She slowly opened the door and stepped inside. At a quick glance, everything looked the way she’d left it. She relaxed her shoulders and took a deep breath. She’d probably just forgotten to lock the door on the way out that morning. She spun to latch the deadbolt, but mid-turn she heard footsteps behind her. She knew what she had to do: unlock the door and run outside. But her body wasn’t listening to her; fear had frozen her in place.
“Turn around, nice and slow. Make one move for your gun and I’ll blow you away.”
A man’s voice. She noted he assumed she was armed; he knew she was police. Likely this was the one who’d been prank calling her, but what was his motivation?
She proceeded to turn, hands in the air, and stood still as he approached to frisk her. He was easily six-foot-four, with a muscular build. From the look of him, he could bench-press her. He was also armed with a handgun.
“I’m not carrying,” she said. If she could get to her bedroom and her dresser, in one of its drawers she had a Beretta in a gun case, but the distance seemed unpassable with this mammoth and his weapon in her way. Maybe she should just surrender and accept this could be the end for her. After all, she was on borrowed time anyhow; she should have died with her family five and a half years ago.
Satisfied that she was unarmed, the man moved suddenly, kicking her legs out from under her. Amanda slammed to the floor; the back of her head smacked against the laminate. She scrambled to get up, fighting instinct taking over regardless of her earlier thoughts.
He circled around in front of her and held the gun in her face. She wanted to ask him who he was but feared that would anger him more, as if he’d expect her to know the answer already. It would be better if she just kept quiet.
His dark eyes met hers, but he said nothing.
“Are you the one who called me?”
Still he remained quiet. The silence was more disturbing than his outbursts of anger. At least then she knew what emotion was taking the lead. “What do you want?”
“What do I—” He bared his teeth, bent down, and slapped her across the face with force. Her neck torqued to the right and she heard her bones crack. Pain crackled down her spine and she sucked in air through clenched teeth. But before she could catch her breath, he struck her again and her vision became a wall of exploding white fireworks. She clambered to get off the floor. He grabbed her hair and yanked so hard she felt her scalp rise from bone, and he dragged her down the hall toward her bedroom.
She spat blood, her tongue coated with the coppery taste. She kicked her feet, bucking against him with all her strength, but it was like a kitten taking on a mountain lion. And the more she resisted, the more pain fired through her. She clawed at his hand, sinking her nails into his flesh until finally he let her go. Built-up momentum caused her to lose her balance and she fell to the floor; this time her head didn’t hit.
She snarled and asked again, “What do you want?”
He was occupied staring at the blood that stained the back of his hand as if it were unexpected. He didn’t look at her when he spoke. “You should have died.”
His words didn’t refer to right now, and his gaze was distant, as if he were raptured in the past. Then she saw it, in just the slight contortion of his lips, in the arch of his brow, in the spacing between the eyes. The man before her had been in the photo with Palmer as a boy. “You’re Chad’s cousin. Rick Jensen.”
He flared his nostrils and came at her with murderous rage, though she didn’t know why. She closed her eyes, expecting the next thing she’d feel would be the cold blanket of death. But he twisted her hair around his hand again as he positioned himself behind her—then he started dragging her down the hall.
She screamed—the physical pain was blinding—but she hoped and even prayed that a neighbor would hear and call for help. She stopped fighting him though. If he was taking her to the bedroom, he was getting her closer to the gun in her dresser.
Once in her room, he set her next to the end of the bed on the floor and clambered over her. Her brain was stuck on one fact: there was no way she was going to let this shit rape her. She slapped at him and bit his upper arm, sinking her teeth through his shirt, tasting the coppery flavor of blood again.
But her assault didn’t stop him or slow his actions. He pawed around until he found her handcuffs around the back of her waistband—it figured they were the one thing she’d forgotten to hand in—and slapped one on her right wrist. He then adjusted her so that she was sitting against the leg of the bedframe and wrapped his arms around her, taking her right and left wrist and snapping them together behind the leg.
She bucked, but there was no place for her to go without taking the bed with her.
He stood up and stared down on her. Mirrored in his eyes she saw the hatred she felt toward Palmer and for this man right now. Her head was pounding, and with every breath the pain intensified.
“You have no right to investigate Chad’s death,” he spat.
Now all the pieces aligned, and it was clear that his love for Palmer had driven him to this point. “That’s what this is about?”
“Shut up!”
“I’m off the case!”
“Liar!” he bellowed.
“No! Please! I have no badge and no gun.” She blinked heavily, grateful again that she’d had the courage and tenacity to leave them behind. Maybe, if she convinced him, it could be what saved her life.
“Courtney called me. Said you were looking into Chad’s murder.” He scrunched up his face in a knotted ball. “You have no right,” he seethed.
“You’re… you’re right, I don’t, and I’m not. I’m off the case.”
“You’re probably happy he’s dead,” he kicked back, as if her words hadn’t even hit his ears. “But you don’t know what kind of a man he really was. The childhood he had.” Tears buffeted his cheeks as a torrential downpour.
