by T. R. Ragan
PRAISE FOR 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
OTHER TITLES BY T.R. RAGAN
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: 9781542093873
ISBN-10: 1542093872
Cover design by Damon Freeman
In memory of Joe Ragan Sr.,
a kind and loving man who always believed in me and was fond of saying, “They’re going to turn that book of yours into a movie. Just you wait and see.”
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
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
After the pinwheel on the computer stopped spinning and the screen brightened, she logged in to her private group. They called themselves The Crew. There were five of them, and they all had nicknames. Hers was Malice. The others were known as Lily, Bug, Cleo, and Psycho.
Their connection ran deep. Rape, torture, and years of anguish had brought them together. They knew one another’s stories, and they trusted each other fully. They hadn’t joined forces to provide emotional support, although much of what they did was therapeutic. The header pinned at the top of their page read Deterrence, Restitution, and Reformation.
It was The Crew’s belief that the only way to get justice was to see criminals punished.
Recently, they had decided unanimously to take control of their lives by teaching sexual predators a lesson or two. The people they planned to go after would come from all walks of life—young and old, rich and poor. The Crew had no intention of committing murder. The lowlifes would get exactly what they had coming—no more, no less. Once the target had been properly “awakened,” they would be released back into society.
They knew their hobby could easily become a full-time job. But there were only five of them, and so they would do what they could. They all had lives outside their club. Some of them were married and had children of their own. Some had full-time jobs. They would keep what they did from friends and family, because too many outsiders tended to believe the law would see justice served.
But reality wasn’t that kind.
Child abusers and sexual predators were becoming the norm. It was a well-known fact that fifteen of sixteen rapists walked free. Criminals knew better than most that there were police shortages in nearly every city and town across the country. It wasn’t easy finding good candidates to recruit for police work either. The pay was shit, and the odds of getting killed on the job were high.
So here they were, after years of getting to know one another, plotting their first target. They were a true sisterhood, committed to their newfound cause. Their motto was One Douchebag at a Time.
It was all they could do.
For now, it would have to be enough.
CHAPTER TWO
Sitting in her eight-by-eight cubicle on the third floor of the sturdy brick building that housed the Sacramento Independent, Sawyer Brooks, a twenty-nine-year-old journalist, gulped down her second cup of coffee and stared at the blank screen. What would her readers want to know about Jason Carlson, the man who thought it would be a good idea to whip out a rattlesnake to impress the kids at his ten-year-old son’s birthday party? While posing for pictures, he’d lost his grip, and the reptile bit the face of the child closest to him and another kid’s arm before slithering away.
It had happened yest
erday. They’d been rushed to the hospital. One little boy was in critical condition. The other kid was going to be okay.
What sort of moron would think pulling out a venomous snake in front of a bunch of kids was appropriate?
A shadow fell over her.
She swiveled around in her chair.
Her boss stood there, hands shoved deep into his pants pockets. His grayish-blue eyes reminded her of the color of the sky before a storm. Derek Coleman was the guy she reported to, one of two people in the building who made the final decision when it came to what stories she worked on.
Coleman was a young widower at thirty-five. Sawyer wasn’t one to pry into the personal lives of others, but being observant, paying attention to those around her, and remembering details was one of her genetically predetermined characteristics. It was also her job to know things.
Three years ago, a driver who’d been too busy texting to pay attention to the road had hit Coleman’s wife’s car head-on. She’d died instantly. He hadn’t removed the silver-framed wedding photo from his desk until recently. The picture of him holding his bride close to his chest, her white satin shoes inches off the ground, their faces brimming with happiness, told half the story. Gossipy staff filled in the rest.
Sawyer had worked for the Sacramento Independent for five years now. She’d started out as an intern, basically a gopher, then moved on to researching and editing others’ stories, finally landing a job as a news and human-interest reporter after another writer moved back East.
She met Coleman’s gaze. His expression told her he had bad news. “What’s wrong?”
“The kid died.”
