by T. R. Ragan
“No. I mean every day to check in. Otherwise I’m going to worry, and Harper will go nuts. You know she will.”
“Don’t tell her. She’s way too sensitive. Maybe if she didn’t keep everything so bottled up inside, she wouldn’t have to spend every minute cleaning.”
Aria exhaled. “Are you still angry with Harper after all she’s done for both of us?”
“What did she do for me?” Sawyer asked. “Besides leave me here to rot?”
“We’ve been over this before.”
“I know. I know.” Sawyer rubbed a hand over her face. “Harper is all screwed up in the head. But think about it all from my perspective. Harper knew what Uncle Theo was capable of, and yet she left town without me. How is she any better than Mom or Dad?”
“Harper turned eighteen a few days before she dragged me to the truck in the middle of the night,” Aria said half-heartedly. “She was too young to be burdened with taking care of either one of us.”
“So why you and not both of us?” Sawyer inwardly cringed at how pathetic she sounded. But it wasn’t as if Harper had needed to choose one over the other. She could have saved them both.
Aria groaned. “Harper has spent years beating herself up over everything that happened when we were growing up. We weren’t her responsibility, Sawyer. It was a horrible time for all of us. She did what she could, and she’s been trying so hard to make up for leaving you behind. Why can’t you cut her a break?”
Silence followed.
Aria said, “I’ll talk to her tonight and tell her you’ll be staying in River Rock for a while.”
“Thanks.”
“Before you go,” Aria said, “what do you want me to do with the cat? Nate is allergic. They can’t keep him. And poor Mr. Baguette is stuck in his cage until you figure out what to do with him.”
“I don’t want him to go to the pound,” Sawyer said. “Can you find a kennel where he can stay until I get back?”
“You can’t afford a kennel. I’ll take care of him until you return, but you’ll need to figure it all out then.”
“Thanks. I owe you.”
“Yeah. You do. Call or text tomorrow to check in,” Aria said.
“I will.”
“Love you.”
“Ditto,” Sawyer said before she hung up. She wasn’t sure why she couldn’t say those three little words, but something held her back every time. Expressing her feelings was just as difficult as touching and showing physical affection. It would take time, her therapist told her. The important thing was how she felt inside. She cared about her sisters and would do anything for either one of them.
Sawyer figured that was a good start.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sawyer used a paper towel to wipe sweat from her brow. She’d been cleaning for hours. Every cobweb was gone and the windows gleamed. She had swept the floor but still needed to shake out the area rug that she’d thrown outside. The door to the cottage was open, and her dad peeked his head in. “Mind if I come in?”
“Not at all.” She waved him in. He didn’t appear to be as tired and broken down as he’d seemed the first night she’d arrived.
“You’ve been working hard. The place is shaping up.”
“Thanks.” Sawyer walked to one side of the mattress, the side farthest from the door. “Mind helping me turn this over?”
He walked over to the other side, and it hardly took any effort for both of them to flip it. Compared with the dirty side, this side of the mattress looked brand new.
“You know where to find sheets and pillows,” he said.
“Thanks for the help.”
He scratched his whiskered jaw. “How are your sisters?”
First Mom, and now Dad. Had a bit of remorse finally crept into their souls? “I thought you and Aria kept in touch?”
“Small talk,” he said. “She tells me she’s fine. I say good. We hang up.”
“You’ve always been a man of few words.”
“That’s no excuse. I should have tried harder to talk to you girls and get to know all of you.”
“Yeah, well, that’s life. Like Mom is always saying—today is a new day.”
“You hate when she says that.”
Sawyer was surprised he knew anything at all about what she liked or disliked. “I do despise it,” she said. “Today is just another day. It doesn’t make yesterday magically disappear forever.”
Dad smiled.
Sawyer stared across the bed into his sea-green eyes. Who was this man, really? And why was he here now, talking to her? Was it an age thing? Had he been wallowing in some sort of come-to-Jesus soul searching? Don’t waste your time, she wanted to say, but didn’t. When she was young, she used to fantasize that Mr. and Mrs. Russell, the people who owned the bookstore, were her parents. She could have hoped and wished until her face turned blue, but Mom and Dad would never have been the sort of parents who raced her to the kitchen to get their hands dirty in a bowl of pancake batter or put the fear of God into her if she didn’t get As or Bs on her report card. She couldn’t remember either one of them ever feigning interest in what she was doing. So what did he want?
“What is it?” Sawyer asked. “Is there something you want to say to me?”
His eyes shimmered.
“Say it,” she prodded.
But no words came forth. Instead, he bowed his head so that his gaze seemed to rest on the floor. He obviously wanted to get something off his chest, but she wasn’t going to push him. She waited him out. Let the quiet strangle them both. Whether it was confessions or apologies or something else, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it—not now, maybe not ever. “I’ve got to get to town,” she finally said.
He lifted his head, watched her as she gathered her bag from the bedside table. “I heard you were reporting on the murder.”
“I am.” She didn’t bother going into more detail than that. What would be the point? “Is it okay if I stay here in the cottage while I’m working on the story? I don’t plan on being here long.”
