The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 1

by Maegan Beaumont

  “No thanks. I’d rather stand.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, picking up a piece of paper from his desk. “You’ve been called in for a random UA. You have until five PM to drop it. Failure to do so will count as an automatic dirty and you’ll be suspended from duty.” Mathews held the paper out but didn’t extend his arm to her, forcing her to step closer to take it from him.

  This was the seventh “random” drug test she’d been given since returning to work but she said nothing. It was the lesser of two evils. If she seemed at all out of step with her duties as homicide inspector, she’d be taken off active duty. If she pretended everything was fine, Mathews made her submit to drug tests to ensure that she wasn’t taking painkillers while on duty. Either way—he seemed hell-bent on getting her tossed off the job.

  Thanks to Ben, she was pretty sure she could set Mathews’ desk on fire without fear of repercussion, but she just folded the piece of yellow paper into a neat square and tucked it into her back pocket. The test would prove useless, just like the other six. She never took anything stronger than aspirin. “Yes, sir,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  He scowled at her. “Yeah—you can get this bag of shit out of my office,” he said, jabbing the pen he had clenched in his fist at the garbage bag.

  She let her eyes fall to the bag. Its black glossy sides bulged with what was only few days’ worth of letters and packages—all for her. Dozens of them, every day—delivered to the station. They’d started pouring in a few days after Croft had announced in his newspaper that she’d been cleared to return to work.

  Thanks to him, she was famous.

  She hefted the bag onto her shoulder. Pain, aspirin be damned, shot from her scar in every direction, zinging over muscle and bone. Please don’t give out, please don’t give out… pivoting on her good leg, she headed for the door. She managed to pull the door open before Mathews spoke again.

  “I don’t know how you did it. Who you fucked or who you killed, but I can promise you, Vaughn—your free ride isn’t gonna last forever. I worked IA for twelve years before taking the homicide captain’s desk, so I recognize connections when I see them. Whoever’s helping you, I’ll find my way around ‘em and when I do—you’re gone,” he said, the threat delivered so low she almost didn’t catch it over the busy noise of the homicide bullpen.

  Free ride? She almost laughed again. Nothing about her life had ever been free or easy, but these last few months, knowing Ben Shaw was carrying around an IOU with her name on it took the term I owe you one to a whole different level.

  “Yeah? Let me know how that works out for you,” Sabrina said, regretting her words as soon as she said them. So much for keeping her mouth shut. Mathew’s face contorted and he rose from his seat, leaning across his desk. She didn’t wait to see or hear the rest of it, just turned away and pulled the door open wide enough to fit the garbage bag hefted onto her shoulder through the opening. He was saying something to her now, his voice raised but she kept going, shutting the door on his tirade.

  She made it halfway across the bullpen, every step felt like a saw blade against her thighbone. The weight of the sack pushed her into the ground, making each step harder than the last.

  Mathews’ door flew open. “I want every one of those letters and packages opened and cataloged, Vaughn,” he shouted at her, causing every head to turn in her direction. “I expect a full report on my desk first thing tomorrow morning.” He glared at her, daring her to refuse.

  Heat rushed up the back of her neck, flooding her cheeks, creating a high-pitched hum between her ears. She turned and opened her mouth to tell him to fuck off but she caught sight of Strickland from the corner of her eye and clamped her mouth shut.

  He stood and intervened. “Sir, Tenderloin’s got Denton in lock-up. Vaughn—”

  “Will stay here and get started on that report. You’re free to question your suspect. Take Evans with you.” Mathews smirked at her for a few seconds before retreating into his office, slamming the door shut.

  “Looks like someone’s getting a dictionary for Christmas.” Strickland yanked his jacket on, shooting her a frustrated scowl. “It’s either that or a tattoo that says keep your mouth shut across your goddamn forehead.”

