by Lisa Gardner
And yet night after night after night . . .
I took the first self-defense class hoping to ease my night terrors. Then I took the firearms class because beating a life-sized Ken doll wasn’t enough. Watching videos on how to pick locks and escape from various wrist restraints, well, what else is a girl going to do when she still can’t close her eyes at night?
I’m not saying I have all the answers yet, but I’ve learned to make it through. To find my way to some new kind of normal, where I’m not the person I used to be but I’m not the victim Jacob tried to train me to be.
Maybe this will help you. Maybe not. If there’s one thing I’ve learned these past few years, it’s that there’s not one right way to deal with trauma. Each of you will have to find your tricks, just like I did. And some days will be so impossible, you’ll wonder how you can go on.
On those days, I hope you’ll remember this post. I hope you’ll reach out to us here. You are not alone. The world is filled with survivors.
And we are all just trying to find the light.
I stopped typing. Reread the words. Wondered what the others would think, especially Sarah, when they read this part. I positioned my hands on the keyboard again. Gave up.
I rose from the sofa and padded toward the kitchen for more coffee. It was now after ten. Late morning, my mother would call it. She was generally up by four. Me, too, but not for the same reasons.
I poured more coffee into the mug. Added cream and sugar. I moved on from feeble promises to call my mother and considered reaching out to Stacey Summers instead. She was the college student I’d rescued last year. We kept in touch. I’d told her I’d be there for her after that awful night, and I didn’t lie. I’d assumed, at the time, that would mean me counseling her, but instead, watching her progress . . .
Stacey had leapt forward after her trauma. She’d turned toward her parents, not away. She’d reached for her faith instead of my bible of self-defense. She’d listened to everything I had to say, then done it all one better.
She should be writing a memoir, not me. She wasn’t just a survivor. As the saying went, she was a thriver.
Me, on the other hand, I remained a work in progress, a kidnapping survivor who lived in a one-bedroom apartment where the walls were covered in accounts of other missing persons cases. Again, Stacey had her faith in God; I had my determination never to be weak again. As I liked to tell the group, whatever worked for you.
I left the kitchen, turned on the news.
The first thing I saw was the red stripe streaming across the bottom of the screen.
Amber Alert.
Missing female teen.
I steeled myself as I always did when taking in such news. A new case, a fresh outrage. I wasn’t a shell-shocked, fresh-out-of-the-hospital kidnapping victim anymore. After the events of last year, surely I’d earned the right to call myself a professional.
But then I saw the name of the missing girl.
Roxanna Baez.
I nearly dropped my mug of coffee.
Sarah, I thought.
And I knew, beyond a doubt, that it had all started again.
Chapter 5
DO WE KNOW WHO PLACED the initial nine-one-one call?” D.D. asked Phil after Hector Alvalos had departed.
“The infamous Mrs. Sanchez, who also notified Hector of the shooting. Two uniformed officers already touched base. She said she was standing in her kitchen, making breakfast, when she heard what sounded like gunshots. She was just talking herself out of it when she heard a bunch more. She picked up the phone and called.”
“Where does she live?”
“Across the street. Before you ask—her kitchen is in the rear of the apartment, so she says she couldn’t see anything.”
“Mmm-hmm.” D.D. was already suspicious. “Any other calls come in to nine-one-one around this time?”
“Two more.”
“All right, let’s identify those neighbors, separate them out from the herd for further questioning, including Mrs. Sanchez. I want to know exactly what they heard and saw—or maybe didn’t see—so we can build a timeline of events. Detective Manley have any luck with vets?”
“Yes.” Phil flipped through his spiral notepad. “A Dr. Jo, who has a clinic near St. Elizabeth’s. According to her records, both dogs are up to date on their shots and vaccines. Boyd didn’t have them chipped as, given their age and eyesight, they’re not known for roaming. Sweet dogs, she says. Shy and noise-sensitive. Rosie’s the leader of the two; she only lost her eyesight recently. Blaze is in the habit of following her. So if something spooked Rosie—”
“Say, gunfire.”
“—she would bolt, Blaze would follow.”
“How would blind dogs run away?” D.D. asked. “I mean, how can they tell where to run to?”
“Apparently, on their own turf, you’d never know they were sight-challenged. Assuming the kids took the dogs for walks in the neighborhood . . .”
“They’d follow a trail they already knew. Front gate would have to be open for them to escape the yard, however.”
D.D. eyed the fence lining the rear of the property. Old and weathered, it was a good six feet tall and filled with solid wood slats, no doubt built for privacy. Two elderly Brittany spaniels would never be able to clear it, no matter how startled. In contrast, the chain-link fence encircling the sides and front of the tiny house was only waist-high—probably installed by Charlie Boyd just for the dogs. Again, she doubted two old spaniels could jump it, but the front gate didn’t have a lock. If it had been left ajar by their shooter, on his or her way up to the front door . . .
She wondered how Alex and Jack were doing with their mission. Were they, even now, proud owners of a puppy? Would it prefer lounging on the back porch on sunny days? Or would it be content hanging out in the house, say, eating D.D.’s considerable collection of shoes?
