Aftermath

by Rachel Trautmiller

  The man—she was sure the large shape had to be male—rose to his feet. Her brain was screaming for her to get up.

  She couldn’t move. Tried to fumble for her gun. Met hard concrete and loose rock.

  The flick of releasing metal penetrated her fog. A glint of light ricocheted off of something shiny in his hands. It danced around as he wielded it with skill.

  Knife.

  An expletive raced through her mind. Had her scurrying backward in a crab walk until she reached the edge of her car. He advanced. She kicked out. Her foot met the solid wall of a thigh.

  A male groan filled the air as he grabbed the area. She rolled to her feet. Placed a hand on her bumper as she battled a wave of nausea.

  A shout came from nearby. Her assailant froze. And then he hobbled into the shadows.

  No. Not happening. “Stop. CMPD.” She stood. Staggered from her vehicle to Robinson’s. Took a full breath. Gunned it across the parking lot, toward the retreating figure.

  Dove toward him and found purchase on a leg. He staggered a few steps, but righted himself.

  Kicked at her with his free one. Missed.

  The pound of shoes on pavement caught her attention. Her name drifted to her from a distance. The buzzing of pain, in her body, took up the rest of her brain.

  The man brought the blade down toward her in a swooping motion. The sharp edge found purchase along her forearm. Fire burned up to her bicep. He repeated the motion.

  Amanda punched the back of his knee with all her might. With a yelp, he crumpled.

  She started to rise.

  And then Robinson and Davis rushed up, guns aimed. “FBI! Hands above your head.” When the man didn’t comply, Robinson pushed him to the ground. Ripped the knife from his grasp. And wrestled him into cuffs. “A.J.? You good?” He didn’t take his eyes from her attacker, hauling him off the ground in a rough jerk.

  “Yeah.” Minus the earthquake rattling everything. She stood. “We’ve got a body.”

  “Saw that.” His voice was terse.

  A man with dark hair and eyes stared back at them, anger splashed across his features. “This is police brutality.” A lisp accompanied the words, familiar.

  “Nobody’s gonna believe that fat lie. You assaulted a police officer. Left us a little present.”

  “I didn’t leave you sh—”

  Robinson jerked him forward.

  “I want my lawyer.” The words came from clenched teeth.

  Robinson began reading him his rights.

  Davis pocketed her weapon and whipped her jacket from her small frame. Had it around Amanda’s arm before she could protest. “You’re shaking.” Her voice was a whisper as her eyes connected with Amanda’s.

  Amanda slid her arm from the other woman’s grasp. Pain, like a million pointy blades, jackknifed through her entire system. “I’ll replace the jacket.”

  “Amanda.”

  A sparkle caught her eye a few feet from where she stood, at the edge of an adjacent street lamp light. She moved past Davis and picked it up. Noted the circular pendant. The May birthstone nestled in the corner.

  Exactly like Ariana’s.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  FOOTPRINTS TRACKED THE edge of the garage. Not one set, but two. The first, a pair of junior’s sneakers, the second, a slightly larger impression of heels and toes. And droppings of blood between the two, near the edge of the Bening garage.

  Amanda blocked out the chaotic string of noise around her, both Robinson’s crew and a handful of people from the precinct. And the panic lining Lilly’s voice as she spoke with her brother, ten feet to the left.

  Judging from the grim set of Robinson’s jaw, he was more agitated than the rest of his body let on. While Lilly wasn’t holding back, every emotion clear on her face.

  She couldn’t know everything they’d already been through tonight. The young girl they’d found and had Robinson’s team working on. And the man who might have done much more than slice open her arm and deliver a few blows had he and Davis not shown up.

  A man who insisted he had nothing to do with the young woman’s death. Who’d, so far, refused to talk until his lawyer arrived. And, even then might not have answers. If he did, Ariana wouldn’t be gone.

  A headache gained a foothold, starting at her right temple.

  What if Dentzen was right? She was flirting with a line that had nothing to do with their current case. With these missing and dead girls. And she’d spent her time chasing her tail.