Her first thought was: What kid? Second thought: No way. She’d read the stats on snakebites. Both victims had been given an antivenin within an hour of being bitten. The probability of recovery was 99 percent. Venomous snakes bit seven to eight thousand people every year. About five of those died. “How could that be?” she asked, pushing through her surprise.
“Apparently the boy had an allergic reaction.”
She swiveled back around, grabbed her purse from the bottom drawer, and jumped out of her chair.
“Where are you going?”
“To the hospital.” She knew Coleman wouldn’t try to stop her from talking to the grieving family or friends of the boy. Many frowned on journalists talking to family members too soon. But this was a newspaper, after all. Coleman trusted her as a journalist to tell the story, no matter how difficult. She didn’t act callously or hound people suffering from grief.
And yet Coleman still stood there. Again, she met his gaze. “Is there something else?”
“Geezer called in sick.”
Geezer was a crime scene photographer who worked closely with the Sacramento Independent’s top crime reporter, Sean Palmer. “So?”
“He said you can hold your own when it comes to taking pictures.”
She nodded. Waited.
“There’s been a homicide. Forrest Hill Apartments in West Sac. Palmer wants you there ASAP. He said to bring your gear.”
“What the hell?” She pushed her fingers through her hair in frustration. “Why didn’t you tell me five minutes ago?”
A thick brow shot upward. “Because I need the snake story on my desk by seven tonight.”
She’d pissed him off. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to curse at you.”
He said nothing.
She turned away to shut down her computer. Working with Sean Palmer had been a goal of hers since she’d graduated from California State University, Sacramento. Running through a checklist in her mind, she grabbed her backpack, sliding the straps over her shoulder as it dawned on her that she needed to run home to get her camera. Pivoting on her feet, she was surprised to see Coleman still standing there. “Something else?”
“Are you sure you’re ready for this? A woman was brutally murdered. From what I’ve heard, it’s a grisly sight.” He looked overly concerned.
“Are you kidding me? All I’ve wanted since I got this job was to work side by side with Sean Palmer and learn from the best.”
“But that’s not what you’ll be doing. Your job today will be to take pictures.” He sighed. “And that’s only if you can get anywhere near the crime scene.”
“I get it,” she said.
“You’re not to get in anyone’s way.”
“Got it.” It was a tight squeeze, exiting her cubicle with Coleman in the way, but she managed.
“Seven p.m.,” he called after her.
A reminder to get the snake story on his desk, pronto. Without turning around, she raised a hand in acknowledgment. Outside, she ran across the parking lot, the dead boy forgotten.
Nine a.m., and already the July heat was proving to be brutal. The kind of extreme heat that made tree branches break and animals pant.
She slid into her car, a second-generation Honda Civic with a rusty baby-blue exterior and tan interior. The engine jumped when she turned the key. A clunker, but it got her where she needed to go. She had no plans to put old Suzy out to pasture.
Despite traffic and hitting a red light, she made a concerted effort not to speed as she drove to East Sacramento. She made a left on San Antonio Way, and as she neared the house of her boyfriend, Connor, she spotted a car she didn’t recognize in the driveway.
She pulled to the curb across from the house and shut off the engine.
A visitor? Had Connor been expecting someone, and that was why he’d rushed her out of the house this morning? Her pulse quickened as she walked toward the entrance. Connor was a bit of a slob. Maybe he’d finally hired someone to clean. A few more scenarios played through her head as she slipped the key into the lock and opened the front door.
Music was playing. It wasn’t blaring, but it was loud enough to cover the sound of her footfalls as she made her way down the hallway to the bedroom. The door was ajar. She nudged it open, and when she stepped inside, she couldn’t take her eyes off Connor’s naked ass as it rose and fell. The girl beneath him had big eyes that grew even bigger when she noticed Sawyer standing there.
“Really?” Sawyer asked.
Connor must have been focused on what he was doing, because the girl had to use both hands to push him off her and then gesture at Sawyer.
