by Pamela Crane
The nattering of a preternaturally cheerful afternoon TV talk show host had lulled Sophia to sleep in the living room with Giana tucked into the crook of her arm. Skin to skin, mother and babe had been slumbering deeply when the midwife returned. When Sophia felt the weight and warmth of the baby lift from her, she awoke to the midwife hovering over her, offering soothing instructions to stay put, she was just putting the baby down in her crib to do her monthly checkup. Nothing unusual, as the midwife had stopped by several times to check on the baby and Sophia’s healing progress. But it wasn’t a checkup like Sophia had been told.
It was a kidnapping ploy.
Minutes later George and a mustached man she had never seen before barged through the front door and stormed into the baby’s room.
As the midwife handed the baby to the mysterious man, she said, “Sophia suggested Giana for a name. I think it suits her.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” George spat back. He turned to Mustache Man. “Did you get the payment in full?”
Mustache Man nodded, handing a black duffel bag to George, who set it against the wall. “All cash, every dollar counted and recorded. The family understands the terms. They’re pretty desperate to do anything for this. Several legal adoptions already fell through, so they’re happy to skip the red tape. I think we’re all set.”
“Alright, then let’s do this.” George turned and briskly left the bedroom with Mustache Man, holding the baby, close behind.
The wheels began cranking inside Sophia’s head. Something was wrong.
“Hey, where are you taking Giana?” Sophia called out, scrambling to her feet.
The midwife thrust out her arm to stop her, but Sophia plowed through, now in a run. She stopped short of the entryway as George and Mustache Man spoke in low tones. Sophia had a horrible foreboding, but she couldn’t figure out why.
“How’s the baby look? I don’t want any problems before everything goes through.”
“Everything looks perfect, sir,” came the midwife’s voice from behind Sophia.
“Can I please have Giana back?” Sophia asked with force.
She reached out her hands and stepped forward, but George roughly pushed her backward. “She’s not your baby, Sophia. Go back to your room.”
“What are you talking about? You can’t just take my daughter away from me.”
“And what will you do to stop me?” George’s lips curled into a cruel smirk. “I own you, child. Your parents sold you to me, remember? You have no one but me. You would die without me—I’d make sure of it. So learn your place, or I will teach you the hard way.” He turned to Mustache Man. “As for the baby, you know what to do. Take care of it.”
“No, you can’t do this!” Sophia screamed hysterically. A fierce beast within Sophia awakened as she watched her baby being taken away forever. Claws bared, she lunged at Mustache Man, gouging four deep furrows in his cheek. Mustache Man cursed and flung her to the floor. George leapt on top of her, pinning her shoulders down with his knees.
“Knock it off, bitch!” The vicious backhand to her cheek only increased her protective fury.
“Give me my baby!” she shrieked, writhing her arms free.
Again George lifted his hand to strike her, this time with his clenched fist. Covering her face with her arms, she deflected his punch, then clawed at his eyes. But his glasses took the brunt of the assault, giving him just enough time to wrap his hands around her throat, suffocating her cries as he squeezed.
“Burt, go!” George ordered the Mustache Man. His footsteps clattered across the wooden floor. A moment later Sophia heard the front door slam shut, closing on any hope she had of getting her daughter back.
George pressed his face close, his breath fluttering Sophia’s hair. “This is your final warning. If you dare try to leave, I will make sure your baby dies. The best thing you can do to protect her is to listen to me. She will be with a good family, not some punk-ass teenage whore like you. If you know what’s good for you—and for the baby—you’ll calm down, go to your room, and heal up so that we can get you back to work. You’ve had enough time off already. Got it?”
Her nod was barely perceptible with the pressure of his hands on her throat, but it was enough of an affirmation that he released her. She coughed explosively as she twisted away from him, shuffling toward the wall. When she finally caught her breath, she looked up to find herself alone in the room, except for the movement of a shadow. Glancing up, she met the eyes of the midwife, who gazed sadly down at Sophia.
“I’m sorry, honey.”
