Devil's Dawn (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 2)
Page 1
Devil’s Dawn
A Grant & Daniels Romantic Suspense
Charlotte Raine
Contents
Copyright
Authors Notes
Epigraph
1. Sarah, October 2015 (2 weeks ago)
2. Sarah, 2015 (Monday afternoon)
3. Aaron, 2015 (Monday afternoon)
4. Teresa, 2015 (Monday afternoon)
5. Sarah, 2015 (Monday afternoon)
6. Aaron, 2015 (Late Monday afternoon)
7. Aaron, 2015 (1 month ago)
8. Sarah, 2015 (Late Monday afternoon)
9. Junior, 2015 (Early Monday night)
10. Teresa, 2015 (Monday night)
11. Aaron, 2015 (Monday night)
12. Teresa, 2015 (Monday night)
13. Aaron, 2015 (Monday night)
14. Nick, 2015 (Monday night)
15. Aaron, 2015 (Monday night)
16. Nick, 2015 (Late Monday night)
17. Sarah, 2015 (Late Monday night)
18. Aaron, 2015 (Tuesday morning)
19. Sarah, 2015 (Tuesday afternoon)
20. Nick, 2015 (Late Tuesday night)
21. Aaron, 2015 (Wednesday afternoon)
22. Nick, 2015 (Wednesday afternoon)
23. Sarah, 2015 (Late Wednesday afternoon)
24. Aaron, 2015 (Thursday morning)
25. Aaron, 2015 (Thursday morning)
26. Sarah, 2015 (Early Thursday afternoon)
27. Sarah, September 2015 (1 month ago)
28. Sarah, September 2014 (1 year ago)
29. Sarah, 2004 (11 years ago)
30. Aaron, 2015 (Thursday afternoon)
31. Aaron, 2015 (Late Thursday afternoon)
32. Junior, 2004 (11 years ago)
33. Sarah, 2015 (Late Thursday night)
34. Judge Latham, 2015 (Late Thursday night)
35. Sarah, 2015 (Late Thursday night)
36. Aaron, 2015 (Late Thursday night)
37. Aaron, 2015 (Friday morning)
38. Teresa, 2015 (Friday morning)
39. Teresa, 2015 (Friday afternoon)
40. Aaron, 2015 (Sunday morning)
41. Sarah, 2015 (Monday afternoon)
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Charlotte Raine
Copyright © 2015 by Charlotte Raine
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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This book is the second installment in the Grant & Daniels romantic suspense . You should read MIDNIGHT SUN before this book, and BLOOD MOON after.
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When I have a little money, I buy books; and if I have any left, I buy food and clothes.
Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus
Chapter One
Sarah, October 2015 (2 weeks ago)
THE VISITATION ROOM at Anchorage Correctional Complex is always full of burly men and tiny women—their mothers, their girlfriends, occasionally a daughter or son. I sit in a metallic chair with my hands clasped together on the metal table. As I continue to scan the area, I wonder if everything is metal because the guards are afraid a prisoner could break off a piece of something wooden or plastic, and use it as a weapon.
The door opens; a guard enters and holds it. Mason's wheelchair squeaks as he rolls up to the table. His face is etched with annoyance as he stops in front of me.
"Is something wrong?" I ask.
"Well, I'm in prison," he snaps. "And the concierge service isn't that great."
"I'm sorry."
"Tell me you have some good news," he says. "Did you do what I told you to do?"
I tilt my head. "No."
"What?" His tone critical. "Why wouldn't you do it? I've led you this whole way. I sent you to the right people to get the unregistered guns, I told you to get the burner phone, I told you how to get rid of any evidence…I practically made you into this new person."
"I know. You told me how to manipulate people, too. You told me I should convince them that I'm weak and vulnerable."
"Which worked!" He spits out.
One of the guards takes a step toward us.
Mason lowers his voice. "What is the problem with the way I've been coaching you?"
"Do you think I'm stupid?" I whisper. "You wanted me to kill Brianna—whose eyewitness account is what makes the whole case against you. Otherwise, the police have no connection between you and Kenny Rodinger and Pete Sevak."
"I didn't want you to kill Brianna. I thought you wanted to kill her," his voice low as he snarls. "For the last year, you ranted about her and how she couldn't mind her own business."
"You didn't think…" I lower my voice more. "…that I would want to kill Dad first?"
"Everyone wants to kill him." He growls. "But if you go straight for him, everyone will be looking at you or your mom."
I narrow my eyes. "I can't trust you. For all I know, you'll turn me in the moment I do something—just to get a shorter sentence. I'm not going to kill her. I can't. She's innocent. I was messed up after the kidnapping. I said things I didn't mean."
He shakes his head at me. "I can't believe you."
"I think I should go."
He crosses his arm over his chest. "Good luck being a cheerleader and acting like you're the same as everyone else."
"Good luck with prison."