She moved, trying to figure out her range of motion. It wasn’t much. Nothing she could really work with. Her legs were free, but she’d have to time any defensive kicks with precision. Really, her best chance of living another day was getting him to talk and open up, and then relate with him. “Tell me about him,” she requested, the words rubbing against the grain of her being. She didn’t see Palmer as human—he was the monster, the boogieman who had taken her family.
“And I had to find out about… about…” Rick knotted up his face and his chin quivered as the tears continued to fall. “I found out about his murder from Courtney. I hate that bitch.” His gaze steeled over.
“You’re right. You should have been notified.”
“By you,” he barked. “What a joke! You probably celebrated when you found out he was dead.” Rick sobbed into his hands.
She had to find a way to get the hell out of here. The situation was breaking down quickly. Rick’s heightened state of emotion was more volatile than outright displays of aggression. If she didn’t muster some genuine empathy—at least some that Rick would buy—she’d have no hope of walking away. But from where would she pull the strength?
Twenty-Eight
“You’re right,” Amanda repeated. “I should have told you. For that I apologize.”
“Huh, for that, but not for my loss. You hated Chad; you probably believe he deserved to die. You have no right investigating his death.” He was talking in circles like a madman and trained his gun on her.
Her entire body thrummed with rage and disgust. “He murdered my family!”
“How dare you.” He smacked her so lightning quick, she didn’t have time to defend herself and kick.
With this assault something sharp bit into her cheek. The pain tearing through her was so visceral it brought a high of its own. This was the most she’d felt in years; he’d penetrated the layers of numbness to where she could experience emotion. She sniffed, swallowing snot and blood.
“You’re going to listen to me, and you’re not going to interrupt.” Rick shook the hand he’d struck her with, and she saw a
ring; it must have been what cut her. “I said you’re going to listen.” He glared at her, daring her to speak.
She clamped her mouth shut. The pain had her head swooning anyway.
“Chad was my”—he ran his arm under his nose—“best friend. More than family.”
She flashed back to the photo of the boys with the bicycles. It had looked like a happy summer day that would have brought good memories.
Rick went on. “We were more like brothers, not cousins. We were all we had in this world.” A fresh batch of tears fell.
Rage was causing her skin to pulsate; she could anticipate the direction of this conversation. Rick was going to paint Palmer as some saint who’d made one slip and she was going to be forced to listen. He’d not only killed her family, but he might have been involved with the sex trafficking of young girls. But how could she bring up the topic without enraging Rick and getting her head blown off?
Rick continued. “Our dads were never in the picture, and our moms didn’t care about us. They were too busy hooking up with men and getting drunk off their asses.” He paced in a wide loop but never took his eye from her. Not that she could have done anything to free herself anyhow— Though she then recalled she had the key for the cuffs still. He hadn’t taken it. But the key was in the right front pocket of her jeans and with Rick watching her there was no way she could maneuver the amount she needed to reach the pocket.
Rick stopped, looked at her. “Chad had a hard life.”
She wanted to scream, “And my fucking family had to pay the price for that?”
Rick tapped his gun against his thigh. “He deserves justice, and I want justice for him, but you’re not going to get that for him.”
“I told you I’m not working the case any—”
He raised the gun. “No talking.”
She ground her teeth.
“That’s why I have no choice but to—” He sniffled loudly and steadied his gun. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you.”
She looked to the wall where a portrait used to hang of her, Kevin, and Lindsey. It had been taken on Lindsey’s third birthday. She recalled the photo as clear as if it were there right now and remembered how hard it had been to get a three-year-old to sit still. They’d had to bribe her with the promise of vanilla ice cream topped with colored sprinkles.
“One reason,” he repeated. “Why should I trust that you’ll find justice for Chad?” His eyes were glazed over, his facial features dark and hardened. She could see that, although compromised and hurting, Rick Jensen didn’t really want to pull the trigger—but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.
She considered his question, a variation of the same one she’d asked herself several times throughout the investigation. Every time the same answer kicked back. “I gave my word,” she pushed out.
Rick studied her eyes, palmed his cheeks. He seemed surprised by her response, maybe skeptical.
“I always keep my word.” Hot tears filled her eyes at the recollection of her daughter’s small coffin lowering into the ground. She met Rick’s gaze.
“That’s not enough,” Rick said. “People lie all the time.” He clenched his jaw and ground out, “Give me a real reason why I shouldn’t pull this trigger.” His voice rose with each word and the volume pounded in her head as booms of thunder.
“I took an oath,” she hissed as a shot of pain tore through her. He was watching her; he seemed to be encouraging her to continue. With his focus on her, it nailed in that she’d given her word a long time ago—further back than this case. She’d taken the oath to serve and protect. It just seemed like so very long ago that she’d graduated the police academy, her entire family cheering her on from the audience. But she had been a different person; the tragedy had changed her—but had it? If she concentrated hard enough, she could still feel a subtle stirring within her. Maybe more like the flickering of a flame. Before the article and Hill’s intervention, she’d tasted what it used to feel like to be a cop, driven to get justice.
