The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 1

by Maegan Beaumont

  She was dying. She was finally free.

  He felt for a pulse. Nothing.

  He watched her gore-splattered chest for the rise and fall of breathing. It was still.

  He bathed her and put her in the trunk before driving toward the place he’d picked out a few weeks before. It was far from where he’d kept her, even farther from where he’d taken her. A small building appeared to the left of the road, and he turned. It was a Catholic church, Saint Rose of Lima. The structure was squat and brown, hunkered in the dirt it sat in, as if afraid of the wide night sky and endless desert that surrounded it.

  Saint Rose served a transient congregation. Mostly migrant workers who labored in the cotton and melon fields that dotted the landscape. He drove around the back of the structure and killed the engine. He watched the building for a few minutes to ensure it was empty.

  The first time he’d ever seen her was in a church—one much different from Saint Rose. It’d been a Baptist church. Tall and proud, surrounded by trees. He’d seen her sitting in the front pew with her grandmother—her stunning face so serious, her Sunday dress clean but faded and nearly too small for her growing frame—and knew she was meant to be his. She belonged to him. Looking at her, one word pounded through his brain, over and over:

  Mine.

  She’d been young, too young to be alarmed when she caught him staring at her. She’d looked at him from across the aisle with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen—and smiled. Just remembering it took his breath away.

  He popped the trunk and got out of the car. This time he cradled her in his arms like he was crossing the threshold with his bride. Hunkered down, he freed one of his gloved hands from his bundle and unlatched the gate to step into the tiny prayer garden behind the church.

  It was nothing more than a few trees and some rosebushes planted next to a marble bench, but he imagined it was paradise as he stretched his Melissa out over the bench. Kneeling beside her, he pulled a pair of cuticle scissors from his front pocket and used them to snip the sutures from her lids. As careful as he was, each pass of the scissors tore the delicate flesh. Blood leaked from the corners of her eyes and he swept it away, smearing it across her temple with his gloved thumb. After the stitches were removed, he peeled her lids open, eager to see her beautiful blue eyes. Anticipation soured in his belly as soon as his eyes locked onto hers.

  They were empty.

  The blanket fell open, gave him a glimpse of naked flesh. Distracted, he moved it aside completely to give himself some more. He cupped her breast, still warm from the blanket, and fondled it—felt himself go hard at the sight and feel of her. His eyes traveled downward until they found her stomach and the collection of stab wounds he’d left there. His groin began to throb and his free hand fell to it, began to stroke it through the rough fabric of his jeans.

  He considered having sex with her one last time, but the thought was fleeting, chased away by a flutter—weak and sporadic—beneath his hand. The hand on his crotch went still and he flattened the other against her chest and pressed down. Searching for the heartbeat he was sure he’d just felt, but there was nothing there. A minute passed, then two. He dropped his hand. She was gone.

  He was unsure of how much time had passed, but when the lone howl of a coyote cut across the desert, he took it as a warning.

  It was time to leave.

  2

  San Francisco, California

  October 1, 2013

  It was October first.

  Sabrina rolled over and stared at the wall. She knew the date. Not because she’d checked her calendar or because the leaves on the trees outside her bedroom window were turning from green to gold.

  No. It was because she hadn’t been able to take a deep breath for weeks now. The feeling that someone was watching her. The long hours stretched between the setting and the rising of the sun spent wandering her silent house, kept awake by the certainty that if she closed her eyes, she’d never be able to open them again. That was what told her what day it was.

  Fifteen years ago, today, she’d been kidnapped. Held for eighty-three days. Raped. Tortured. Left for dead in a churchyard.

  It was October first.

  She looked at her alarm clock. It was five a.m. Rolling out of bed, she made her way to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face in a vain attempt to wash away another sleepless night. Afterward, she pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a plain black T-shirt over a tank of the same color. Socks and her trusty running shoes came next. They fit her like a second skin from the countless miles they’d pounded out together. Under her bed was a shoe box. In it was her Ruger LCP .380. She strapped it to her ankle and stood, the full leg of her pants concealing it perfectly.

  Jogging down the set of exterior stairs from the attic’s third-floor landing, Sabrina took the cobblestone path she laid herself around the side of the house. The rambling Victorian, situated on an oversized lot, was a complete nightmare, defensively speaking. Too many trees and bushes offered an obstructed view from the street. Too many exterior doors and windows presented multiple points of entry. Its saving grace—the only reason she’d agreed to buy the place—was that it had a finished attic, set apart from the rest of the house, with its own entrance. As much as she loved her family, she needed her own space.

  Her running partner waited on the sidewalk for her, as he did most mornings. He whined with excitement just beyond the pretty picket fence bordering her front yard. Seeing him, she pulled up short with a shake of her head.

  “We can’t keep meeting like this, Noodlehead. One of these days we’re gonna get caught.” Opening the gate, she stepped onto the sidewalk. Noodles, the neighbor’s chocolate Lab, whined in response. He danced around in a tight circle at her feet before planting his rump on the cold concrete. He lifted a paw and cocked his head, tail going a mile a minute.

