I wondered if this had anything to do with her sexting scandal, or for that matter, Mia. She was the one who had no voice. Everyone else was just surviving in this malicious madness.
Cristina opened her arms. “Life sucks, Jasmine. I get it. I’ve been there. But you know what? Life goes on. High school will be over before you know it, and maybe then you can realize how insignificant these people really are. But between now and graduation, you need to break free from these fucking losers.”
“I don’t know.” She moved her arm, then flinched from the pain. “I just think it’s best that I not rock the boat. Yeah, that’s what I need to do. I know both of you are trying to help, but I gotta go.”
She flipped around and walked off, cradling her injured arm.
41
With her knees clutched to her chest, Mia hummed a song that her mom used to sing to her at bedtime. It was bright and cheerful, and talked about little bunnies hopping through the grass on their way to play with friends before finally returning to home, where, without an ounce of energy left, they fell asleep as their mom sang to them.
She must have been five years old when she first remembered her mother singing “Little Bunny Foo-Foo,” and it happened every night even as she advanced through elementary school. Mia had loved it. When she’d turned ten years old, things changed for Mia. The girls at school became catty, and everything she wore, said, or did was judged in some form or fashion. She started internalizing a lot of her thoughts, and became more covert in how and when she showed love to her parents. The best of times, though, were those nights when her mom would sing her that goodnight tune not just once, but three or four times if she was good. That went on until she was in the seventh grade. Eventually, she became too mature for such childish antics. Her family became less and less important in her life.
She’d give anything to be back in her parents’ home, eating the same old food every night, sleeping on her sagging mattress, and yes, despite all that had occurred, lying in bed as her mom once again sang the tune of the little bunny who ran home to go to sleep.
Swaying back and forth on her bed in the mansion, the happy sounds of her mother’s voice dissipated, despite her internal pleas for them to continue. She needed something to drown out the lecherous grunts that echoed in her mind. Sal had returned twice that day, as he’d promised. The first time he was good-natured, chatty even. Yet she knew what he wanted. He threatened her, but his voice was calm, his mannerisms gentle, as if he didn’t really want to follow through if she didn’t comply with his wishes.
On his first visit to her room, she had spent time talking to him about his farm, the horse she’d seen, what he did for a living—he was some type of financial advisor—everything and anything to make him feel important. Ultimately, wasn’t that what guys wanted? Yes, they had a primal desire to have sex, to dominate another person. But it seemed to her like they also craved validation of who they were as men, their masculinity. It was all about their conquests. And to play this game, she had to make him feel like he was the most idolized man in the world.
The ego-building game had gone on for a good hour, and initially he seemed delighted in her interest, her engagement. But she knew it was only delaying the inevitable. With the grace of a three-legged buffalo, Sal finally made his move on her. It was wet and disgusting. She hadn’t seen a male that awkward since she was a freshman. The difference, however, was quite evident: his strength. If he wanted her to move in a certain direction, it happened, whether she wanted it to or not.
She realized it was in her best interest to not fight his advances—to save her energy for a time when she thought she could escape. When Sal was ready, he removed all of his clothes and stood at the foot of the bed. Light sliced through a crack in the curtains onto a silver cross attached to a necklace around his neck. He then kneeled, bowed his head, and mumbled a prayer. She couldn’t hear the words, but her eyes had been drawn to his pants, which were draped over the chair.
She’d recalled him placing the key to her door in the right front pocket of his chinos. Did she have time to race over to the chair, pull out the key, and unlock the door before he could act?
No way in hell. Not unless he was incapacitated. Like a good swift kick to his balls. But she didn’t have the right angle. Just then, he finished his prayer or chant or whatever, then crossed himself. He was Catholic. Like she was. Not that she’d received an A-plus for her worshipping efforts, but her mom and dad had taken her to mass at least once a week ever since she could recall.
He didn’t speak again until he finally put his clothes back on, and then he said, “May God have mercy on my soul. I shall return later.”
And he did.
The second time was nothing like the first. It was as if he were on drugs…or maybe had forgotten to take his medication. He was riding high one moment, then bitterly angry the next. He paced the room, smacking one hand into the other, initially talking about nuclear bombs and spies and assassinations. Then, somewhere in his speech, he mumbled about someone not doing what they promised.
Every time he reached one end of the room and flipped to turn the other direction, he grew more agitated, his movements more pronounced. Mia became scared, wondering how he’d ultimately unleash his fury, so she tried talking to him. At first, she attempted to change the topic, to get back to stroking his ego. But he hardly paid her any attention. She then tried to console him, saying she would gladly help ease his anxiety.
Without warning, he stopped on a dime and stared at her. “Do you think I’m a fucking lunatic, someone who belongs in one of those asylums?”
Thrown by his question, she paused an extra second. Then she said, “No, no. You’re obviously under a lot of stress. You just need me to help—”
Before she uttered the last word, he’d backhanded her across the face. It stunned her, dropped her to the floor. She pushed herself up, wiped blood from her lips, and again attempted to console him. He swatted her face with his opposite hand. That one had cut her cheek, and she shrieked. He then rushed at her, grabbed her from behind, putting her head in some type of vice grip that choked off her oxygen. She became lightheaded, thought she might pass out, or worse.