She stuck out her jaw and made sure to cement eye contact with Jensen. “I’d be lying if I said I’ll ever forgive your cousin for what happened that night.”
He steadied the gun on her, and she shut her eyes, certain she’d be dead soon. But he didn’t fire, and she opened her eyes.
“But I will find justice for him.” He didn’t need to know her desire to do so was more rooted in living up to the expectations she’d set for herself, for her daughter, and those girls on the data chip who needed her. Her motivation had nothing to do with any empathy for Palmer.
“That’s what I’m here to do,” she added. The words zapped her of strength and her eyes felt as heavy as her limbs. “I always keep my word,” she mumbled.
“I’d like to believe you.” He still held firm on the gun.
“My life’s in your hands.” She blinked slowly, her mind, her body, her spirit wanting rest.
She remained still as he lowered the weapon and gripped her jaw. He put his face mere inches from hers and stared into her eyes for what felt like forever. Eventually, he got up and tucked his gun into the waistband of his jeans. “I’ll let you live.”
All she could do was blink thank you.
“But if you don’t keep to your oath…” He pulled a photo from his shirt pocket and tossed it toward Amanda. It came to rest face-up. It was a picture of her parents’ house, her father in the driveway standing next to a gray four-door sedan. “Just know that I can get to your dear old daddy at any time.”
She shivered, suddenly freezing as she looked at her father. Despite the passing of the years, he hadn’t changed too much; he just had more gray around the temples. She nearly drowned in the rush of emotion that washed over her with the tenacity of a flash flood. It was as if all the time and distance between them had been amplified and she felt so incredibly heartbroken. “You stay the hell away from him!”
“Just keep your word or POP!” Rick mimicked a gunshot to the head. “But if his life isn’t enough motivation, there’s always this too.” He held up the baggie of pills and took Freddy’s card out of his front pocket. “I’m pretty sure the drugstore doesn’t package them this way, and I’m guessing this F guy is your dealer?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She couldn’t meet his eyes or speak above a whisper.
“I’m quite sure you do.” He let that sit, then added, “If you don’t find justice for Chad, I’ll also report your little drug habit, maybe even find a way to plant some in your desk and have your boss find them. Just the hint of suspicion will be enough to get you benched and investigated.”
Yesterday she had come to realize Freddy only held relative power—a case of he said/she said—but after her run-in with Hill and her storming out of the station, she couldn’t take the sort of hit Rick promised. He was capable of destroying everything.
He left the room, and not long after she heard the front door close behind him.
She sobbed until the tears ran dry and she passed out.
Twenty-Nine
Amanda’s eyelids fluttered open and it took her a while to orientate as to where she was while she assessed her surroundings and tried to make sense of them. But it was dark, and everything was in shadow. She strained to see and made out a nightstand, a lamp. She went to move her arms, but they were restricted behind her back. And there was thrumming in her skull that pulsed in a staccato rhythm. Then the recollection came to her and her eyes widened. She must have passed out.
Rick Jensen. Her house. Her bedroom.
Her heart sped up as she recalled she was bound at the wrists with her handcuffs around the leg of her bedframe. She could hardly feel her arms, and her shoulders and neck were tight and full of kinks.
But it had been daytime when she was restrained, and it was obviously now after sunset. She looked at the clock on her nightstand—7:03 PM. The same day? The next?
She had a vague memory that her cuff key was in her right front pocket. She spun on her ass
and maneuvered her arms as far as she could, but she still couldn’t get anywhere close to reaching the pocket with the bed in the way. But she had to keep trying—she was on her own. Maybe if she could lift the bedframe and slip the chain of the cuffs under the leg and out… It was a Houdini move but what other choice did she have?
She angled herself so her legs, up to the knees, were under the bed. Now she just had to lift the bedframe.
She counted to three in her head and gave it a go. It turned out it was far easier to pull off in her head. She tried again and again, getting more frustrated with each failed attempt and in more pain. But she became more resolved to break free.
One more go.
Finally! She mustered enough strength to lift the frame the amount she needed and squirmed free. She was still cuffed behind her back, but she could handle that.
She sat and rolled back on her hips, tucked her legs up, and wriggled and wormed until she was able to pull her arms around them and through to the front.
“Gah!” she screamed as a ripple of pain fired up her back to the top of her skull. She took a few heaving breaths and contemplated her next act.
Her arms were still cuffed but now in front of her. She swung her arms to her right hip and worked her hand into the pocket, grasped the handcuff key, and silently coached herself that she had this, but, as her fingers came free of the pocket, they released, and the key tumbled out and across the floor.
Shit!
She traced the sound of the clattering in her head. It had traveled across a few laminate planks under the bed.
She flattened out on the floor and held her arms overhead and reached out. Her fingers danced over the key. She shimmied under the frame a little more and got a hold of her prize then inched back out. She held tightly to the key and worked her wrists until she found an angle that worked to insert it into the lock.
The click of the first cuff releasing might as well have been angels singing. She quickly freed her other wrist and alternated rubbing both. They throbbed, along with her entire body, but no wonder.
The Little Grave Page 18