  “Fine, you can come, but if we get caught, I’m blaming it all on you.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh and grabbed his paw. He pulled his paw from her grasp and shot down the sidewalk toward the park at the end of the street.

  Sabrina’s feet absorbed the shift from hard pavement to soft earth as they hit the trail winding through the woods surrounding the park. Once swallowed by the trees, Noodles ran off into the brush, his occasional happy bark sounding back to her.

  She opened herself up. Let her legs set a brutal pace, eating the trail with hungry strides. Forced her mind to pull free of the nightmares of just a few hours before. Her legs burned, but she didn’t slow. Instead, she used the pain to sandblast the dregs of last night from her thoughts.

  Footsteps pounded behind her, the sound of them almost perfectly matched to her own. It made her uneasy, and she pushed herself harder. Ran a bit faster. The footsteps behind her faded for a moment then doubled, catching up with her. No more than fifteen feet now. Shifting across the trail, she hugged the tree line to give the person behind her room to pass. They didn’t pass but seemed intent on closing the gap between them.

  Forcing out another burst of speed, she widened the gap momentarily, but the advantage was short-lived. The man, judging from the heavy sound of his footfalls, closed the space between them again.

  Shooting through a gap in the trees, Sabrina ran for the open area of the park. Faking a cramp, she gripped her side before stumbling to a stop. Bent forward, her elbows braced on her knees, she took deep breaths. Her arms dangled loosely, waiting for the man behind her to make an appearance. He burst through the trees and continued on the trail without even a glance in her direction.

  He ran past, not more than twenty feet away from her. Eyeing him, she took in his black track pants and white muscle shirt. Extensive ink decorated his shoulder and upper arm. The Celtic design was distinctive.

  His hair was dark, cut shorter than she remembered, and his face was leaner, harder than it had been the last time she’d seen him. His name was Michael. They’d grown up in the same small Texas town, gone to school together, attended the same church. Her heart was poun
ding so hard it hurt, and her palms were suddenly slick with sweat.

  They’d never known each other well, but he’d often stared at her a little too long, gotten a little too quiet when she was around. He’d always made her uncomfortable; seeing him now scared the shit out of her.

  Every instinct Sabrina had was screaming, telling her she was in danger, urging her to run. He didn’t appear by accident. This wasn’t a coincidence.

  Michael knew exactly who she was, and he’d come here for her.

  3

  Two people. Only two people knew who she really was—that she survived those eighty-three days of rape and torture. Valerie, her roommate, never knew Michael. If Val had run into someone claiming to be from her past, she’d sure as hell say so.

  That left her Grandma Lucy.

  Factoring in the time difference, she hesitated, but Lucy had always been an early riser. Walking home from the park, Noodles ambling along beside her, Sabrina unclipped her cell and dialed.

  “Hello?” Lucy sounded like she’d been up for hours.

  “You want to explain to me why Michael O’Shea nearly ran me down while I was out for my morning run?” Her question was met with silence. “Lucy, what did you do?”

  “Would it kill you to call me Grandma?” Lucy said in her usual no-nonsense way.

  Yes.

  “Please … please explain to me why you told Michael O’Shea where I am—who I am. Of all people, why him?”

  “He was headed your way, and I asked him to look in on y’all,” Lucy said.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “I know.” Lucy sighed. “But I’m your grandmother, no matter what you call me. I’m allowed to worry about you.”

  “Call him. Tell him to leave. Tell him I don’t want him here.” Her demands were met with silence. “Lucy—”

  “He’s only there for a few days, and then he’ll be gone. He just wants to help,” Lucy said.

  “Why would he want to help you?” “He’s my friend.”

  “Your friend? Michael O’Shea doesn’t know the meaning of the word. He’s manipulative and self-serving—he uses people. If he’s claiming to be your friend, it’s because he wants something from you, Lucy. Don’t be stupid.”

  Lucy was quiet for a few seconds. “You never did give him a chance,” she finally said, sounding wounded. Sabrina instantly felt horrible for speaking so harshly, but she continued on, intent on making Lucy understand that trusting Michael O’Shea with anything was a horrible mistake.

  “He didn’t deserve one. After how he treated his parents, the hell he put them through … he spit in their faces every chance he got. Sophia and Sean adopted him when no one else wanted him, loved him in spite of all the pain he caused them, and he didn’t even have the decency to stick around after they died. He just dumped his sister off on the first relative he could find and took off,” she said. It was something she’d never been able to understand—the way he’d turned his back on his sister without a backward glance. It was that, more than anything, that told her what kind of person he really was.

  “You aren’t being fair. Michael changed after Frankie was born, though most folks didn’t care to notice. He loved his sister … he only did what he thought was right. He was in no position to raise Frankie—she was practically a baby,” Lucy said.

  “Sounds pretty fucking selfish if you ask me.”

  “You’ll watch your language, little girl.” Lucy’s tone was firm, one she remembered well. Suddenly, she was a child again, desperate for her grandmother’s approval.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” Sabrina took a calming breath. She’d allowed Lucy to pull her off topic. None of this mattered. What mattered was why Michael O’Shea was here now. She started again. “I know you wouldn’t have done this without a reason; tell me what’s going on. Please, help me understand.”

