by T. R. Ragan
Her insides turned, her gaze fixated straight ahead on the young girl tied to the wide, mossy trunk of an oak tree. Thick rope circled the dead girl’s naked body multiple times from neck to ankles. Her skin was milky white, her eyes wide and fearful, mouth gaping open—stuffed to the brim with brittle leaves and stems seemingly scooped up from the forest floor.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
An hour after leaving Brad’s house, Malice was sitting inside a coffee shop with her laptop and a decaf black tea. The last thing she needed was more caffeine, since she was experiencing a rapid heartbeat after everything that had happened. The knot on her head was now the size of a walnut instead of an egg, but it ached just the same.
She logged in to the group to see how everyone was holding up. They had all agreed to check in at 2:00 p.m. On the left of the screen she noticed Cleo was the only one signed in to the group.
MALICE: Any news?
A few minutes passed before Cleo responded.
CLEO: I saw Brad wheeled out of the house on a gurney and placed in an ambulance. The police are still at his house.
Malice’s insides roiled at the thought of Cleo being anywhere near Brad’s house.
MALICE: What if they recognize you?
CLEO: I’m walking a friend’s dog. I look nothing like the woman who went to dinner with the asshole. Nor do I resemble the woman in the mask. I am the queen of disguises.
She ended her comment with a happy-face emoji, which didn’t make Malice feel any better.
Lily’s name popped up to the left of the screen, then Bug’s.
BUG: I wonder if they’ll be able to reattach his dick?
LILY: Not that I care about his well-being, but it worked with that Bobbitt guy. And that was after sending out a task force to find his penis in a field in the middle of the night.
BUG: I hope this doesn’t screw up our plans for my reunion with a couple of douchebag football players.
It was too early to worry about Bug’s reunion.
MALICE: Anyone know where Psycho is?
CLEO: She’s keeping an eye on the waiter.
Malice closed her eyes and prayed Psycho didn’t do anything stupid.
BUG: I’m going to have to get back to work, so I’ll go ahead and give you all an update. Psycho can read it later. I won’t delete the conversation until tomorrow. Out of the dozens of videos I found on Brad’s computer, I was only able to find three that showed a decent profile of Brad. The sicko was careful not to get clear shots of his face. He was also able to warble his voice. I’m not sure how he did that without messing up the rest of the audio, but he did.
CLEO: Why would he warble his voice, but not the victims’?
BUG: I can only assume that hearing and seeing the fear in the victims was part of his deal—the thing that turned him on.
LILY: Fucker.
BUG: I also blurred out the victims’ faces because the last thing they need is to be victimized twice.
LILY: What about me? Was there a video?
BUG: Yes. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to use it to take him to court someday, so I was waiting to—
LILY: I need to think about it.
BUG: Take your time. Let’s take a vote on whether or not the best videos of Brad should be sent to the police on a flash drive?
All four of them voted yes.
BUG: Should I post one of the videos on his social media: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram? And what about sending a video to his company CEO?
MALICE: Any chance the police would be able to trace the flash drive or the IP address to you?
BUG: No.
Malice sighed. Bug’s confidence in all things was as comforting at times as it was worrying. If authorities were able to trace the video to Bug, then what? They would all be in a lot of trouble.
LILY: When do you plan to post the video on social media?
BUG: As soon as we hear from Psycho.
PSYCHO: I’m here. Sorry I’m late. The waiter hasn’t left his apartment. I called the restaurant and asked for him and was told he quit. Give me a minute to catch up with previous posts.
Five minutes passed.
PSYCHO: Okay. I vote YES to all of Bug’s questions. I’d like to say that I know this didn’t go as well as everyone had hoped, but nobody can argue that Brad didn’t get what he had coming to him. I do think our first assignment has been eye opening. At least for me. I have no doubt in my mind that Brad will try to cause trouble. We all knew he was smart, ruthless, and controlling. But I’m ready to move on to assignment #2. I’m looking forward to attending Bug’s reunion.
Malice couldn’t stop thinking about how badly their first assignment had gone. More than anything, she wanted the predators to pay for what they did. But talking about revenge and doing it were two different things. Fear was setting in and bringing doubt with it. Sure, she’d known from the start that they were taking big risks, but the thought of being caught was weighing heavily.
Assignments had been decided on long ago. Otto Radley, assignment number two, was the man who had kidnapped Psycho and held her captive for three years. She had the scars to remind her every day of the horrors she’d endured. He was the only predator in the group who had been convicted. That was twenty years ago. Psycho was getting antsy. Malice could feel it. Hell, she’d seen it with her own eyes every time Psycho had rolled her shoulders and gritted her teeth when they were at Brad’s. Their mission to get justice had gotten real.
BUG: I gotta go. Talk soon.
Psycho logged off, then Lily.
CLEO: You okay?
MALICE: I’ll be fine. You?
CLEO: Danger is my middle name. If you need to talk, you know where to find me.
