Waiting In Darkness: A Sabrina Vaughn Thriller (The Sabrina Vaughn Series Book 1)

by Maegan Beaumont

  As soon as she thought it, she realized how ridiculous it sounded. Her father couldn’t arrest her. Not here. But she was a murderer. She’d kidnapped her siblings and taken them across state lines. All it would take was a five-minute phone call from her father and she’d be in handcuffs within the hour.

  Manny must’ve read the look on her face because she nodded. “I’m gonna tell him you left already—”

  “No.” She stood, shaking her head. “No—don’t do that. Don’t lie for me,” she said, as she moved. She could feel Val’s questioning stare push her through the door.

  SHE pegged the officer the moment she stepped into the dining room and he was definitely not her father. Not a uniform officer either. This man was a detective. Young, maybe in his early thirties—Hispanic. Good-looking in a prize-fighter sort of way. Thick neck. Cauliflower ear. Crooked nose. Calculating gaze. He zeroed in on her the moment she pushed through the kitchen door, offering her a smile meant to calm her. No one liked having police officers looking for them. Especially around here.

  “Miss Randolph?” He half stood from the stool he was sitting on at the counter and she nodded. She’d purchased a fake ID and social security card months ago from a woman in her complex whose cousin worked at the DMV. The undocumented workers in the area used them to prove citizenship and work status. She used them to stay hidden.

  “Yes, is there something I can help you with?”

  He gave her another smile even though the first one hadn’t worked. This one didn’t work either. “My name is Will Santos—I’m a detective with the Yuma police department.” He reached into the suit jacket he wore despite the warm weather and pulled out his badge. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “Detective?” That much she knew but she played it safe—and dumb. “What kind of detective?” Melissa Randolph was nineteen—an adult. Fair game as far as police questioning goes.

  Instead of answering her, he asked a question of his own. “Were you here, early morning of the twenty-sixth, around one AM?”

  “Yes—I worked until two o’clock that night.” Lying was useless. He could easily obtain her schedule from the manager. He probably already had. “Detective of what?”

  “You waited on a large party of teenagers.” He pressed on as if she hadn’t said a word. “One of them was Andy Shepard.”

  My name is Andy...

  Arrogant smile and soft hands. “Yes, I remember him. He grabbed my ass.” She pressed her hands flat against the counter and leaned in. “And I’m not answering one more question until you answer mine.”

  “Fair enough,” he said on a short chuckle and handed her a business card.

  Det. William Santos

  Yuma Police Department

  Robbery/Homicide

  Homicide.

  Her eyes stuck to the word. She couldn’t look away. Suddenly, her arms ached. Her elbow joints singing with the impact of the bat against Pete’s skull. The crack of it—like an egg—rang in her ears. He was talking to her; she forced herself to look up. To focus.

  “—finish your shift. According to Luck’s corporate office, you clocked out nearly thirty minutes early that night,” he said, proving her right. He had checked up on her before coming here.

  “I have two toddlers at home, Detective—when the opportunity to leave early presents itself, I take it,” she told him, slipping the card he gave her into her apron pocket so that she’d stop staring at it. “Is this Andy saying I stole something from him? Is that what this is about?” She played dumb again, playing up the robbery in robbery/homicide.

  Detective Santos sat back in his stool, crossing his arms over his chest, to watch her for a moment, probably deciding how much to tell her. “Andy Shepard was found dead in a gas station restroom about ninety miles from here.” He leaned his elbows against the counter. “The investigation is a coordinated effort between the county sheriff’s office and the PDs involved. Witness statements put him and friends here directly before his death and they all say that you were their waitress.” He smiled at her again. Still wasn’t working. “I’m just trying to narrow down the timeline. Figure out what happened to him.”

  He was dead. Andy was dead.

