Watch Her Vanish: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller (Rockwell and Decker Book 1)

by Ellery A Kane

  A knock at the door startled her, and she snapped back in her seat like she’d been burned. She closed the browser with a hurried click and motioned Shauna inside.

  “I need to talk to you about something,” Shauna said, her eyes already welling with tears. “I messed up.”

  “Is this about Hank? About last night?”

  “No. It’s June. I got in trouble today, and I thought maybe you could talk to her about it. She told me I might be fired.”

  Olivia slid a half-empty box of tissues across the desk. When she’d first accepted the job as chief, she’d been surprised how quickly they disappeared. In a place where tears meant weakness and weakness meant danger, men still cried in her office almost every day. Sometimes against their will. Fighting it and losing, they’d try anyway.

  Shauna bit her trembling lip and dabbed at her eyes. “For overfamiliarity.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “I posted a picture online a couple of weeks ago.”

  “What sort of picture?”

  “Me and this guy.”

  “What guy?” Olivia wondered how this girl could lead a group of twenty-five inmates toward Accountability and Action—the Changes motto—when getting her to talk felt a lot like Em’s work pulling teeth. No wonder June, her supervisor for the Changes group, had laid into her.

  “An inmate.” Shauna sniffled, looked down. “Drake Devere.”

  Stunned, Olivia let the silence do its work.

  “He told me Heather Hoffman planned to interview him for the Gazette and asked if we could take a photo together underneath the Changes banner. To show her how hard he’d been working on himself in the group. He wanted me to post it online and tag a bunch of book bloggers and talk show hosts. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  “How did you take the photo?” Olivia asked. Funny how fast the churning in her stomach returned. As dependable as the tides.

  “With a phone.”

  “A cell phone?”

  Shauna nodded, as her voice squeaked, “His.”

  “So Drake had a cell phone? You know that’s illegal, right?” Another hysterical nod. “Do you know how he got it?”

  “Of course not! June asked me the same thing. Like I’d smuggled it in here. I didn’t really think much of it at the time. I figured maybe he’d gotten permission. As part of his writing and all. You must think I’m stupid, too. That’s what June thinks. Stupid little girl fresh out of college.”

  “You’re not stupid. Just naive. Remember, Drake is a seasoned criminal. He’s sophisticated. He knows what he’s doing. When I first started here, I made mistakes too. Still do.”

  “You do?” Shauna brightened. “Like what?”

  “Like getting a face full of pepper spray this morning, for one thing. Believing things I shouldn’t have. Some of these guys could sell ice to an Eskimo. Now, I trust but verify.”

  Shauna laughed. A delicate titter, more breath than sound. Breakable. “Drake did tell me one thing, though, that I didn’t tell June. I feel bad getting him in trouble.”

  “Don’t. The safety of the staff—your safety—is the most important thing. If Drake poses a threat to you or anyone—”

  “No. It’s nothing like that. Just something he said.”

  Olivia nodded, encouraging. Though really, she’d rather not know. Her brain had filled to the brim with Drake and Deck and two dead women.

  “When he pulled out the phone after group, I freaked. I told him to put it away before June saw. Or worse. Warden Blevins had stopped by that day to talk to June about expanding the program, and they’d gone into the office to chat. But Drake acted like it was no big deal. I said, ‘Aren’t you afraid of getting in trouble? What if the warden catches you?’ and he laughed and said, ‘I’ll ask him to join in the shot. A selfie with the warden. That’d be a real hoot.’”

  “Did the warden see him with the phone?”

  Shauna’s pieces held together, stronger now. She stopped crying. “I don’t think so. We snapped the pic, he emailed it to me, and then he stuck it back in his boot. The whole thing took about twenty seconds.”

  “How did June find out about the photo?”

  “I have no idea. But during the facilitator training, she warned us she could sweep our social media at any time. Just to make sure we’re maintaining confidentiality and all. She said not to come back to group until further notice.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to June. Maybe she’ll reconsider.”

