by Ragan, T. R.
PRAISE FOR T.R. RAGAN
Don’t Make a Sound
“A heart-stopping read. Ragan’s compelling blend of strained family ties and small-town secrets will keep you racing to the end!”
—Lisa Gardner, New York Times bestselling author of When You See Me
“An exciting start to a new series with a feisty and unforgettable heroine in Sawyer Brooks. Just when you think you’ve figured out the dark secrets of River Rock, T.R. Ragan hits you with another sucker punch.”
—Lisa Gray, bestselling author of Thin Air
“Fans of Lizzy Gardner, Faith McMann, and Jessie Cole are in for a real treat with T.R. Ragan’s Don’t Make a Sound, the start of a brand-new series that features tenacious crime reporter Sawyer Brooks, whose own past could be her biggest story yet. Ragan once more delivers on her trademark action, pacing, and twists.”
—Loreth Anne White, bestselling author of In the Dark
“T.R. Ragan takes the revenge thriller to the next level in the gritty and chillingly realistic Don’t Make a Sound. Ragan masterfully crafts one unexpected twist after another until the shocking finale.”
—Steven Konkoly, bestselling author of The Rescue
“T.R. Ragan delivers in her new thrilling series. Don’t Make a Sound introduces crime reporter Sawyer Brooks, a complex and compelling heroine determined to stop a killer as murders in her past and present collide.”
—Melinda Leigh, #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author
Her Last Day
“Intricately plotted . . . The tense plot builds to a startling and satisfying resolution.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Ragan’s newest novel is exciting and intriguing from the very beginning . . . Readers will race to finish the book, wanting to know the outcome and see justice served.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Readers will obsess over T.R. Ragan’s new tenacious heroine. I can’t wait for the next in the series!”
—Kendra Elliot, author of the Wall Street Journal bestsellers Spiraled and Targeted
“With action-packed twists and turns and a pace that doesn’t let up until the thrilling conclusion, Her Last Day is a brilliant start to a gripping new series from T.R. Ragan.”
—Robert Bryndza, #1 international bestselling author of The Girl in the Ice
OTHER TITLES BY T.R. RAGAN
SAWYER BROOKS SERIES
Don’t Make a Sound
JESSIE COLE SERIES
Her Last Day
Deadly Recall
Deranged
Buried Deep
FAITH MCMANN TRILOGY
Furious
Outrage
Wrath
LIZZY GARDNER SERIES
Abducted
Dead Weight
A Dark Mind
Obsessed
Almost Dead
Evil Never Dies
WRITING AS THERESA RAGAN
Return of the Rose
A Knight in Central Park
Taming Mad Max
Finding Kate Huntley
Having My Baby
An Offer He Can’t Refuse
Here Comes the Bride
I Will Wait for You: A Novella
Dead Man Running
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Theresa Ragan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542093903
ISBN-10: 1542093902
Cover design by Damon Freeman
To my readers.
Every single one of 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 TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
The moment she spotted the little girl, her blood pumped faster through her veins. Even from a distance, she could see similarities to Molly. Fair skinned with a small, upturned nose. The blonde curls framing the girl’s face reflected the last bit of daylight as the sun began its descent. Judging by height, she guessed the child to be nine or ten. She was perfect.
And she was alone.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, she turned the key in the ignition and merged onto the street. It was 6:00 p.m. on Sunday. Summertime. Dinnertime for many.
People might be surprised to know how many kids played alone at the park after school and on weekends. Never in a million years would she have dared let Molly play anywhere other than within the safety of their backyard. Even then, she always made sure to keep a vigilant eye on the child.
Kids disappeared all the time in front of their homes, at bus stops, and right off noisy streets bustling with people.
It didn’t matter how many times it happened. Most people didn’t take in their surroundings and pay attention. She’d done her homework, and there were reportedly 115 stranger abduction cases in the United States every year. Most victims were never found.
People tended to be complacent. They let kids walk alone, to and from school, without batting an eye. The notion boggled the mind.
Two blocks ahead, she pulled to the curb, the tire rubbing against the concrete before she stopped and turned off the engine. She’d rehearsed so often that it took little thought to get her plan rolling. In two seconds, she’d slipped her left arm, already covered in a fake plaster cast, into the sling hanging from her neck. She grabbed the syringe from the middle console, then climbed out and walked with an exaggerated limp to the back of her SUV, where she opened the compartment. Before setting out for the day, she had folded the rear seats to give herself plenty of room for crutches—just in case the sling didn’t work—boxes, and
little girls.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the girl watching her.