“I’m thinking the shooter came in the front door,” Phil was saying. “Walked straight into the family room, took out Charlie Boyd first, three shots to the chest.”
D.D. nodded. Given the position of Charlie Boyd’s body, that made sense. Poor guy had never even made it off the sofa. One second he’d been watching TV and the next . . .
“Shooter walks in through the front gate,” she concurred with Phil. “Doesn’t bother to close it behind him or her.”
“Because this is all going to be quick,” Phil agreed.
“Front door of the home is unlocked? Or someone let the shooter in?”
“Unknown. In this neighborhood, most people probably do keep their doors locked. But a sunny Saturday morning, maybe Roxy had just left with the dogs . . .”
“TBD,” D.D. agreed. And an important to-be-determined as the lack of a forced entry combined with Charlie’s seated position on the sofa implied that the shooter had walked right into the residence. A friend or family member strolling casually into the family room. Hey, Charlie . . .
She had many questions for the neighbors gathered on the street.
But for now, she continued: “After Charlie’s shot . . .”
“Shooter heads into the kitchen. Takes out Juanita Baez, who’s in the middle of unloading groceries and is just now having one of those ‘Did I hear what I think I heard?’ moments when boom, boom, boom, she’s down, too.”
“Leaves two targets,” D.D. said softly.
Phil sighed heavily. Father of four, married to his high school sweetheart—these kinds of cases took their toll. “Clearly, Lola and Manny have enough time to process what’s happening and move past denial.”
“Baby brother runs to his big sister’s room.”
“They try to hide.”
“Doesn’t work,” D.D. murmured, then frowned. “Shooter doesn’t have to go upstairs. In this scenario, the kids haven’t seen anything. Shooter could continue straight out the back door, cl
eaner escape, bigger lead time before the cops arrive.”
“Maybe one of the kids was on the stairs, saw something. Then the shooter had no choice but to chase after.”
“Or heard something,” D.D. tried out. “Say, Roxy’s voice talking to her coconspirator.”
“Assuming she had help.”
“In situations where the teenage daughter is in on the murder of her family, the girl rarely acts alone. There’s a druggie boyfriend, Mom and Dad hate him, but he’s the only one who ever understood her. Or a sadistic friend saying she’s gotta do equally evil things just to prove she belongs. Or maybe there were drugs in the house.” D.D. shrugged. “The friends knew and wanted them, hence taking out the parents, then Roxy’s siblings when they saw or heard too much. At this point, all we have is Hector Alvalos’s impressions of Roxanna Baez, and for the past five years he hasn’t even been part of the family. Kids hide enough from the parents they live with. It would be nothing for Roxy to keep Hector in the dark.”
“She doesn’t have a social media footprint,” Phil said.
“What?”
“No Instagram, no Snapchat, no Twitter, no hangout apps. Lola Baez, yes. But we can’t find any evidence of a social media life for Roxy.”
D.D. frowned. “That’s not normal.”
“To add to the puzzle, I just did a quick check: The computer browser was cleared at two A.M. last night, and substantial amounts of the hard drive wiped. So while we are seeing internet postings from Lola Baez, the only activity is from first thing this morning.”
“Someone’s trying to cover their tracks.” D.D. looked at Phil. “Most likely Roxanna Baez, whose lack of social media accounts indicates a certain level of paranoia right there.” She took it one step further: “Something happened in the middle of Friday night that was serious enough that Roxy did her best to delete all traces of computer memory. And then, what? First thing this morning, she works on erasing her entire family? Who is this girl?”
Phil could only shrug. “We’re beyond my detective-grade tech savvy. Computer geeks will have to take it from here.”
D.D. sighed heavily. Nothing against the tech geeks, who were brilliant, but more experts meant more time, the one resource they didn’t have right now.
“Any other devices we should know about?” D.D. asked.
D.D. and Phil had recently attended a class on home electronics and how they could be used to assist in a murder investigation. From the digital water meter that showed a guy using hundreds of gallons of water at three in morning—helping to prove the prosecutor’s argument that he was hosing blood off his back patio—to so-called smart appliances such as refrigerators, Amazon’s Echo device, et cetera, et cetera, which recorded short periods of time throughout the day, homeowners had placed themselves under more voluntary surveillance than most understood. Basically, that snapshot the smart fridge took to help you figure out what fruit to buy might also include a view of your ex-husband’s dead body, which you’d planned on burying later in the day with the shovel Alexa had ordered for you from Amazon.
Every time D.D. thought her job couldn’t get any weirder, it did.
“Nothing too high-tech,” Phil reported. “Just the smartphones, two home computers, and an Xbox.”
D.D. arched a brow at the mention of the gaming system.
“Already on it,” he assured her. Pedophiles loved to hide digital files—say, incriminating photos—as attachments to computer games, where the file sizes were already so huge and graphic-rich that it was hard to see the piggyback. Inside stereo speakers was also a favorite spot for stashing thumb drives. In this house, given this crime scene, they couldn’t afford to assume anything.
“I’ll talk to our three nine-one-one callers,” D.D. said. “See if I can determine at exactly what time the first shot was fired, then who might have seen something on the street. Given the position of Charlie Boyd’s body, the shooter had to have come through the front door, meaning we should be able to find a witness.”
