Devil's Dawn (A Grant & Daniels Trilogy Book 2)

by Raine, Charlotte

  I walk into the room then pull it out. This box is at least a couple of decades old. Why would she keep something this old?

  Curiosity strikes me and I flip open the top.

  It's filled with old photographs. Many of them have two Caucasian adults with various children of different races. One of the little girls is always in the photos. I realize this is Teresa. The defiant look on the girl's face is similar to Teresa's determined expression now. She's adorable, though. Often she's wearing a small bow in her hair—with her hair styled in every possible way.

  It strikes me that there's no art on her walls. The walls themselves are a sterile shade of renter white. Hanging these photographs for her would be a better surprise than melted ice-cream cake and a sterling silver bracelet with her birthstone—opal—set inside it.

  I'll just need to pick up frames and hanging wire. I know Teresa has a compact, well-stocked toolbox in her front closet, so I won't need to stop by my house. I'll have it all set up before she gets back from work, and she can finally know what it's like to have a place that feels like home.

  Chapter Four

  Teresa, 2015 (Monday afternoon)

  AS MUCH AS I enjoy working in the field—all the adrenaline pumping through my veins and the simple fact that I am not stuck behind my desk—I can't deny the comfort I get from being in the Anchorage office with my computer in front of me and my L-shaped stainless steel desk surrounding me. I suppose it's because I spend more time here than at my condo.

  My phone vibrates. I glance at a message from my brother Peter.

  Happy Birthday, sis

  Well, three of my siblings have remembered—two are related to me through adoption, and one is related to me through blood. That leaves two blood siblings and one adoptive sibling that either forgot or chose to not contact me. I like it better that way. Who wants to celebrate turning thirty-six years old? I might as well celebrate the fact I can't run as fast as I used to and my memory already seems to be fading on me.

  The day has only gotten worse since I remembered it was my birthday as I brushed my teeth this morning. Work is cooperating by being its usual demanding self, but I can't fully sink into my workday because Aaron has been texting me on and off all day…and it's not even noon. More so than usual, it seems, and, well, his usual has gotten a bit…unusual. Every day, he wants to know how work is going, and to talk about what's happening at the police station. Then he wants to know when we're going to get together next and, goddamn, the sex is still awesome, but some days, I just want a break to do laundry, veg, and maybe sleep, which was a rare treat even when I didn't have a boyfriend, and now it's—

  Did I just call him my boyfriend? Is he my boyfriend? Have we reached that level already? Are a couple of months the normal jump from having sex to being in a relationship? Is there supposed to be some kind of talk about if we're entering a relationship or not? When Nathan and I began dating, it was very official—he gave me his class ring and asked me if I would be his girlfriend. I said yes. It was very formal like the rest of our relationship continued to be. But, he was the only serious relationship I really had, so I'm not sure how this is supposed to go. Does it just happen steadily and there's no sudden change?

  Do I even want this?

  Yes.

  Maybe.

  I want to keep Aaron around—he's funny, he's cute, he's hot as hell, and he's reliable—but being in a relationship takes a lot of commitment and my relationship with Nathan drained me. Aaron isn't Nathan, but it seems like all relationships are like that, which is probably why the divorce rate is so high.

  I only have a few minutes to eat lunch. I know Stephen, my previous FBI partner—now in Seattle—always eats his lunch at one. I click his name on my computer video-calling app, Speak Easy. While I wait for him to answer the call, I open my food container. I always pack the same salad—Romaine lettuce, croutons, olives, mushrooms, slices of chicken breast, feta cheese, and lemon juice. I also packed some leftover lo mein, but I'm feeling too bloated to eat it. Maybe it will be my birthday dinner.

  As soon as I take a bite, Stephen's face flickers onto my screen.

  "Hey, Teresa," he says with a small smirk. "What's eating you?"

  "Your bad jokes," I mutter, but I can't help but smile back at him. I hear a small scream in the background.

