by T. R. Ragan
If only the snake had bitten him instead, he said, over and over again.
If only.
Negligence. Accident. It wasn’t her job to judge or tell her audience how to feel. Her job was to tell the story. Be fair. Let readers make up their own minds.
Her phone buzzed. The screen showed DAD. She picked up the call and said hello.
“Are you at home?” he asked.
“No. I’m at work.”
“Gramma Sally passed away last night. She died in her sleep.”
Her heart sank. Gramma Sally was her mom’s mother. “Is Mom okay?”
“She’s fine.”
It helped to know Gramma hadn’t suffered, and yet guilt for not being there for her weighed heavily. When Gramma Sally had moved from Florida to River Rock to live with Sawyer and her parents, she’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Despite her failing health, she’d lived another seventeen years, and made it to eighty-three. The thought of never seeing her again left an ache in Sawyer’s chest. Gramma had taught Sawyer that life wasn’t always fair and people needed to learn to suck it up. Be brave. Be strong. When life gets tough, you need to get tougher, she used to say.
“I’ll let you go,” her father said into the silence. “The funeral will be held at the River Rock Chapel on Friday at one p.m.”
“Why so soon?”
“You know how your mother is.”
She did know. Mom couldn’t sit still or relax. Everything needed to be done yesterday. Mom and Gramma Sally had never gotten along. No doubt Mom was of the belief that the sooner Gramma was buried six feet under, the better.
Sawyer’s mom had always been stubborn and strong, passionate about the Rotary Club she’d formed. Admired by many but liked by few. Sawyer had always wondered if Mom’s behavior was the reason Dad locked himself in his office.
“Are you still there?” Dad asked.
“Yes. I’ll come down for the funeral,” Sawyer said. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Have a safe drive. We’ll see you soon.”
Sawyer’s chest ached. Gramma Sally was gone.
She had mixed feelings about returning to River Rock, but it was only a few hours’ drive, and she wanted to pay her respects to Gramma and say goodbye.
Her cell buzzed, letting her know she had an incoming text.
Sean Palmer wanted to see her in his office.
Although they worked in the same building, Sawyer never got the opportunity to see or speak to Sean Palmer. His office was on the floor above with a view of the American River. In his late sixties, he possessed flyaway white hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. He was fond of black turtlenecks, wool jackets, and eyeglasses with square, black frames. He always smelled like his last cigar: earthy, woody, sometimes fruity and nutty.
His office door was open, but she knocked anyway.
His back was to her. He waved her inside, and after he finished what he was doing, he pivoted around in his chair and reached a hand toward her, palm up.
It took her half a second to realize he wanted the photos she’d taken inside Kylie Hartford’s apartment. Something bubbled at the pit of her stomach as she reached around inside her pants pocket before she realized the USB was in her left hand. It irked her to know he had that effect on her.
“Relax. Have a seat.”
While he worked on uploading the digital files to his computer, she settled down and took note of his work space. On the shelf behind him were rows of fiction and nonfiction novels, starting with Killings by Calvin Trillin and ending with The Journalist and the Murderer by Janet Malcolm. Also in the work space were an ancient police scanner, a printer, and stacks of files. Framed pictures of Palmer posing with various local celebrities covered the walls. At the beginning of his career, he’d won the Livingston Award for Young Journalists when he covered criminal justice and the death penalty. He’d won the Investigative Reporters and Editors Award in 2007, and myriad other medals and certificates for his outstanding work.
Pulling her back to the moment, Palmer said, “Interesting choice of photos you took.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over a slight paunch.
She wasn’t sure what to think about that comment. “In a good way or bad way?” she asked.
He smirked. “Both.” A painstakingly long pause followed before he added, “I remember you.”
She lifted a brow.
“Journalism. CSUS. Correct?”
She nodded.
“I believe I told you to get out of your head.”
She was surprised he remembered. “You pegged me as high anxiety and said all the baggage I was carrying would prevent me from attaining the focus needed to become a good reporter.”
“Sounds about right. I guess you didn’t listen. Good on you.”
He was being a smart-ass, letting her know he didn’t have to be psychic to see that she hadn’t let it all go. “Not true . . . about the listening part,” she told him, chin held high. “I took care of the baggage—most of it—and committed myself to learning how to observe and pay attention to my surroundings.”
He swiveled his computer screen so he could share one of her photos with her. A bloodied young woman on the floor, her leg twisted awkwardly. “A little grim, don’t you think? Focusing on blood and gore.”
“Scroll back to the first picture,” she said.
He did.
“That man was in the parking lot when I pulled up. He was sitting in his truck, watching, crying. Under the circumstances, he stood out, so I snapped his picture.”
“Boyfriend?” he asked.
“Not sure. But if he is, according to a neighbor, he and Kylie have been dating for a few years. The neighbor believes jealousy played a part in the murder after Kylie went on a date with a man she works with.”
“Interesting.”
Interesting? His demeanor and tone set her on edge. Not only had she gotten inside the apartment where the murder took place, she’d managed to talk to people who lived next door to the victim. What the hell did he want?