I stand up. As I turn around, I can't hide a smile. Mason—the poster child of self-destruction and the symbol of every parent's secret nightmare that their children have the potential for evil—is locked up in a cell for the murder of my kidnappers and for playing a part in my kidnapping. I doubt he was part of it—not because I believe he loves me, but because subtlety isn't his style. But, the idea of someone with so much potential locked in a cell and trapped in a wheelchair is amusing to me. I'm certain Detective Grant and Agent Daniels—the two who were working on the case and arrested him—are pleased. They've told me Mason convinced my kidnappers to abduct and hide me inside an abandoned mine so he could extort enough money from our father. Then, after they messed up and Detective Grant caught them, Mason killed my kidnappers. The whole thing just doesn't make sense to me—Mason wouldn't think of kidnapping to raise money. He doesn't have the patience to do it.
I, however, have plenty of patience, and my plan is slowly unfolding. Mason has always been paranoid about the news being biased and brainwashing people into believing what the government wants people to believe, so he avoids it as much as possible. He'll never know if the news talks about the brutal murder of Brianna Cull…after I put a bullet in her head.
Chapter Two
Sarah, 2015 (Monday afternoon)
I HAVE A NEW MOTTO since I was kidnapped and left to die: homo homini lupus est. I found it while researching Ancient Roman theaters, which led me to Plautus, a playwright from those times, who wrote a similar phrase in his comic play Asinaria. It means, "Man is a wolf to his fellow man." Plautus originally stated "lupus est homo homini, n
on homo, quom qualis sit non novit," which translates to "one man to another is a wolf, not a man, when he doesn't know what sort he is."
Personally—I don't care how smart Plautus was—I disagree with his second part. Man is always a wolf—it doesn't matter how well you know him or her, there is some primal being inside scratching to come out. It wants to feast. It wants to return to its ancestors' times in the wild and do anything it wants without caring about societal rules or expectations.
But then society puts him or her into prison, like my brother, and the wolf is even more feral since it's been locked inside a tiny cage.
I jump into my Toyota Tundra. My father had wanted me to have a sturdier vehicle since my kidnapping, though my Cadillac Escalade was quite sturdy by itself and did not help me at all when I was knocked out by Kenny Rodinger and Pete Sevak. I lock the doors just in case then pull out my phone. I click on my scheduling app Time to Organize!
12:30 pm–1:30 pm Appointment with Dr. Walsh
2 pm–3:30 pm Cheerleading practice
4 pm–10 pm Work
One of the perks of living in a small town like Wyatt is everything is close by. Dr. Walsh's office is within fifteen minutes of Wyatt High School, and Wyatt High School is within ten minutes of my job at The Charcoal Grill.
"What about Brianna?"
I turn to see Debbie, my half sister.
"I don't have time for you right now," I mutter, starting my truck.
"Well, you have your whole schedule planned out and it looks like you do have time. There's about fifteen minutes in between your shrink meeting and your bimbo gymnastics, and then there's twenty minutes in between there and the cow slaughterhouse that you call work. It will work out great because you'll have an alibi no matter what. If someone asks where you were, you say you were still at the shrink's place, or you were icing your knee after a rough practice of jumping up and down."
"You don't think it's a bit risky?"
"I think it's worth it." She pushes the seat back, and then sets her feet on the glove compartment. "Imagine how Junior is going to freak out when he finds his niece shot to death beside her car with a hunting rifle, just like Zoë LaPonte was killed eleven years ago. He'll think his God has come down to smite him and he'll be right. The god just happens to be you."
"How do you even know he'll be the one to find her?" I ask.
"Because her parents both work in Anchorage. When she doesn't show up for work, he'll go looking for her," she says. Her feet are in white flip-flops and she wiggles her toes. It's way too cold for her to be wearing flip-flops.
"So…you think I should do it after my meeting with Dr. Walsh?" I ask. "Brianna will be getting ready to go to work at The Charcoal Grill. She doesn't keep her waitress uniform at Saint Anne's. She rushes home from school every day, strips out of her school uniform, and changes into it."
"Yeah. And she always forgets to get out of her royal purple uniform tights." Debbie's lip curls up in a sneer. "Those tights combined with the red lipstick she slathers on and the pink fifties-style waitress uniform, which is way too tight on her curves, makes her look like a blow-up doll. So, when you shoot her, you'll just be giving some guy one extra hole."
"That's gross." I shake my head at her. "She's always late to work, too. She's lucky the manager is her uncle and her grandfather is the founder of the restaurant. That will at least give us a longer time before anyone finds her."
"Just make sure no one hears the shot or could give someone an exact time of her death…you won't have an alibi in between your appointment and your bimbo practice."
"Nobody will care if they hear a gunshot. It's hunting season."
"Good point," she says. "You're getting smarter."
"After it's done, I'll stop by the restaurant to pick up shakes for the team. So, then my alibi will be tighter."
"Wow," Debbie says. "You're turning into quite the predator."
"A wolf," I correct. "And I always was one. People assumed I was a rabbit, and I believed them when they told me I was one."
She grins at me and hits her fist against the center console. "Let's go, girl. We have a show to put on."
