by T. R. Ragan
His face reddened. “I want you off my property.”
“What’s going on?” a woman asked as she approached. She wore jeans and a T-shirt. A thick headband pulled her brown, wavy hair away from her face. A small child, maybe five, peeked her head out the door.
“My name is Sawyer Brooks. Are you Mrs. Lane?”
“I am.” She smiled. “Camilla,” she offered.
Jonathan feigned a smile as he attempted to gain control of the situation. “Ms. Brooks is doing a story about Isabella,” Jonathan explained to his wife.
“I see.”
“Ms. Brooks was just leaving, since I told her it would make more sense if she talked to Isabella’s friends instead of her math teacher.”
“She was a sweet girl,” Camilla said. “Very pretty. My husband did tutor Isabella on the weekends every once in a while. Isn’t that right, honey?”
Jonathan didn’t move a muscle.
“Were you home when that occurred?” Sawyer asked Camilla.
“No,” she said. “They needed quiet, so the weekend tutoring only happened when I took the kids to visit with my parents.”
“I think it’s time for you to go,” Jonathan said.
Sawyer felt a sudden pounding in her ears. Jonathan Lane had had his chance to talk and come clean. He should have taken her offer to talk in private, but he hadn’t. The man had taken advantage of a young girl, and yet he thought he could just send Sawyer on her way and nobody ever needed to know what he’d done. The arrogant look on his face reminded her of every man who had ever used and abused her. “Tell your wife the truth right now, or I’m going to do it for you.”
“I want you to leave,” he said.
“The truth is,” Sawyer told his wife, “I wanted to talk to Jonathan because I heard he was the person closest to Isabella.”
The woman cocked her head, intensely curious.
“If what I heard is true,” Sawyer continued, “that would mean Jonathan took advantage of Isabella. As her teacher, he had daily, unmonitored access to Isabella, a sixteen-year-old girl who was at an age where she was only just discovering her independence, her emotions, and more specifically, her body.”
“Get off my property,” Jonathan said, pointing a shaky finger toward her car.
Sawyer refused to back down. “You preyed on a young and innocent girl who was just learning to drive. A carefree girl who liked to make people smile and who spent hours listening to Taylor Swift. Her life was only just beginning, and you—”
“Get in the house,” he ordered his wife.
She didn’t budge.
Nothing was going to stop Sawyer from telling Mrs. Lane what she’d heard. This was one secret that would be told right here, right now. “Your husband is a pedophile. I suggest you both go to the police station and talk to Chief Schneider about your husband’s relationship with Isabella before I do.”
Jonathan’s face was a shade of purple, his body shaking before he lunged for Sawyer. He’d caught her off guard, and they fell. Her head thumped against the ground where the lawn met with the sidewalk. He was on top of her, his hands wrapped around her throat. Sawyer struggled to get free, the side of her face scraped against cement. She couldn’t get air into her lungs. She kicked her legs, hit him with her fists, but he wouldn’t let go.
Adrenaline was on his side. He had more to lose.
Mrs. Lane pulled at his arm and shouted for Jonathan to stop.
He squeezed harder. “I’ll get you for this, you little bitch.”
As Sawyer’s vision blurred, she saw Melanie swing an umbrella at Jonathan’s head. He released his hold on Sawyer. She sucked in a breath, coughed, and sputtered as Melanie pulled her to her feet and ushered her to the car.
“Get out of here! You too, you freak,” he shouted at Melanie.
Sawyer tried to free herself from Melanie’s grasp so she could ram her head straight into his gut, knee him in the groin, and make him whimper. But Melanie held tight, her arms wrapped around Sawyer’s waist as she forced Sawyer into the passenger seat.
More than one neighbor across the street had come out of their houses. They looked like cardboard cutouts, no one moving, merely watching the show as Melanie buckled her up. “He’s not worth it,” Melanie warned.
Melanie tossed the umbrella in the back, grabbed the box of tissues on the back seat, and handed it to Sawyer before walking around to the other side of the car.
