by Ragan, T. R.
“Police are still searching for twelve-year-old Riley Addison, who is considered at risk because of her young age. She was last seen on the steps outside a home in West Sacramento, where she took piano lessons. No suspects have been named. Her mother, Vicki Addison, is at Sutter General Hospital after a car accident prevented her from picking up her daughter from her music lesson on time. She is in fair condition and could be released tomorrow. In other news, bones found near the lake at William Land Regional Park have been identified, but the name will not be released to the public until relatives have been notified.”
Stunned by what the man said, Bubbles grabbed the remote and turned down the volume. Her head was spinning like the teacup ride at Disneyland—swinging to the left and then jolting to the right.
Bones were found?
How had she missed it? She read the news every day, took pride in being one of the few who still paid for the paper to be delivered to her doorstep.
Her heart thumped against her ribs.
She never thought they would find the girl. It was so long ago . . . How long . . . ? Four years? Five? How had they identified her?
No. No. No. This couldn’t be happening.
Had she wrapped the girl with a plastic tarp or a blanket? She prayed it wasn’t a blanket. What if they found a hair or something, and her DNA gave her away? She’d read about forensic genealogy. Her DNA wasn’t in the system, but if her DNA matched with some long-lost relative on one of those popular genealogy sites, she would be screwed.
She shook her head, her thoughts returning to little Cora, Molly’s first replacement. Such a sweet girl. Too bad Cora’d had no backbone. The girl wouldn’t stop crying for her mother.
Bubbles had done everything possible to make Cora happy. But she just couldn’t pull herself together. What a waste. If only the kid could have learned to shut her trap and turn off the waterworks. Luckily, it had all ended quickly. An accident, really. All it took was one little nudge, and the poor girl lost her balance and fell down the stairs.
A shock is what it was.
Seeing that beautiful child with her body twisted like a pretzel, her eyes wide open, staring right at her . . . That was an image she’d never forget.
She remembered scooping little Cora off the floor. For the next twenty-four hours, she’d held the small girl close to her chest and rocked her while she sang lullabies. But reality set in, along with a foul smell, forcing Bubbles to come up with a plan. She’d recently read about new trees being planted at Land Park. It was her favorite place to visit on a nice summer day. And most important, she knew Cora would love it there.
And so the next day she bought a shovel and a Japanese maple that was two feet tall, waited until well after midnight, and drove to the park. The dirt turned out to be soft, but digging a hole deep enough to fit Cora took longer than she’d thought it would. After the hole was ready to go, she’d rolled the suitcase from her car and said a prayer before plopping the little bundle right in.
It rained off and on for weeks after that, which worked in her favor since it made for few, if any, visitors. Every month for a year she visited the burial site. Once she felt confident the tree had taken root, the trips to the park stopped. All in all, the experience had been much too risky. If there was ever another accident, she’d decided she would have to find a better way to dispose of the body.
And that’s exactly what she’d done.
The bones could be a game changer. In a bad way. A very bad way. Reopening an old missing person’s case was never a good thing for someone like her. Investigators had identified Cora. What else did they know?
She thought of Paige Owens. The one who got away. Lucky little duck, she thought. After Paige ran off, Bubbles had been unable to let it go. She’d wanted the girl. She’d known she should lie low for a few months, but she hadn’t been able to stay away. She’d spent hours before and after work watching the girl. But Mrs. Owens was always hovering, never leaving her daughter’s side. Mrs. Owens was a weak, pathetic woman. Always glancing over her shoulder with short, jerky movements. Looking at her, you’d think she was the one who was nearly abducted instead of her daughter.
Bubbles began leaving the woman subtle messages. Instead of scribbling CLEAN ME on her dirty car, she’d written I SEE YOU and then DON’T SAY A WORD. And then she killed the stupid woman’s cat. Mrs. Owens fell apart. She stopped brushing her hair, and her clothes were always rumpled. Dark circles appeared under her eyes. She was a wreck, divorced within the year.