  “I asked a friend to look in on you. I hardly see the crime.” “He’s still there, the person who took me. Michael could be the person who took me—”

  “Girl, you’re talking nonsense. Michael was nowhere near here when you … when you left.” Her voice drifted off on a ragged breath.

  “What if he knows the man who hurt me? He could’ve told him, led him here … do you understand what you’ve done?” She hated the way her voice sounded: scared. Scared and desperate. Something she swore she’d never be again.

  Opening the Harpers’ front gate, she urged Noodles into the yard. He turned a mournful look her way. Their run had been cut short. She gave him an absentminded pat on the head over the fence before walking away.

  He could be the person who took me … he could’ve led him here.

  Her legs felt rubbery and unsteady beneath her. Her heart still galloped in her chest. She took a deep breath and then another in an effort to steady her nerves. It was useless. It’d felt like someone had been watching her for weeks now. What if Michael had been following her this whole time? What if he wasn’t alone?

  Walking up her driveway toward the back of the house, it hit her. There was no one there, but the feeling of being watched was so strong, it was a physical weight on her back and shoulders.

  The key almost flipped out of her hand when she tried to jam it into the lock. Next door, Noodles let out a series of sharp barks. She shot another glance over her shoulder. Still no one there, but the feeling intensified.

  “Michael isn’t the one who hurt you and he’d never tell anyone. I’m sure of it,” Lucy said, her tone firm. Lucy had always been too kind, too trusting.

  Wrestling the door open, Sabrina ducked inside. The alarm system was flashing, counting down the seconds until it could start squawking. She punched in the code to keep it quiet. A flick of her wrist drove the deadbolt home, and she sagged against the doorframe for a moment. Relief did little to calm her nerves.

  “How do you know for sure?” she said. The faint whirl of Lucy’s KitchenAid filled the line between them.

  “I trust him,” Lucy said, and Sabrina had to bite back a harsh laugh.

  “Why would you send someone here to spy on me anyway?” The idea of anyone, let alone Michael O’Shea, skulking around in the shadows, watching her, made her skin crawl. The fact he was here at Lucy’s request did nothing to put her at ease.

  “Why? Girl, you never were one for stupid questions. Don’t start askin’ ’em now. You know why.” Lucy sounded angry, but she was right. If Lucy sent Michael here to watch over her, it was understandable why she’d do so without telling her. The last time she had felt danger breathing down her neck, she grabbed her brother and sister and took off.

  Fifteen years ago she’d been Melissa Walker. She loved a boy named Tommy, a short-order cook in the diner where she worked, and he loved her back. She worked hard, labored under the long shadow cast by her mother in order to prove she was nothing like her. She took care of her brother and sister. Made sure they were fed and cared for. Protected them from their mother when she got too drunk or high to know where she even was. Tommy was the one bright spot in her life. She saw herself with Tommy forever, saw them growing old together. She allowed herself to believe it was possible. That she could be happy.

  She should’ve known better.

  Tommy was half Apache. In a backwoods, East Texas town of less that fifteen hundred, that set him apart. The fact that his mother was white made him good enough to cook their food and clean up after them, but no matter who his mother was, his father’s blood ensured he would never be good enough to marry one of them. Even if the person he wanted to marry was the bastard daughter of the town whore.

  At Tommy’s urging, they kept their relationship a secret, being careful not to touch or even look at each other while other people were around. The night he slipped that lapis and sterling silver band on her finger and asked her to be his wife was the happiest of her life. She’d said yes … and twelve hours later he was found, stripped naked—bludgeoned and stabbed several times on Route 80. Obviously they hadn’t been careful enough. They
hadn’t been careful enough.

  She stayed with him, sleeping in the chair next to his hospital bed. She didn’t care who knew about them—she never had. She left his room for only a moment, long enough to fill a pitcher with ice chips from the nurses’ station. When she returned, there was a piece of paper stuffed in Tommy’s slackened grip. It was a note: Leave him or I’ll finish what I started.

  She left the hospital then, collected the twins from her grandmother’s, and was gone before sundown. She never looked back, never doubted that the decision she made had been the right one. Not even when the person who tried to kill Tommy came after her. Not even when that person dragged her into the dark and kept her there for eighty-three days.

  Time had done little to dull the memories. It all seemed like it happened yesterday, and yet she felt like she’d aged a century since she’d been that stupid girl who said yes. And now here was her grandmother, desperate enough to confide in a man like Michael O’Shea and refusing to tell her why.

  “Tell me what’s going on. Why him?”

  “Not my place to say. Next time you see Michael, you’d do best to ask him yourself.”

  Next time. “Lucy—”

  “And you’re wrong about him. I’m telling you, he changed after Frankie was born. Sean and Sophia’s dying nearly killed him … he’s far from perfect, but I trust him.”

  “What does he do for a living?” Sabrina said. The question was meant to throw Lucy, and it worked.

  “He never said.”

  “It’s a pretty basic thing to know about a friend, don’t you think? Maybe he sells life insurance or roadies for a Neil Diamond cover band … or maybe he’s something a hell of a lot worse. Ever think of that? Do you have any idea what kind of man you’ve trusted with my life?”