Perfect.
She used her right arm to reach for a couple of boxes and pretended to accidentally drop them, setting her plan in motion just as someone called out the name “Krissy.”
Frozen in place, she prayed the little girl wasn’t Krissy.
The second time the woman, who was quickly approaching, called the girl’s name, the child stepped out of the shadow of the trees. “I’m over here, Mom.”
Motionless, she released a long sigh.
“What are you doing?” the mother asked the girl, her voice shrill. “You gave me and your father a scare.”
“You said I could go to the park,” the girl answered.
“I told you to be back in forty-five minutes. It’s been an hour and a half since you left the house.”
Krissy’s head bowed. “Sorry.”
“Tell that to your father. He’s on his way to Beth’s house to see if you went there without asking permission. Come on,” the mother said with a huff. “We’ll call him in the car.”
“I need to help that lady first.” The girl left her mom’s side and came running over to help. She picked up both boxes and handed them over, one at a time.
A sparkle in the girl’s pretty blue eyes caused a lump to catch in her throat. “Thank you.”
Krissy’s smile revealed a row of small, flawless teeth before she ran back to her mother.
She watched the woman usher Krissy away. It took everything she had not to drop to her knees in despair. The girl was perfect in every way.
An idea struck her. She would follow them home and see where Krissy lived. She tossed the boxes inside and shut the compartment door before making her way back to the driver’s seat.
Through the rearview mirror she watched mom and daughter climb into a white minivan and pull away. She counted to five before merging onto the street, careful to stay a good distance behind them. A right on Oak Street and a left on Hickory brought them to a blue, two-story home with white trim. The newest house on the block. Her frustration mounted at the thought of returning tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. What would be the point? The mother’s worry had been clear. For the next few weeks Krissy’s parents would undoubtedly hover over her, not allowing her out of their sight.
I can’t wait that long, she thought as she drove past.
It had taken months to work up the courage to begin yet another search for the perfect child to fill the gaping hole in her heart after losing Molly.
It was time for her daughter to come home, where she belonged.
As she approached a stop sign, ready to head home for dinner and try again tomorrow, her heart jumped to her throat when she spotted another young girl, maybe a year or two older than Krissy.
The girl was sitting on the bottom step outside a brick building, her nose buried in a book on her lap. One thick braid fell over a slender shoulder. The girl lifted her chin. Their eyes met.
Her heart nearly stopped. She was the one. The girl’s small shoulders slumped forward again, and she went back to reading.
Stay calm. Breathe. Stick with the plan.
She clicked off the radio and stopped at the stop sign, counted to three, then made a left and pulled to the side of the road. Only a few feet away from the brick building where the little girl was sitting, she shut off the engine and repeated everything she’d practiced: Cast in sling. Syringe in place. Get out of the car. Open the trunk. Drop the boxes. Grimace and groan.
It wasn’t until she bent over that she took note of the apartment building to her left. Not good. Her heart beat faster.
Struggling to pick up the box, she gasped when a small hand shot out and grabbed the package for her.
She hadn’t seen or heard the girl approach. But here she was, book put away, backpack strapped over her shoulders, helping a stranger.
“Oh, my,” she said, feigning surprise. “I didn’t see you there. Thank you so much.”
The girl placed the box inside the back of her car, then eyed the crutches and asked, “Do you need help carrying these someplace?”
A car drove by.
She swallowed. “You, my dear, are an angel. If you could help me take these to that brick building over there, that would be lovely.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Are these packages for Mr. Brennan?”
Her eyes were green, not blue. Her hair was dirty blonde. Not bright yellow like Molly’s, or even Krissy’s, but still shiny and pretty. She realized the child was waiting for her to answer the question. “Um—why yes, they are! Do you know Mr. Brennan?”
“He’s my music teacher.”
“Such a small world.” You’re taking too long, she inwardly scolded. Get things rolling. People could be watching. She looked toward the apartment building across the street. With its aged concrete and peeling paint it looked as if it might have been abandoned. “I have one more box,” she told the girl, “but it’s heavier than these.” She pointed into the compartment where she’d folded the rear seats and had left a box as far away as possible for just this purpose. It was too far to reach without climbing inside.
The girl hesitated just the slightest before using her right knee to propel herself upward and inside.
