Don't Say a Word (Strangers Series)

by Jennifer Jaynes

  Sammy returned his focus back to the game on his iPad.

  Her thoughts shifted to the breather on the phone earlier that morning. The call was still creeping her out. If someone had simply gotten the number wrong, why didn’t he or she say something? Why just sit there like a freak, breathing on the phone?

  She found the big Stop sign in her mind and waved it in front of her eyes.

  Stop! she told herself. Relax. It was just a wrong number.

  It was a technique Bitty had taught her years ago that helped her suppress negative or obsessive thoughts. It worked really well . . . most of the time.

  Prone to depression and anxiety attacks, Allie had learned that if she controlled negative thoughts, ate well, took a low-dose antidepressant and a handful of supplements, the bad feelings usually went away very quickly. On the other hand, if she didn’t do all the above religiously, they often spiraled out of control.

  She powered on her tablet and was in the middle of reading a nutrition article she’d bookmarked when someone tapped on the driver’s side window.

  She almost flew out of her seat.

  Her eyes darting to the window, she realized it was just Bitty. Exhaling loudly, Allie lowered the window and cursed her exaggerated startle reflex. It was going to end up giving her a heart attack.

  “Sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Bitty said. “But Zoe said she won’t talk to the therapist unless you’re in the room with her.”

  Allie frowned. “What? Me?” That didn’t make sense. Bitty was the one good at connecting with people . . . comforting the children. Not her. So why did Zoe want Allie there? They didn’t even know one another.

  Besides, Allie’s rule was to never get involved with the foster children. “But that’s crazy. Why would she ask for me?”

  “I don’t know.” The woman watched her. “If you don’t feel comfortable, you don’t have to do it.”

  Allie definitely wasn’t comfortable.

  “I can go back in and say it’s not an option,” Bitty continued. “And they’ll just have to find some other way.”

  But Allie had never said no to Bitty, and she wouldn’t now. She pulled herself together and unbuckled her seat belt.

  The building’s lobby smelled of lemon disinfectant and stale coffee. When they entered the waiting room, they found Carrie slumped over in her chair, sound asleep.

  Allie set Sammy down and pointed to a small play area. “Looks like there are some fun toys to play with,” she said. But Sammy wasn’t interested. Instead, he climbed on the empty seat next to Carrie and studied her while she slept.

  “Okay, well, sit here for a few minutes while I go in. Grammy will stay out here with you, okay?”

  “Okay, Mommy,” he said, powering on his iPad and staring at Carrie some more.

  “Make sure if you leave that chair, you tell Grammy first, okay?”

  Sammy nodded.

  Footsteps sounded on the tiled floor, and a large black man wearing a police uniform rounded the corner with a police hat and a leather-bound notebook in his hands.

  “Allie, this is Sergeant Lyle Davis,” Bitty said. “He’s one of the investigating officers on the girls’ parents’ case. Lyle, this is my daughter, Allie.”

  Allie shook the man’s hand, trying as she always did in public to appear cool and confident. Fortunately these days, it was an act she was able to pull off well enough to impress even herself.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Sergeant Davis said. He had a kind smile and brown, watery eyes. But what Allie was most aware of was the gun that rested in a holster on his hip. She hated guns after seeing what her brother had done to himself with one. It was the main reason Bitty didn’t keep any in the house.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too,” Allie said.

  She heard more footsteps from around the corner. A moment later, another man appeared holding a Styrofoam cup. When Allie saw him, her stomach did a somersault and her hand instinctively went to her cheek. It was one of several ways she used to hide the many parts of her face that she’d loathed.

  All her life, she’d suffered from BDD (or body dysmorphic disorder), a condition that distorted the way she saw herself. With her long dark hair and big gray eyes, people had always said she was beautiful . . . stunning even . . . but when she looked in the mirror, she found the girl who peered back at her to be far from attractive. She’d healed significantly the past six years, but she still had a ways to go.

