by Pamela Tracy
The last person she wanted…was the only one who could keep her safe
Janie Vincent had no use for cops. They’d never done her any favors. But when she uncovers a lead into the disappearance of a girl at the college where she’s a teaching assistant, suddenly Janie’s life depends on the officers of Scorpion Ridge. And one in particular: Sheriff Rafael Salazar.
Rafe knows how much destruction a missing-persons case can cause a family, and so to solve this case, he’s determined to stick to Janie like glue. She’s clearly not a fan of the 24/7 surveillance, but he intends to break down her distrust. And maybe they’ll discover that what Janie saw can be the key to healing them both.
“I should never have opened his art book,” Janie muttered.
“But you did,” Rafe said, “so now we’ll deal with it.” He smiled, trying to communicate that she wasn’t alone, that he’d do his job, take care of her.
Then she gave him a glare that almost stopped him in his tracks. He was used to people being grateful, looking up to him, believing him, wanting to be taken care of, trusting him. Janie Vincent didn’t trust him.
Before he was quite ready, she stood, practically tapping her foot in impatience. “Fine. Let’s do it.”
“You want me to stay, Janie?” her sister asked.
“No, you go on back to work. I’ll find—”
“I’ll make sure she gets home,” Rafe asserted.
Janie’s eyes narrowed. For some reason, Miss Vincent didn’t appreciate his offer. And that made no sense at all.
Dear Reader,
I read a lot because I’m in love with words. I love old, used cookbooks where someone has written notes in the margin. I love diaries and letters and newspaper so that the past comes alive for me.
Besides writing for Harlequin, I’m an English professor. I read a lot there, too. I have students who, by far, write better than me. I’ve read about midnight border crossings (I’m in Arizona) and about midnight escapes from the Lost Boys of Africa. I’ve read about near-death experiences, special-needs children and about the path back to sobriety. Best of all, I’ve read about the dreams and goals of our future generation. I’ve also read a few things I wish had not wound up under my red pen. But, while the idea for What Janie Saw came to me one evening after a marathon grading session, I’ve never read a murder confession.
Like Janie, I entered teaching through the back door. But it doesn’t matter how you came to the classroom—it matters what you do while you’re there. Janie makes all the right moves. She cares about her students even while trying to pursue her own dream. I think, for Janie, chasing the dream, questioning the dream and then reinventing the dream is what makes her grow. See, her childhood wasn’t of the soil that allowed dreams to grow. She had much to overcome.
Rafael Salazar is too busy being sheriff to have dreams. He has to save the world. His world is the small town of Scorpion Ridge, Arizona. Soon he has to save Janie, and she could become his world if he’s smart enough to realize it and change.
My story is complete fiction with the world of what-ifs, flawed people and love triumphing. It’s about hope and change and romance.
My editor, Adrienne Macintosh, is a master, full of ideas for cementing conflict. Harlequin Heartwarming is an awesome place to be. If you’d like to meet some of the Heartwarming authors, please visit www.heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com. If you’d like to learn more about me, please visit www.pamelatracy.com. I love to hear from readers!
Pamela
Pamela Tracy
What Janie Saw
PAMELA TRACY
is an award-winning author who lives with her husband (who claims to be the inspiration for most of her heroes) and son (who claims to be the interference for most of her writing time). She started writing at a very young age (a series of romances, all with David Cassidy as the hero, though sometimes Bobby Sherman would elbow in). Then, while earning a B.A. in journalism at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas, she picked up writing again—this time it was a very bad science-fiction novel.
She went back to her love and was first published in 1999. Since then, Pamela has had more than twenty romance novels in print. She’s a winner of the American Christian Fiction Writers Carol Award and has been a RITA ® Award finalist. Readers can find her at www.heartwarmingauthors.blogspot.com or www.pamelatracy.com.
To Rachel Pekera,
an extraordinary second grade teacher,
who stole my son’s heart and taught him to
believe in himself and much more.
Thank you.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER ONE
KILLING SOMEONE IS not nearly as simple in real life as it is on television.
“What the...” Janie Vincent sputtered. She grabbed her coffee cup, more for comfort than for the caffeine at this late hour, and ordered herself to stop reading.
But she was already hooked.
She glanced back at the art book’s cover. Yup, this was Derek’s book, the one he’d done as an assignment for the Intermediate Canvas class Janie was assisting in. His first two pages had stayed true to the assignment: he’d drawn thumbnail sketches of what he was working on for the class’s main project. Page three was where he’d strayed. Oh, he’d included thumbnail drawings amidst his prose. But prose didn’t belong in the workbook unless he was summarizing his ideas for future drawings. She seemed to be looking at a mixture of fact and fiction, original art complementing a master. Derek had drawn windy, mountainous roads with sharp curves, a dark four-door car, and a re-creation of The Scream by Edvard Munch.