“It’s fine,” he said unconvincingly.
“I should go.” She had intended to take a shower and change her clothes, but her sudden desire to get away overrode any need for cleanliness. As she walked past him to leave, he grabbed hold of her arm. Her instinct was to pull away, but she held still, waited. “Be careful,” he said as he released his grasp.
“I always am.” She stepped out of the cottage and walked the path through the side yard to the driveway. She climbed into her car, relieved when the engine started right up on the first try.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Aria read Sawyer’s story about the snake at the birthday party online. The thought of losing someone so tragically caused a heaviness to settle in her chest. She then read about Kylie Hartford, another tragic story. A thumbnail picture revealed the authorities’ number one suspect—Zach Jordan.
Aria sat up in her chair.
She knew Zach. For years he’d volunteered at the SPCA. He was one of her mentors, a genuinely nice guy. And for someone like Aria, who tended to avoid people, that was saying a lot.
Never judge a book by its cover. The thought hit her hard, stopping her from being too quick to assume someone like Zach would never kill his girlfriend. She knew firsthand what nice, kind-looking men could do.
It was the reason she carried a gun.
It was the reason she’d been seeing a therapist.
It was the reason she hardly slept at night.
But still.
She thought about what Sawyer had said she would do if she were here in Sacramento. She’d said she would talk to Zach and ask him questions.
Aria finished reading the article.
It didn’t look good for Zach, mostly because he was the last person seen with Kylie. He’d been spending a lot of time at Kylie’s apartment when she wasn’t there. He worked in construction, so why wasn’t he at work during the day? And why were Kylie’s neighbors suspicious of him?
> Aria put Zach’s name into a popular search engine. His address popped right up. He lived on the outskirts of Curtis Park, less than ten minutes away. She looked at the time. It was six o’clock. She thought about giving Sawyer a call, then decided against it. What good would it do, worrying anyone?
She shut down her computer, opened Mr. Baguette’s cage and dropped some millet in, then made sure there was still plenty of food and water for Raccoon. She grabbed a backpack from her closet, where she noticed Raccoon curled up in the corner. Slowly she reached out, hoping he’d sniff her or let her pet him, but instead he darted away and disappeared under the bed.
Poor thing. He was scared to death of people.
She and Raccoon had a lot in common.
Aria left the studio, then made her way to the house to let Harper know she wouldn’t be joining them for dinner. She found Harper in the kitchen, making a salad to go with the lasagna she had in the oven.
“I don’t know how you do it all,” Aria said.
“And it’s only just begun,” Harper said wearily as she glided a hand over her stomach.
Aria’s mouth fell open. “Are you pregnant?”
“Don’t say anything. I haven’t told anyone. Not even Nate.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know how to tell him.” Harper’s shoulders fell. “This wasn’t part of the plan. Nate’s construction business is doing okay, but it’s not like we’re rolling in dough. The mood changes and headaches I was experiencing were too much, so I stopped taking the pill and made an appointment to get an IUD. I screwed up. Another child will definitely put more pressure on everyone.”
“Hey,” Lennon called out from the living room. “Look at this!”
Harper followed Aria into the family room, where Lennon was pointing a finger at the television. “That’s Brad Vicente. He works for Zeon, one of the gaming giants. Vicente created my favorite game, Total Diplomacy.”
Two men appeared on the screen. The camera zoomed in close on the man on the left. “Brad Vicente, known for his creation of a popular video game, is in the hospital after having his penis cut off. A surgeon skilled in microsurgery was called in to reattach the appendage. Penile replantation is rare, but the doctors are hopeful that the surgery will be successful. It could be days before authorities are able to piece together what happened.”
“Is he married?” Aria asked.
Lennon chuckled. “A little desperate, aren’t you, Aunt Aria?”
Aria thumbed her nose at her nephew. “I don’t want to date the guy. I’m just wondering who cut off his penis. I thought maybe it was his wife.”
Harper crossed her arms. “Who cares? He probably deserved it.”
“That’s a little harsh, Mom. We don’t even know what happened.”
Harper went back to the kitchen to finish chopping vegetables.
“I’ve gotta go,” Aria said as she made her way to the door. “I just wanted to let you know I won’t be here for dinner.”
“Why not?” Harper asked.
“Someone called in sick down at the shelter. They need me. Save me some lasagna, will you? Bye!” Aria left before Harper could interrogate her.
It took her only twelve minutes with traffic to get to Zach’s house. It was a single story. Aria looked inside her backpack at her gun. Even if he had killed his girlfriend, surely he wouldn’t risk killing her too. She decided not to load it. She’d use it to scare him if the need arose.
She shouldered her bag and climbed out of the car. Planter boxes filled with weeds lined the walkway. The place looked severely neglected. She heard noise inside the house. She rapped her knuckles hard against the wood door. The guy who answered was probably in his midtwenties, younger than Zach, who she guessed to be in his early thirties. “Is Zach Jordan here?” she asked.
“Zach,” he yelled before walking away, leaving her standing there.