  Realizing she’d been trying to hide, she immediately dropped her hand to her side. Stop that, dammit. You don’t do that anymore.

  “Allie, this is Detective Lambert,” Bitty said.

  Swallowing hard, Allie looked at the man who was staring back at her. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties and was wearing plain clothes: a crisply pressed blue button-down, a brown leather jacket, and a pair of black jeans. He had dark, tousled hair and blue eyes. He stood taller than Sammy’s father, Johnny, who was six foot, so she put him at about six foot two. He was easily one of the most gorgeous men she’d ever seen.

  Suddenly she realized Bitty was still talking.

  “. . . worked with many of the same kids over the years and have gotten to know one another quite well. Detective, this is my daughter, Allie.”

  Detective Lambert’s eyes continued to hold hers as he reached to shake her hand. She fought the urge to look away because, as usual, she questioned her appearance. This morning, aside from a little mascara and some lip ointment, her face was essentially bare. She was also wearing her long dark hair in a ridiculously messy knot on the top of her head. But eye contact had become very important to her over the years, especially since she’d become Sammy’s mother. She wouldn’t show fear or weakness, let on that she had body issues, or be submissive to anyone . . . if she could help it.

  Not anymore.

  She wanted Sammy to have a mother he could be proud of. A strong mother.

  She shook the detective’s warm hand and forced her eyes to remain steady on his, wondering what he was seeing. The person she saw in the mirror or what Bitty and other people seemed to see.

  He smiled, showing perfect teeth. Her heart fluttered, which made her angry at herself . . . for her lack of control.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes quite that shade of gray before,” he said. “They’re . . . well, they’re striking.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s great to finally meet you, Allie,” he continued. “Your mother’s a very good woman. But I expect you already know that.”

  “I do.”

  The light bar above her head buzzed. Suddenly conscious of the bright fluorescent lights that made everything a little uglier, herself included, she cleared her throat and turned her eyes to the sound of footsteps approaching.

  A young woman with red hair rounded the corner. Her eyes immediately found Allie and she smiled. “Hi, are you Allie?”

  “Yes.”

  She held out her hand. “I’m Renee. I’m the lead forensic therapist here. I’ll be the one talking with Zoe this morning.”

  Allie shook the woman’s hand. “Nice to meet you. What do I need to do?”

  “Just sit in the room and be there for her. That’s all.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great. Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 6

  ALLIE FOLLOWED THE therapist into the small treatment room and found Zoe sitting on a vinyl couch, the sleeves of her borrowed shirt stretched out over her hands as though she were trying to protect herself.

  Allie took a seat in a chair next to the couch and peered at the girl. Zoe’s eyes flitted to Allie, then to a desk in the far corner of the room, the dark circles beneath her eyes and worry lines on her twelve-year-old forehead exaggerated by the overhead lighting.

  The therapist took a seat in a recliner across from her. Allie studied the woman, who looked only a few years older than Allie. She wore casual clothing, a University of Texas pullover and yoga pants. Her red hair was up
in a high ponytail, her legs casually crossed in her chair. Allie wondered if the casual clothes and posture had a purpose—to make frightened kids more comfortable. To help put them at ease.

  The woman’s voice was soft and rich. “Like I explained before, Zoe, we’re recording our session so the investigating officers can hear your answers,” she said. “They’re listening to what you say today in hopes that it will help them identify the person who hurt your parents.”

  Zoe stared at her. “But my father’s not . . .” Her voice trailed off. She looked down at her hands and started picking at her pink fingernail polish. When she looked up, her eyes were glistening. “Why . . . why is everyone saying my father’s dead?”

  “Because he is, Zoe,” Renee said, gently. “You have been told that, right?”

  Zoe folded her arms across her body and looked down.

  “No one wants to make you uncomfortable . . . or to feel any pain. But there are a few questions we need to ask now. Okay?”

  “But I don’t want to remember.”