Melanie was perfectly calm as she scooted in behind the wheel. The key was still in the ignition. Melanie started the engine, buckled up, and drove off, careful not to call more attention their way.
“He tried to kill me,” Sawyer said, her voice hoarse.
“I’ve known that man my entire life,” Melanie said. “Up until a few months ago, when he and Isabella were in the bookstore and I saw his hand slide down her backside, I thought he was a good guy. And even then, I didn’t think the weasel was capable of being violent.”
Sawyer struggled to swallow. She turned the rearview mirror so she could see the damage. The right side of her face was scraped, which made the scratches from Raccoon look like nothing. A couple of the areas were deep. Her throat was bruised. Her left eye was swollen halfway shut.
“Should I take you to the hospital?”
“No.”
“The side of your face looks bad.”
“Isabella was strangled to death,” Sawyer said, hoping to change the subject since there was no way she was going to the hospital. “Do you think Jonathan Lane killed her?”
“I don’t know,” Melanie said. “The first person I thought of when I heard about Isabella was your uncle Theo.”
Sawyer didn’t know what to say. She hated Uncle Theo with a passion. He was a scum-of-the-earth rapist. Was he a killer too?
“Isn’t he the reason your sisters left River Rock?” Melanie asked.
“Yes,” Sawyer said. “He’s also the reason I don’t sleep well at night.”
“Back when we spent long days at the bookstore, I knew something wasn’t right with you. I figured your quirks and mannerisms had to do with your parents.”
“Strange that you should say that,” Sawyer said. “When I ran into Old Lady McGrady at the coffee shop, she told me she thought Gramma was afraid of my mom. I knew the two of them never got along, but afraid?”
“Hmm. I don’t know about that. I only meant that your parents were gone a lot, and it was obvious you weren’t happy, so I thought maybe you were lonely.”
Sawyer noticed they were heading toward her parents’ house. “Why don’t you drive us to your car, and I can drive home from there?”
“You could be concussed and not realize it,” Melanie said. “I’ll take you home and walk from there. I like walking.”
Sawyer looked Melanie’s way and saw the anger on Jonathan Lane’s face when he called Melanie a freak. “Have people in River Rock spoken to you like that before? The name-calling?”
“Oh, yeah,” Melanie said. “That was nothing.”
“Does everyone know about your hormone therapy and the surgery?”
Melanie laughed. “It’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?”
Sawyer smiled. “Stupid question.”
“I told my mom and dad years ago. It took Dad a while to understand that I didn’t want to just look like a girl—I wanted to be one.”
“It takes courage to be your authentic self.”
“I wouldn’t call it courage. For me it wasn’t a choice. And it’s gotten better—easier—with each passing day, especially now that I’m handling things my way.”
“So did you know back when we spent weekends in the bookstore, reading?”
“I’ve known since I was eight. When I would look in the mirror, I always saw a stranger looking back at me.”
Sawyer didn’t comment, just listened.
“The transition phase was hard. The structure of my muscles and the curvature of my spine changed. My feet are smaller, and I’m not as tall as I used to be.
But it’s all been worth it. At some point, I figured out I could either spend my life being unhappy, or I could do something about it. I’m not alone. A lot of people are going through similar transitions. I know that much.”
Melanie drove up Sawyer’s driveway and parked in front of the garage. She killed the engine and handed Sawyer the keys.
Sawyer’s mom stepped outside, hands on hips, scowling.
“No wonder your gramma was scared,” Melanie said.
Sawyer laughed. They both did.
“Thanks for everything.”
“Anytime,” Melanie said. “If you need any more help while you’re here, you know where to find me.”
They climbed out of the car at the same time and shut the doors. Sawyer made the climb up the stairs leading to the front door while Melanie hiked down the driveway.
“I just received a call from Fiona Dorman,” Mom said. “She told me you and that boy attacked Jonathan Lane.”
“Jonathan Lane attacked me, not the other way around. And Melanie is a girl, not a boy.”
