Once Forsaken

“Oh, really, it’s all right. No trouble at all. I can wait right here.”

The guard stepped away and spoke into his microphone again. After glaring at Riley silently for a moment, he went into his shack and opened the gate. Riley drove on through.

She drove through a broad, snow-patched pasture, where a couple of horses trotted freely about. It was a peaceful scene.

When she reached the house, it was even larger than she had expected—a contemporary mansion. She glimpsed other well-kept buildings just beyond a slight rise in the rolling landscape.

An Asian man wordlessly met her at the door. He was about as large as a sumo wrestler, which made his formal, butler-like suit seem grotesquely inappropriate. He led Riley through a vaulted corridor with a floor of expensive-looking reddish-brown wood.

Finally she was greeted by a small, grim-looking woman who wordlessly led her into an almost eerily neat office.

“Wait here,” the woman said.

She left, shutting the door behind her.

Riley sat in a chair near the desk. Minutes passed. She felt tempted to take a look at materials on the desk or even on the computer. But she knew that her every move was surely being recorded by security cameras.

Finally, Representative Hazel Webber swept into the room.

She was a tall woman—thin but imposing. She didn’t look old enough to have been in Congress for as long as Riley supposed—nor did she look old enough to have a college-aged daughter. A certain stiffness around her eyes might be habitual or Botox-induced or both.

Riley remembered seeing her on television. Normally when she met someone she’d seen on TV, she was struck by how different they looked in real life. Weirdly, Hazel Webber looked exactly the same. It was as if she were truly two-dimensional—an almost unnaturally shallow human being in every possible way.

Her outfit also puzzled Riley. Why was she wearing a jacket over her lightweight sweater? The house was certainly warm enough.

Part of her style, I guess, Riley figured.

The jacket gave her a more formal, businesslike look than just slacks and a sweater. Perhaps it also represented a kind of armor, a protection against any genuine human contact.

Riley stood up to introduce herself, but Webber spoke first.

“Agent Riley Paige, BAU,” she said. “I know.”

Without another word, she sat down at her desk.

“What are you here to tell me?” Webber said.

Riley felt a jolt of alarm. Of course, she had nothing to tell her. Her whole visit was a bluff, and Webber suddenly struck her as the kind of woman who wasn’t easily bluffed. Riley was in over her head and had to tread water as hard as she could.

“I’m actually here to ask you for information,” Riley said. “Is your husband at home?”

“Yes,” the woman said.

“Would it be possible for me to talk with both of you?”

“He knows that you’re here.”

Her non-answer disarmed Riley, but she took care not to show it. The woman fastened her cold, blue eyes on Riley’s. Riley didn’t flinch. She just returned her stare, bracing herself for a subtle battle of wills.

Riley said, “The Behavioral Analysis Unit is investigating an unusual number of apparent suicides at Byars College.”

“Apparent suicides?” Webber said, arching a single eyebrow. “I’d hardly describe Deanna’s suicide as ‘apparent.’ It seemed plenty real to my husband and me.”

Riley could swear that the temperature in the room had dropped a few degrees. Webber betrayed not the slightest hint of emotion at her mention of her own daughter’s suicide.

She’s got ice water in her veins, Riley thought.

“I’d like you to tell me what happened,” Riley said.

“Why? I’m sure you’ve read the report.”

Of course, Riley had done nothing of the kind. But she had to keep bluffing her way along.

“It would help if I could hear it in your own words,” she said.

Webber was silent for a moment. Her stare was unwavering. But so was Riley’s.

“Deanna was injured in a riding accident last summer,” Webber said. “Her hip was badly fractured. It seemed likely that it would have to be replaced altogether. Her days of riding in competitions were over. She was heartbroken.”

Webber paused for a moment.

“She was taking oxycodone for the pain. She overdosed—deliberately. It was intentional, and that’s all there is to it.”

Riley sensed that she was leaving something unsaid.

“Where did it happen?” she asked.

“In her bedroom,” Webber said. “She was snug in her bed. The medical examiner said she died of respiratory arrest. She looked like she was asleep when the maid found her.”

And then—Webber blinked.

She literally blinked.

She had faltered in their battle of wills.

She’s lying! Riley realized.

Riley’s pulse quickened.

Now she had to really apply the pressure, probe with exactly the right questions.

But before Riley could even think of what to ask, the office door opened. The woman who had brought Riley here came in.

“Congresswoman, I need a word with you, please,” she said.

Webber looked relieved as she got up from her desk and followed her assistant out the door.

Riley took some long, slow breaths.