  “They came in around one AM—twelve of them. From some of their letterman’s jackets, I gathered that they drove here from a neighboring town to attend the football game at Yuma high,” she said, deciding to play it straight. She had nothing to hide. Not about this. “While I was taking their drink order, this boy started to flirt with me—asked me where I went to school. My name.” She sighed. “I’d had a long day and wasn’t in the mood so I was short with him. When I turned to leave, he grabbed my ass. I didn’t like it. I got upset and my co-worker stepped in and offered to finish serving the table while I went home early. That’s all I know.”

  “A handsome football player flirts with you and you didn’t like it?” He was baiting her now, she could see it. “What’s not to like?”

  “I’ve got two kids, Detective,” she said, suddenly feeling as jaded and weary as she hoped she sounded. “In my experience, handsome football players are nothing but trouble.”

  Detective Santos leveled his gaze at her face before nodding. “Yeah, I suppose so,” he said before he stood and slid a pair of sunglasses. “If I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch... and if you can think of anything else, give me a call.”

  She had a question of her own and she asked it before he could turn away from the counter. “What happened to him? Andy... how did he die?”

  She could feel the detective watching her from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He’d been waiting for her to ask. Hoping that she would so that he could gauge her reaction when he told her. “Someone attacked him while he was in the bathroom. Stabbed him. Punctured his left lung.... kid bled to death but it took a few minutes. Long enough for him to know what was happening to him. That he was dying.”

  For a moment, Tommy lay in front of her, tubes and wire sticking out of him. Skin as pale and bloodless as ash. She shook her head. She didn’t want to hear anymore. “I’m sorry, Detective. I wish I could—”

  He spoke over her like she hadn’t said a word. “The thing is, whoever did it had to have been following him. Had to have known he was in that bathroom and that he was alone. They targeted him.” He cocked his head and smiled. This time he wasn’t trying to put her at ease. “Whoever it was, he did something to piss them off. After they stabbed him, they severed his hand at the wrist and took it with them when they left.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  DETECTIVE SANTOS’ CARD SAT in her apron pocket for almost a week. Five days of waiting for him to come back. He’d undoubtedly checked on her. While she’d been assured that the forged birth certificate and social security card she’d purchased would hold under a routine background check, she didn’t feel like putting it to the test.

  Whoever it was, he did something to piss them off. After they stabbed him, they severed his hand at the wrist and took it with them when they left…

  Melissa’s fingers brushed against it every time she reached for her order pad or tucked a tip into her pocket. It felt like guilt. Every graze an accusation. Andy Shepard was dead because of her. She was certain of it.

  That morning, Val had knocked on her door, ready for work. “Well,” she said, helping her usher Jason and Riley across the courtyard to the apartment she shared with her mother and little sister. “Did you hear anything?” She’d told her friend everything Detective Santos had said the second he left. Val was nearly as worried as she was.

  “No,” she said, shaking her head while she pushed the door to Val’s apartment open. The warm scent of fresh tortillas enveloped her. “Good morning, Mrs. Hernandez,” she called out, telling her friend she didn’t want to talk about it. Not here.

  “Good morning, Mija,” Amelia called to her from the tiny kitchen. She came out a few moments later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Where are my babies?” she said, dropping a kiss
on her cheek before breezing past her. Seeing the twins, she hurried over to them, bending to give them noisy, wet kisses and they giggled. Looking up at her and Val she made a shooing motion with her dish towel. “Vamos, or you’ll be late again.”

  Every morning she worked it was the same. She’d bring the twins to Mrs. Hernandez and she’d spoil them all day. After dinner, Val’s little sister, Ellie, would walk them home, bathe them and put them to bed before doing her homework while waiting for her to get off work. It was a system that worked well. One she felt thankful for every day.

  “Okay, okay...” she grabbed Val and pulled her toward the door, made it halfway down the sidewalk before her mother called them back.

  “Wait, Mija—you forgot your breakfast,” she said, rushing at them with a stack of warm flour tortillas, wrapped in a clean dish towel.

  “Mom, you know I can’t eat those,” Val said, eyeing the dish towel with equal parts regret and disdain.