Mom followed her inside the house and to the kitchen, talking while Sawyer filled up a plastic ziplock bag with ice and held it to the side of her head. Sawyer’s good eye fixated on her mom. There was so much bitterness carved into her tightly pinched expression.
“Why are you doing this?” Mom asked.
“Doing what?”
“Coming here after all this time and making trouble?”
“I loved Gramma Sally. That’s why I came. I also thought it might be nice to see you and Dad.”
“You didn’t visit for nearly two years when my mother was alive, so why now?”
“I missed her. I wanted to say goodbye.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And yet you left the funeral early.”
“I had already said my goodbyes to Gramma. There was no reason for me to stay and talk to your friends.”
A silent standoff ensued.
Sawyer squared her shoulders as she dissected, analyzed, searched for something . . . anything that might tell her Mom cared even a little bit that she’d been hurt and might be in pain.
But there was nothing there. Not a kind word or an offer to help in any way. It surprised Sawyer that her mom’s apathy bothered her at all. “Jonathan Lane came at me full throttle and slammed me to the ground,” Sawyer explained anyway. “He strangled me. If Melanie hadn’t intervened, I don’t know what would have happened. And yet you blame me?”
“Fiona lives directly across the street from the Lanes. She saw everything.”
“But I’m your daughter, your flesh and blood, and I’m standing here, telling you what happened.”
“You have always been a drama queen,” Mom said, waving away any concern with a flutter of her hand. “You and your sisters were always making up stories—you most of all. Anything to get attention.”
“Everything I ever told you was the truth.”
Long-buried animosity and frustration heated the air between them.
Mom lifted her chin. “I don’t want you working on the Estrada case.”
Sawyer should have known there was more to her mom’s hostility. “I’m not working the case. I’m merely talking to people who knew Isabella so I can add context and depth to what would otherwise be like every other news story—just an account of events.”
“You’re intruding in people’s lives, barging into their homes, and causing problems.” Her voice wavered. “I live here. You don’t. I’m asking you to stop.”
Sawyer shook her head. “I can’t think of one time in my life that you were supportive of anything I did.” Sawyer adjusted her ice pack. Her throat felt raw. “Do you have any idea how long it has taken me to find an ounce of self-worth and value? You never had any emotional attachment to any of your daughters, did you? Was that because you and Gramma were never close? You didn’t know how to have a mother-daughter relationship?”
Mom made an annoying tsking noise. “Gramma Sally was a lot like you. She saw the world through rose-colored glasses, thought she could make life’s pains go away if she willed it to be. A kiss on a scraped knee. There, all better. But that’s not how the world works. My father knew that. He knew that life wasn’t always fair and that not everyone was rewarded for hard work. If he needed to use a belt to get his point across, that’s what he would do. None of this pussyfooting around like most men do these days.”
Sawyer had never met her grandfather, and Mom rarely mentioned him. “Your father beat you?”
Mom smirked. “He taught me about life. I could either adapt or break in half. I accepted my fate and dealt with it. It didn’t mean I liked it. But I wasn’t soft like you and your sisters, railing against the unfairness of it all. If you were smart, you would do what I did.”
“And what’s that?”
“Get over it. Put all those traumatic events, imagined or otherwise, behind you once and for all.”
“Why did you hate Gramma so much?” Sawyer asked.
“When she married my father, she made a vow, and then she broke it. I didn’t hate her. I just didn’t respect her decisions. She was a coward.”
Sawyer had nothing more to say. She turned toward the door and reached for the knob.
“If you drop the Estrada case, you may stay. Otherwise, it’s best if you packed your things and left.”