  Stephen glances over his shoulder, and says, "Jamie and Alice, your father is talking to a friend. Can you go—Jamie Jackson, do not hit your sister! Do you need to sit in timeout for a while? …Then don't do that again. Can you go ask your mother about what we're having for dinner tonight? Okay. Thank you."

  He turns back to me. "I bet you can't wait to have kids."

  "I can wait…about six decades."

  "Well, that would be a painful birthing process for a ninety-six-year old." He grins again, wide enough that I can see his slightly crooked tooth beside his two front teeth. "By the way…happy birthday."

  I huff at him. "I thought we agreed that you would never say that to me."

  "I agreed to do that because you threw a stapler at me the first time I did it," he says. "Behind this screen and about a million miles away from you…I feel a bit more secure."

  "I wouldn't be so sure," I tell him. "I have all the resources of the FBI. Give me a few hours, and I'll be there to throw something heavier than a stapler at you."

  He raises his arms in surrender. "All right, all right. Happy unbirthday. Like Alice in Wonderland."

  "What are you even doing at home?"

  "The Seattle office lets me work at home," he says, shrugging.

  "Really?"

  "No." He laughs. "Alice had a bit of a temperature, so I took the day off. The Bureau doesn't mind. We just shut down a drug trafficking ring that used children as mules, so you know…everyone is a bit burnt out."

  "Well, your latest case sounds more interesting than mine was. I had a money laundering case. A group of guys was using a tanning bed business to deposit their dirty money and claim that they received it through legitimate means. It was hard to prove they didn't get it legitimately, but I found their weakest link and got him to confess."

  "You always do," he says. "Maybe you should go work at Guantanamo Bay."

  "Maybe if you get sent there, I will."

  He laughs again. "You are a treasure, Teresa."

  Suddenly, a blond woman with pretty blue eyes appears on the screen. "Hey, Teresa."

  "Hey, Gina."

  Stephen has been married to Gina since he was twenty years old. Apparently, both their families had planned on the marriage failing, but it has been going strong for twelve years.

  "So, how's your new partner?" Stephen asks. "You don't seem to be enjoying the job as much as you used to. Is it because of him?"

  I stare at him. "Are you kidding? Why would you think that?"

  "I'm fairly certain that you hated me when we first met," he says. He leans over and kisses Gina on the cheek.

  That is one reason I would want a relationship—when you just have a sexual relationship with someone, you don't get the innocent kisses, which say so much without speaking a word.

  "You were constantly trying to pry into my personal life," I say. "And you said happy birthday to me. So, yes, I wanted to kick your ass."

  "Well, that's a form of love, too."

  "I don't really know much about Donovan. We haven't been working together long."

  "It's been a few months. Maybe you should get to know him. Ask him out to dinner. It's your birthday. You should go out to dinner on your birthday. Unless you already are, that is. Did you tell your county chief of police that it's your birthday?"

  "No," I snap. "You know I don't celebrate my birthday, and if he knew about it, he would go above and beyond. And I don't count those times you told the waiters it was my birthday as a celebration."

  "You want me to call Donovan and ask him out to dinner for you?"

  "No."

  "I will."

  "And if you do, I will fly down to Seattl
e, find that ugly purple tie of yours, and strangle you with it."

  "Love you, too, Ter. Happy birthday. I mean it."

  I watch Stephen and Gina kiss one more time before the screen goes black. He's right in a weird way. I've been too busy sleeping with Aaron these past couple months that I haven't gotten to know my partner better, and I should definitely know the person who could save my life someday.

  And Donovan doesn't know it's my birthday, so he won't decide to tell the waiters at whatever place we go to eat that it's my birthday, so there's a plus.

  I get up and walk around until I find Donovan seated at a microfiche reader going through newspaper articles related to our current case—he likes to reference those in the case files, for completeness sake. He rubs his bald head as if the motion could bring him luck.