But Paige wasn’t like her mother. Paige was a force to be reckoned with. She was sixteen now. Bubbles hadn’t known the girl had her license until she did her weekly drive-by and saw Paige hop in her mother’s car and take off. Curious, Bubbles followed her all the way to Starbucks. She parked and watched Paige walk right into the coffee shop and take a seat across from a woman who looked familiar. A blink of an eye later, she recognized the woman as Sawyer Brooks. The youngest of three abused and neglected sisters. Both parents dead now.
Bubbles had followed the Sawyer Brooks story closely. The rookie investigative reporter had lucked out and not only solved the deaths of at least three girls in River Rock but also played an integral part in figuring out another murder right here in Sacramento. She was batting one hundred.
And that was a problem.
From everything she’d read about Sawyer Brooks, the young woman was slightly unstable and hanging on by a thread. Sometimes people needed a little push in the right direction to get them in line.
But, Bubbles quickly decided, first she needed to concentrate on what to do about the bones.
Ignoring the throbbing pain near her temple, she mulled it over. Something big and bold needed to occur. An event or a discovery that would redirect everyone’s focus to someone other than Cora.
But what? Or who?
It came to her in a flash, like a bolt of lightning shot down by Zeus in a moment of anger.
On her feet, her insides thrumming, she began to pace. Blood. She needed blood—Molly’s blood.
And she had everything she needed right here in her home.
It only took her a few minutes to gather a latex band to use as a tourniquet, a syringe, and a Band-Aid.
Standing quietly at the door to Molly’s bedroom upstairs, Bubbles could see her daughter’s chest rise and fall, her breathing shallow. A warm, velvety twinge swept through her, giving her a taste of the thing she craved most . . . love.
Molly just needed a little more time to adjust before Bubbles would be able to switch the metal cuff out for the collar. In the event Molly stepped out of bounds, the electrical signal ranged from a mild tickle to a painful shock. The modern collars were thinner and lighter, and the electrical shock was more of a stinging vibration. Once the collar was activated, Molly would be free to move about the house whenever Bubbles was home. If Molly tried to slip through a window or door, the shock treatment would keep her inside.
Molly was such a lovely girl. She looked ten and yet acted twenty. Stubborn at times, but also curious and highly intelligent. She had already zipped through her school assignments and had read Animal Farm and To Kill a Mockingbird, books meant for a more mature reader.
The floor creaked beneath her feet as she walked to Molly’s side and set the items in her hand on the bedside table.
Molly stirred, but her eyes remained closed.
Bubbles crouched down on all fours and slid one of the chains out from beneath the bed. The chain rattled as she stood, pulling the chain along with her so that she could clamp a cuff around Molly’s right wrist.
Molly snapped to attention. “What are you doing?” She used her other hand to try to free herself.
“Calm down. This will only take a minute.” It was a bit of a struggle to get the cuff around the other wrist, but once that was done, the rest happened fairly quickly. Lights on, she wrapped the rubber tourniquet about four inches above Molly’s vein, inserted the needle at a fifteen-degree angle, and cautioned Molly to hold still whi
le the collection tube filled with blood.
“There,” she said when the worst of it was done and she was covering the area with a Band-Aid. “All done.” She put all her goodies away. “That wasn’t too bad, was it?”
Trembling, Molly shook her head.
“You’re a good girl, Molly. The two of us are a team.” She couldn’t stop smiling. “Everything I’ve been through happened for a reason. It all led to you and me being together . . . forever.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Later that day, Sawyer and Aria returned to her apartment. Her cat, Raccoon, was curled up on the rug beneath the table shoved in the corner of the room. The cat spared Sawyer a glance and then yawned and went back to napping.
Sawyer grabbed her laptop and took a seat on the couch.
“What are you working on first?” Aria asked.