“I’m staying,” Sawyer said flatly, her body and mind numb. Without another word spoken between them, she turned and slipped out the kitchen door. When she opened the door to the cottage and stepped inside, she released an appreciative sigh. Dad had made the bed for her. Although it wouldn’t be dark for another hour and she’d hardly eaten, she dropped her purse onto the floor, left the bag of ice on the bedside table, and slid off her shoes. Then she climbed under the covers and dozed off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was past midnight when Malice finally got a chance to log on to the private group. The rest of The Crew had come and gone, posting their comments throughout the day. Apparently, Cleo’s next-door neighbor was a nurse at the hospital where Brad Vicente had been taken, and Cleo was able to get some information. Doctors had reattached Brad Vicente’s penis, but it would be another twenty-four hours before they would know if the penile reattachment was successful. Doctors worried the placement of the cut might have been too close to the base and therefore he could lose nerve function. When told the news, Brad grew extremely agitated and was now recuperating in the psych ward, where they could keep a close eye on him.
Cleo’s update generated a heated debate about right and wrong and where The Crew went from here. Malice skimmed through the messages until the conversation turned to when would be an acceptable time to strike next.
PSYCHO: I, personally, don’t give two shits about Brad Vicente. He’s a monster who should be locked behind bars. He raped and tortured dozens of women. He even had the gall to video his violent acts so he could get off watching that shit whenever he felt the urge. Despite a few hiccups, we did our due diligence with the wigs and masks. The police have video footage of Brad and his penchant for violence. He’ll be thrown in jail. I’m ready to move on to Otto Radley.
Malice sighed. She’d known from the start that Psycho could be impatient at times. Maybe it had been a mistake to plan for nearly a year before making their first move. Dealing with Brad had seemed to light a fire inside Psycho. Her yearning for justice had become a war cry.
CLEO: I don’t disagree with you as to whether Brad deserved or didn’t deserve what he got. But I do think it’s best if we lie low for now. The police will be on the lookout for three women of various builds, all fitting our likenesses minus the wigs and masks. I vote that we wait a week or two before moving on.
PSYCHO: I never would have signed up for this if we hadn’t all decided together to go after Otto once Brad was taken care of. One monster at a time. That was the deal. The sicko who held me captive for three years is being released tomorrow. I plan to follow him from the moment he walks thr
ough those prison gates. The warehouse where we originally planned to keep Brad is empty and ready to go. I see no reason not to make use of it. What I need to know is, who’s in?
LILY: I am.
BUG: I agree with Cleo. Tomorrow is too early to make a move. We need to wait and see if Brad goes public with cries of being the victim despite the videos. If he does, we wait and find out what he knows about us, if anything. And what about the waiter? Would he be able to identify any one of us? He met Cleo at the restaurant. What if he comes forward?
CLEO: Besides the blonde wig I wore to dinner, I had on three-inch heels and plenty of makeup so that I wouldn’t be recognized if I ran into anyone I knew. I also made sure there weren’t any cameras inside or outside the restaurant before agreeing to have dinner with Brad.
PSYCHO: The waiter is scared. He’s a little boy. I’m confident he’ll play dumb if the police knock on his door.
BUG: But that’s my point. You don’t know what Brad or the waiter will do. A little patience will go a long way in this situation.
CLEO: Two of us want to wait and see how the Brad situation plays out, and two of us are ready to move forward, is that correct?
They all answered with a yes.
BUG: I guess Malice will be the deciding vote.
PSYCHO: I’ll be waiting and watching Otto walk free. I’m not letting him out of my sight. If the opportunity arises, at any time, for me to get him into my car without being seen, I can’t make any promises.
Malice rubbed her temples. Exhaustion was setting in. At moments like this, her passion for vengeance and justice waned. And yet all she had to do was close her eyes to relive the sexual abuse she’d endured as a young girl. Her life had been ruined because of one person. She was unable to go about completing simple tasks without intrusive and disturbing memories flashing through her mind. And for that reason, she needed to stay the course and finish what she’d started. They all needed closure, and if that meant taking risks and making mistakes along the way, so be it. She placed her fingers on the keyboard and began typing.
MALICE: I vote we move forward and make sure Otto Radley is punished accordingly. Once Psycho has him in her care, I’m ready to take care of business.