, I walked deeper into the house, ready to turn and run at the first hint of danger. My throat was dry. I licked my lips nervously as I took a few more steps—and when I saw what was on the other side of the staircase, I fell to my knees, a scream bursting from my throat.

  The tears rolled down my face, and although my mind was screaming at me to get up and run, I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed by what I saw before me. I shook my head, trying to deny what I was seeing.

  “Mom,” I croaked, my voice choked with emotion. “Dad.”

  My parents were stretched out on their bellies on the tile in front of me, their hands behind their backs, two bullet holes in the backs of each of their heads. My mother’s head was turned to the side. Her strawberry blonde hair streaked with blood
, covering the lower part of her face. All I could see was her eye, wide open, the usually vibrant and sparkling green now dull and faded. Lifeless.

  “Oh, god,” I whispered, my entire body trembling. I felt an urge to vomit and I didn’t have the strength to fight it. I only barely turned away in time to avoid throwing up on their bodies. It wracked my stomach and my throat, mixing with the tears falling down my cheeks. I collapsed to my knees, still not believing this was real.

  This couldn’t be real. This was a horrible dream.

  But the longer I sat there, the more I knew it had to be real.

  As I stared at the unmoving forms of my parents, a thought occurred to me—Kit. Where was my little sister? I knew she’d stayed home from school that day, but she wasn’t there on the floor with them. I jumped to my feet and dashed upstairs, heedless of the possibility that somebody was still there waiting for me.

  “Kit!” I called out as I burst into her room.

  Her bed was unmade, her pillows and comforter strewn across the floor. Some of the figurines she collected had been swept off her dresser. They lay on the hard wood flooring, some of them smashed to pieces. Her nightstand had been turned over and everything was in disarray. Kit wasn’t there. Heedless of my own safety, I ran through the rest of the house, checking every single room.

  Powerful waves of panic washed over me as I looked in all her usual hiding spots. I even looked in the attic, even though she’d always been too afraid to go up there. But she was nowhere to be found. She was gone. My little sister was gone. Whoever killed my parents took Kit.