Out of Her Mind

by Ragan, T. R.

  “He said he did, but he also said that we were both adults and that I needed time after my breakup with Chad—”

  “If he knew Chad, he’d understand that you were simply passing time.” Aria slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “Well, you can’t give up on him without a fight.”

  “I’m not exactly a whole person,” Sawyer said. And it was true. How could she be? So many people had betrayed her. Her uncle had drugged her and sold her to the highest bidder, and her parents had let it happen. And now here she was, left to pick up the pieces, doing her best to move onward and upward without looking back.

  “Is anyone whole and normal these days? I mean, seriously.” Aria anchored a strand of hair behind her ear. “Have you called Derek since this weird little breakup?”

  “Many times. He’s on vacation, and he isn’t returning my texts or calls.”

  “When he gets back, maybe you should do something special for him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Make him some homemade chocolate chip cookies.”

  Sawyer chuckled.

  “I’m serious,” Aria said. “You should see the way Nate’s face lights up every time Harper makes cookies.”

  “I’m not a baker,” Sawyer said. “Trying to bake anything would ruin any chance I might have of getting him to hear me out.”

  “Well, it’s worth a shot. If cookies don’t work, then he wasn’t worth your time anyway.” Aria opened her arms for a hug.

  Sawyer struggled to take that first step. It was as if she were paralyzed. She was like Raccoon, a stray cat that hadn’t gotten any normal human contact growing up. Now when someone wanted to hug or touch, she freaked out. But it was only Aria. Her sister. One of the few people she did trust.

  “Come on, sis. You can do it. What did we just talk about?”

  “Making cookies,” Sawyer said flatly.

  “And opening up. That includes learning to trust again, starting with touching.” Aria waggled her fingers. “It’s time for you to make a few changes. Come on now. I don’t bite.”

  Once Sawyer realized the only way she was going to get rid of her sister was to cave, she stepped into Aria’s embrace, surprised by the comfort and support she felt before breaking away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Harper arrived at the construction site at 8:15 a.m. Bug had brought coffee and enough breakfast burritos for a small army. Harper hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she scarfed down two of them, one after the other. She also hadn’t realized Cleo was there until she came traipsing up the stairs.

  “Good morning,” Harper said.

  “Yeah, morning,” Cleo said as she removed her mask. She waved her hand in the air in front of her. “It stinks down there.”

  “Come over here and eat,” Bug said, “then we’ll tie him up so I can clean out the buckets.”

  “That guy is a major dick,” Cleo said. “He’s never going to apologize to you, Bug.”

  “I know.”

  Cleo gave Harper the side-eye before looking back at Bug. “Then why are we keeping him here?”

  Bug lifted a shoulder. “I figured it was worth a try. At the very least he’s getting a taste of his own medicine: trapped, no control over his situation—you get the picture.”

  Cleo grabbed a coffee and a burrito and took a seat on the floor so that she was facing Harper and Bug, her back against the wall. She took a bite of her burrito, chewed, and swallowed. “When my turn comes along, I want my frat boys taken care of concisely and swiftly. No questions asked.”

  “What does that mean exactly?” Bug asked.

  “Just like it sounds. I refuse to waste even one minute talking to those scums of the earth. I don’t care if they have wives and kids or if they’ve grown into perfectly respectable adults who have somehow seen the light. I want them to pay.”

  Harper watched Cleo closely. Exotic, beautiful, thirty-six years old, Cleo had been gang-raped during a weekend party at a fraternity house when she was in college. Her case went to court, and the boys’ lawyers painted Cleo as a slut and whore and any name they could think of to call her that would make the jury see that she got what she wanted. Family and friends of the boys, all young, fresh-faced, outstanding citizens, came forward and swore before the judge that Cleo should be the one on the stand because she used her body to get them to do her bidding. Cleo’s word against six boys and their allies. She hadn’t had a chance.

  “So what’s your plan?” Bug asked her.