  Sabrina dropped the bag on the floor next to her desk and sat down. Denton was her lead and Mathews knew it. He represented almost two months’ worth of legwork and investigating. Handing him over to another inspector was his way of punishing her. Just like making her sift through her daily bagful of crazy in front of the whole squad room was his way of humiliating her. She looked up at Strickland and his face instantly softened.

  “Hey, look—I’m sorry I—”

  She was practically vibrating with rage and humiliation. The pressure it created in her chest squeezed her ribs like a thick leather band. Her eyes began to burn but seeing that look on Strickland’s face—the one that made her feel like a puppy that’d pissed on the carpet but was too helpless to punish—dried them instantly. “Don’t look at me like that and don’t you dare apologize. I fucked up. I get what’s coming.”

  “Alright.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “You want me to bring you something back? A sandwich or something?” Strickland said, letting his gaze drift down to her leg. Now he looked worried again. Yeah, like a ham and cheese on rye was going to cool the hot poker that felt like it was jammed into her thigh. He’d been doing it a lot lately—pulling the Mother Hen routine. It made her feel weak, which pissed her off.

  Sabrina dragged the bag closer and pulled the knot from the top, revealing what looked like a bottomless pit filled to the top with letters and packages.

  She sighed. “Yeah. Bring me Denton’s head in a bag. And an extra-large coffee from that shop across the street from Tenderloin station—this is gonna be a long night.”

  5

  Each of them had been carefully selected. Groomed and cultivated. Tended to and watched over. All of them were special, precious beyond measure, but he’d known from the first moment he saw her that she would be his beginning. She called herself Bethany Edwards, but he knew her by another name—one he given to her himself.

  Clio.

  He loved the way she moved. The way the late afternoon sun, captured by the golden strands of her honey-blonde hair, glinted like a halo around her head. The way her tanned limbs—long and lean—bared to the warm June weather, moved with a practiced grace that spoke of an age well beyond the short number of years she’d spent on this earth.

  She was exquisite. They all were… every single one of them. But none were as spectacular as Calliope. She was his personal muse. The one he’d chosen for his own.

  Lowering his binoculars, he set them aside in favor of the notebook he kept to track her schedule. It was Friday afternoon and she was on her way to her Western Civilization class. Just like every other Friday for the past six weeks.

  His entire life, he’d known that he was meant for something more. Something better than what life had given him. It was a whisper in his ear, telling him to be patient. A tickling in his gut, telling him to keep quiet and remain vigilant… and The Fates would deliver to him his true destiny.

  And they had.

  The day he saw her story in the newspaper was etched into his memory like acid. He’d been at breakfast, bowl of oatmeal and glass of orange juice at his elbow. Picking up the paper, he flipped to the front page and there she was. It was that very day The Fates had brought her to him in the flesh.

  His muse. His Calliope.

  In an instant, he understood what he was meant to do, what all those months and years of waiting quietly had prepared him for. What he was destined to become and how he would achieve it.

  Thinking of that day, the way The Fates had brought her to him, caused the pen to shake in his grasp. He took a few calming breaths, did his best to still his hand. Finished, he closed the notebook and set it aside to watch his Clio disappear into the building. He glanced down at
the bouquet of roses on the bench seat beside him. They were a bright, vibrant pink—her favorite color. Next to it sat a small aerosol canister, no bigger than a tube of Binaca.

  It was just after one o’clock. She would come out of that very same door in two and a half hours, on her way to the library to meet with her four o’clock study group. He’d wait, all but invisible, for her to make her way across campus.

  And then he’d make his move.

  6

  Sabrina made piles. Note cards with things like watercolor landscapes or cartoon puppies on them went in a pile to the left. She didn’t even have to read them anymore. She could tell by the look of them that the people who sent them were sane. She flipped them open anyway, scanned the handwriting inside of each. Neat, well-spaced letters. Medium pressure on the page. That’s how normal people wrote.