  “You could,” her mother sniffed at her, “If you weren’t so concerned with being a size zero.” She pushed the stack of tortillas into Melissa’s hands. “More for you,” she said, patting her on the cheek before she rushed back inside.

  “I’d hate you if I didn’t like you so much,” Val said, while the walked, watching her rip a tortilla in half and fold it into her mouth. Thin and buttery, it practically melted on her tongue. Delicious. Being a size zero had never been a goal of hers.

  “Want one,” she said, opening the dish towel. “I won’t tell her—I swear.” She smiled when Val sighed and slid one off the stack. Every morning the same.

  “What are you going to do?” Val said while she chewed. “I mean, that detective didn’t seem like the type to just give up.”

  She forced the wad of tortilla in her mouth down her throat. Val wasn’t one to just give up either. “What can I do?” she said, tucking the rest of them into her purse for later. “It’s not like I killed him.”

  “Yeah but you have a pretty good idea of who did,” Val said, lowering her voice once they stepped into the shadow of the restaurant, heading for the back door. “Don’t you think you should tell him?”

  She stopped walking. “Tell him what? That I was being stalked by some lunatic who stabbed my boyfriend so I kidnapped my siblings and took them across state lines?” Saying it out loud, it didn’t sound real. Any of it. It sounded like something that happened to another person. Not to her. “I can’t,” she said, shaking her head. “They’ll take Jason and Riley away from me.” I’d end up in prison for murder.

  “We could leave.”

  For a moment, she saw Tommy. Heard the easy way he’d said almost the exact same thing to her only a few months ago. He’d said it like it would be easy. Like he’d follow her anywhere. Like she was worth it. She couldn’t let Val make the same mistake he did. She wasn’t worth it. She was a magnet for pain and misery. She left death in her wake—wherever she went.

  “We’re not going anywhere.” She looped her arm through her friend’s, pulling her past the dumpster, toward the employee entrance. “This is home,” she said even though she wasn’t sure. It was starting to look like running was her only option.

  “HE’S back.”

  The words jerked her hands out of her pockets, pulled her gaze up from the counter to find Valerie staring at her. “Santos. He’s here...” she said, jerking her chin toward the back dining room. “He ordered food to go and asked for you so I put him back there to wait so you guys could talk.”

  She knew what Val wanted her to do. It was what she should do. Come clean. It also happened to be the one thing she couldn’t do. Not without risking Santo’s finding out about what happened to Pete. That she’d killed him.

  “Okay, thanks,” she said. Sweat sprung up against her palms and she wiped them on the front of her apron.

  She wove her way through the sparsely populated dining room. It was ten o’clock on a Tuesday. If he was here to arrest her, he’d picked a good day—there was no one here to see it.

  “Detective, is there something I can help you with?” she said, falling back on the manners that Lucy had taught her.

  “Just a follow-up,” he said, gesturing for her to sit. He didn’t even try to smile this time. She slid into the booth across from him with a sinking heart. He watched her for a few moments, sizing her up. Taking stock before he spoke again. “We found the man who killed Andy Shepard.”

  It wasn’t what she’d been expecting. The news knocked her back in her seat, relief and trepidation all at once. “Who?” she said, knowing she shouldn’t ask. That it made her sound guilty of something she didn’t do but she couldn’t help it. She had to know. She was sure that the name he’d give her would be one she recognized. One from her old life.

  “His name is James Toliver. He was a night clerk at the gas station where Shepard’s body was found,” he said, leaning back in his seat to study her. She had a feeling he did that a lot. Study people. “Apparently, it was a gas station Shepard and a few of his friends had done a beer run at the weekend prior while Toliver was on duty and it cost him his job.”

  James Toliver. She had no idea who that was.

  “He killed Andy over a beer run?” It didn’t sound reasonable. It sounded crazy.

  “Toliver has a history of instability and violent behavior,” Santos said as it explained everything. “He’d been following Shepard for days before he finally cracked. Claims he took his hand for stealing.”