“No matter what I do to you today, tomorrow, next year, or five years from now, you will not scream out. Do you hear me, young lady?”
She tried to push out a reply, but all that came out was a squeak. He let her go, and she gasped for air. But he wasn’t done. He slapped her, threw her across the room. Then, after a couple of minutes he apologized, which somehow led to rants about world politics and some delivery that had been messed up. And then the cycle began again. Over time, she tried to separate her conscious self away from the beating she was taking. But she couldn’t escape her memories. She had watched her father beat her mother. It didn’t happen often, and she didn’t think he’d seen her watching from the crack in her bedroom door. But it was unmistakable and broke her little seven-year-old heart. Flash forward ten years, to when Brandon had been physical with her. He’d shoved her to the floor, rammed an elbow in the small of her back…all because she hadn’t kissed him right.
She hadn’t even liked Brandon that much, and yet it destroyed her. Yes, she got over it. Still, she knew he was a punk and that she deserved better, someone more mature. Someone with a purpose in life.
And today that someone had assaulted her, raped her twice, and then locked her in her room.
She tried to bring back that tune her mom used to sing to her. Something to hold her thoughts, to cling to a bit of sanity. But it was as elusive as a greased pig.
Could she actually survive in this state for months or years, waiting for Sal to die?
It wasn’t possible. Death would have to come soon. For him. Or maybe for her. But this couldn’t go on much longer. That much she knew for certain.
She took in a single breath. In a slight pause, she heard a distant ding. Then, another noise. It was closer to a clank. Metal on metal. She looked toward the ba
throom. Rushing in, she opened the cabinet and put her hand on the pipe leading to the wall. She felt a reverberation on the pipe; at the same time, there was another clank. And then two more.
Someone was trying to communicate with her.
42
I was thankful for at least one thing: Saul’s couch was first rate.
Beyond that, I was irritated, annoyed, frustrated. Night had again fallen upon San Antonio, and we were no closer to finding Mia. As was my typical MO, I tried to put myself in Mia’s shoes. If she were alive—and dammit, I had to believe it was true—what was she thinking and feeling right now, at this very moment? Her existence, in my mind, was separated into two distinct and very different options. The first was that she had her freedom. She might be with someone or she might be alone. Was she walking around the city, camouflaged within the mass of humanity going about daily routines? If so, why hadn’t she reached out to let people know she was okay? She might have issues, maybe some hidden ones at that, but it was hard to imagine her purposely wanting her parents to suffer.
I touched the bandage on my head, then sipped the smoothie that I’d picked up on my way back to Saul’s. He’d intended on meeting me back here, but said he had to work late. He’d secured his first client—something about a family inheritance lawsuit. I told him we needed to celebrate, and he said we could do that after my meeting with the person who had information about my parents. I’d temporarily put the parent hunt out of my mind, probably just to keep my expectations in check. I did my best to not grill him about Kyra, and he said when he got home he’d wake me up in that special way. I reminded him of my weakened condition, and he said I could have a rain check.
Actually, I was feeling surprisingly strong. The smoothie helped; so did the couch.
My thoughts went back to Mia and the second option: she was being held against her will. Was she hurt? Was she afraid she might die? Where was she? Did she have access to food and water? And, more than anything, did she still have hope she would escape or be rescued and find her way back home?
More times than I could count, I’d been in that position of believing there was no way out, where despair wasn’t just a feeling—it was a noose around your neck that got tighter and tighter with each passing day. I hated to think that Mia was being held captive. But I couldn’t ignore the possibility.
While clues to her disappearance were minimal and the Romeros were still balking at filing a formal report with the SAPD, I’d done a lot of reading in the last couple of hours. Well, reading articles and watching brief videos on YouTube, all documenting the type of person who might kidnap a teenage girl. More often than not, the girl would know her kidnapper. The kidnapper was usually but not always male, and older by ten to fifteen years. The kidnapper and victim weren’t good friends, but they typically had a casual, if not cordial, relationship. It could be the guy at the corner convenience store, the janitor at the school, a teacher, a person working retail at the mall, or someone else she might have crossed paths with. The list of possibilities was endless.
My phone rattled across the wooden coffee table. I picked it up to see a text from Stan.
Dropped by Brandon’s house. No sign of him. Parents are worried.
I typed a quick response, told him to keep me in the loop. I’d shared my suspicion with Stan earlier in the day—that Brandon might have been the boy who punched me when I snuck up on the robe-clad kids defacing the field house. Of course, we had no real evidence. I hadn’t been able to see the face of the boy who’d hit me. I based most of my suspicion on the links in his chain. They resembled the links of the chain I’d seen in his truck. Stan was less than convinced, but he didn’t blow me off. And he was quite disturbed with Brandon’s abuse of Jasmine. And just as pissed that she’d taken off, not wanting to “rock the boat.” I was right there with him.
What was it with this generation? They had all of this access to reach out to authorities, yet they did nothing. They played politics like they were forty years old, working as a congressional staffer in DC.