  Cleo put her burrito to the side so she could lift the hem of her pants, revealing a black leather sheath on her left ankle. She plucked a knife from the sheath and held it up for them to see. “This is my handy little full-tang survival knife.” She put the knife away, then jumped to her feet in one swift move, turned so that her back was to them, and lifted her shirt high enough to reveal another knife attached to the belt around her waist. Then she sank back to the floor and munched on her burrito. “I’m fully loaded,” she said with her mouth half-full. “I’ve got Tasers and pepper spray, all the usual suspects. But in the end, it’s my knives that will keep me safe in this crazy little world we live in.” She sipped her coffee. “So what’s your plan?” Cleo asked Bug. “How does this story of yours end? I read that the guy Psycho hit with the van is back home, living the good life. Wasn’t he the one who held you down?”

  Bug didn’t say a word. She just kept eating.

  The tension in the room was thick. Harper knew Cleo was having trouble at home. Judging by the dark circles under her eyes and the rigidity of her movements, things had not improved in that regard.

  And what about Bug? Was Harper the only one who knew of Bug’s plan to drop QB in the woods and then leave the country under an alias? Harper wasn’t going to say a word. That one little tidbit might be enough to send Cleo off the edge of the dark abyss she seemed to be clinging to.

  Cries from below got them all moving. Wigs already in place, they pushed themselves to their feet and put on their masks. Even Bug wore her wig and mask, which made no sense since Myles Davenport knew who she was. Maybe it was all for show since she didn’t want Cleo to know what was going on. They headed downstairs.

  Myles Davenport was screaming for help, begging for someone to let him out. All three of them, Cleo, Harper, and Bug, stood silently in a straight row watching him. The place smelled bad.

  Bug waited for him to calm down before she said, “You know the drill. Stick your hands through the bars.”

  He pointed at Cleo. “I want that bitch to do the honors.”

  “Fine with me,” Cleo said as she sashayed that way.

  He put a hand through the bars as if he were eager to let Cleo zip-tie his wrist to a bar. His other hand came to rest over his heart. He looked at Bug. “Did you get my heart medicine?”

  “You’ll be fine,” Bug said, watching to make sure QB was secure before she opened the cell door. “You’re young.”

  Harper stepped inside the cell to pick up garbage scattered about while Bug went for the buckets.

  Harper thought QB looked pale, but she figured it was from lack of sun and stress. As she bent forward to pick up another used tissue, she saw QB bend down and pull the knife from Cleo’s ankle sheath. By the time Harper shouted, “Watch out!” he’d sliced through the zip tie and then pushed Harper out of his way. She lost her footing and staggered backward, hitting the floor, bruising her tailbone.

  Bug whipped around, holding the bucket of shit in front of her as a shield. He grabbed it from her and tossed it at Cleo as she tried to come through the door to help.

  Before Bug could get hold of her Taser, he plunged the knife into her side. Wincing in pain, she doubled over.

  Cleo lunged for him, put a Taser to his neck, and held it there, her eyes wild and unblinking. The knife dropped from QB’s hand as he toppled over and hit the ground. Cleo jumped on top of him, straddling his chest. “You fucking useless bastard!” She put the Taser to his chest for another jolt. Some Taser
guns lasted only five seconds before shutting off. Cleo’s model delivered multiple shock cycles.

  As QB stiffened, Cleo dragged him closer to the bars.

  Harper pushed herself from the ground and helped her. Once his wrists were zip-tied to the bars, Cleo picked up her knife, returned to her perch on his chest, and put the sharp blade against his throat. “Now do you want to say you’re sorry?” she asked him.

  Spit bubbles formed at the sides of his mouth, his eyes wide with fear. Harper didn’t have to be a doctor to see that something was seriously wrong. “I think he’s having a heart attack.”

  “Is that right?” Cleo sat on his chest as if he were a horse. “Giddyap,” she said. “Come on, big man, take me for a ride! Yeehaw!”

  Harper bent down next to Bug. There was a lot of blood. She helped her out of the cell, propped her against the wall, then grabbed a roll of paper towels and used a wad of them to try to stop the flow of blood coming from her side.