  Olivia patted Shauna on the shoulder as she left—poor girl—knowing too well some mistakes didn’t come out in the wash. Further notice meant never.

  Though the door to June’s office stood open, Olivia knocked anyway. Best not to poke the bear. And June had the reputation of an old grizzly. As hardened as any lifer, she’d started at Crescent Bay the day it opened in 1989. The thirty-year service plaque hung on the wall to prove it.

  “Did that little smart-mouth send you over here?” June glowered at Olivia from behind her desk. But it didn’t last. She popped a handful of chocolate candies in her mouth, chewing them noisily, before she spoke again. “Do you know, she had the nerve to tell me I was overreacting? That I was jealous of her connection with the inmates? Her word. Not mine. I should’ve had that brat walked off grounds.”

  “May I come in?” Olivia asked, carefully. She dared not breach the threshold without permission. Deference. Deference and chocolate. The tricks to turning a grizzly bear to a teddy.

  “Kids these days. I warned her so many times. First, it was the flirty smiles she kept giving the guys during group. Then, she went out and bought Drake’s book. Asked him for an autograph. Validation, she called it. Hell, if that guy’s ego got any more validated they’d need to add on another wing. I even caught her telling some of the guys where she lived. And this photo. Good lord. That was the last straw.”

  Olivia nodded, setting one cautious foot through the doorway, then the other. June said nothing more. She reached into the jar on her desk—the one Olivia had gifted her for her birthday a few weeks ago—and tossed back another batch of chocolates.

  “How did you find out about the photo?” Olivia asked.

  June held up a finger as she chewed. When she spoke, her teeth were chocolate brown. “These truffles are delicious, Doctor Rockwell. You always manage to outdo yourself.”

  Olivia waved her off. “Chocolate is a form of therapy, right?”

  “The only kind I believe in. No offense.” Never mind that June had a graduate degree in social work. Or that she’d headed up the Changes group for the last ten years. “Now, what did you want to know?”

  “The photo? Did you discover it yourself?”

  “As if. You know I’m a dinosaur when it comes to all that social media nonsense.” She motioned Olivia inside, told her to close the door.

  “It was strange how it happened,” June said. “Two tips in the same day.”

  Olivia kept very still, knowing how easily bears spook.

  “This morning, bright and early, I get a call from Maryann Murdock down at the library. She said Shauna had taken out her phone at the Hickory Pit last night to show off some photos from the Thanksgiving staff party, and she’d happened to see it. You know, not ten minutes later, Hank Wickersham calls. Says he saw the photo posted online. He seemed pissed. Jealous, if you ask me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I called IGI, of course. Told ’em they better search Drake’s cell. I didn’t know for certain but I figured the phone might be his.”

  “Did they?”

  June plucked one more truffle from the jar and dropped it into the waiting cave of her mouth before she answered. “They told me the warden’s guys already took care of it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In the corner of the garage, the orange tabby sat licking his front paw like he owned the place. When he spotted Will, he didn’t make a break for it. He settled comfortably with all four legs tucked beneath him, staring at Will with one g
reen eye. A cyclops.

  “Don’t mind me,” Will said, wincing as he took a few strikes at the heavy bag. Each punch juddered his sore jaw, stung his swollen knuckles, until he finally dropped his hands to his sides, relenting. “Now what, Cy?”

  The cat blinked at him, meowed. “Cy. You like that? You’ve got a name now.”

  A long-ago memory of his mother greeting him and his brothers at the door on one of her good days, stirred Will’s gut. Between them, they’d carried a bag-of-bones stray dog they’d found in the park. The thin belly in Will’s arms. The front legs with Ben, and Petey bringing up the mangy rear, the dog’s tail whacking him in the face with sheer joy. Will had heard his mother tell their grumbling father, It’ll be good for them. Give them a little responsibility around here. To the boys, she’d whispered, Once you name him, he’s yours. Remember that.