After Cleo signed off, Malice sat there for a moment longer, staring at the blinking cursor. Laughter caught her attention, and she found herself smiling at a toddler who had stopped to stare at her, his pudgy arm outstretched as he offered her a gooey treat before his mother ushered him away.
Somewhere along the way, she realized, she’d become a little less angry.
She had her moments. Only hours ago, in fact, she’d felt the fury after she’d stepped inside Brad’s house and he’d pulled her to the ground. The rage was still there, inside her, swirling around like a bubbling witch’s brew, but it felt different. The world had become less dark. The people close to her, the flowers and trees, and the kid with the sticky fingers, were all illuminating and real, giving off light, making it easier to breathe.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sawyer had sat in the car for ten minutes, staring at the dead girl, oblivious to the photographers and forensics team as they worked the scene, before she finally climbed out of the truck. As she approached, she noticed red, swollen bumps on the girl’s skin where mosquitoes had fed on her blood.
She pulled out her cell phone and took two pictures before an officer told her to go back to the truck and stay there until Aspen was finished. Sawyer took a few steps in the other direction, and when the officer got busy with something else, she turned back around. The girl’s face was haunting, her eyes open and overly bright, as if frozen in that horrible moment of terror. The anguish and torment visible even in death.
Sawyer’s stomach cramped. She felt edgy, twitchy, a desire to scream out for Isabella. She wasn’t sure why this crime scene affected her differently than the one she’d seen at Forrest Hill Apartments.
She didn’t know either of the victims.
And then it hit her. The problem was River Rock. She could feel its tentacles crawling up her neck. This town was like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with an immoral darkness all its own. She turned away from the crime scene, but instead of returning to the truck, she walked toward the woods where the dappled shade covered her in semidarkness.
Decaying leaves, branches, and bark crunched beneath her feet. Despite the team of experts close by, it was quiet. The air had an earthy dampness she hadn’t felt when she’d stepped out of the truck. Ferns and brush and purple w
ildflowers covered much of the land. A spiky branch grabbed hold of her slacks, and she had to bend over to break free. Nearby, a piece of cloth, black and leathery, clung to another branch. She pulled the fabric from the prickly branch and examined it closely—cowhide or goatskin. The edges all around were uneven and torn. She tucked the scrap into her back pocket as she continued on. Up ahead she saw an area of the forest floor that had been flattened, as if a family of wild animals had slept there, huddled together.
“Sawyer! What are you doing?”
She looked up. Aspen was jogging toward her. “Just taking a walk,” she said as he approached. “I’ve been reading and researching crime scenes for years.” She shook her head. “But seeing that girl tied up like that . . . it was too much.”
“It’s a gruesome sight,” he agreed. “I’ve got to head back to the office. Chief Schneider wants me to stay there and man the phones.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. “Do you mind dropping me off on Frontage Road on your way?”
“Isn’t your car at the cemetery?”
“It is, but I didn’t want to take more of your time.”
“I’m good. I’ll take you there.”
“Thank you,” she said as they walked back to his truck. She climbed in and fastened her seat belt.
He revved the engine, then made a three-point turn to get back on the road, heading away from the crime scene. “So when are you leaving?” he asked as the wheels rumbled over uneven ground.
“Wednesday.”
He glanced her way. “You look white as a ghost. You really are shaken up, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t sleep well last night. There was Gramma’s funeral to deal with, and now this.” She scratched the side of her head, pulled a leaf out of her hair. “I don’t know what I was thinking, coming back here at all. I always feel the weight of River Rock on my shoulders when I visit.”
“What about your parents?” he asked. “Don’t you want to spend some time with them while you’re here?”
“Nothing’s changed, Aspen. My parents and I don’t see things the same way.” She blew out a breath. “What about your mom? What’s she up to these days?”
“I thought you knew. She passed away last year.”
“I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
He said nothing.
Sawyer couldn’t stop thinking about Isabella. Would she end up like Peggy and Avery? Forgotten?
The thought made her feel sick to her stomach.
Her cell phone buzzed. It was Sean Palmer. She declined the call. She would call him back after Aspen dropped her off.
“Was that your boyfriend?” Aspen asked.
“My boyfriend?” She snorted. “No. Sean Palmer is my new boss.”
“What happened to the old one?”
“Remember? I was promoted.”
“That’s right. Shouldn’t you take his call?”
“I’ll call him back later.” She turned toward Aspen and said, “I know you said that the people of River Rock want to move on—you know—leave those other murders in the past, but what about you? You’re a deputy. Doesn’t it bother you that two young girls were murdered and yet nobody cares?”
Aspen sighed. “I didn’t say no one cares. It’s just that at some point people have to move on with their lives.”
“I get that. I really do. But forget about all those people for a minute. What about you and Chief Schneider?”