  "Hey, Donovan," I say, and he turns to me. "What are you doing tonight after work?"

  "Um…" He blinks several times, probably to help his eyes adjust. "I'm not sure. I haven't really thought about it. I'll probably just have a date with my DVR and whatever has recorded on there for the last two weeks. Why? Do you need help with something?"

  "Do you want to grab dinner after our six o'clock meeting with Rhoda Chen?" I ask. Rhoda Chen is our supervisor. She's pretty laid-back, but I have a feeling she could get downright vicious if I got on her bad side.

  "Sure," he says. "Do you have any restaurant in particular you want to go to?"

  "Somewhere with a good variety of alcohol."

  "I think they call those bars."

  "I knew you'd understand," I say.

  He shakes his head at me, but if I'm going to celebrate my birthday, I'm going to celebrate it like I have a twenty-one-year-old liver.

  Chapter Five

  Sarah, 2015 (Monday afternoon)

  DOCTOR JORDAN WALSH clicks her pen twice before she scribbles something down on her pale-yellow legal pad. It must be a strange habit she 's gained after a decade of dealing with crazy people, because we've been talking for almost forty-five minutes now and she does it every time before she writes.

  I like to imagine drilling the pen through her ear and seeing if she can hear the clicking noise when it's inside her head.

  "So, you think Mason wasn't involved in your kidnapping, even though the police believe he was?" she asks.

  "Well, yeah. I mean…the two guys who kidnapped me…they were both shot and they died. Dad says Detective Grant was a suspect originally before they shifted the blame to Mason. What if they were just trying to find a scapegoat? What if Detective Grant did kill the two kidnappers, but he didn't want that on his record?"

  "That seems very…suspicious of you. You don't believe the police's version of events at all?" she asks.

  I shrug. I don't want to seem paranoid, but maybe all of the conspiracy theorists are right. Maybe everything in life—the media, the politicians, the police—are all trying to get us to believe the lie that we aren't just marionettes in their puppet show.

  "I think he was more involved with my kidnappers in other affairs than he's let on, but I can understand why he wouldn't want our father to know that," I say.

  "Why do you think you understand that, Sarah?"

  "Because Dad is…Dad."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  I know Dr. Walsh has reviewed all of the testimonies in the case against Mason, even the plea made by Wendy Norris to consider his "troubled relationship" with our father as a mitigating factor. I know Dr. Walsh is just itching for me to say that my father beat me or abused me in some other way, but I don't intend to give her what she wants—at least not yet.

  "He likes to make a big deal out of everything." I try to get my voice to portray restrained vulnerability.

  Doctor Walsh leans forward, taking my bait like the guppy fish she is. "Can you expand on that?"

  I shake my head then lower it, so she can't see my eyes. I wrap my arms around my waist, making myself seem like I am closing myself off from the conversation.

  "Well, I think we've done enough for today," she says. "You did very well, and I think we made some breakthroughs. Like I told you at the end of our previous session, you can call me any time of the day or at night if you need help."

  Debbie snorts. She's leaning against the bookcase that is full of leather-bound books. The Science of Behavior. Personality Disorders and the Gene Game, Antisocial or Asocial? "That seems like a fatal weakness for a shrink," Debbie says. "You might as well put an ad in the newspaper asking all sociopaths to visit your house."

  I almost nod before I catch Dr. Walsh staring at me.

  "Did you see something over there?" she asks, glancing at the bookshelf.

  "Oh, no. I was just reading the titles of your books. Have you written any of them?"

  "No, no." She shakes her head, smiling. Flattery gets people to lower their defenses and suspicions every time. "I've written a few papers for scientific journals, but not a book yet. Someday, hopefully, I'll get around to it."

  "Well, I'll get going, so maybe you can start thinking about it." I gather my new Wyatt High School jacket—my old one was ruined while being in the mine—and my new black and white backpack, which has geometric patterns—my mother bought it as a sorry you were kidnapped gift. "Maybe you could even write my story."