  The paper towels were useless. “I’ll be right back.” She ran up the stairs, grabbed a cotton towel and a couple of water bottles before returning to Bug’s side. “I need one of your knives,” she told Cleo. “Now!”

  Cleo wasn’t ready to give up the one in her hand, but she reached for the knife at her waist and slid it across the floor to her.

  Cleo threatened to cut out QB’s tongue if he didn’t apologize to Bug.

  Harper tuned everything out and concentrated on what she was doing. Using the sharp blade, she ripped the towel into strips, then doused the wound with water. It looked as if Bug had moved to one side just as QB lunged at her with the knife. The blade had taken a slice out of her, but hadn’t punctured any organs or muscle tissue as far as she could tell. “You need stitches,” Harper said as she wrapped the strips of cloth around her waist. “We need to stop the bleeding.”

  “I can’t go to the hospital,” Bug said through gritted teeth.

  Harper drew her phone from her pocket and called Psycho. She explained the situation and asked her to bring a needle and thread or whatever she had that would stop the bleeding. Harper put her phone away. “Psycho will be here as soon as possible.”

  “Thanks,” Bug said. “I guess we’re not exactly the A-Team when it comes to vigilantism.”

  Harper smiled, but her heart wasn’t in it. This whole situation was beyond fucked up. She kept hoping things would get better, but they only got worse.

  “I guess you were right about the heart attack,” Cleo said. “He’s dead.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Since Ella was feeling better, Aria drove her niece to school.

  Ella climbed into the passenger seat and handed Aria her yearbook. “Don’t lose it. All my friends signed it and everything.”

  Aria merged onto the street. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.” If they were focusing on schools, Aria figured she’d gather as many yearbooks within the fifteen-mile radius as possible. Starting with Ella’s.

  Aria glanced at the rearview mirror.

  “Is someone following us?” Ella asked, peering over her shoulder.

  “No. I thought I saw a friend, but it’s nobody I know.” The truth was, ever since Sawyer had been gifted with the old black-and-white photo of Rebecca along with the creepy note, she’d felt as if someone was following her. Even last night after she’d left Sawyer’s apartment, she could have sworn someone was watching her. But she’d taken a look around and nobody was there.

  Aria wondered if being paranoid was part of the deal when it came to investigative work.

  She spared her niece a glance. She looked pale. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Ella would be eleven soon, the same age Aria had been when her uncle Theo had started drugging her and selling her body to strange men. Aria still had nightmares of her trauma and saw each rapist’s face, blurred like a pixelated square of color used on television to preserve anonymity.

  All three of the Brooks sisters had been used and abused. As far as Aria was concerned, Harper had gotten the worst of it. Their own father in her room most nights. Aria couldn’t think about it without wanting to puke. As sick as it sounded, she preferred to see blurry faces holding her wrists down instead of Dad. Harper had never called their father “Dad,” always referring to their parents as Joyce and Dennis Brooks. Funny how some things never made sense until suddenly they did.

  “So you’re feeling okay?” Aria asked as they waited in a long line of cars to drop her off in front of the school.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Do you have your lunch?”

  “Yes,” Ella said. “You can let me off anytime.”

  Aria began to pull into a parking spot when another car backed up, forcing Aria to slam on her brakes. The driver gave her a look and then took her time cranking the wheel and slowly making adjustments until her car was within the parking lines.

  “That’s Nurse Slimy,” Ella said.

  “That’s not very nice.”

  “Well, neither is she. That’s why no one will marry her.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Everyone,” Ella said with finality. She pointed to a group of kids outside. “There’s George,” she said. “I gotta go. Thanks for the ride, Aunt Aria.”

  “Bye, Ella!” She watched her niece run to catch up with George. He had long chocolate-brown hair that swept over both his eyes.

  Aria didn’t know Ella could smile that big. It made her heart happy.