  Lilly let out a cry. Covered her face with her hands as Robinson stood with a helpless expression taking root on his face. As if he believed he had to swallow all his feelings whole.

  The sight attacked something near Amanda’s heart, the silent, but emotionally charged ride over with him front and center in her mind. Beyond making promises to find Ariana alive—a career field no-no—there wasn’t much she could do or say. So, she’d settled for resting her hand, bandaged arm and all, on his shoulder, and a prayer.

  Dislodging the ball of lead taking up her airway.

  Still worked at it as she aimed all of her concentration on the tracks leading into the tree line she and McKenna had walked every summer of their childhood. Swatted a mosquito from the back of her neck.

  “You sure you don’t want to have someone look at that arm?” Jordan appeared beside her, his gaze flicking from the well-lit scene around them to the gauze she’d placed over butterfly band-aids, in the precinct bathroom.

  As if the act of mentioning it had alerted her nerve endings, a lick of prickly discomfort throbbed upward. “It’s not even that deep. You got the feed from the cameras?”

  “Yeah. McKenna’s going over it in the house.” He crossed his arms, a grim line set to his lips. “There’s a broken garage window. Bloody hand prints across the workbench and the cover of my Charger.”

  What? She tore her concentration from Lilly and Robinson and focused on her friend and colleague.

  “It’s a concerning amount—not like the owner was in a panic at all. More like—”

  “It was done with purpose.” Amanda headed toward the garage. Was careful to bypass any prints around the door and entered. “Do we have any video of this area?”

  “One camera. It faces into the woods with a slant that includes this door and window.”

  The smell of dust and dirt mixed with a faint metallic odor. The prints tracked from the edges of the window, as if someone had broken the glass and then placed both hands on either side of the frame to help pull themselves through.

  They continued across the workbench beneath it, a smudge near some of the tools hanging on the wall. And carried to the brown cover over Jordan’s 1968 Dodge Charger. The material sat half on the floor, on the passenger side, a red imprint on the clear window.

  Amanda raised her gloved hand over it, but didn’t touch. The print was perfect. Almost as if placed there on purpose.

  Notice me.

  “Beth said this guy is sending a message.” The words slipped from her mouth before she could stop them.

  The scuffle of Jordan’s shoes filled the silence. “You putting any eggs in that basket?”

  What choice did she have? “You know the Knight family, right?”

  “Uh…” Jordan fiddled with a vice grip.

  She walked toward him and the exit.

  Movement caught her eye, outside the window.

  Lilly’s pointer finger was aimed at Robinson’s chest, the look on her face similar to the day of their wedding, while he held still.

  As if prepared for a battle he had no chance of winning.

  No.

  “Get me Dexter’s number.” Amanda tore her gloves from her hands. Exited the garage. Was in front of the Robinson siblings in seconds.

  “We should never have come here.” Even in the stagnant evening air, Lilly’s voice carried. The shrill quality drew the attention of their crew. “Ariana wouldn’t be missing.”

  “I know you’re scared.” Robinson’s
voice managed to come across as soothing. As if he were dealing with a stranger instead of his sister. His gaze flicked to Amanda for half a second, then bounced back to Lilly.

  She shook her head. Threw her hand in the air. Brought an open palm down on her brother’s chest. “I should never have come.” She repeated the motion. “I should have never agreed to take care of—”

  “Stop.” Amanda stepped between them and grabbed Lilly’s upper arm. Pulled her forward and toward the house.

  The other woman opened her mouth.

  “Not another word until we get inside.”

  They climbed the steps and entered, the door slamming behind them.

  Lilly shrugged out of her grip. “You can’t possibly understand, Amanda.”

  “You’re worried sick. Beating yourself up for every encounter the two of you have had. Wondering how in the world she got past four adults without notice. Why you didn’t spend every minute watching her every move.”

  The rage on her face dissolved into bone-deep grief.

