Don't Make a Sound: A Sawyer Brooks Thriller

by T. R. Ragan

  Psycho came to her feet, pushed the hair out of her face, and reached for Otto’s wrist. After a moment, she let go. His lifeless arm thumped against the ground. “He’s dead.”

  Relief and dread flooded through Malice.

  “Put that thing away, will you?”

  Malice leaned the weapon against the wall, then came back to where Psycho was examining Otto’s head. “A clean shot right through the skull,” Psycho pointed out.

  “I’m a murderer,” Malice said.

  “You saved my life,” Psycho said as she pulled her cell phone from her back pocket, pushed a button, and held it to her ear.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Lily,” Psycho said. “We need you to bring a shovel or two. Yes, right away. Okay. See you soon.”

  Malice looked at Psycho as if the woman had grown two heads, which she might as well have, considering she was covered in blood like something out of a horror movie. “Shovels?”

  Psycho nodded. “We’re going to need to bury him.”

  “We’re not going to call the police?”

  “Are you nuts?”

  Yes, Malice thought. I just killed a man. I am definitely nuts.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Early Monday morning, Sawyer lay in bed, thinking about Uncle Theo. Seeing him like that had been shocking. Over the years, she’d envisioned Uncle Theo dying in hundreds of gruesome scenarios. But for some reason she was still scared. Afraid he would find a way to get her.

  She heard the sound of gravel popping under tires as a car drove off.

  She sat up and looked around. It took a second to realize she’d left her bag along with her cell phone in her car. She slipped on her shoes, made her way outside and through the side yard to the front of the house.

  Her purse was still sitting on the passenger seat. She grabbed it and walked back to the cottage, her arms covered in goose bumps. The mornings in River Rock were chilly, shaded by trees, everything crackling with icy morning dew.

  Back inside the cottage, she pulled out her phone. It was dead. She plugged it in to let it charge as she went about collecting her things and using the bathroom. She grabbed the key to the main house and headed that way. The kitchen door was locked. She unlocked it and stepped inside. Everything was neat and tidy, as usual. You wouldn’t know anyone was living in the house.

  She left the key on the counter where her parents would see it.

  Wanting to give her phone time to charge, she exited the kitchen and walked down the hall and into the room where her parents had sat her down to talk. The chair in the middle of the room had been tucked back under a beautiful Revival-style card table. Her mom did have a gift for collecting unusual antiques.

  She would never set foot in this house again, and for that she was glad.

  She thought of Gramma, and her friend Rebecca, and Isabella. She would still write a story, but it would be as much about Isabella as it would be about all the other lost souls of River Rock. She would turn this little town on its back and expose the sad, disgusting underbelly that floated through the air and moved through underground pipes like poison.

  Sawyer walked around the room, brushed her fingers over an old settee with its sloping, upholstered arms. She touched the wall and a table too, realizing she had no connection to anything in the house. It was a weird feeling, knowing she’d spent half of her life within these walls and felt nothing but sadness and grief.

  She inhaled. She was no longer that little girl. She was older and wiser and stronger. She would leave River Rock. This house, this place, these people would not win. She would tell the truth and break free of this place once and for all. The whole town was covering up, keeping secrets. Chief Schneider might not be the good guy she thought he was. His sister was married to Jonathan Lane. Nobody seemed surprised about there being a relationship between the math teacher and his young student. The mention of rape fantasy parties hardly made the chief flinch.

  Inside a small porcelain bowl within an open rolltop desk was an old skeleton key. She picked it up, examined it closer, and felt compelled, driven by curiosity, to see if it would unlock the door to Dad’s office. With the skeleton key in hand, she moved through the darkened hallway quietly, as if her parents were asleep in the other room.

  Click.

  The door opened. She walked inside the forbidden room. The vintage mahogany desk sat front and center. An antique leather chair was tucked in close on the other side. Floor-to-ceiling shelves took up the wall to the right. To the left was a fireplace set in brick.