“Did you leave your business card with the neighbor?”
“No. I rushed out of there so fast, I didn’t have—”
“Did you get their names?”
She nodded.
“How did you get inside the victim’s apartment—a crime scene?” He turned the computer screen back around and scrolled through the rest of the pictures.
“My plan was to talk to the officer standing by and see if he would allow me to take a few pictures. That’s when I noticed the door to Kylie’s apartment was wide open and unguarded. I saw an opportunity and I took it.”
“Do you think that was ethical?”
Was he serious? “Yes. I didn’t lie to get inside the apartment. I walked in, and nobody stopped me.”
“But you knew you shouldn’t be there?”
“I didn’t think about it.”
His jaw hardened. “I got a call from Detective Perez.”
Ah. His attitude was beginning to make sense.
“He told me you attacked one of his men.”
“Only after he grabbed hold of me.”
“Perez asked you if you took any photographs—”
“He asked me if I had any pictures on my camera. I said no because that was the truth. The pictures were on the memory card in my pocket.”
Palmer did not appear to be impressed by her cleverness.
“You told the security guard at the front of the building that you were the elderly woman’s granddaughter.”
Shit. She said nothing.
“What do you think would happen if I used your photos in my write-up?”
“Probably not a good idea,” she said. “I hoped to use them to help solve the case.”
“It’s our job to report on crime, not solve it.”
“I realize that, but—”
“If you’re serious about becoming a crime reporter, I suggest you do your homework.”
Heat rose in waves from her toes
all the way to her face, but she willed herself to stay seated. “I know what I’m doing.”
He leaned back in his chair, his frustration with her obvious. “What is this all about?”
She felt cornered, trapped. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”
“These pictures of yours. The crime? What’s it about?”
“Kylie Hartford,” she answered confidently.
“No,” he said, sitting up again and planting a firm hand on the top of his desk. “This isn’t about Kylie Hartford. It’s about crime as a whole and how it affects the community. The true purpose of investigative reporting is to let the general public know what’s going on. Keep them informed so they can be active participants in society. That’s our job.”
“Interesting,” she said, mirroring the same tone he’d used earlier.
“Being a smart-ass isn’t going to help your cause.”
“Interesting,” she repeated with less sarcasm. “Because I clearly remember reading about the story you did on Heather and Dean McKenzie when you were first starting out.”
His silence spurred her on. “The newly married couple were bludgeoned to death in their front yard in the middle of the day. No witnesses. No suspects. You happened to be the reporter who covered the story. You caught a scent, and like any good tracking dog, you followed the trail. In the end, if I remember correctly, you received an award or two for helping to find the killer and solve the case.”
“I’m beginning to think you’ve made it this far because of pure stubbornness,” he said. “Maybe you want to prove something to someone—maybe me, maybe yourself—but you should be careful not to overestimate your cleverness.”
She came to her feet, arms stiff at her side. “In class that day you said a good reporter is direct at all times. No beating around the bush. Go to the scene, you told the class. Talk to anybody who moves. Find out the who, what, where, when, and why, and if you’re lucky . . . how.”
He scratched his jaw. “I guess you do listen.”
Her heart raced, her temper flaring, getting the best of her. Why had she stood? Because you always react first and think second, dimwit. Afraid if she said anything more it would only make things worse, she remained still and inwardly counted to three.
Sean Palmer set about stacking files and sorting mail. “Anger issues aside,” he told her, “I wouldn’t say you’re the super reporter Derek Coleman touts you to be, but I am intrigued. I called you in here today to see if you might be interested in being on my team.”
What the hell? If someone had asked her what this man was getting to, an offer to work with him would have been the last thing on her list. She pointed at her chest. “Me?”
His smile was stiff, but there was a gleam in his eye too. “You.”
“Working—on a team—with you—together?” If only she could untwist her tongue.
“Yes,” he said. “You. Me. And my team. All working together. What do you say?”
He was playing games with her. She felt as if she’d just gotten off the craziest roller-coaster ride ever made. The kind with steep drops and winding turns that flipped you upside down and made you beg for it to stop. “I’m being promoted?”
“If you take the job, yes.”
She tilted her head. “Did you say that Coleman touts me as a super reporter?”
“He does.”
Hmm. Her boss was a man of few words. She couldn’t remember him ever praising the work she did. Whatever. “I can’t start until Monday,” she said. “My gramma passed away last night. I’ll be leaving for River Rock tomorrow to attend her funeral and won’t be back for a few days.”
He frowned and absently tapped a finger against the edge of his desk. “I’m giving you a promotion, and you’re already asking for time off?”
Shit. She didn’t know what to say. Think, Sawyer. Think.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” he went on as he glanced at what looked like a short list of names, hers being at the top. “But we’re short staffed, and I need content.”