I flinch as someone knocks on the door. Cassidy Fields is on the other side, standing on her tiptoes to see inside the truck. I roll down the window.
"Hey, Sarah," she says. "I didn't mean to scare you. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, sorry. It's just…you know…loud noises."
She nods. Everyone at school knows about the kidnapping—most of them participated in the search parties. It's annoying when everyone is feeling sorry for you all of the time, but at least I've been able to use it to get out of tests and choose not to hang out with people I've hated my whole life.
"I thought maybe you were listening to music. You looked like you were really enjoying yourself and singing along to something. I just thought it was great that you looked happy for the first time since…the incident."
The incident where I was taken against my will, left to die for three days, and not one of you fuckers could find me?
"No, I was just talking to—" I turn to Debbie, but then I remember she only makes herself visible to me. "—I was just talking to myself."
Cassidy raises both her eyebrows. "Right. Of course. Sorry to, uh, interrupt you. I gotta go. My mom wants me to…pick up some groceries. See you later, Sarah."
She half-runs away from my truck. I close the window and turn back to Debbie, who smirks as she watches Cassidy dash away.
"She thinks you're crazy," she says.
I shift my car into drive. "Well, she's right."
Chapter Three
Aaron, 2015 (Monday afternoon)
WHILE I WAS FINISHING my report on the Mason Latham file—which the media, in all of their yellow journalism glory, referred to him as having the charm of Ted Bundy and the self-righteousness of an Ancient Greek god—I found Teresa's photocopied driver's license in her report as a witness. October 26th. I repeated that in my head until it became ingrained in my brain. And now the day has come.
She gave me a key to her condo in Anchorage—it was a bit of a compromise, really, since she's always working and I never get to see her—so I unlock her door then step in. Her condo always reminds me of houses that are for sale—impeccably clean, zero sign of anyone living there except an occasional receipt left on the counter or a coat hanging on a chair, and there's no scent in the house except her room, which has her faint scent of jasmine and vanilla. I know it comes from the lotion she uses, and the memories of her lathering the lotion makes me want to caress the smooth texture of her skin until she melts in my hands with that soft purr she makes when I've made her happy.
I set my present for her and the ice cream cake down on the table, and then sit down in a chair. I'm sure she arrived at work, finished writing some files, and she will head back home to relax for her birthday. Maybe she won't want to and someone in her office will force her to leave, clapping her on the back and telling her to enjoy turning thirty-six.
I watch the ice-cream cake begin to melt as twenty minutes pass by. I pick it up then walk to her kitchen. When I open her refrigerator door, all I find is beer, Romaine lettuce, mushrooms, slices of chicken breast in a baggie, feta cheese, and lemon juice. I put the ice-cream cake away, hoping she comes home soon because the cake won't last long in the fridge, and I don't think it will fit in her small freezer.
I sit back down. And wait.
Patiently.
Kind of.
I lean my head back and try to take a nap, but annoyance is pulsing under my skin and I can't shake it off. Is she really working right through her birthday? It's not like she works an entry-level job and she can easily be replaced. If she asked for one day off, I'm certain her supervisor would allow it. After the fire from a few months ago—when six people died—you would think she valued her life more than ever and understands that it's worth celebrating at least once a year.
I read her copy of the newspaper—which judging from the
neatly bundled pile in her recycling bin—she never has time to read. More death, more murders, more illness, more politics. I throw the newspaper back onto the pile, and then move it so it's perfectly in line with the rest of them. I unlock my phone's screen and go to my text messages. There are old messages from my Dad, Nick, and Teresa. I click on Teresa's messages and type in a new one.
Hey. How's work?
I don't want her to know yet that I know it's her birthday. I think she needs a good surprise right now. While our relationship in the last few months has been good, it's also hit that point where we're just coasting along—we're in that place between the excitement of dating and the heavy commitment of a relationship. I think we're both a bit hesitant to jump into a relationship after her divorce and the death of Becky, my wife.
I glance around her condo. If I pictured a sociopath, this might be what their living space looks like. Not that I think Teresa is a sociopath, but it does conjure the image of someone who's trying to not leave fingerprints and is prepared to leave at a moment's notice. I've never been alone here for an extended period. I have to admit my detective mind is a bit curious. Does she have any secrets I don't know about. Does she secretly love reality TV and has a stack of DVDs with contestants vying for the love of one man hidden somewhere? Does she take items from the FBI's evidence room in order to keep a memento from each one of her cases?
My phone vibrates. I pick it up and find a text from Teresa.
Busy. In a meeting. Turning phone off. Sorry :/
I set my phone back down then begin pacing through her apartment. Maybe I should just go back home.
As I pace, I glance into her bedroom. A small box is peeking from under her bed. As I step closer, I see it's an old shoebox for leather boots. There's nothing else in the room out of place—there's no comb on the dresser and even her lotion is tucked away in her bedside table. But for some reason, this box wasn't pushed all the way under. Was she in a rush when she put it back?