Don't Make a Sound: A Sawyer Brooks Thriller

by T. R. Ragan

  He nodded, said, “Let’s go to the back.”

  She followed him through the house, caught sight of people in the living room. A dark-haired woman was talking in a calm, soothing voice to a middle-aged couple sitting on the couch. The woman on the couch was crying while the man next to her tried to comfort her.

  Caden paused when they got to the kitchen, then waved her toward the side door leading to the backyard. She followed him outside, down three wooden steps, and across a rocky path, where he finally stopped at a pair of aluminum chairs with red padding faded by the sun.

  “Sorry, but it’s a little chaotic inside right now.”

  “Thanks for talking to me at all. How are you holding up?”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “It’s pretty shocking. But I needed a break from all the craziness. Are you living in River Rock?” he asked.

  “No. I left after graduating. I live in Sacramento, but I came back for my gramma’s funeral.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss too.” She paused. “How about you? Do you live in River Rock?”

  “No. I went to college in Oregon and ended up in Portland. I work in advertising.” He smiled. “I’m engaged.”

  Sawyer could see that he was doing all he could to stay strong. “Congratulations on the engagement.”

  “Thanks.”

  An awkward moment passed before Sawyer asked, “Who was the woman inside, talking to your parents?”

  “A grief counselor. My mom is on the brink of having a nervous breakdown, so Dad found someone to help them both through this ordeal. I came as fast as I could. I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but Dad asked me to come, so I did.”

  “Were you and Isabella close?”

  “Not really. Thirteen years apart was a big gap. When I called home, we would talk. We spoke last week, in fact. She was stoked because she’d passed her driver’s test and could finally drive without Mom and Dad in her face. Her words, not mine.”

  “So she had a car?”

  He looked baffled. “Is this an interview?”

  “I’m a journalist,” she admitted. “I don’t want Isabella to be another unsolved mystery in this town, so I thought I would find out as much as I could about what happened.”

  He shifted in his chair and then looked over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t talk to you. Dad would be upset if he knew there was a reporter in the house, and that’s the last thing he needs right now.”

  “Nothing you tell me is going to be in print today or tomorrow. Nobody has to know we talked. I want to help, Caden. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never forgotten Peggy Myers and Avery James, the girls killed here when we were younger.”

  He said nothing, but he was listening.

  “Do you remember Rebecca Johnson?”

  He nodded.

  “They never found her. I think about her almost every day.”

  He propped his elbows on his knees, his gaze directed downward.

  “Peggy, Avery, and Rebecca had family members who cared about them: mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles. People forget that sometimes. If I do my job right, Isabella will not be forgotten. Nobody’s life should be defined by murder.”

  Caden lifted his head. “Okay,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

  Over the next twenty minutes, he told her Isabella had been a happy kid, a people pleaser. He got teary-eyed when he talked about when he was living at home and how Isabella didn’t like it if he was sad or had a bad day. She would bring him a sandwich she’d made herself, which was never appetizing. And oftentimes she would make funny faces for as long as it took to make him smile.

  He also provided Sawyer with the particulars: Isabella drove a blue Honda Civic, she played the piano, she thought boys were silly, and she and her best friend, Amanda Harrington, were obsessed with Taylor Swift. Isabella also liked to run, which Caden told her was what she was doing when she was killed.

  By the time Caden finished, both their moods had changed. Hearing all the little details about his sister made Sawyer think of her own sisters and how difficult it would be to lose either one of them so tragically. He walked her to the door and said goodbye.

  On her way back to her car, Sawyer peered through the window of the blue Honda Civic parked in the driveway. A crystal dangled from the rearview mirror. There was a calculus workbook on the back seat and a binder. She looked over her shoulder toward the house and saw someone peeking through the curtains.

  Was it Caden or his uncle? She couldn’t tell.

  As she continued on her path toward her car, the reporter stepped out of the van and tried to block Sawyer from walking past. “You must be a friend of the family,” she said. “You were inside the house for quite a while. How is the family holding up?”

  “Isabella Estrada was brutally murdered yesterday. How do you think they’re doing?”

  As Sawyer drove away, she thought about her job. Objectivity, accountability, fairness, and truth were the key ethical responsibilities of every journalist. But sometimes reporters—broadcasters, particularly—went for emotion when they interviewed the victim’s family, throwing compassion and concern out the window, which only made things worse.

  She glanced at the time. It was 4:00 p.m. She had a long list of people she wanted to talk to. Caden had mentioned Amanda Harrington as being one of Isabella’s good friends. Sawyer also intended to talk to Chief Schneider and get the facts. For instance, who found Isabella? When, and what time? Were there any witnesses who might have seen someone in the vicinity around the time of the murder? Were there any suspects?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  From a few blocks away, he watched Sawyer disappear inside the Estrada home. It made sense that she’d go there first to get answers to her questions. But he couldn’t lie. He was surprised they’d invited her inside their home less than forty-eight hours after their only daughter had been strangled and strapped to a tree.