“Or Roxy Baez did it herself, acting alone.”
“Gonna be a long day,” D.D. said.
“And probably an even longer night,” Phil agreed.
Phil walked back into the house while D.D. squared her shoulders and headed for the noise and chaos of the front street. Eyewitness testimony—with all its inherent strengths and weaknesses—here she came.
• • •
SIXTY-THREE-YEAR-OLD MRS. SANCHEZ HAD the kind of direct stare and firm voice D.D. liked in a witness. Yes, she’d heard shots. Was standing at her kitchen sink, washing the breakfast dishes, when she heard a distinct pop, pop, pop. Not terribly loud, but no mistaking the sound. She’d just set down the plate, was trying to figure out what to do next, when she heard more.
She’d picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1 immediately. Six minutes after nine. She’d looked at her watch to note the time.
No, she had not heard screaming or sounds of a commotion. Just the shots and then . . . nothing. She wasn’t even sure which place they’d come from. Across the street, she thought. But given the options, an entire row of houses, most of which had been turned into multiple units . . .
Yes, she’d peeked out from her window on the second story. But no, she hadn’t seen anyone running down the street. In fact, the sidewalks had been quiet for such a sunny morning.
Had she heard sounds of arguing or any disturbances earlier in the morning?
No, but then she spent most of her time in her kitchen, catching up on chores while watching her shows. Not much she could hear from back there.
How well had she known the family across the street?
Well enough. Charlie had come over last year when he’d noticed the railing of her front steps was hanging loose. Technically, her landlord was responsible for the repairs, but Charlie had volunteered to fix it himself, given how long landlords could take to get around to such things. He’d brought Manny with him, a chatty little thing. Sweet boy. Mrs. Sanchez had produced some cookies, and after that Manny had taken to showing up on his own in case she had any more sweets.
On nice days, she liked to sit out front, which is how she’d come to know Hector; Manny had dragged his father over for introductions. The younger girl started visiting, as well, especially if there was a chance of snacks. The oldest was shy—at least that’s what Manny said. Roxanna might wave and nod when out playing with the dogs, but she rarely crossed the street.
They seemed like a nice family. And no, Mrs. Sanchez had never noticed strangers coming and going at odd hours or vehicles pulling up for short periods of time before driving quickly away. Which already made them much better than the previous owners—the ones who’d lost the house to foreclosure, the ones whom Mrs. Sanchez had reported twice as probable drug dealers.
Were they really dead? All of them? Such a waste. Such a terrible, terrible waste. Who would do such a thing?
This time, D.D. was the one who didn’t have the answer. She left Mrs. Sanchez with her card and a request to call if she thought of anything else. Then D.D. moved on to the next 9-1-1 caller.
Mr. Richards lived in the building next to the Boyd-Baez family. He’d been in the basement, starting the laundry, when he’d heard the shots. At first, he’d thought it was the sound of a car backfiring. But then when he heard it again . . .
He knew immediately it had come from the house next door. By the time he’d run upstairs, though, and peered through the window, he hadn’t seen anything. Not on the street, or in the backyard, which he could see from his third-story unit.
What about the dogs? D.D. asked.
That made him think. Mr. Richards didn’t know the family well, but he was used to the sight of the two brown-spotted dogs sleeping on the back porch. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen them that morning. Not that he’d been paying much attention, he added hastily.
Had he heard the sound o
f arguing, any disturbances, maybe while he was eating breakfast? His apartment was much closer than Mrs. Sanchez’s.
Mr. Richards shook his head. He’d been gathering laundry, though, then lugging it all the way down to the basement washer and dryer. The morning had been quiet, just like any other morning, he reported. And then . . . He shrugged, spread his hands. As witnesses went, he’d heard more than he’d seen, and that was that.
D.D. thanked him for his time, moved on to caller number three.
Barb Campbell was a twenty-eight-year-old English teacher, currently house-sitting her parents’ rear apartment on the second floor of the building to the left of Charlie Boyd’s fixer-upper. She’d been reading when she’d heard the shots. Close enough, sharp enough, her first instinct had been to duck. It had taken her a few moments to realize the shots had come from the side of her apartment, and not out front.
She’d belly-crawled over to a window, peering out. Most of her view was obscured by the side of the Boyd-Baez residence. But looking diagonally, she could just make out a thin slice of the family’s backyard. And a foot disappearing over the rear wooden fence.
“What size?” D.D. asked immediately. “Male, female? Adult, child?”
“I don’t know. A foot. The sole mostly. Black? Maybe the bottom of a boot?”
“Did it have a heel? Say, fashionable versus functional tread?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe a tennis shoe? I was pretty rattled. I’d never heard gunshots before. Especially that close. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“How long did you watch?”
“Probably several minutes. You know, in case the person came back.”
“And . . .”
“Nothing.”
“No sounds of commotion from the residence on the other side of the fence, the property behind the Boyd-Baez house?”
“It’s not a residence. That building is office space. Maybe a dental clinic, real estate? Something like that.”
“What about right before the sound of shots fired? What did you hear then?”