The re-creation had more hair.
He had, however, made no indication of what medium he intended to use or final dimension. Maybe he was planning a graphic novel?
Even though it was obvious that Derek had not adhered to the assignment guidelines, she continued to read:
For one thing, murder is black-and-white and mostly soundless after the bullet fires. Maybe the sound of the report temporarily deafens you? Or maybe you go into shock?
Derek, by far, was her darkest student. What he created in class always centered on battle scenes. Occasionally, he included bleeding dragons and eerie castles in the distance.
But they didn’t scare her as much as the drawings in this art book. Derek had somehow managed to make his stick figures ominous. Frowning, she stopped reading long enough to take another a sip of coffee. Her hand, clutching the cup, shook a little. Then, because anyone could be watching, she glanced around the student union to make sure no one had noticed her shocked response. She’d hate for a student to think she was this aghast over his homework.
She didn’t expect to see Derek; he’d been absent a full week—since he’d turned in the art book last Wednesday.
I knew Chad and Chris planned to kill her before we even stopped the car.
She knew it, too, and looked at me with pleading eyes as if realizing I was the only sane person in the car. Before that night I was sane. But from the moment I figured out he was going to kill her, and from the moment she stared at me, silently begging me to intervene, I was no longer sane. I was simply the man in the backseat. The only one close enough to her that she could make eye contact with.
If this were truly a graphic novel, then it was pretty good. Too good.
In the drawing, a lone mailbox braved the wind by a tall, dark, ragged tree. Four people occupied the vehicle. They were stick figures, but he had added minute details—a big nose on one, hair sticking straight up on another—that made Janie long for a magnifying glass. The tiny license plate even bore minute letters and numbers.
But Derek Chaney’s fiction didn’t really belong in an art book.
A tiny sliver of concern snaked its way up Janie’s spine. Surely Derek wasn’t keeping track of actual events...?
Chad was cussing and driving. Chris wasn’t saying a word, just stared out the window that wouldn’t roll down. And, for the first time, no one complained about the broken air conditioner. Maybe Chad was thinking about heat. He’ll feel it soon enough; Hell is hot. And that’s where he’s going because Chad pulled the trigger. He better get used to the heat.
Derek had always been a disturbed young man. As a brand-new teaching assistant, first time in a college classroom, Janie had been ill equipped to deal with his mood swings. She’d tried to give him some stability by partnering him with other students.
But they mostly avoided him.
She’d sought help early on from Patricia Reynolds, the course’s main instructor and chair of the art department.
“Derek needs this class more than anyone else,” was Patricia’s response. “Right now he’s antisocial with a bad temper, but if he can make a connection with art, feel good about something he’s created, who knows how his future might change.”
Janie had nodded. There’d been a teacher in her past—Mrs. Freshia, seventh-grade English—who’d read one of Janie’s personal art-book entries and taken the time to ask, “Are you all right?” And then she’d believed Janie when she’d said, “No.”
Mrs. Freshia had testified in court on Janie’s behalf so that she could go live with her sister, who at just eighteen years old, wanted to be her guardian.
Katie had wanted her. Janie had hoped somebody wanted Derek.
So Janie had offered him alternatives to some of his more gruesome ideas. She’d tried to be friendly, to engage him in conversation. He’d smirked, then drawn a scar down the side of one of his female warrior’s face. A scar just like Janie’s, maybe a bit more pronounced.
She’d long ago come to terms with her physical scar, though. He couldn’t hurt her that way.
She’d lent an ear, but he hadn’t wanted to talk. So she’d backed off, hoping Patricia was right. Derek hadn’t been willing to talk to her, but maybe he’d been willing to draw and write.
I’ve never been a nature boy. I prefer the city with its bright lights, crowds and constant noise. I never want be hot again. It was so hot that night. The radio man said we’d broken a record for heat. I never want to hear the noises of nature again. I hate the eerie sound the wind makes. It’s like someone’s walked over your grave. It’s like a loud whistle, probably to get your attention. It says, “I know what you’re about to do.”
Janie heard the wind outside the student union windows and shivered. If she were painting tonight’s scenery and mood, she’d only use black, white and grays.
Her least favorite colors unless she was painting zebras.
In the animal world—and she was a nature artist—bright colors dominated. Tigers were orange, giraffes were yellow and camels smiled.
As a rule, she didn’t watch horror movies or read scary books. Like this one...
Brittney Travis didn’t scream. She didn’t beg. She tried to run and stumbled. Why do girls always stumble? Then, Chad shot her in the back. It was all in black and white. The blood was even black. Funny, I expected to see red, even in the darkness.