  If only he were a fly on the wall.

  Who was she talking to? What sort of questions would she ask them? And what could they possibly tell her about Isabella that would enlighten her audience? Teenage girls were self-centered and only cared about themselves. He was doing the town a favor by getting rid of ones like Isabella, who were never held accountable for their actions. It was sickening to watch the way parents rushed in to save their darling daughters from the tiniest of problems.

  He was the person Sawyer should be talking to.

  The thought made him chuckle. Isabella was dead because she happened to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Any young girl would have worked. The only reason he’d killed her was to try to keep Sawyer Brooks in River Rock as long as possible. The funny part was that it had worked.

  Seeing Sawyer again after all these years had jump-started something within, sparked the fire that he was certain had been building since the day he was born. He’d been obsessed with Sawyer since the first time they had met. He would do anything to keep her close. Someday he might find the courage to tell her how he felt.

  Not today, though.

  He needed to give her time to get to know him, show her he could be trusted, and that he was worthy of her love.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Before Sawyer got to the main road, she pulled onto the shoulder and used her cell to do a search to find an address for Amanda Harrington.

  Derek Coleman’s name and number popped up, since she’d talked to him recently. Should she give him a call and let him know she might be staying in River Rock longer than first planned?

  No. It was Saturday. She didn’t want to bother him on the weekend. But if she called him on Monday, she would be interrupting his work.

  She was doing what she always did—overanalyzing. Without giving it another thought, she pressed the screen with her finger, put the phone to her ear, and wondered what she would say if he answered.

  “Hello?”

 
Damn. It was him.

  “Is that you, Sawyer?”

  “Oh, hi, sorry. I was a little distracted. Obviously. I just wanted to let you know—”

  She heard a voice in the background. A woman calling his name.

  “Hold on,” he said to Sawyer while he told whoever it was to go on without him and he’d be right there.

  “Don’t let me keep you from whatever you were doing,” Sawyer said. “I can talk to you later.” He was obviously with a woman. She sounded young and carefree, probably had zero anxiety, and was lovely inside and out. This was awkward. She never should have called.

  “I’d rather talk to you than play badminton with my sister,” Coleman said. “I’m at my parents’ house.”

  She heard chatter and laughing in the background. “Are you having a family reunion?”

  He chuckled. “You could call it that. Every time we get together, which is much too often, it’s like a reunion. I have four sisters and two brothers. Between those six, I have fourteen nieces and nephews. Ten of those are females. The males are outnumbered.”

  “Females are the future,” she said.

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Stay on track, she reminded herself. “I called to let you know I might be staying in River Rock longer than planned.”

  “When will you be returning?”

  “I’m not sure. A young woman was killed yesterday. Strangled,” Sawyer told him. “Found naked and tied to a tree.”

  “Horrible. Did Palmer ask you to stay and cover the murder?”

  “No. It was the other way around, actually.”

  “I guess I’m not too surprised.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You’ve always made it clear that it’s been your dream to work the beat.”

  Sawyer was taken aback. They had rarely talked about private matters over the years, and yet it seemed he was so tuned in to her.

  “I’m being presumptuous.”

  “You’re not,” she said. “I asked you a question, and you answered it. And you’re right on both accounts. I called to let you know because I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t interested.”

  “In me or in dinner?” he asked.

  “Dinner,” she said. “Of course.”

  He laughed. “Well, I’m happy to hear that. Now I’m left to assume that this means you are interested.”

  Her insides quivered. She couldn’t let him spend the next week thinking she might be someone she wasn’t. “I have to be honest with you.”

  “Please,” he said.

  “I feel a need to warn you that I’m sort of a mess. I was sexually abused, and I’ve been seeing a therapist for years, and we’ve pretty much gotten nowhere. I was living with a guy named Connor up until last week, when I caught him in bed with another woman. I don’t know about you, but I find it strange that I haven’t given him a first or second thought since. I have an aversion to being touched. I have panic attacks from time to time, I don’t trust anyone, and I’m often paranoid. For instance, since arriving in River Rock, I’m certain I’m being watched.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this. It’s not that I try to hide who I am from people, but I don’t usually just spout all my flaws on a whim.” Her heart raced. She felt nauseated. “Jesus, I’m sorry. Get back to your family. I never should have called.”

  “Please don’t hang up,” he said.

  How did he know she was about to do just that?

  “I leave the toilet seat up more times than not,” he told her. “I hardly ever finish a book once I’ve started. I’ve been known to make sound effects when I’m driving. I have a nervous twitch, and my leg bounces whenever I sit down for too long. I also talk to myself while cooking. I could go on, but then you’d never talk to me again, so I think I’ll stop right there and leave it at that.”

  “Was that supposed to make me feel better?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Well, thank you. Really. Can I hang up now?”

  “Goodbye, Sawyer. We’ll talk when you get back. Stay safe.”