  Once she was back at home, she let Mr. Baguette out of his cage and then brought her laptop to the coffee table in front of the couch and looked up pay databases. Some of the databases were only available to private investigators and required proof of investigating licensing, but there were others that would sell their products to non-PIs. In hopes of saving a few bucks, she started calling pay database companies, telling them that she worked for the Human Resource Department at Intel and was looking for a free trial to see if the database fit their needs when it came to doing background checks on new hires. The third company fell for her story and gave her a username and password that would work only for the next hour.

  She logged on as instructed. A drop-down menu appeared. She clicked on “Proprietary Data” and typed in Bob Upperman’s name.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Sawyer sat at her desk inside her cubicle, hoping to catch Palmer on his way in this morning. After Aria left her apartment last night, Sawyer had stayed up to finish writing a couple of stories: the first about a woman and her dog struck by a car and killed in North Natomas, and the second concerning a serial home intruder who liked to wear a bra and panties while he rummaged through people’s things. The intruder was a man who had been caught on multiple security cameras, but not by the police. He never took much, although he had a penchant for leftovers in the fridge and loose change.

  Sawyer glanced at her phone. Something she’d been doing too much. Still no word from Derek. She couldn’t stop thinking about everything he’d said, including the little things he’d first noticed about her—her mouth, the dimple when she smiled, and a freckle she didn’t know she had. It had sounded silly at the time, but she realized now that she loved the way he saw her. She loved the way his eyes lit up when he laughed. His dorky sense of humor. And mostly his patience when it came to dealing with her issues with being touched. He always kept his hands to himself, hoping to earn her trust. In return he’d gotten a friend and nothing more. She wanted to be more.

  Her gaze fell on something sticking out between her stapler and tape dispenser. She reached for it, surprised to see that it was the USB that Palmer had given her. Too wrapped up in the missing girls’ case, she’d completely forgotten about it.

  Palmer had told her it had to do with Otto Radley. She knew the name but couldn’t remember all the details of what he’d done. He’d held a woman captive. She remembered that much, which was one more reason she wasn’t thrilled to have been chosen to work on the Black
Wigs story. The men being targeted were rapists. And that hit too close to home.

  She inserted the USB drive into her computer. As she waited for the video to load, she did a search on Otto Radley.

  Multiple photos of the man popped up on her screen. Row after row of images of Otto Radley, a giant with a bald head and beady eyes. In most of the pictures he wore an orange suit. At some point he’d grown a long, scraggly beard. One picture showed him wrestling, his skin blotchy, his face a maze of angry lines. He looked like an MMA fighter but with more fat than muscle. He’d spent twenty years behind bars for kidnapping a twenty-one-year-old woman by the name of Christina Farro.

  Sawyer clicked on the woman’s name. There were a few images. Not many, but enough to make Sawyer cringe at the photos taken when authorities found her in a cabin in the woods.

  Otto Radley had made an underground room beneath the cabin. For three years he not only sexually assaulted Christina on a regular basis but also made a habit of slicing her open with his hunting knife and then sewing her up with fishing line. Zigzag scars covered 30 percent of her body. There was a cut on her neck and face. She was tall and lean and, in one image taken before her time spent in hell, reminded Sawyer of Charlize Theron. Green eyes, defined cheekbones, and dirty-blonde hair that fell in waves around her shoulders before her abductor cut her shiny locks close to the scalp, using a dull knife.

  He was truly a monster.

  Sawyer clicked out of that site and used a work database to find out more about Christina Farro. She was forty-two now and lived in Stockton, where she ran a tattoo parlor called The Tattoo Pit.

  Sawyer jotted down her name and apartment address.

  The men who the Black Wigs had targeted appeared to be specimens scraped from the bottom of the barrel. From what little research she’d done so far, Brad Vicente, Otto Radley, and most recently, Myles Davenport, had all been accused of sexual assault and battery.

  Next, she launched the video and played it directly from the flash drive. The image on her screen was a bird’s-eye view of a park in West Sacramento. In the distance, a small shadowy figure with dark shoulder-length hair sat on a bench and lit up a cigarette.