The art book dropped from Janie’s hands, and a shiver of doubt spiraled with such sincerity that she stood up, almost upending the chair she’d been sitting on.
Brittney Travis?
Janie knew the name...but from where? She wasn’t sure. Couldn’t remember.
Suddenly, there wasn’t enough light in the student union, not enough people, and the air seemed to decrease in volume. Scanning the room, she searched for a familiar face: a teacher, a student, even a janitor would do. Two students, not hers, cuddled in a corner. They were young, innocent. She recognized one of the English adjuncts. CeeCee Harrington. She was an animated woman who would talk your ears off if given a chance. As the shadows of evening fell, people were leaving. At this time of night, people didn’t linger.
Except for Katie.
Pulling out her cell phone, Janie started to call her big sister, but changed her mind. Katie was eight months pregnant and didn’t need the worry. Besides, this could be nothing. Just the crazy rant of a student wanting attention.
Right?
Patricia would still be in her office. Janie was supposed to take her the art books when she finished checking them anyway.
Holding the art book pressed to her chest, Janie hustled out the main doors and headed for the building that housed the faculty offices. Patricia didn’t leave until every class had ended and every light was turned out. Which was why in a hallway that housed more than a dozen faculty offices, hers was the only door open and the only beckoning light.
The cold finger of doubt tapped Janie on the shoulder. What if she was overreacting? What if Derek was just trying to scare her because she was young and new to her job?
She needed this opportunity, needed to do well at it and get a glowing recommendation so she’d have a shot at her dream: an artist residency in Africa.
Yet tonight, her feet didn’t falter; her mind didn’t change.
After all, she might have just read an art book detailing a murder.
When she finally got to the professor’s office, though, she wasn’t sure how to begin, so she simply stood in the doorway, trying to find her voice.
There were stacks of art supplies on every surface of the room, including chairs. Textbooks were stacked in towering rows. When Janie’d come in last August for her interview, she’d had to stand and answer Patricia’s questions.
Finally, she managed to clear her throat. Patricia turned around, all smiles.
While her office was a study in organized chaos, Patricia wasn’t. She wore a blue pantsuit with a red blouse underneath. Her hair was short and she had a thing for red high heels, almost stilettos. An angel pin was clipped just above her heart. It was her most cherished possession. Her father had given it to her before he died. It was solid white gold with a natural diamond.
Taking one tiny step into the room, Janie handed Patricia the art book. “I just read something, written by a student, and I think you need to take a look.”
“Personal issues? Is a student in trouble?”
Janie paused. Personal issues might be one way to sum up Derek’s art book. “It’s Derek, and I’m not sure.”
Patricia frowned. “What’s in it that concerns you?”
“Does the name Brittney Travis mean anything to you?”
Patricia leaned forward, her expression so stern that Janie almost took a step back. “Why are you asking?”
“Her name’s in his art book, and it’s worrying me. He wrote and drew pictures of her murder.”
Janie didn’t quite catch the interjection Patty muttered under her breath, but she could guess what it might have been. Patty scooted her chair to the left, lifted a manila folder and took a page from it. She scanned the words before handing it to Janie.
It was a campus email alerting faculty and staff that over the winter holiday an Adobe Hills Community College student had gone missing.
Brittney Lynn Travis.
* * *
SHERIFF RAFAEL SALAZAR didn’t need another thing to do this morning. He already had a full slate. He was due at the courthouse in a little over an hour and still had three phone calls to make before he could leave. None of them involved good news. His afternoon included a long drive to Phoenix and an overdue visit to a correctional facility.
So when his phone rang, Rafe wished he could ignore it.
“Salazar!” he barked into the phone. Maybe his tone would let the caller know what an inopportune time this was.
“Morning, Rafe.”
Suddenly, court dates, phone calls and the visit to the correctional facility seemed irrelevant.
Nathan Williamson was a detective and the director of the drug task force in nearby Adobe Hills, Arizona, located right outside of Tucson. Adobe Hills was not part of Laramie County, the area Rafe was in charge of. But occasionally their paths crossed, and usually the two departments worked well together.
Right now, Rafe and Nathan only had one case in common, and it was cold.
The Brittney Lynn Travis case.
She was from Rafe’s town, Scorpion Ridge, but she’d gone missing from Nathan’s town, Adobe Hills.
Nathan’s voice sounded terse, and in the background, Rafe could hear the sounds of other people, probably cops, doing their job.
“What’s going on?” Rafe asked, cop’s intuition telling him this wouldn’t be good news.
Nathan didn’t even pause. “What do you know about Janie Vincent?”
“Why do you want...?” Rafe started to answer but stopped when the door to his office flew open.
The woman in question stood in the doorway, looking tense. At her side was her big sister, Katie Rittenhouse, eight months pregnant and with an expression that said she was ready to take on the world.