  She was mortified by everything she’d just shared and considered apologizing again, but instead she said, “Goodbye.” After disconnecting the call, she let out all the bad air in one long exhalation. How was it possible that she’d worked with the man for all those years and never once stopped to wonder about him? And why had she felt the need to share so much of herself with him?

  A loud knock on her car window made her jump.

  Shit.

  It was Oliver. Make that Melanie. She pushed the button to open the window. She inwardly repeated her new name, not wanting to offend by calling her Oliver. Melanie wore thick eyeliner, and her hair was in a long fishtail braid that swept naturally over one shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Melanie said, leaning down so they were face-to-face. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I saw you sitting in your car for a while, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t lost or anything.”

  “I’m not lost,” Sawyer said, her heart still beating rapidly. “I was talking to someone on the phone.”

  Melanie straightened. Smiled. “Oh, good. Just making sure.”

  Before she could walk away, Sawyer said, “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find Amanda Harrington, would you?”

  Her nose crinkled. “What in the world do you want with Amanda Harrington?” Melanie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh, this has something to do with Isabella Estrada and your job, doesn’t it?”

  Sawyer nodded. “I want to talk to people, see what I can find out about the murder.”

  “Well, then Amanda isn’t the person you want to talk to. You need to go see her boyfriend.”

  “Isabella’s brother told me she didn’t have a boyfriend.”

  Melanie frowned. “The brother lives in another state, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he probably never knew what Isabella was up to. Secrets . . . ,” Melanie said. “This town has more secrets than mosquitoes, and that’s saying something.”

  An image of the tiny bites all over Isabella’s pale skin came to mind. “Any idea how long Isabella had been seeing this person?”

  Melanie appeared to think about it. “Close to a year is my guess.”

  “And she didn’t tell her brother?”

  “Probably because her boyfriend is—was—her math teacher.”

  “Oh, God,” Sawyer said. She thought of Caden telling her that his sister thought boys were silly. Her insides flip-flopped. “Please don’t tell me he’s married with kids.”

  “Afraid so, on both accounts.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’ve always been observant. Watching them make out in the back room of the bookstore was my first clue.”

  Sawyer squeezed her fingers tight around the steering wheel. “I hate this town. I bet you there’s not one person living in River Rock who hasn’t screwed someone over, literally or figuratively.”

  “I’m guessing the odds would be in your favor.” Melanie lifted a perfectly shaped brow. “If you want, I can show you where he lives.”

  Sawyer perked up. “Yes, please. Get in.”

  Jonathan Lane was the math teacher’s name. Like everyone in River Rock, he lived only a few miles from town. Not only did he have the allotted wife and two kids, he lived in one of the newer cookie-cutter homes—a two-story house with blue trim and a white picket fence. Jonathan Lane was over six feet tall and lean. Sawyer knew this because he was mowing the small patch of lawn in front when she parked at the curb and got out of the car.

  Melanie asked her a question, but she hadn’t heard what she’d said. Sawyer was on autopilot. All she could think about was the forty-year-old man taking advantage of a sixteen-year-old while his wife looked after his two young children. Thank God Nate was a good husband to Harper. From what Aria had told her, Nate had been the guy driving the truck the night Harper and Aria escaped River Rock.
Sawyer should probably be just as angry with Nate as she was with Harper for leaving her there. But she hadn’t known him, and a lot of the details of that night were still sketchy. Maybe Nate hadn’t known at the time that Sawyer existed.

  She walked up to Jonathan, as close as she could get without putting herself in danger of being run over by his push mower. The moment he saw her, he released his hold on the bar. The engine belched and died. “Hey there,” he said in a friendly-dad-type voice.

  “Jonathan Lane?” she asked.

  “That’s me.”

  He had little round eyes and a pointy noise. Everything about him said “creep.” “I understand you were Isabella’s math teacher. Is that right?”

  He pulled a small towel from his pocket and wiped his brow. “That’s correct.” He looked over his shoulder toward the house. She didn’t have to wonder what he was worried about. It was more than likely he was checking to see if his wife knew they had a visitor.

  Sawyer heard a car door open and close. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Melanie walk to the front of the car and lean against the hood, her arms crossed.

  “I’m doing a story about Isabella,” Sawyer told him. “I want my readers to get a clear picture of who she was and where she grew up.”

  “I see.”

  He didn’t see a thing. His eyes were on Melanie. “I also grew up in River Rock.”

  He didn’t look the least bit interested, but he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and said, “Listen. Isabella was a bright girl. Good grades. Good student. I was devastated when I heard what happened.” He jumped when the front door clicked open behind him. “I’ve got work to do around the house and papers to grade,” he said, his voice suddenly leaning toward authoritarian. “You’ll have to talk to her friends if you want to know more about her.”

  “If you want to talk in private,” Sawyer whispered, “I’d be happy to meet you at the school in, say . . . thirty minutes.”