Connor peeked over his shoulder. His face was red from exertion, which made sense considering this was the hardest she’d ever seen him work.
For some reason, Sawyer wasn’t surprised. Not that Connor had ever cheated on her . . . that she knew of. It just somehow fit. Connor had no integrity and only his own interests in mind. And what annoyed her at the moment was that she’d ever moved in with him to begin with.
The girl used the sheet to cover herself. Connor slid off the bed. His dick was still hard, springing forth and wobbling a bit like a diving board.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“What am I doing?” Sawyer laughed, then thought about Geezer being out sick and Sean Palmer at Forrest Hill Apartments, waiting for her. She didn’t have time for this. “I need my camera.” She walked to the closet and searched through clothes and shoes. Her camera bag had been pushed to the back corner. She opened it, made sure she had an extra battery and plenty of memory cards before zipping it closed, and headed back the way she’d come.
Connor followed close behind. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back to work,” she said. “It’s what people do to pay the bills. You should try it sometime.”
He grabbed her arm. She shrugged it off.
“Come on,” he said. “We need to talk about this.”
“No. We don’t. It’s over.”
“We haven’t had sex in months. What was I supposed to do?”
When she reached the door, she turned toward him. “Don’t sweat it. You’re like every guy I’ve ever known. I’ll grab my things later.”
Walking toward her car, she saw a shadow underneath the frame by the front tire. It was a cat. “Come on,” she said, trying to
coax the animal out. “I’m in a hurry.”
She got down on all fours. The poor thing looked half-starved. Its fur was long and matted, and there was no collar. When she opened the car door, the cat darted across the street and disappeared under a thick hedge. She felt bad that she didn’t have time to run after the animal to see if it belonged to anyone in the neighborhood.
In her car and back on the road, Sawyer kept her hands steady on the wheel and tried to tamp down the emotions swooshing through her—a pinch of anger, a dab of disappointment, and a bucketful of reality that she just wasn’t that into Connor.
Unlike her sisters, she wasn’t plagued with OCD, and she wasn’t afraid of conflict. But Sawyer definitely had her demons, and some of them came in the form of heightened distrust. Overall, Sawyer felt as if her self-contained anger kept her in control. But she was clearly at war with the world. Like many people, she suffered from anxiety, much of which stemmed from being touched.
Connor had been one of two men she’d had consensual sex with. When it came to having sex, she had rules. No grabbing hold of her hair, face, or buttocks. No fucking the shit out of her. Connor had known better than to dare press her against the wall or pin her to the bed. She needed to be on top—full control at all times. Otherwise, terror set in and made her feel things she didn’t want to feel—wild, feral. Her heart would beat erratically, and she would struggle for breath. Her jaw would harden, her teeth grinding together, and there was no telling what might happen. Not that she would ever purposely harm anyone. It was just that moment of feeling trapped that would set her off, filling her with a burst of energy, like a caged animal breaking free.
Her therapist wrote her a prescription every time they talked, but Sawyer always crumpled it up and threw it away. Not because of any clean-body and clean-mind bullshit. But because she knew firsthand what pills could do to her. They made her loopy and calm and vulnerable. Screw being calm and vulnerable. She’d stick with tight fists and body tremors.
She turned her thoughts to where she was headed and Sean Palmer, one of the best crime reporters in the country. He was the reason she’d decided to apply for a job at the Sacramento Independent. Years ago, he’d been invited as a special guest to one of her journalism classes at CSUS. When class ended, she’d worked up the courage to tell him how he’d inspired her to seek out a career in journalism, more specifically, crime reporting. Instead of shaking her hand and moving on to the next student in line, he’d looked her in the eyes and fired off point-blank questions, personal questions about her life. He said he’d easily picked her out of nearly fifty students in class, pegged her as troubled and high anxiety—too much foot bouncing, fidgeting, and shifting in her seat. In a matter of minutes, he’d concluded that whatever baggage she was carrying would weigh her down and prevent her from obtaining the sort of sharp-edged focus it would take to become a decent reporter.