“I promised Palmer an update on the vigilante group that went after Brad Vicente. The media has dubbed the group the Black Wigs. I need to finish this write-up before I continue investigating the missing girl case.”
Aria made her way into the kitchen and put a kettle of water on the stove. “I’ve been seeing Brad Vicente’s name everywhere. Even from prison, he seems to be doing a good job of getting people to side with him. Not only was his story trending on social media last week,” Aria said, “it was also on the front page of Reddit, which is a big deal.”
Sawyer shook her head. “What are people saying?”
“That Brad Vicente is a victim of the #MeToo movement.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Nope. Sad but true. Fifty percent of people questioned believe that the videos of Brad assaulting women in his bedroom are fake. They’re jumping on the bandwagon and signing his petition for an appeal.”
“If I had to pick a side,” Sawyer said, “it wouldn’t be Brad Vicente’s, but as far as this story goes I need to remain unbiased.”
Aria unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite.
“Come look at this,” Sawyer said.
Aria walked that way. “What is it?”
“Apparently the Black Wigs are back in the news. Just last night a twenty-nine-year-old man, Myles Davenport, was at his ten-year reunion when, according to his friends, he received a text from a pal who said he had a surprise awaiting outside. When he didn’t return, his friends went to investigate. As they approached a van, the vehicle took off, hitting one of them in the process. Witnesses are saying that the driver was wearing a wig. Somebody posted video footage taken from a cell phone on YouTube.”
Together they watched the video.
Sawyer squinted, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. It was dark, but she could hear the screech of tires and see shadows as a van jerked to a stop, reversed, hit a person, and took off, clipping another vehicle on its way out of the parking lot.
“It’s hard to see the driver,” Sawyer said as she hit “Replay.”
Aria frowned. “It’s way too soon for anyone to assume that the same women who cut off Brad Vicente’s dick are involved.”
The kettle whistled, sending Aria rushing back to the kitchen.
Sawyer typed the name “Myles Davenport” into her laptop’s search engine. “This is interesting. It looks like Myles was eighteen when he was accused of rape. There was a trial. Three women testified against him.”
“Are you going to include Myles Davenport in your write-up?”
“I think so. Maybe I’ll write two versions just in case Palmer isn’t comfortable including Myles Davenport, since it will be a few days, I’m sure, before authorities have gathered evidence.”
“After I eat, I’ll do some more research on Carly Butler and see if we can figure out where her family moved to.”
“I appreciate you helping me out,” Sawyer said. She then pointed to her backpack. “There’s a map of the Sacramento metropolitan area if you want to mark the regions where girls have disappeared. I already put an X for Cora.”
“Okay. I’ll do that.”
By the time midnight rolled around, the couch, coffee table, and living room floor were covered with paper. The map took up most of the floor space. Aria had marked it with red dots representing all six girls they were concentrating on, which included Paige Owens.
“There’s not really any connection between these girls,” Sawyer said, “other than they’re all white and most of them have light-colored hair.”
“They all fall between the ages of ten and twelve,” Aria said. “And if we add Mark Brennan into the equation, we can link Katy Steiner, Riley Addison, and Carly Butler into one group based on location. Riley disappeared after her lesson. Katy Steiner disappeared in North Highlands where his parents still live, and Carly Butler disappeared when her family was living just a few blocks away.”
“Wait a minute,” Sawyer said. “There is something else that connects almost all the girls.”
Aria lifted a questioning brow.
“Bus stops and schools. Cora, Paige, Danielle, Carly, and Katy all disappeared at the bus stop or walking to or from school, right?”
“Everyone except Riley Addison,” Aria said.
“Five out of six. We need a focus point, so I’d like to begin by concentrating on bus routes and the schools these girls attended.”
“Including Riley Addison?” Aria asked.
“Definitely.”
“I’ll take schools,” Aria said, “and you focus on bus routes.”
“Okay.”