  She reached into the bag and pulled another envelope. It was legal-sized and bore the postal code for San Quentin. It was thick, the lettering on the front small and cramped together, pushed deep into the paper. She tapped the side of the envelope against her desk before using a pair of scissors to cut a thin strip along it. Slipping the carefully folded pages through the hole, she opened them up. More cramped, heavy writing, creating a solid block of text. She scanned for keywords.

  Kidnap. Rape. Stab.

  They jumped out at her from the page, each one like a physical assault. She had to stiffen her neck to keep from recoiling in disgust. For some reason, the wingnuts all wanted to confess their crimes to her. Even the ones no one knew about. She re-folded the papers together as they had come and placed them into an evidence bag. She wrote the sender’s name and the number two hundred seventy-three. That’s how many letters she’d opened so far.

  And the bag was still half full.

  Something moved in her peripheral vision and she looked up. “Hey, Henley.” She smiled at him, flattening her hand against the evidence bag she’d just written on. The letters and packages were just evidence—nothing to be ashamed of. That’s what she tried to tell herself anyway. She glanced at the vase on her desk. “Your turn, huh?”

  Henley cracked a dry grin. “I jumped the line—got caught up in a triple last night and didn’t even get home to shower. The wife is less than pleased.” He picked up the flowers and tucked them under his arm, his smile turning awkward. None of them knew what to say to her anymore. It was like she’d come back a complete stranger.

  And she guessed she had.

  She forced herself to pick up the evidence bag and drop it into the file box on the floor, next to her chair. His eyes followed its progress, landing in the pile along with the rest of them.

  “Well, if I were you, I’d stop at the market across the street and grab a bottle of wine to go with the flowers,” she said, deliberately reaching into the bag and pulling out her next contestant. A thin, white square with loopy, feminine handwriting. Postmarked Oklahoma.

  She placed it on her desk and looked up. Henley was still standing there, looking at her. The look on his face said he was about to offer to stay and help her.

  Oh, hell no.

  “And make sure the wine has an actual cork, not a screw top, or she’s likely to brain you with the bottle,” she said, the cheerful chirp of her voice hit her ears like fingernails on a chalkboard, but she couldn’t stop—not until he was sufficiently shut down. “See you later. Tell Deb I said hi.” She looked down at the envelope in her hand, concentrating on the contrast of her yellowed latex gloves against the snow white paper.

  “I will… thanks.” He jostled the vase in his arms, letting her know he was thanking her for the flowers before turning and making his way toward the elevator. She didn’t watch him walk away. Instead she performed what had become a sort of ritual over the last few hours.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. Snip.Snip.Snip. She pulled the card and flipped it open. Words jumped out at her.

  Boyfriend. Beat. Saved me. Hero.

  She instantly rejected every single one of them. She wasn’t saving these women. She wasn’t a hero. She’d barely managed to save herself. Phantom fingers slipped around her thigh and squeezed, reminding her just how close she’d come to dying. Wade’s face flashed in front of her, that boyish grin of his. His eyes alight with joy. Not insanity—joy. Whatever anyone said about Wade in the months following what had happened between them in the woods, she knew the truth. He’d been completely and utterly sane.

  Look at me, Melissa. Look. At. Me…

  Tossing the card into the non-crazy pile, she reached into the bag for another one. The second her fingers closed around it, Sabrina knew the envelope was different than the rest. Pulling it out, she caught a faint floral scent, like the rose sachets Val kept sticking in her sock drawer. It was red, handmade from heavy, expensive cardstock. No postmark. In fact, it wasn’t made out to her at all. The name Calliope was written across the front, each letter perfectly formed in rich dark ink. She’d bet money whoever’d written it had used an honest-to-God fountain pen.

  She turned the envelope over. It was held closed with a seal—the impression of a rose stamped into black wax. She glanced at the empty space on her desk where the vase full of roses had been only minutes before. Something cold and slow crawled along her spine, snatching her lungs and holding them tight, making it impossible to draw a deep breath.

  “Hey.”