  Will shook his head, wishing he could expel the sound of her voice. But his music couldn’t drown it, not even when he cranked the old stereo past the red line. After all these years, his mother’s leaving still burned inside him. A tiny flicker now, but no less hot, no less suffocating.

  The garage closed in around him. Even Cy seemed to sense it, pricking his ears as Will paced the cement floor. All wound up with nowhere to go.

  Will had to get out.

  He thrust open the garage door, just enough to slip beneath it, and started running. The past nipped at his heels like Max, the dog that, once named, had outlasted his mother and stuck around another seven years. Virginia Decker had been gone—in more ways than one—by that fall.

  Will headed for the trail behind the house. It wound through the redwoods and followed the Earl River to the sea. At least that’s what the real estate agent had told him, figuring him for a bona fide nature buff. Who else hunkered down in a cabin in the middle of nowhere? Henry David Thoreau, the Unabomber, and a disgraced detective ready to step off the face of the earth.

  Will set a fast pace he soon regretted. His lungs ached in the cold air, and his calves burned from sidestepping puddles as he navigated the muddy trail at twilight. He’d never been much for running. Running meant being chased. He’d had his fair share of that growing up in Bernal Heights, the middle-class neighborhood a stone’s throw from the Double Rock Projects. A cop’s kid, he’d had his share of fighting, too. But fighting—fifth-grade bully or garage heavy bag—felt purposeful. Not like an aimless quest to best your own time running in circles.

  Still, Will had to admit it felt good to exhaust himself. To breathe in the clean scent of the salt and the redwoods. To breathe out Drake and JB along with last night’s debacle at the Ricci house and the sting of pepper spray.

  His legs churned faster as he thought of Olivia, her skin soft and cool beneath his fingers. He listened to the sound of the river, made stronger with a week’s worth of rain. The water churned and roiled over the rocks, matching his mood. Maybe running wasn’t so bad after all, he thought. Until the first drop of rain landed on his forehead like a wet kiss from the universe.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rain had a way of lingering around Fog Harbor in December like an annoying party guest. Always popping up at the least convenient time. Like when Olivia realized she’d forgotten her umbrella under her desk.

  With no intention of going back inside, she stood at the prison entrance, drops battering the metal awning above her, and looked out at her car. Emily, already seated safely inside with the engine running. Dry and warm and waiting for her.

  Behind her, Olivia heard the warden’s voice, exchanging pleasantries with the guards. As silly as it sounded, she wondered if he’d purposefully timed his exit. If he’d followed her. She felt five years old again, imagining him as a monster in her bedroom. The sort that disappeared in the light and came alive in the dark, hunting for her feet if she didn’t keep them safely covered.

  Olivia had never minded the rain much, but now it seemed menacing. A thinly veiled cover for evil. She didn’t turn around. Instead, she made a break for the car, splashing through the parking lot, and diving inside.

  As she brushed the rain from her clothing, Olivia expected a wisecrack from Emily. The water pooled on her seat, dripped onto the console. But Em stayed quiet even as Olivia put the car in drive and pulled away, the warden small and harmless as a mouse in her rearview.

  When Olivia finally looked over at Emily, her sister’s face tightened with worry.

  “Did you hear about Shauna?” she asked. “That old biddy, June, fired her. Over a stupid picture.”

  Olivia nodded. “A picture with an inmate. A high-profile inmate at that. Taken on a cell phone he wasn’t supposed to have.”

  “It figures you would take June’s side.”

  “I’m not taking sides. I feel bad for Shauna, but she broke the rules, Em.”

  “Dad always said the worst crimes are committed by people who only know how to follow the rules. By blind obedience. The ones who break the rules are artists, like me.”

  Olivia groaned, feeling the kick of those words like a punch to the stomach. “Are we really having this argument now, too? Dad is a criminal. Of course he would say that. And since when are you writing him a support letter?”