  She was twenty-nine years old, and yet she’d only been inside the room one other time. The space felt small and insignificant compared with her memories of it. She’d always imagined this secretive room where her dad spent much of his time being majestic. Magical. But it was just a room with a fireplace and a small window, curtains drawn. A Persian rug covered much of the old wood floors.

  She went to the desk, brushed her fingers over the wood, trying to get a sense of a man she really didn’t know. There was a calendar, a stack of books, a notepad and pen, and a hand-carved wooden in-box filled with mail. Close to the bottom, sticking halfway out, was an envelope that she pulled free. “Dennis” was written in long, cursive letters that looked like Harper’s handwriting. She opened the envelope and pulled out a handwritten letter.

  Why would Harper write Dad a letter?

  There was no date in the margin or at the top of the letter, but the postmark on the envelope showed that it was sent days after Harper and Aria had disappeared.

  Confused, she began to read:

  To the man who gave me life,

  I will never refer to you as my father or Dad. Never. Not after all the suffering you’ve caused me. I hate you. I cringe when I think of you kissing and fondling me. The smell of your sour breath on my face makes me gag to think of it.

  Each night that you snuck into my room, I wanted to kill you. Did you know that I used to keep a sharp knife under my pillow? As you plunged yourself into me, I wanted to plunge the sharp end of the blade into you.

  But I couldn’t do it.

  I was a coward.

  The only reason I didn’t kill myself was because I was afraid you would move on to Aria and then Sawyer.

  My self-worth was reduced to nothing because of you. I can’t sleep through the night without worrying you will creep into my room and rape me all over again.

  You may have ruined me, but you did not destroy me.

  If your wife reads this, I hope she knows she is just as much to blame. I once saw her peeking through the door. She didn’t want your filthy hands on her, so she let you have your way with me, your sweet, precious firstborn.

  The last time you came into my bedroom, you cried and told me you wanted to stop. I am writing today to remind you that we had a deal. I expect you to keep your promise.

  Sawyer is too young to understand; otherwise she would be here with me now. She doesn’t know that you bleed darkness. If you ever touch her, I will kill you.

  —Harper

  Sawyer used her forearm to wipe tears from her face. Her knees wobbled, and her chest ached.

  Harper.

  Dad was no better than his brother—two immoral, obscene brothers. But Harper had suffered the abuse by her own father, in her own house, night after night?

  Poor Harper. All the signs of abuse were there. It broke her heart to think of Harper suffering for so long. She thought of the picture she’d seen at Uncle Theo’s house. Harper standing straight and tall, so heroic, so sad.

  The image of Mom peeking in . . . watching her daughter’s abuse and doing nothing about it, made Sawyer’s stomach clench. The room began to spin. Her chest tightened. This was truly a house of horrors. Sadness quickly boiled over into anger, dripping through her veins and making every muscle quiver.

  Harper and Dad had a deal? What did Harper mean by that?

  The wood floor in the hallway creaked. Sawyer ran toward the window, unlatched it, then
—

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Sawyer whipped around. The letter was still in her hand.

  Mom stood in the doorway, looking affronted.

  Sawyer felt as if she were seeing her mom stripped down to the bone without any blinders on for the first time.

  Harper was right.

  Mom was no better than the two brothers she protected. “Dad raped Harper, his own daughter,” Sawyer said in a steady voice. “Over and over again while you were telling me that my sister was out of control and a slut. You knew the truth, and you did nothing.”

  Mom pointed a shaky finger toward the exit. “Get out of my house.”

  “You,” Sawyer said flatly, “are going down. So say goodbye to your little cozy life.”

  Dad appeared from behind Mom. He scooted her inside so he could enter his office and see what was going on.

  Sawyer pointed at him. “I’m going to the police.” She tucked the letter into her back pocket. “I’m going to tell Chief Schneider everything. If he refuses to do anything about it, it won’t matter because I’m going to rip the cloud of secrecy off this town like a kid opening a fucking Christmas present.”