She peeked her head inside, watched the young man who had opened the door pick up a controller and take a seat on the couch next to another young man she didn’t recognize. A sweet scent drifted from the room to where she stood.
“Zach!” the other guy yelled when he saw her looking in.
“What do you want?” Zach shouted back as he came into view. “Hey,” he said when he spotted her at the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Aria Brooks from the SPCA. We worked together for a while.”
“I remember.”
“I was wondering if we could talk,” she said.
“What about?”
“I’d rather talk in private.”
“Inside or out?”
The inside of his house was small and cluttered. Beer cans and trash covered most of the tables. A hookah pipe sat on a side table next to the couch.
“Out,” she said.
He stepped outside and shut the door. She followed him to his truck, which was parked at the curb. He leaned against the tail end and said, “This is about as private as it gets around here.”
“I heard about what happened to your girlfriend.”
His head was down, his arms crossed over his chest. Aria’s belief in the goodness of people had eroded over the years. Right now, her cynicism was on high alert. She couldn’t think of one reason why she should beat around the bush. “It looks like you’re the number one suspect.”
He didn’t move a muscle.
“My sister is a crime reporter. She works for the Sacramento Independent. She saw you the morning after the murder. You were sitting in your truck, and she thinks maybe you were crying.”
When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were red and watery. “Maybe I was,” he said. “What’s it to you or your sister?”
“Where were you the night Kylie Hartford was murdered?”
“Are you with the police?” he asked. “Did they wire you and send you over here to talk to me?”
“No.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
She shook her head.
“Then why are you here?”
“For months I watched you work with animals, and I just thought you were a really kind human being. When I saw you were a suspect, I felt compelled to ask you all the questions my sister couldn’t because she’s out of town. So will you talk with me?”
He said nothing.
“If you’re arrested, I might be the only person, other than a court-appointed lawyer, who’s going to be able to tell your side of the story. Why are Kylie’s neighbors pointing fingers at you?”
He took a breath and looked around before saying, “The night before she was found”—he closed his eyes, took a breath, then opened them again—“we argued. I yelled at her. She shouted back. I left and slammed the door on my way out. It probably sounded worse than it was, but there’s no denying I was angry.”
“What were you arguing about?”
“Matthew Westover, an anchorman at Good Day Sacramento, where Kylie worked.”
Women adored Matthew Westover, but Aria didn’t understand the appeal. “Can you elaborate?”
“I knew she was going out for drinks after work with her coworkers, and I knew Westover might be there, but until that night I had no idea she was still fucking him.”
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
“You said ‘still.’ This had been going on for a while?”
He nodded. “Matthew Westover wasn’t the first guy, and I knew he wouldn’t be the last. But I never stopped hoping that I would be enough for her.”
What the hell? Aria didn’t understand people. “Why did you stay with her?”
His eyes pierced Aria’s. “Because I loved her.”
Aria had never experienced that sort of love, and she was fine with that. But nobody could convince her that Zach Jordan wasn’t telling the truth. She could see the deep affection he’d had for Kylie in his eyes and scrawled into every line of his face. She asked one more question. She already knew the answer, but she asked anyway. “Did you kill Kylie?”
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“No.”
“Where were you the night she was killed?”
“I was hoping I could stay away from her, punish her by not texting or calling. I was still mad about her being with Westover. I’m not proud of it, but after she got off work, I followed her to a book signing at the Sacramento Convention Center. After she disappeared inside the building, I drove to Device Brewery in Midtown and drank my sorrows away. They had to kick me out when they closed. Somebody got me to my truck, where I passed out. The next morning, I drove straight to Kylie’s apartment to tell her I loved her and couldn’t stand being apart for even one more minute. I was the one who found her.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I ran out of there fast, jumped in my car, and called 9-1-1.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sawyer pulled up behind a media van stationed outside the house where Isabella Estrada had grown up. The one-story ranch-style home appeared freshly painted. The yellow and pink rosebushes separating the house from the neighbors on both sides were in full bloom.
Walking toward the house, she heard the van door open and close behind her. Next thing she knew, a young woman with determination in her eyes was shoving a microphone in Sawyer’s face.
“Did you know Isabella Estrada? Are you a friend of the family?”
“No and no,” Sawyer said as she walked onward, never slowing.
The front door flew open before Sawyer could knock.
“Get off our property! I’m calling the police!” The man was big and broad and frightening. It took Sawyer a half second to realize he was talking to the woman standing next to her.
“Shit.” She backed off and hurried back to the van.
His gaze settled on Sawyer. “Who are you?”
Be up front was Sean Palmer’s mantra. She wondered how often he followed his own advice. “I’m Sawyer Brooks. My parents are Joyce and Dennis Brooks.” Not a lie.
His big shoulders relaxed. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but my sister and brother-in-law are in a whole lot of pain right now. Unless you can tell us who might have killed my niece, I can’t help you.”
“I was hoping—”
“Let her in,” came a male voice from inside the house. The man standing in front of Sawyer filled the doorway, making it impossible to see past him. He finally stepped aside. She recognized him at once. “Caden,” she said, “I’m so sorry about your sister.”