  She dropped the card back into the bag, her head snapping up so fast she felt her brain bounce against her skull. Nickels stood over her, two cups of coffee balanced on top of a pizza box.

  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Looking around the squad room, she saw that while it’d thinned out a bit, most desks were still occupied and more than a few were very interested in what was going on between her and Nickels.

  “You said don’t be a stranger.” He held out a cup to her and grinned, purposely keeping his gaze locked on her face instead of on the bag that stood between them.

  Sabrina took the cup and smiled back. “Nothing better to do or were you sent in to babysit?” she said before taking a sip.

  Nickels shrugged, sliding the pizza box onto Strickland’s desk. “A guy can only rearrange his sock drawer so many times,” he said, pulling a pair of gloves from the cargo pocket of his pants and snapping them on. He pulled a chair around, positioning it across from hers. “What’s the system—what’re we doing?”

  She just stared at him. When she didn’t answer, he shrugged and reached for the bag. She slapped her hand over the top of it, barring him from reaching inside.

  “Nick—”

  “I’m helping you. The only way you’re going to be able to stop me is to start screaming like a banshee or pull your gun on me. Both of which will draw attention,” he said, uncapping a Sharpie and smiling at her. “So do us both a favor and hand me an empty box and some evidence bags.”

  Exasperated, she smiled in spite of herself and fetched an empty box. “Fine.” She dropped the box next to the bag and reached in; pulling out a handful of letters, making sure the red envelope wasn’t among them before she tossed them into the box.

  “Start with these.” She explained her system before opening another letter. This one, from a man in Ohio, begged her to help him find his missing fourteen-year-old daughter. This letter went in a third, sparsely populated box. No-man’s land. It wouldn’t be considered evidence in a potential case, but she couldn’t bring herself to dismiss it either.

  She reached into the bag again and again, each time careful to leave the red envelope in the rapidly dwindling pile. She and Nickels exchanged small talk. The weather. The Giants. The twins applying for college. Nickels polished off half the pizza, while she picked at her slice, forcing herself to eat just enough of it to pass inspection.

  “Last one,” she said a few hours later, pulling a long white envelope from the bag. It was well past six o’clock, edging toward seven. She held it out to him. “Want it?”

  He took it from her and tapped it against the edge of Strickland’s desk. As soon as he
was distracted, she pulled the red envelope from the bag. It weighed heavy in her hands, the color of blood.

  7

  Technically, the envelope belonged to her. They all did. Legally, she could’ve thrown the whole bag in the dumpster without opening a single one of them and Mathews couldn’t have done anything to stop her. This wasn’t an official investigation—just his way of yanking her chain. That’s what Sabrina kept telling herself.

  She didn’t have to open it if she didn’t want to.

  Chewing on her lower lip, studying the envelope in her hand, Sabrina was unable to understand why something like a few pieces of red paper and a blob of wax freaked her out so bad. It wasn’t just the envelope. It was all of it. The roses. The phone call.

  Red is your favorite color, isn’t it?

  She didn’t open it. Couldn’t. Instead, she bagged it and dropped it into her bottom desk drawer, closing it quietly before locking it.

  She stood up, avoiding Nickels and the way he just sat there, looking at her. “Thanks for the help—I’d have been here all night if you hadn’t shown up,” she said, pulling on her jacket. She flashed a quick smile in his general direction, still unable to bring herself to look at him.

  He’d seen what she’d done but instead of asking her about it, Nickels just stretched his legs out in front of him and said nothing. Leaning over her desk, she swiped her mouse across its pad. Clicking the cursor on the screen here and there, she printed out her report for Mathews before putting her computer to bed for the night. She straightened, shooting him a quick glance.

  He just sat there. Waiting.

  Nickels wasn’t like Strickland. Where her partner would badger and bark at her until she caved, Nickels would simply wait her out. The funny thing was, she wanted to tell him about the envelope. She just didn’t know how.

  She leaned forward, perching herself on the edge of her chair. “You aren’t going to ask me what it is, are you?”