  Mom looked at Dad, panic in her eyes. “I told you to burn that letter, but you wouldn’t listen. What are we going to do?”

  Dad put his hand on her shoulder.

  She tried to shake him off as she always did, but his fingers held tight. “We’re going to do what we should have done a long time ago,” he said. “We’re going to call Chief Schneider, invite him to the house, and tell him everything in person.”

  Mom’s face reddened. Her nose and eyes crinkled. “You stupid, stupid man. I have given up everything for you.” She stabbed him in the chest with her finger. “I lied for you.”

  Dad suddenly reminded her of Uncle Theo, so pathetically weak, standing next to Goliath.

  Mom’s face morphed into spittle and fire, reminding Sawyer of what Uncle Theo had said about the devil being close.

  “I killed for you,” Mom said, her voice dripping with venom. “And now you think because this little crybaby can’t mind her own business that we’re going to let her ruin our lives?”

  Killed for you? Sawyer didn’t move, hardly breathed.

  “I should have gotten help for both of us,” Dad said to Mom as he shook his head solemnly. “There were so many times I could have reached out for help to save us both.”

  Mom continued talking to Sawyer’s dad as if Sawyer wasn’t in the room with them. “I won’t let you ruin my reputation because you couldn’t keep your little wriggly worm in your pants.”

  “It’s over, Joyce,” Dad said.

  Sawyer looked from her parents to the exit.

  She needed to get away, get help. She took two steps before Mom pointed a finger at her.

  “Stay right where you are, Sawyer. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Dad’s shoulders dropped. “Let her go, Joyce.”

  “Let her go, Joyce,” Mom mimicked in a tinny voice.

  Chills washed over Sawyer. The scene before her was unreal. Dad, a puddle of remorse and grief, seemingly oblivious to the other monster in the room, the all-powerful one, who for all these years had controlled him like a puppeteer controls his wooden dolls.

  “This is all going to end right now,” Dad said. “I’m not hiding from the truth any longer.”

  “It’s not over, you foolish man. Not even close.” Mom took a step backward, reached behind her for the fireplace poker, and swung the iron tool with amazing strength and dexterity.

  Blood spurted from the center of Dad’s forehead. Somehow he remained standing. His eyes looked overly bright as he reached out and grabbed hold of the poker still in her hands.

  They both held tightly to the iron rod.

  Mom was taller and stronger. Her eyes were alert, her jaw set as she fought for control.

  The veins in Dad’s neck began to bulge, his arms shaking from exertion, the blood running down his face nearly blinding him.

  Sawyer’s head was fuzzy. She couldn’t think. Didn’t know what to do.

  It was as if the two of them were walking a tightrope—two steps to the left and then one to the right.

  Suddenly Mom let go and watched him stumble backward.

  Confusion filled Dad’s eyes right before he hit the wall and collapsed to the floor, his body upright, his back against the wall. Mom walked toward him, leaned over, and took the poker from his grasp.

  “No more,” Dad said, his voice emotional.

  You better run, is what Uncle Theo had said. Mom was insane.

  Mom turned toward Sawyer.

  Sawyer rushed forward and pushed her hard, watched her topple sideways into the wall and fall to her knees.

  Sawyer ran out of the office and down the hallway, heading for the front door before remembering her keys to the car were in the cottage.

  She stopped, turned back the other way, heard footfalls coming her way. Quietly, she opened the door to her left, stepped inside, shut the door softly, and took slow, careful steps down the stairs leading into the basement.

  “Sawyer!” Mom called. “Where are you? I only want to talk for a minute before you head home. Dad is fine.”

  Sawyer could hear her walking around the salon where Sawyer had found the key. Sawyer’s gaze darted about the room. It was cold and musty. Every wall was lined with boxes and bins and old discarded furniture. She was about to get down low between some bins when the door at the top of the stairs creaked open. Instead, Sawyer headed for the door in the far corner, the one that led into a crawl space. She and Rebecca used to hide inside sometimes when Mom would throw one of her tantrums. They would belly-crawl their way through the tight space to the vent leading outside and escape into the woods.