  “Claims?” she said, trying to understand what he was saying. “This guy confessed?”

  “Sure did,” Santos nodded like he couldn’t believe it either. “Waltzed right into the police station this morning with the bloody paper towel he used to clean his knife.”

  Suddenly, Val was there with a plastic back full of take-out boxes. “Your food’s ready, detective,” she said, setting the bag on the table between them.

  “Thank you.” Santos slid out from the booth and stood over her. “I just thought you should know. I’m sorry to have bothered you, Miss Randolph.” he said with a curt nod before leaving. As soon as he was out the door, Val slid into the seat he’d just vacated.

  “Tell me,” she hissed at her, her eyes trained over her shoulder. Probably watching the detective’s retreat. “Melissa—”

  She filled her in, told her friend everything that Santos had shared with her.

  “So, none of this had anything to do with you,” Val said, blowing out a relieved breath. “You’re okay. Everything is okay.”

  “I guess so.”

  Val was smiling so she smiled back even though it felt wrong. It wasn’t okay. A boy was dead. For his family, nothing would ever be okay again. But she didn’t know James Toliver. She’d never met him in her life and he’d confessed which meant that Andy Shepard’s murder had nothing to do with her. His death was not her fault. It had all been nothing but an awful, sick coincidence.

  She kept repeating it until she believed it.

  TWENTY-NINE

  October 1st, 1998

  VAL WAS A HORRIBLE singer. What made her even more horrible was that she seemed to revel in it. Instead of embarrassing her, her total lack of tone or pitch seemed to spur her to sing louder and louder until, when they’d finally reached the blessed end of the short song she was screeching so loud and off-key that it suddenly sounded as if she were singing a solo. While strangling a cat.

  Embarrassed, Melissa watched her friend push her way through the kitchen door followed by a small parade of busboys—cake in hand. She took a quick look around the restaurant at the scatter of late night customers. All of them stared at the spectacle that was Val singing. The blush on her cheeks sank deeper into her skin. She covered them with her hands but couldn’t help but smile.

  It was her birthday.

  “Make a wish.” Val placed the cake on the counter in front of her with a small flourish. She closed her eyes and did as she was told before blowing out the candles. Seventeen of them. She’d made it. A corner turned. />
  A smattering of claps sounded off, customers and busboys cheering her on. “What did you wish for?” Val said, hip-checking her while passing her a knife to cut the cake.

  “That someone would give you singing lessons,” she said and laughter followed the clapping. Val turned toward the dining room with a curtsy and blew kisses at the diners before turning back toward the counter.

  “I told you not to do this, really—it’s no big deal, Val.” She pulled candles out of the cake for lack of anything better to do. The small cluster of busboys and dishwashers wished her a happy birthday before they drifted away, back to work.

  “Like I ever listen, Chica,” Val said with an eye roll. “So? Did you think about it?” her tone was hopeful but it faded fast when she saw the decline form on her face.

  “I can’t,” she said, face tipped toward the cake as she slid the knife Val handed her through its middle. Rather than look up at the frustrated glare she knew her friend was sending her way, she concentrated on cutting the cake into perfect wedges. Val kept glaring until she finally gave up. “I gotta get home, Val. The twins—”

  “Are fine.” Val took the knife from her and lifted a piece of cake onto a plate. She’d been invited to a party at school and asked her to tag along. “They’re with my mother—even she thinks you need to get out and have some fun,” she said, forking a bite of cake into her mouth. “You do know what fun is, right?”

  “Yes, smartass,” she said with a good-natured grin. “I know what fun is.”

  “Oh yeah? When was the last time you had any?” Val held out a forkful of cake and she took it.

  She smelled it before the bite hit her tongue. Sugary and tart. Baked and buttery. Lemon pound cake. Her grandmother’s recipe. “Where’d you get this?” It tasted like home. The home she’d had before Kelly had come in and ripped it all away. Simple. Safe. Before the darkness found her.