“I’m sure it gnaws at the chief. He loves this town like nothing else. But he can only do so much. He has a lot of stress. He was pressured by the public and the media to solve those cases. He still is. For years people demanded answers he didn’t have, and everyone seemed to have their own theory as to what happened. But what’s the chief supposed to do when he has to do it all on his own? He has to process the crime scene, sort out the evidence, conduct interviews, and follow up on any leads. I’ve watched him work. I try to help as best I can, but again, there’s only so much we can do. Most of the time, I feel sorry for the man. Even when he does solve a case and get a conviction, he doesn’t get any praise from anyone. It’s a thankless job.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She thought of Kylie Hartford. The young woman had a whole team of investigators trying to solve her case, doing their best to bring her justice. Homicide detectives in big cities received intensive training in crime scene investigations. They didn’t always have all the resources they needed, but they got a lot more help than cops in a small town like River Rock.
They had arrived at the cemetery. Everyone had left. He pulled into the empty space next to her car. “Don’t look so down.”
“You don’t understand,” she said. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and this might be my one chance to prove myself.”
“I’m not sure how helpful Chief Schneider is going to be,” he said as she unbuckled her seat belt and grabbed her bag.
Her fingers were wrapped around the door handle when she looked at him. “What about you? Will you help me?”
“Of course. You were always there for me when I needed a friend. Maybe now I can repay you for everything you did for me.”
“I didn’t do anything. You weren’t the only one with problems. When everything fell apart at home and then Rebecca disappeared, I needed a friend too.” She hopped out of the truck. “Thanks, Aspen. For everything.”
He nodded. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
Sawyer waved as he drove off. Then she got behind the wheel of her car and returned Sean Palmer’s call.
“This is Sawyer,” she said when he answered. “What’s going on?”
“I heard about the girl . . . Isabella. Homicide.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Word gets around quickly.”
“It comes with the territory,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” she said, wondering why he would worry but appreciating the call all the same.
“As a reporter,” he said, “I always make sure I know things about the people I bring on to work closely with me.”
How much did he know about her? she wondered, and why was he telling her this now?
“As a crime reporter,” Palmer went on, “I also know a thing or two about criminals . . . killers. They don’t like people like you or me meddling in their affairs.”
He really was concerned. “Does that mean you’ll give me more time so I can look into Isabella’s murder?”
“I’m serious about the risk.”
“I understand,” she said.
“All and all, that whole speech you gave about not letting these girls be forgotten is about your friend Rebecca, isn’t it?”
She thought about that for a moment. Maybe he was right. Rebecca had simply disappeared, and sometimes it seemed as if no one had cared. “Sure,” she said. “It’s about Rebecca. But it’s also about Peggy, Avery, Isabella, and every young child out there who never got justice. They shouldn’t be forgotten, Palmer. Isn’t that part of why we do what we do? Report crimes so that people can protect their children, and the families of victims can get some closure?”
She heard an audible sigh come through the line.
“I’ll give you until the end of next week. But that’s it. I can’t do any more than that.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You haven’t worked one day for me yet, and I’m already having regrets.”
“Nobody knows River Rock and its nuances better than me,” Sawyer reminded him. “I grew up here. The people know me, and my parents are a big part of River Rock. The story will be important. I will see to it that our audience cares. Part crime reporting, part human-interest story. It’ll be good for both of our careers.”
He laughed at that. “Just get back here as soon as possible.”
She took a breath. “Thank you.”
“Too soon for that,” he said.
“What about the Kylie Hartford case? Anything new?”
“They brought Kylie’s boyf
riend in for questioning yesterday. He’s the number one suspect. They’re talking about making an arrest.”
“So soon? Do they have evidence?”
“Why do you sound surprised? You said yourself that he had the motivation—jealousy. Detectives talked to Kylie’s neighbors, her coworkers, friends, and family. It doesn’t look good for the boyfriend.”
“Remember the picture I took of Kylie’s apartment, the one of her living room?”
He didn’t respond, so she went on. “I looked up the book and the author, and it turns out he had a book signing on the same day Kylie was murdered. I was hoping someone could find out if maybe Kylie met up with someone at the convention.”
“I’ll talk to Perez. See what he knows.”
Sawyer was glad he was receptive to at least checking it out. “About Kylie’s boyfriend . . . aren’t you afraid they might be rushing to judgment?”
“It’s not our call to make.”
Something wasn’t sitting well with Sawyer. Instinct and all that. Something about the look on his face and the whole situation that made her question whether he was guilty. She wondered if she would be able to talk to him when she returned to Sacramento.
“Most cases are solved within the first forty-eight hours,” Palmer said. “The longer the case remains open, the more difficult the investigation becomes.”
“Sure. But that doesn’t make the boyfriend guilty.”
“Listen,” Palmer said. “I get it. You’ve wanted to be a crime reporter for a long time. You’ve worked hard. You’re passionate about what you do, and this is your first official—”
“All true,” she interrupted, “but nothing you said has anything to do with what I’m telling you. If the boyfriend is guilty, then he’s guilty.”
“You saw him in his truck, crying. You talked to neighbors, and you know he dated Kylie for five years. You’re feeling a connection. But we don’t know what evidence the police have found.”
He was right. She needed to trust the authorities to do their job, just as she wanted Palmer to trust her.
“I’ll see you next week,” Palmer said. “Stay safe.”