I found myself studying the pictures of the graffiti on my phone. While the evidence from the recent mission murder seemed to be no more than an arrow, or a bolt as Stan had pointed out, the people involved in the animal sacrifices at the high school were trying to communicate something with their artwork. Again, they could be the same perpetrators as the ones who’d committed the brutal murders, but right now I leaned toward no.
A flash of Dr. Amaya’s expression came to mind. It was like he’d flipped a switch and turned from a nice, gentle man into a creepy… What exactly? I’d learned he’d been hunting and had a crossbow. So what was I telling myself? That the man who’d put all of his heart and money into creating a community center to honor his dead daughter was behind the murders at the missions? I took another leap. Given the fact he’d lost a daughter, could he have kidnapped Mia, attempting to find a way to replace Mandy?
It sounded ludicrous in my mind, which was why I hadn’t shared this latest theory with Cristina. For now, my instinct said to follow the path of Brandon. Find out where he was last night when the crime was committed at the high school. Find out more about his problem with the football coach. It appeared there might be a deeper issue with coaches in general at the school. Could one of them have kidnapped Mia? My eyes went back to the graffiti images on my phone. I focused on the first blob or letter or sign. I’d already ruled out any Satanic symbol. So, what did all of this mean?
Maybe nothing. Maybe it was just a couple of kids spraying gibberish just to get their jollies by defacing the side of the building. My eyes blinked, and the gibberish suddenly looked like a word, one that was similar to what I’d seen etched on one of the many signs in the neighboring yards around the high school the night before.
My phone buzzed, and I switched to my text app and found one from Cristina. I threw the blanket off and sat up. She’d spotted Brandon at Lee High School. I called for my chariot—my Uber ride—and headed back to the high school, hoping we could finally get some answers from a troubled teen.
43
Walking around in the dark near Lee High School didn’t exactly give me the warm fuzzies. Not even twenty-four hours earlier, I’d done something similar and found myself laid out by a guy with a killer punch.
I tiptoed up next to Cristina at the northeast corner of the main building, next to a metal door. After walking three blocks from where the Uber driver had dropped me off, my dizziness, thankfully, hadn’t returned. “Where is he?” I asked in a hushed tone.
“Inside. Roaming around the school.”
“Isn’t it kind of hard to see people through the windows? How do you know it’s him?”
“You want the long story? Okay, I decided to ride my skateboard by the school, you know, just to check out the scene where all this crazy shit has been going down, and—”
I put my hand on her arm. “By yourself in the middle of the night?”
She tilted her head. “You mean, like you? Anyway, I saw a figure looking through the front door, so I hopped off my skateboard and jumped behind the school sign by the road.”
I started shaking my head. “You’re making me nervous just listening to this story.”
“I’ve been on the other side of this type of discussion, you know.”
“Don’t bog down. Keep going,” I said, motioning with my arm.
“Well, this dude was trying all the doors in the front. Then he started walking by the building, trying each of the windows he could reach.” She paused a second. “No color commentary on my story?”
Now I tilted my head. “Now you’re definitely bogging.”
“So, he got to the end of the front of the building, and he went around back.” She smiled a wee smile.
“You followed him.”
She nodded.
“You frickin’ followed this guy? He could have been waiting on the other side of the wall with a knife!”
“But he wasn’t. And I’m not that stupid. I took
a different angle, hanging back about fifty yards. Hello…it’s pretty obvious he didn’t see me. Otherwise—” She stopped short and cocked an eyebrow.
“I get it. So, did you see him go inside this door?” I noticed she’d grabbed the door handle.
“Yep. But before you got here, I saw a light flashing through a window.” She started opening the door.
“And if you were so far away, how do you know it’s Brandon?”
She twisted her lips. “I was scooting on the other side of this wall here,” she said, looking over her shoulder to the corner of the building. “And when I peeked around the corner, he was just opening the door. I saw his face for a split second. It was him.”
I shook my head again. “Damn, you were lucky.”
“What? If he’d seen me and started coming at me, I would have—”
“I know, I know. Beat his ass. I shouldn’t have to remind you how strong he is, how volatile he is. But it doesn’t matter. Let’s go.”
She opened the door halfway, then looked at me. “So, you’re just going to go in with me? No warnings about breaking and entering? No calling the cops?”
“I already texted Stan. At any moment there will be a lot of cars rolling into the parking lot. But I want a chance to talk to Brandon about—”
We both flinched after hearing an ear-splitting crash.
“Come on,” I said, pushing my way through the door. Three steps into the hallway, there was another smash. It sounded like glass shattering. I waved Cristina onward, and she passed me like I was standing still.
“Wait up,” I said in a loud whisper.
She said something over her shoulder, but I couldn’t hear it. I tried to increase my speed without shaking my brain. I actually found myself holding my head.
Cristina stopped where the hallway ended in a T. Another series of crashes, one after the other. They were getting louder. She jabbed her hand toward the hallway to the right. I held up my hand and told her to wait up.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 4-6: Redemption Thriller Series 10-12 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 70