  Her sisters used to tease them about going into the crawl space, telling them there were rats and every sort of insect known to man.

  Sawyer squeezed her way through the door, a tighter squeeze than she remembered. There was no way her mom would be able to get through that opening, so Sawyer worked her way far enough inside where she could hide beneath a slope of dirt and wood beam. She would be well hidden if Mom took a look inside.

  Mom called her name again.

  The small door creaked open. The crawl space filled with light.

  Sawyer didn’t dare breathe. She kept her nose to the dirt and held perfectly still.

  “It would be silly of you to hide in there. This is your last chance, Sawyer. Come out, or I’ll have no choice but to lock you in there.”

  Sawyer said nothing. She could hear Mom breathing right before the tiny door clicked shut.

  The crawl space was dark again.

  Another noise pricked her ears. It sounded as if Mom was fiddling with the padlock on the other side of the opening. She could hear metal scrape against wood and then another click.

  She tried not to panic. Stay calm. Breathe.

  After the sound of Mom’s footfalls moving up the stairs disappeared completely, Sawyer crawled back to the door. It wouldn’t budge. She yanked harder, her heart racing. Mom had purposely locked her inside.

  She’d said she had killed before. At the time, Sawyer had considered that maybe she was being overly dramatic, but now a different woman began to form in her mind. A dark, sinister woman who protected her husband even when she knew what he was doing behind closed doors. The woman was insane.

  Keeping her head low, she inched her way around through clods of dirt until she found a spot big enough where she could turn in a half circle and attempt to make her way to the far side of the crawl space.

  Something fell on her head and skittered about. Squirming and cursing, she swiped at the top of her head again and again until whatever it was darted away. She spit dirt from her mouth. The thought of spiders and rats had never scared her when she was small. But they terrified her now.

  She made her way back to the slope of dirt.

  Something was wrong.

  Th
e crawl space was too dark. She’d never been overly frightened there when she was younger because she’d always been able to see. Where was the light that used to come in through the vent?

  Her chest tightened.

  She fought the urge to scream.

  Mom would hear her. She knew that because when she used to hide down here, she could hear people talking and walking around upstairs.

  It wouldn’t do her any good to scream. Even if Dad hadn’t been seriously injured, Mom would find a way to stop him from saving her. She had no choice but to blindly continue onward, find the vent, and see what was stopping the light from shining through.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Less than a block away from home, Harper could see Aria’s car parked at the curb.

  Her heart dropped to her stomach. She pulled to the side of the road to catch her breath. What was she doing? After all she’d been through, it had come to this? Who was she?

  Her two lives were never supposed to overlap. It was too dangerous.

  Unable to shut her mind down, she kept seeing images, like a movie reel in her head: the police cuffing her and leading her away as Nate, Lennon, and Ella watch with confusion in their eyes.

  Her insides twisted and turned. Get a grip, she inwardly scolded.

  Do what you’ve always done, Harper!

  Put it away, she scolded. Bundle it all up—the thoughts, the images, the fear of being found out, and then shove it down deep inside and leave it alone.

  She didn’t need to glance in the rearview mirror to know she looked like a crazed person—someone who had shot a man and then watched him bleed out.

  She looked in the mirror anyway. Didn’t like what she saw. It was Malice’s face looking back at her. Fucking scary.

  Go away, Malice.

  She closed her eyes, rested her forehead on the steering wheel. A minute later, she lifted her head, smoothed her hands over her head, pulled a twig from her hair, and sat up taller.

  Better. She could do this.

  Her wig and mask were tucked into a zippered compartment in her purse.

  Good.

  She looked around for any clue that might tell someone she’d spent hours digging through rock-hard dirt to make a hole big enough to fit a humongous man.