  The therapist leaned forward a little. “I understand, but it’s important that you try. There’s a bad man out there, and the police need to catch him before he hurts anyone else.”

  Zoe stared into space.

  “Do you know who killed your parents?” Renee asked.

  Zoe’s face reddened. “Please. Quit saying my father died!”

  “I’m sorry, Zoe, but he did die,” the woman corrected, gently. “Both your mother and father died Tuesday night. You do understand that, right?”

  Zoe blinked.

  “I know that your caseworker, Miss Judy, spoke with you and Carrie when—”

  Zoe’s face suddenly crumpled. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

  Allie shifted in her seat. She felt like she was eavesdropping.

  Renee stood and grabbed a box of tissues. She set them on the table in front of the girl.

  When Zoe surfaced again a few minutes later, Renee asked the question again. “Do you know what happened that night? Who hurt your parents?”

  Zoe reached for the tissue and shook her head. “You should ask Gary. Not me. Because I have no idea.”

  “Who’s Gary?”

  “My mother’s boyfriend.”

  Renee furrowed her brow. “Were your parents separated?”

  “No. My mother was cheating on my dad with Gary.”

  “Oh.” Renee nodded. “Did your father know about Gary?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Do you know Gary’s last name?”

  Zoe shook her head.

  “Why do you think we should talk to Gary, Zoe?”

  “Because he was there,” she said, softly.

  “At your house . . . on Tuesday night?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think it could’ve been Gary who hurt your mother and father?”

  Zoe wrung her hands. “I guess. Maybe.”

  “Can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”

  “I don’t know what happened!” Zoe said, her tone whiny. “We were in our bedroom.”

  The therapist nodded, then tried a different tactic. “Who was in the house the night your parents got hurt?”

  “Just me, Carrie, my mother, and Gary.”

  “Good, Zoe. Thank you.” Renee scribbled in her notebook. “So Gary was there. And your mother, you, and Carrie? Only the four of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No one else?”

  Zoe shook her head.

  “So you’re saying your father wasn’t there?”

  “No. He was working.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you say Gary’s a violent person?”

  Zoe seemed to think about the question. After a while, she shrugged.

  “Did you ever hear him yell?”

  Zoe nodded.

  “Did he and your mother ever argue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he ever hit your mother?”

  Zoe thought about it. “No, I don’t think so. But I saw him push her before. Just once or twice.”

  Renee nodded. “Was anyone acting upset that night?”

  Zoe got a faraway look in her eyes. “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “My mother.”

  “Your mother was upset?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was she upset about, Zoe?”

  “I don’t know. She’s always upset.”

  “Who was she upset with?”

  “Gary.”

  Renee jotted something down. “Do you know why your mother was upset with Gary?”

  Zoe squeezed her hands beneath her buttocks and rocked. She shook her head.

  “Do you think you can tell me everything you remember? Anything would be helpful. It doesn’t matter how small or unimportant you think it is.”

  A baby cried from somewhere else in the building. Zoe’s eyes flicked to the door, the direction of the sound, then she stared at the floor. She took a deep breath. “Our mother told us to stay in my bedroom because Gary was visiting, so Carrie and I watched a movie. While we were watching the movie, I heard my mother yell at Gary a couple of times. I remember because I had to keep turning the volume louder so we could hear the movie.”

  “Okay, good. Very good, Zoe. Do you know what your mother and Gary were arguing about?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, so they were arguing. What happened after that?”

  “It was kinda late, so we went to sleep.”

  “And after you went to sleep?”

  Zoe’s eyes welled up with tears. “I . . . I heard something.”

  “What did you hear?”

  The tears were now streaming out of Zoe’s eyes. “I’m not sure, but it was loud,” she said, her words thick with emotion. “Then a little while later, the front door slammed. I looked out the window and saw Gary leaving. His tires made noise on the road when he left. It woke Carrie up.