With those last words Sophia never saw the midwife, or her baby girl, again.
Chapter 5 Ari
Silence is your only salvation, or your family will pay for what they’ve done. I will be waiting and watching. They may think the past is buried, but I will unearth it all and drag them down to hell with me.
A shiver coursed down my spine as I examined the note on my office desk, now encased in a gallon-sized plastic evidence bag that Tristan had provided. For the past day I could think of nothing else but whoever was behind the threat and what exactly it meant. My first guess was George Battan because of his upcoming trial in which I would be testifying. My testimony would most likely mean a death sentence for me, courtesy of Battan.
Yet a sliver of doubt remained: what if it wasn’t him? If this stalker knew anything about my family history, certainly they should know I hadn’t been part of my parents’ lies—or lives—since I was ten years old and thrown into the foster care system. If anything, I was more clueless to their hidden life than anyone, especially this bastard threatening me. So why come after me? What could I possibly do—or know—that would give this scumbag what he wanted ... that is, if he wanted something.
I could draw only one conclusion. Silence was my salvation—it had to be a warning that I shouldn’t testify. Which meant it had to be George Battan ... right?
Then why wasn’t I so sure?
My computer screensaver swirled a rainbow of colors as I pushed the note aside and shook my head at the yellow stack of case files I needed to organize. While I loved working as a filing clerk at the Durham Police Department, overhearing confidential intel on various cases, and learning about the investigation techniques, the administrative aspects sucked monkey balls, especially after eight hours stuck in a stuffy, claustrophobic filing room or updating notes in the system until my fingertips went numb. But it was better than flipping burgers or cleaning out department store dressing rooms, so I couldn’t complain ... aloud, at least.
I felt movement behind me, and suspecting it was my boss, I hurriedly slid the note under a folder while hitting a key on my keyboard to bring my computer to life so I’d look busy.
“I won’t tell on you,” a sexy voice whispered in my ear as strong hands squeezed my shoulders. “You’re lucky I like having you around here.”
I exhaled relief. It was Tristan, not the creepy police cadet who’d been trying to get in my pants since I got hired. “You scared the shit out of me. Why’s the captain always gotta be hovering when I’m not working?”
“If you didn’t do your little side projects at work, you wouldn’t get caught, babe.”
I gazed up at him as he looked down at me. From his upside-down view his grin looked comically large.
“Side projects keep me sane. Speaking of, got any delicious crime crumbs for me? Any clues you want me to follow up on?” I flashed an exaggerated hopeful smile, already knowing the answer. It was a dance we’d choreographed to perfection. I’d beg for real police work, he’d turn me down, and I’d eventually persuade him to disclose something, anything, which I’d chew on until my shift ended.
“Aw, my murder-obsessed girlfriend. So cute. And comforting for me.” He raised an eyebrow skeptically. “But no, no new leads on any cases.” I watched his eyes wander to the threatening message peeking out from under my to-file pile. “You still worried about that?”
“Nah. I’ll find out who sent
it and make him cot-mates with George Battan in jail.”
But the truth was I was terrified. I’d spent a lifetime hiding my fear, stuffing it down deep beneath my skin until I was calloused from all emotions. At least I thought I was. But no matter how hard you try to suppress your human nature, there’s always a trigger that will waken your true self. I’d played tough girl for fourteen years, and I was well practiced at it, but the act only lasted so long. Today, however, I was giving my best performance.
“So you’re okay?” Tristan probed again.
“Yeah, I swear. I just want to figure out who sent it and what they want. Do you think it’s George, sending a message through his cronies?” I felt like I was in the cast of The Sopranos dealing with wiseguys and goons.
“That’s the most likely person to send this, especially with the trial coming up. But then again, I don’t know how many other enemies your father has, or what other motives George would have to off you.”
“How much time do you have?” Tristan moved to my side as I spoke. “I’m wondering if he knows Tina remembers Marla. He’s got to have pieced that together by now. But if that was the case, wouldn’t he be sending a threat to Tina too?”