  “I’ve seen what you’re only imagining. You’re scared for Ariana. More scared then you’ve ever been in your life.” Amanda lowered her voice. Wasn’t sure the words were for Lilly only. “Lashing out at people won’t help. Least of all your brother. And giving away Jonas’ secret—.”

  “I would never.” She sagged against the wall behind her, thumb and forefinger pressed against her eyes.

  “They’ll find her, Lilly.” Jonas hobbled around the corner, his casted hand braced along the wall as he went. He looked better than he had in days. Color covered his face, the bruises still evident, but fading.

  Lilly wiped her eyes and pushed from the wall. Sucked a wet breath inward. “You shouldn’t get up by yourself. You could fall. Or tear something. Or…”

  Jonas pulled her into an awkward hug. “You’ve got the best team working for you. They’ll find her.” His eyes connected with Amanda’s, a silent don’t-prove-me-wrong in his gaze.

  ___

  IF BAKER JACKSON had been trying to cease their conversation, he’d won, in the most basic form. And with a long-ago ended fight, brought to life with careful words that had kept Beth awake well into the early morning hours.

  Larry Catsky ever share any of his case details with you?

  A shudder ran through her body. Had her stilling as if the man might appear out of thin air, from beyond the grave. Sit down next to her and…

  She shifted on the hard cot and pulled the photo from beneath her pillow. The predawn light and the prison’s dimmed lighting highlighted brown hair and eyes. A smile that made the photo come to life. Beth resisted the urge to trace it or wonder about the child’s—teenager’s life.

  Or the one she’d had prior to her disappearance.

  Something thick lodged in her throat.

  Amanda had seen her grab the picture on her way out. Hadn’t stopped her. Hadn’t said anything. Only watched her with something a kin to…

  Pity.

  A lethal dose of acidic bile charged up her throat. Had her rising to a sitting position and sucking in a couple of deep breaths.

  Beth wasn’t a kid anymore. Didn’t need anyone feeling sorry for her. Or taking her side. That ship had sunk before she’d hit her twenties. She didn’t need to wonder about a kid who didn’t know she existed. Wouldn’t claim her if life depended on it.

  Like mother, like daughter.

  Besides the encounter with Amanda and a brief shower that counted more as a sponge bath, she’d been allowed no out of cell liberties. As far as she could tell that was equal among all five women, for the last thirty-six hours and had no end in sight.

  Which meant she’d spend the remainder of her life right here. In this cell. Only to be moved to another, more confined cell in a matter of days, at the Central Prison.

  Maybe sooner.

  She stood. Stretched her neck. Made herself place the photo on the lumpy mattress. Dropped to her hands and toes in a plank. Pumped out push-ups as if she’d slept a full night. When the muscles in her arms and chest started burning, she kept going.

  She’d told Amanda that Paige didn’t belong in the group of missing girls. Did Beth really believe that?

  Or had she been too quick to discredit what her eyes saw, in hopes the information might change?

  Maybe, instead of blaming the past or other people for your actions—labeling yourself the victim of crappy circumstance and therefore right in every venture—you stand up and fight.

  What did that really mean, anymore? Fighting was a concept meant to harm another person, in order to stay safe, if necessary. It had nothing to do with a bunch of missing girls.

  Not in her world.

  A loud bang bounced through her cell. Made her jump up from the floor. A male CO—Hanes—entered the room. Ratcheted up the temperature inside a few degrees. Beth backed up a step. Didn’t allow herself the luxury of moving any farther.

  The light flicked on. Beth blinked through the temporary blindness.

  The female line-backer CO entered next. “Cell toss, hon.” She smacked her gum. “Hands on your head. You know the drill.”

  Beth complied. Knew where the opposite led. There’d been plenty of cell tosses in her stay, here.

  Never in the early morning hours, however. It couldn’t be later than three-thirty.

  A heavy dose of fear tangled her insides. The move to death watch was inevitable. A reality she’d pushed to the back of her mind labeled the end. And if she didn’t dwell on it, it couldn’t hurt her.