“If it’s okay with you,” Aria said, “I’m going to stop by the Butler home tomorrow.”
“Where did they move to?”
“West Sacramento. Only a few miles from the house they lived in when Carly disappeared.”
“Sounds good. Let me know how it goes.” Sawyer lifted a finger. “By the way, I couldn’t find any information for Bob Upperman. What about you?”
“Nothing yet. I’ll keep looking tomorrow. I’m exhausted.” She reached for her backpack and slid the strap over her shoulder. “I’m beginning to understand why so many cases go unsolved.”
“Why is that?”
“Are you kidding me? This is literally like trying to find a needle in a haystack. These girls, any one of them, could be absolutely anywhere.” She raised her arm high above her head. “Riley could be in the apartment upstairs for all we know.”
“Go get some sleep,” Sawyer said, unwilling to lose hope when they were just getting started. “We’ll get a fresh start in the morning.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The chilly night air caught Bubbles by surprise since the arid heat had burned her lungs when she stepped outside to take out the garbage earlier today.
The black sweatshirt she had on was zipped up tight. She’d left her car a block away, parked on the other side of a field covered with tall, dry grass. The hardened tips of foxtails had attached to her socks and shoes and were already digging in, scraping against her skin.
The house was up ahead. Its occupant was fond of posting pictures of his daily life on Facebook and Instagram, making it easy for her to see what kind of car he drove, what he did for a living, who he hung out with, his past and current relationships. She’d used social media in the past to learn about young girls she was interested in getting to know. She recognized the brick stairs leading to the front entrance of the house from a picture he’d posted recently. Beneath the moonlight, the white blooms framing the front window drew her like a moth to fire.
Her gloved hands were stuffed into her pockets along with the tube of Molly’s blood. Flicking off the rubber lid, she took a breath and then made a beeline for the gray Kia Optima LX, making quick work of smearing blood beneath the latch that opened the trunk.
Heart racing, she daubed more than a drop’s worth on the driver’s door handle and then wiped a bloody gloved finger across the back door.
Working fast, her eyes now fully adjusted to the dark, she dripped blood on the edge of the brick stairs where it wouldn’t be too obvious since the police would k
now the blood hadn’t been there before when they paid him a visit. But she wasn’t overly worried; the police force and every detective in the area was overworked and underpaid. Most didn’t have time for minute details.
Finally, she shook what was left inside the tube at the gardenia bush, brushing her gloved hand across the flowers as she made her way back to the sidewalk.
Done. Easy peasy.
A dog barked in the distance. Head held high, she walked along at an even pace. It was late and it was dark, and people had enough problems without resorting to staring out their windows. On the off chance someone suffering from insomnia did see her pass by, she would appear to be a mere shadow beneath a velvety black sky.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Harper mindlessly scrolled through news headlines on her iPhone. It was all depressing. She’d been sitting inside the unfinished house within the abandoned construction site for hours. QB was locked up in the wine cellar below.
Being inside an unfamiliar house was uncomfortable enough—mentally more than physically—without having a stranger held captive below.
Every creak set her on edge.
She jumped when her phone buzzed. A text from Aria: The package has been delivered.
The corners of her mouth lifted. The package she referred to was Ella.
For someone who had been through so much, Aria came across as a well-adjusted human being. She was loving and caring, and oftentimes, Harper found herself treating Aria like one of her children. She’d been protecting and caring for Aria for so long it made sense she felt that way.
Harper loved Sawyer too, but Sawyer could be difficult. Smiling didn’t come naturally, and, of course, there was the no-touching rule. Even after everything that had happened between them, Sawyer still held a grudge against Harper for not being able to save her. Harper had only just turned eighteen when she’d run away from home, taking Aria with her. Why couldn’t Sawyer understand that she’d tried to take them both? She’d carried Sawyer to the car, and when Sawyer cried out and ran back to the house, she’d left Harper with no choice but to drive away without her.