Tristan sighed with a shrug. “I can’t predict the inner workings of a psychopathic child molester. I’m gonna regret suggesting this, but maybe we could talk to him.”
“We—as in you and me?” I couldn’t believe he was cool with taking me into the prison to visit the man who nearly killed me once before, and seemed set on going another round.
“Don’t get too excited. I just want to see how he reacts or what he knows. But that’s not what I came over here to talk to you about. Got a minute?” Before I could answer, he rolled up a chair from the empty cubicle next to mine and sat.
“What’s up?”
“You know that murder case I told you about, the one that might involve a serial killer?”
Of course I remembered. I lived for those conversations over Mellow Mushroom pizza together, when Tristan unloaded his work stress on my eager ears. Finding and catching villains was my new passion, and I absorbed everything I learned like a tick on a hound. The case involved two victims—that Tristan knew of—both with the same modus operandi. While the link between them wasn’t certain, Tristan had a hunch, and his hunches were usually right.
Like when he had a hunch that I started stress smoking shortly after I got hired at the precinct, thanks to Tristan’s recommendation. Maybe it was the cigarette smoke clinging to my clothes, or the frequent “bathroom breaks” that gave me away, but two days in he confronted me with a “hunch” that I was smoking—and hiding it. He didn’t care so much about the habit, just that I was lying about it.
Lying felt a bit extreme to describe my secret. Nondisclosure would have been the word I used. Tomayto, tomahto, I didn’t want to escalate the debate over it, so I admitted the truth, although the vulnerability felt damn scary. Truth be told, I was petrified of screwing up, of letting him down, and smoking helped calm my frenzied nerves. I’d finally landed a decent job in a field I loved, the criminal justice classes were a huge step toward my private investigator future, and my life for once didn’t look so bleak. I had something to lose, and knowing Life’s penchant for trickery, like biting into a chocolate cake only to discover it’s pumpernickel, everything good would slip through my fingers at any moment. So I smoked the fear away.
Tristan had hugged me then, kissed my forehead like a father comforting a daughter. And I almost shed a tear at the intimacy of that moment—almost. But private investigators couldn’t dissolve into a mess of emotions, could they, so I swallowed the feelings down and laughed at myself instead. That’s when I noticed that Tristan hadn’t laughed with me, but instead held me with an acceptance of who I was, how I ticked.
No more secrets, I had promised him that day. And I walked away from our first boyfriend/girlfriend fight happier than I’d ever been, because I had someone who gave a shit about my secrets.
“Yeah, the killer you think might be connected to the suicide support group,” I answered. “Did you find a lead?”
“Possibly.” Tristan scratched his goatee with a chewed fingernail. “I did more digging. Found some interesting stuff.”
Ooh, I loved stuff.
The cases had turned cold after weeks of no leads and other, fresher cases to pursue. Their priority had dwindled for everyone but Tristan. The media attention hadn’t lasted long. When victims were a woman or child, it was heartbreaking news. When they were men, however, it didn’t tug on the heartstrings so much.
The first victim, three months ago, was Scott Guffrey, found dead in his living room, his neck sliced open. The toxicology report came back showing excessive alcohol consumption and the presence of flunitrazepam—better known as the date rate drug or a roofie, street slang derived from the psychoactive drug’s more common name, Rohypnol. His ex-girlfriend and neighbors had nothing but good things to say about him, couldn’t imagine who would want to kill an upstanding fellow who always helped anyone in need. Of course, such sentiments were always so gushing postmortem, since rarely did anyone say the victim was a complete asshat and deserved what he got. Scott’s list of enemies and motives for murder was short—more like nonexistent. Father of two kids and dedicated employee at Drew’s Plumbing, the man never missed work or his son’s baseball games. On paper he was father of the year. In reality he did something to get himself killed, and I desperately wanted to help Tristan find out what.