  Couldn’t seize the air going into her lungs. Nor make all her muscles freeze. It was another event, in a lifetime full of them. They’d get there. And she’d survive.

  Except, there wasn’t any surviving death.

  Under the rug.

  While Hanes flipped her pad and pencil off her small writing table in typical jerk-wad fashion, Line-Backer Babe patted her down. Came back empty handed.

  Hanes inspected around the toilet and then proceeded toward the bed. The picture glared like a beacon on the rocks bordering the ocean. He zeroed in on it faster than a kid notices candy left within eyesight.

  “I didn’t approve this.” He slapped the picture against his hand, then proceeded to shred it as if it were nothing more than a receipt he didn’t want getting into the hands of a bum.

  All while she fought the urge to beg him to stop. To scramble and pick up the pieces before their order was lost. A feature gone in a hasty and hateful tear.

  Like your actions tore lives apart?

  She didn’t move. Didn’t want to think about the words. Instead, she watched the remains of a child that should have been hers rain to the hard floor. Bit the tip of her tongue. The image was burned in her brain. She didn’t need a picture.

  “Thank you, Hanes. I’ll take it from here.” Dexter appeared in the doorway, tall and in command. He wasn’t wearing the standard issue prison uniform, but a charcoal grey V-neck that brought out his violet eyes. Dark circles lined the area beneath them, as if he hadn’t slept in a few days.

  The blank look was firmly in place. He stepped forward as the CO’s moved back with an almost choreographed grace, both of them watching her like a cat eyes a mouse. As if waiting for a misstep that would lead to her in chains.

  The toe of Dexter’s shoe rested on the broken parts of her daughter’s face. He bent down and picked them up. Inspected them as if they meant something to him.

  Same as Amanda had done. Instead of looking in from the outside and seeing the tornado swirling closer, Beth was inside. Protected in the cellar, for once.

  Even shelter could become a prison.

  As if he could read her mind, those violet eyes trapped her. “You’ve got an opportunity, here.”

  “Do I?” The words were part rasp as she struggled to keep her eyes on his. And away from the dilapidated paper in his hands.

  “Let’s take a walk.” He turned away from her and took a few steps before turning back. “I’d prefer not to use restrain
ts. Any reason I should rethink that?”

  ___

  ANY OTHER WALK, like the one she’d shared with Dexter, through the prison hallway to the dayroom, would have produced anxiety-riddled worms in her stomach. The need to flee the moment or fake it until she could do so. Even Beth’s deceased husband had caused the near-strangling emotion, when in close proximity, on occasion.

  With Dexter, there was a strange peace. And she knew better than to trust it.

  “So some girls are going missing. What am I supposed to do about it?”

  Dexter repositioned the laptop in front of her, then returned to a standing position beside her, at one of the tables in the dayroom. Folded his arms across his chest as if that would ensure her compliance.

  The skin on one forearm was raised and puckered in an irregular pattern. It led up past his elbow, to the short-sleeved shirt he wore.

  “You’re not in uniform.”

  Line Backer Babe shifted, her hand smoothing over her taser.

  “And you’re not cooperating.” Agitation bloomed on Dexter’s face. He pressed his lips together. “All you have to do is tell me how you located those girls.”

  “After the fact, you mean?” Even though the need to use the laptop, in front of her, was strong, she pushed it away. “I saw a news article about the girl who went missing in Jonas’ hometown. End of story.”

  He circled the table and sat down across from her. “That’s a lie. I watched you maneuver those girls as if shifting them into order.”

  Something heavy dropped into her stomach. She’d not had access to any news for a few days. Had something happened? “And two conversations in the past year-and-a-half make you an expert?”

  As if in prayer, he rested his bent elbows on the table and folded his hands in front of his face. That penetrating gaze locked on her as if he could divulge every secret without a word.

  Some strange sensation wiggled into the empty spaces. She didn’t look away. Had stood up to worse and survived. Except those things—the past—had been bad. And this was something else.

  “How old were you when you decided no one would ever be able to love you for you.”