Adrenaline pumping, she grabbed the syringe and jabbed the needle into the girl’s thigh. It helped that the child was wearing a summer dress.
“Ouch!”
She pulled the needle out, dropped it inside her sling, and pretended to swat at an insect as the girl rubbed her leg.
“I think it was a wasp!”
The girl shook her head and pointed to her sling. “You did something.”
“Me? No.” The girl should be unconscious soon. Inwardly, she counted to five.
The girl’s eyelids appeared heavy as she rubbed her thigh. She began to scoot her way out of the car, leaving the box behind.
What was happening? Why was the child still awake? She needed to stop her. “What about the box?” she asked.
The girl looked confused. She opened her mouth, ready to say something, when her body collapsed and her eyes closed.
Finally!
She leaned inside, tossed a light-blue blanket over the girl, then shut the compartment door.
Another car drove past. She could see its reflection in the window. She didn’t dare look toward the street. Nothing to see here, she thought as she opened the door and climbed in.
Only then did she dare take a breath. Once the engine started, relief seeped into her bones. She turned the radio on before merging onto the street, humming along to the sound of “Take the A Train” by Duke Ellington.
Life was good.
Her daughter was finally coming home.
CHAPTER TWO
Sawyer Brooks, crime reporter for the Sacramento Independent, was the first one sitting at the conference room table, waiting for everyone else to arrive. Her boss, Sean Palmer, insisted on regular editorial meetings to make sure his team always met their deadlines and had enough content.
At 7:55 a.m., Cindy arrived. She was the editorial assistant, but everyone called her the Cheerleader. Every group needed one. She’d been working with Palmer for fourteen years. If someone on the team did a standout job, she was the one who made sure they knew they were appreciated. Not everyone in their small group thought she was sincere—just a robot hired to encourage the troops. Whatever. As far as Sawyer was concerned, Cindy’s gratitude was refreshing.
David Lutz showed up a minute later. He was tall with a thick head of blond hair. He liked to wear suits, which made no sense. This wasn’t the ’80s. Nobody wore suits anymore. Even worse, he wore ties with his suits. Like Sawyer, David was a workaholic. Unlike Sawyer, he got handed most of the sensational stories—the breaking news and headliners. He’d been at the job longer, but she had a feeling it was the suit working in his favor.
Next to enter the room was Lexi Holmes. Forty-one, Lexi had dark hair, dark ey
es, and a dark aura. A woman of few words in the editorial meetings, but she knew her shit when it came to reporting. She also knew the beat. She was resourceful and naturally inquisitive.
Despite all the talent sitting at the table, Sawyer liked to think she had something the others didn’t have—endurance. Give her a story, any story, and she’d do whatever it took to cover it. Sleep was overrated.
It was five minutes past eight when Palmer joined them, which was unusual since he was never late. The only reporter missing was Donovan.
Palmer sat down at the head of the table and stroked his beard—Cindy’s daily cue to get the show on the road.
One thing Sawyer had noticed since her switch from human interest stories to crime reporting a month ago was that there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of real crime worth writing about. The Sacramento Independent was the sixth-largest newspaper in California, but so far she’d covered mostly drug arrests and assaults. Questioning people about their neighbor getting caught with a gram of meth was getting old quick. Since there wasn’t enough room in the paper to report every minor crime, she prioritized by naming only those who harmed others. That included men who hit their wives, got DUIs, or texted while driving—anything that endangered another.
After Cindy finished listing the stories assigned to each reporter, David tossed out three ideas for news stories along with proposed length and deadline. His record, he was fond of saying, was six stories in a single day. Impressive, but old news.
Taking advantage of the lull, Sawyer raised a finger and said, “I’d like to do a story on the guy who uses dating apps to scam his victims out of their life savings.”
“That’s mine,” David told her.
Sawyer looked from Cindy to Palmer, thinking maybe someone would help her out here since David hadn’t included the scammer story when he read off his list of ideas.
No help there. Sawyer let it go and moved on to the number two idea on her list. “What about the man who lived with his wife’s corpse for—”
“That story is taken,” Cindy interrupted.
Lexi looked bored.
“Okay,” Sawyer said. “Why don’t I wait until everyone else is finished?”
“Good idea,” David said.
Asshole.
By the time they were done tossing out concepts for stories that were either accepted or rejected by Palmer, Sawyer was left to cover a story about the man who had robbed a local bank and was caught afterward boasting about it on social media. A big yawn.