She spouted the first thing that came to mind. “I’ll get you content,” she said with more desperation than intended. “My hometown of River Rock is practically around the corner from here. It’s a small town that reeks of death, abandonment, and abduction—chock-full of the sort of stories told around the campfire, the sort of stories that make people feel uncomfortable.” She kept her gaze fixated on Palmer’s. “I’m not talking about made-up tales of zombies and vengeance-seeking ghouls. These stories are real.”
“A little dramatic?”
“Possibly,” she said. “Is it working?”
“River Rock,” he said under his breath, ignoring her question. “The name rings a bell.”
“That’s probably because in 1996 the murder of Peggy Myers got national attention. School was out, and Peggy, a fourteen-year-old girl, was found dead by the edge of the river. She’d been mutilated, her skull smashed in with a hammer, a chunk of hair chopped off. Authorities were baffled.” She shrugged. “But many people in River Rock are poor, and investigations are expensive. The killer was never found.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but Sawyer wasn’t finished, and she was quick to the punch. “That’s not all,” she said. “Four years later, it happened again. Avery James, fifteen years old. Hammer to the back of the head. A clump of hair chopped off. No signs of sexual assault.”
He nodded. “Another unsolved murder in River Rock.”
“That’s right. And if all that wasn’t enough to frighten a young girl, that girl being me,” she said, pointing to her chest, “five years later, my best friend, Rebecca, disappeared on her way home from swim practice.”
“Was she ever found?”
“No.”
“I don’t remember that story,” he said.
“I’m not surprised. By that time, River Rock had gotten so much airtime, even the media yawned.” Sawyer was done. That’s all she had.
Long pause, and then: “I have limited resources. And the Independent doesn’t circulate in your hometown.”
“Anything I look into over the weekend will be on my own time and dime,” Sawyer said. “I only need a few days after that to talk to people and gather information.”
Palmer was a tough one to read. Judging by the serious look on his face, it could go either way. “I believe this story is important,” she added calmly. “People travel to River Rock from Sacramento every weekend, just like they travel to Reno. We’ve done stories in Reno, Auburn, Roseville. Why not River Rock?”
He smoothed a hand over his beard. “What could our audience learn from it?”
“That victims of murder need justice,” she said passionately. “Peggy Myers and Avery James should not be forgotten.”
Silence.
“Give me a week to talk to people, interview them, and dig deep for new information. I know how to scramble. I can make this work.”
“I’ll expect impartiality.”
“Of course.”
“And gobs of content. Good stories that will make our readers take notice and send me emails congratulating our good work.”
She nodded.
“I want you back here on Wednesday.”
She exhaled. “I should talk to Coleman, let him know what’s going on.”
“He knows. I’ll tell him you agreed and that you’ll be starting when you return from River Rock.”
Maybe that was why Coleman had been acting so strange this morning. “Okay,” she said. She stood there for a second longer than necessary before starting for the door. Then she turned back to face him. “Will I be getting a raise?”
“Three percent now. Three percent in six months if all goes well.”
“Sounds reasonable. I should go.”
He nodded.
And that was that. One of the worst and best days of her life, packed into one. Life could be funny that way.
CHAPTER FOUR
Malice opened her laptop to see what The Crew was
up to. They didn’t want to glorify vengeance by calling themselves The Enforcers or The Avengers. They were merely five women who’d had the misfortune of being wronged.
They had met on Reddit, a massive collection of online forums where people shared news or commented on posts. After Reddit banned the darker markets, which were basically a swamp of disgusting internet activity—child abuse images, drug markets, gore, stolen shit, terrorist chats—The Crew moved to a Dark web forum dedicated to harm reduction. Media coverage on some of the high-profile cases in their group had died down long ago. Life went on . . . for some. For others, it wasn’t so easy.
Psycho had had the misfortune of being kidnapped on her twenty-first birthday, then held captive for three years in an underground room built beneath a small cabin in the woods. She was raped often and sliced open with a hunting knife, her wounds sewn with fishing line. It wasn’t until her captor was stopped during a routine traffic check that he was caught. He’d made the mistake of carrying around Polaroid pictures of Psycho, naked and bound. A couple of photos lay scattered about on the passenger seat, along with an empty soda cup and a crumpled bag from McDonald’s. The monster was ultimately convicted and imprisoned. That was twenty years ago. He would be released soon. His projected release date was sometime next week. The Crew planned to be the first to greet him when the time came.
Cleo had been gang-raped during a three-day-weekend party at a fraternity house. When it was over, Cleo did everything right. She went to the hospital, told her parents, and talked to the school board. Her case went to court. The frat boys—young, rich, and privileged—stuck together like flies on sticky paper. The boys, their parents, and the media painted the victim out to be sexually promiscuous. She’d been looking for it, they said. She’d wanted it. A dozen boys came forward, all friends of the accused, to swear before the judge that she was no virgin. As if that mattered. They knew because they claimed to have been with her. The only proof the lawyer provided were pictures of Cleo’s short skirts and semi-see-through blouses, and skimpy-bathing-suit shots while on vacation with her family. It was enough for the jury to wipe their hands of the mess and let the boys off without so much as a scolding. Cleo had a list of six names.