  "That would be an interesting book," she says. "The girl who survived three days in an abandoned mine."

  "I would be the first one to buy it." I flash her a smile because she doesn't know the second half would be called, and then she killed everyone who thought they were the Big Bad Wolf and she was Little Red Riding Hood.

  Fuck the red hood. I'm shedding it, killing the wolf, and wearing its fur to show everyone that I'm the beast they all should have feared.

  * * *

  I park my truck half a mile from Brianna's house in the entrance of a walking trail. It's hidden from the road by a row of Sitka spruce trees. I change into some clothes I bought from a thrift store in Anchorage. There's black leggings, a long-sleeved black shirt, and men's boots that are about three sizes too big for me. I was originally looking at boots that were only a size larger than what I would usually wear, but I figured I should get something much larger, so if the police find footprints, they'll automatically start looking for an adult male.

  I grab my duffle bag, which holds my father's rifle, and begin walking through the woods toward Brianna's house. Sometimes Debbie walks beside me. Sometimes she falls behind. Other times, she seems to flicker ahead of me, barely as visible as a hologram.

  Once I get within view of Brianna's driveway, I settle behind her family's firewood rack. There isn't much wood there—I'm not sure if they haven't begun to chop down trees yet or if they have already burned through a large portion of it. It doesn't matter. It gives me a good place to level my rifle without my arms getting tired.

  After a little while, Brianna flies into the driveway—running late, just as I expected her to be—with one hand on the wheel and one hand on her phone as she texts like mad. She's still texting as she gets out of the car, lingering with her hand on the door as she smiles at something she wrote. Debbie hums the national anthem as I wrap my finger around the trigger.

  Brianna's white-crystal phone goes flying when the bullet goes through the left side of her face, between her jaw and cheekbone. She spins, her purple-and-white plaid skirt flaring, and looks toward me when the second bullet smashes into the bridge of her nose.

  I can hear Debbie's harsh breathing in my ear. "I don't think she saw you."

  "I'm not sure." I set the rifle against the woodpile and stand up. I glance down at my hands, and I'm amused to find they aren't shaking at all. Is it really that easy to take a life?

  I don't rush back to my truck. I don't need to hurry. I don't need to run or panic because there's nobody home at the Culls' house, and their beagles bark all the time anyway. Add the fact that it's hunting season, and I've chosen the perfect time to commit murder.

  I take a meandering, indirect route
back to where I parked my truck, and a different route than the direct one I'd taken down the hill to get to the house

  In my opinion, Mason didn't know how to plan, and that's why he was so fucked up and his ass was in jail, even if he really was innocent, like he says he is. But if there's one thing I'm good at, it's planning. I've created a list in my head of all the people who have hurt me and the time frame I'd need to kill them in order to avoid raising too much suspicion. The police and the FBI will come down eventually; I'm sure, because my list is absolutely long enough that it will attract the attention of the federal government. But if they get in the way, I'll simply eliminate them, too. I won't ever be scared into submission again.

  I get to my truck and throw my duffle bag, with the rifle, into the under-seat storage compartment. When I slide into the driver's seat, I realize Debbie has been silent, walking behind me the whole way back. I start the truck and change into my cheerleader uniform—and stuff the thrift store clothes back into the extra large Ziploc bag I'd stashed them in. I'll burn them later.

  "What's your issue?" I ask.

  "What makes you think I have any issue?" Debbie checks herself out in the side view mirror, rubbing in her lip gloss with her fingertip.

  "Half the time I can't get you to shut up," I say. "It makes it very hard to appear normal when you keep talking. Doctor Walsh almost caught us today."

  She huffs, slamming her back into the seat. "I agree that Mason was a poor planner and that's why he got caught. But he's not innocent. I mean, come on. You've seen him. He's a manipulator, just like you. He's the one who originally wanted you to kill Brianna, which was completely against your original plan to only kill those who have hurt you—"