  “Since he asked me to. I was going to tell you eventually. He’s really trying now. He debriefed from the gang.”

  “Yeah. Now that he’s up for parole. Convenient timing, if you ask me.”

  Emily sighed and rested her head against the rain-streaked window. She ran her finger on the foggy glass, spelling out her name. Finally, as they neared the turn for home, they both spoke at once.

  “I know you want to give him a chance—”

  “I want to give him a chance—”

  “But,” Olivia continued, “just be careful. You never lived with him. You don’t really know what he’s like.”

  “Because you never tell me. You don’t talk about him. Ever.”

  Olivia shrugged. She planned to keep it that way.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Idiot.”

  Directed at himself, Will repeated the insult out loud as he ran toward the faint glow of a light up ahead. It felt like a fight now, the rain a worthy opponent, wearing him down with its single-mindedness, its sheer tenacity. The rain reminded him of his father—relentless—which only made him run faster, until a bolt of lightning struck in the distance and he nearly slid off the trail in the mud.

  The last time they’d spoken, inside the courthouse, on the day Will testified, his father wouldn’t let up, cornering him in the bathroom and pelting him with the kind of words that leave marks on your soul. Traitor. Snitch. Backstabber. You’re not a Decker anymore.

  The memory lashed at him like the rain, zipped through him like the lightning, but he kept moving, leaving the trail and scrambling up the hill, toward the promise of shelter.

  As the light came closer into view, so did its source. A two-story house with a picket fence and a wraparound porch, a lantern-style lamp affixed to the wall near the back door. Will imagined the place belonged to a kindly old woman who would take him in and offer him a towel and a steaming cup of coffee.

  He sloshed through the backyard and onto the front porch, where he tripped over a pair of muddy running shoes. He tried to catch his fall with a quick grab onto the railing. Instead, he landed on his ass and came away with a fistful of holiday garland. Breathing raggedly, he hauled himself to his feet and stood under the cover of the roof. In the window, he barely recognized himself. His hair plastered to his forehead, his shirt soaked through and clinging to his chest.

  He rang the bell.

  As he waited, already shivering, another lightning flash illuminated the sky. This storm seemed different. Angrier. Vengeful. Will thought of the fritzing cameras at Crescent Bay. Of C Block and cell 22. He wondered if Drake had been returned there after the riot.

  He rang the bell again, more desperate this time, and cupped his hands around his eyes to peer inside the window to the pitch-black entryway.
<
br />   “Idiot,” he said again, preparing himself to leave the safety of the porch. To walk down to the main road. Maybe he could find a ride.

  But then, a name caught his eye. Etched on the mailbox hung near the doorway and written in fancy cursive: ROCKWELL. Will cursed under his breath, then again out loud, when a pair of headlights fixed him in place by the front door.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Emily grabbed for her and Olivia shrieked at the unexpected sight of a man on her porch, dripping wet and staring wide-eyed into the headlights like a wild animal. Slowly she took him in.

  Chestnut hair, dark eyes to match.

  White T-shirt, transparent with rain, clinging. Muscles beneath like whipcord. Taut and lean and exposed.

  Shorts, waterlogged. Shoes, caked with dirt.

  He raised a tentative hand and waved. Then, crossed his arms over his chest, quivering in the cold.

  “Deck?” Olivia whispered. “What the…”

  She cut the engine, leaving him in darkness, and sat there, bewildered, as the rain beat on.

  “That’s your detective? He looks…”

  Lost. Confused. Wet.

  “Sexy,” Em teased.

  Okay, that too.

  Olivia flung open the door and ran headlong into the downpour. Only ten or so steps to the porch but she made it in five, laughing as Emily struggled to open her umbrella.

  When she turned to Deck, he shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile. His lips glistened with rainwater. She wished JB had never mentioned them. Because she couldn’t get the thought out of her mind.

  “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing on your front porch.”