Victim number two was Jackson Jones, found dead in his car, also with his throat slit open, one month ago. Similar method of death, but different locale and about two months apart. Except this time no alcohol, no date rape drugs. Perhaps the killer was warming up with Scott before targeting Jackson and needed Scott pliable. But Jackson being a target made just as little sense. A dedicated husband, reliable employee, with a gorgeous home, and married but no kids, Jackson was a shocking choice of victim. Worked in the IT department at the Social Services office. No apparent enemies, no indiscretions that Tristan could uncover. And no apparent ties to Scott, which made me wonder what secrets they shared that made them both a target.
It wasn’t a guarantee that the same killer took them both out, except for one seemingly indifferent detail: they both had a connection to my suicide support group. Scott had a flyer for the Triad Suicide Support Group (not the most clever or original name, I admit) on his dining room table. Jackson had been on his way home from his first meeting when he was murdered. I vaguely recalled him; he hadn’t spoken much, just briefly introduced himself as Joe and observed the group, then left in a hurry. It was an almost indiscernible connection between the victims, but it was still there.
Coincidence or not, it made me wonder if the threat I’d gotten wasn’t from George after all, but from the person who killed Scott and Jackson. Was I the common thread?
“What kind of stuff?” I asked.
“From outward appearance the victims seem randomly selected. Both have no prior records, enviable family lives, no questionable affiliations. Except when I started looking into Scott’s medical history, I found that he was prescribed an anti-depressantjust under two years ago. Normally that wouldn’t be a red flag, but it led me to wonder what happened two years ago that might have caused him to spiral into depression. Then I discover Scott had been living with a woman named Helen Brannigan. In fact, they were engaged to get married. Guess what happened two years ago?”
I shrugged and shook my head. “You got me. What?”
“Helen’s five-year-old daughter, Kat Brannigan, was abducted from their home. Body never turned up. Still an open missing persons case, but we’re assuming she’s dead. Scott had an airtight alibi and wasn’t a suspect, but what if his killer was behind Kat’s murder as well?”
“An interesting theory, but Jackson doesn’t fit into it.”
“Not that we know ... yet. I have a gut feeling this is all connected somehow—Kat’s abduction, Scott’s death, a
nd Jackson’s part of it somehow, I’m sure. What do you think? Am I crazy?”
I loved how Tristan respected me enough to ask my opinion.
“I think you’re on to something. If that is the case, it’d be nice to give the Brannigans closure after all this time wondering about their daughter.” I knew how they felt. I had lived with fourteen years of wondering who was behind the wheel that killed my sister. Sure, it hurts to know, but I think it hurts worse not to know. “So all we gotta do is find Scott’s killer and save the day. Easy peasy.” I flashed Tristan a goofy smile. “Where do we start?”
“We? There’s no we in this, Ari. You know you can’t be investigating this until you get your license.”
“Sure, sure ...” I mumbled.
Oh, how much Tristan still had to learn about me. You couldn’t hide a bone this tasty and not expect me to dig for it. It was either obsess over the threatening note or focus my energy on finding Scott and Jackson’s killer.
“You promise to stay out of it?” Tristan cupped my chin and forced me to meet his eyes. I couldn’t look away from those penetrating baby blues of his; they were my kryptonite. “Ari?”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ll try my best not to.”
But like I said, Tristan had so much left to learn about me. I wasn’t the best at staying out of trouble.
Chapter 6
One month ago ...
“What are you in for?”
Jackson Jones glanced over at me from his stiff seat next to mine. The ring of gray metal folding chairs was still half-empty as people lingered by the snack table covered with cookies and generic bottles of soda, waiting for the suicide support group meeting to begin.
“Excuse me?” he asked, his forehead wrinkling with confusion.
“Just a joke. I was asking why you were here.” With his clean-shaven jaw, neatly combed hair, collared polo shirt, and khaki slacks, the man oozed all work and no play. A perfect recipe for suicide, in my opinion. Dressed like an accountant, I imagined him carefully ironing his pants then standing before his bathroom mirror while slicking down his hair, the routine a pleasant-looking mask for the horror that lived inside of him.