  “After he left, it was really quiet. My mother always, always keeps the TV on loud when she’s alone, but she didn’t have it on. It scared me because it was really weird . . . it being so quiet in our house.”

  The room was silent.

  “What happened next?”

  “Carrie and I knew something bad had happened . . . so we hid in my closet beneath a bunch of clothes. We were scared.”

  Renee nodded, the expression on her face gentle. “You were in the house two days after it happened. Did you or Carrie talk to anyone during that time? Try to get help?”

  “I kept trying to call my dad’s cell phone, but he didn’t answer.”

  “I see,” Renee said, softly. “Did you hear anyone come or go after Gary left in his truck that night?”

  “I don’t think so.” Zoe suddenly looked up at Renee. Her eyes no longer had that vacant look. They were very focused. “They were shot, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, Zoe. I’m afraid they were.”

  Zoe blinked, and her ears pinkened. “Where was my dad when he was shot?”

  “I believe they said they found him in the master suite. In the bathroom.”

  Zoe’s chin quivered. She grabbed her stomach and narrowed her eyes at Renee. “I told you I didn’t want to remember!” she said, sharply. She sprang from her chair. “I don’t want to answer your questions anymore. I want to leave.”

  CHAPTER 7

  WHEN ALLIE TURNED onto their road, she saw Johnny’s truck parked next to the house.

  She felt her shoulders sag. Oh—God, no. Not now.

  Sammy’s father, Johnny, lived two hours away, in Dallas. Even though he’d texted a few days ago, saying he’d be by soon, Allie hadn’t counted on it. She didn’t have the mental energy for Sammy’s father. She just wanted to be alone with her son. To take a nap. Escape beneath heavy blankets with Sammy and close her eyes for an hour or two.

  Bitty stiffened in the passenger seat, but she didn’t say anything. When it
came to Johnny, Bitty usually kept her mouth shut. Allie was thankful, because any defense she might try to launch for her continued relationship with the man would be a joke.

  As they pulled into the drive, Sammy woke up. “Daddy!” he screamed, fumbling with the buckles on the straps of his car seat, anxious to free himself. “Daddy’s here!”

  After Allie unbuckled the little boy, he scrambled out of his seat. “Daddy! Daddy!” he yelled, flying past Allie, and sprinting to the house.

  When Allie got inside, Johnny was on the living room couch, with the television on. Sammy was already in his lap, his little arms wrapped around Johnny’s neck.

  “I missed you, Daddy!”

  “I missed you, too, little man. What’s been cooking?”

  Allie shrugged her coat off and hung it on the coatrack, then watched the two from the foyer.

  At first, Johnny had seemed perfect for her. He was ruggedly handsome, strong, fun, funny, laid back, completely carefree. He used to make her laugh, and he held her at night. And outside of her dead brother, Johnny had been the only guy who’d ever been truly nice to her and made her feel wanted. Johnny had been all those wonderful things.

  But he was other things, too.

  Sammy used to spend a good amount of time standing in the front window of the house, pressing his little hands to the glass, waiting for Johnny. Most of those times had ended in tears because Johnny never showed. Thankfully, Sammy hadn’t done that for a while. Over time, he’d seemed to have learned, just as Allie had, that Johnny did what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it—and he often changed his mind without informing anyone.

  Bitty and the girls walked into the foyer and hung up their coats. “What do you guys think about resting for a bit? Does that sound good?” Bitty asked the girls, her voice sounding weary.

  “Okay,” Zoe said.

  “Need any help?” Allie asked.

  “No, we’re fine,” Bitty said. “Tend to your company.” She planted a kiss on Allie’s cheek, and nodded to the girls. “Come on. Let’s get you settled in.” The old woman and the twins disappeared down the hallway.

  When Allie turned back around, she almost jumped. Johnny was standing in front of her, beaming. He was holding a red rose. “This bud’s for you, li’l bit,” he said, and laughed . . . as always, working his charm.