No Going Back (Sawyer Brooks)

by T. R. Ragan

  Lennon’s eyes were as wide as ever. “Because they videotape the whole thing and upload it on social media.”

  Sawyer kept quiet, but her nephew was right. The Black Wigs seemed to be inspiring females across the country to go after men who sexually harassed and objectified women. Sawyer had watched a few of the videos herself. The Slayers claimed the men they held hostage were rapists and molesters. The women made their victims sweat by sharpening knives and making threats. If their captive showed little or no emotion, The Slayers used waterboarding techniques to draw out the man’s fear. It wasn’t until their victim broke down and begged forgiveness that they released him. As far as she knew, all their victims had been released unharmed. And yet authorities had no idea who was behind it all or where the men had been taken since they were drugged and blindfolded. The few men who had come forward had said they’d passed out at a party or gathering and awakened tied to a cot in a dark room that resembled a cave.

  Nate looked at Sawyer. “Is this true?”

  “Yes,” Sawyer said. “There’s a group of girls who call themselves The Slayers.”

  “How can I help?” Aria asked. “Work at the shelter has been slow, and I have plenty of time on my hands. Surveillance, phone calls, research. You name it. I’ll do it.”

  The pleading look in Aria’s eyes warmed her heart. In Sawyer’s opinion, Aria had suffered the worst abuse of all three sisters combined. But Aria had somehow pushed all her trauma inward and downward and locked it up tight. Instead, Aria channeled her energy toward protecting the vulnerable. She tended to steer clear of human interaction, which was why she’d been working for an animal shelter for as long as Sawyer could remember.

  “I’m sure I can find something for you to do,” Sawyer said. “If you’re absolutely sure you have time?”

  Aria smiled. “Wonderful!”

  “Is this a paying job?” Lennon asked.

  “Afraid not,” Sawyer told him.

  “That’s enough chitchat about work,” Harper said before turning her attention on Derek. “I heard you have a big family.”

  “I do,” Derek said. “I’m the youngest of seven kids. I have four sisters, two brothers, and fourteen nephews and nieces.”

  Ella gasped. “That’s a lot of people.”

  “You’re right about that,” Derek said. “When we all get together, it feels like a hundred people.”

  “Do you have a favorite brother or sister?” Ella asked.

  “No,” he said. “They’re all equally annoying.”

  Ella laughed. “Just like Lennon.”

  Lennon flicked a pea at his sister.

  “No throwing food around,” Harper said.

  “Let them have some fun.” Nate flicked a pea at Lennon, hitting his son square in the forehead.

  “You kids are cleaning it all up, including every dish when we’re done. That includes unloading and loading the dishes and—”

  Before Harper could finish, a pea hit her smack in the chest.

  Nate was the culprit.

  Sawyer glanced at Aria. They were both frozen in place, waiting for Harper to lose it completely. Derek must have sensed the tension in the air, but he just kept eating, pretending not to notice. Nothing to see here.

  They all looked up, though, when Harper stood. She walked over to where Lennon was sitting, leaned over his shoulder, and picked up the bowl of peas, then continued on to the end of the table where Nate sat, raised the bowl a few inches above his head, and turned the bowl upside down. Peas rained down on his head, where they made a little pea-green mountain. Some of the peas rolled off his head and down his chest, quite a few of them disappearing between the gap at the top of his button-down shirt.

  Before Harper could walk back to her seat, Nate pushed out his chair, which prompted Harper to run for her life. They disappeared down the hallway, where they all heard a door close.

  “I don’t come to dinner as often as I used to. Should we be worried?” Sawyer asked.

  “No,” Ella said. “They’re probably making up.”

  Sawyer raised a brow.

  Aria was on the floor, crawling around on all fours, picking up peas, telling everyone not to move because she didn’t want to clean up mashed green peas.

  Sawyer leaned close to Derek. “Sorry about all the chaos.”

  “Chaos? Wait until you meet my family. This was nothing.”

  Lennon laughed.

  “I want to meet your family,” Ella said. “Don’t you, Sawyer?”

  Derek nudged her with an elbow. “What do you say?”

  Sawyer didn’t need to look around to know that all eyes were on her. “Of course I do. I can’t wait.”

  Sawyer waved as Derek drove off after walking her to her apartment door and kissing her good night. Not for the first time, she questioned why he hadn’t even hinted at taking her home with him. She knew he lived in a quaint one-story home off Marty Lane in Land Park.

  A sudden movement caught her attention. Looking to her left, she craned her neck for a better look. Someone was sitting behind the wheel of a small green car parked down the block on the wrong side of the curb. Thinking it could be a neighbor having car trouble, she stepped that way.

  Tires screeched as the driver made a U-turn in the middle of the road, taking off in the other direction.

  A chill washed over her. Was someone watching her?

  Inside her apartment, she locked the door, then turned her back to it so that she was peering into the semidarkness of her apartment.

  Her heart was racing. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t usually skittish or fearful, but for some reason she suddenly felt vulnerable.

  She knew—she could feel it inside her—that it wasn’t just the possibility of being watched that bothered her. It was everything. But mostly it was Derek. Years of childhood trauma had damaged her. When it came to relationships of any sort, she had built walls. Lots of walls. Those walls had made it possible for her to move on with her life.

  If she intended to build a better life for herself, the walls had to come down. The passing of time did not heal all wounds. Her recent nightmares were proof of that.

  Before her eyes adjusted to the dark, something lunged for her. She screamed and then let out a shaky laugh when she realized it was Raccoon, her cat, just jumping off the couch.

  “Come on, Raccoon,” she said, brushing her fingers through his fur. “Let’s go to bed.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The next morning before leaving for work, Aria Brooks logged on to her computer while she drank her coffee and was excited to see that Sawyer had already sent her an email with an update on the Black Wigs case. She mentioned a coworker named Lexi Holmes, who had weaseled her way into working on the story with her. Sawyer told Aria about a recent homicide, a man named Nick Calderon, and how she believed his murder could be the work of a copycat.

  If Aria was still interested, Sawyer wanted her help in learning more about Nick Calderon’s life. His ex-wife had told Sawyer that Calderon didn’t have any friends, but what about the people he worked with? Sawyer questioned. Bottom line: Who were Calderon’s enemies? Who hated him enough to kill him?

  Aria’s entire body thrummed at the idea of having something else to occupy her time. She loved her job at the shelter, but she worked only when they needed her, and she liked to keep busy—something all three of the Brooks sisters had in common.

  Hours later, while Aria hosed down the dog runs at the animal shelter where she worked, she couldn’t stop thinking about Nick Calderon’s death. The first thing she wanted to do was talk to his coworkers and get an idea of who he was. As she shut off the water to the hose, she heard her name come over the loudspeaker outside: Aria Brooks. Please come to the front right away. The voice belonged to her boss, Tiffany Sparks.

  Aria used her forearm, the only part of her not covered in dog hair and dirt, to push flyaway strands of hair out of her face. A part-timer and a volunteer had failed to show up, which had made for an un
usually busy morning. Based on the rattled sound of desperation in Tiffany’s voice, things were not improving.

  Inside the shelter, chaos abounded. A couple of dogs were barking nonstop. Two people stood in line, both with dogs.

  Tiffany stood behind the front counter with a phone pressed to her ear. On the counter was a filthy cage with a cat and her four kittens. The poor mother looked exhausted, probably hungry and dehydrated too.

  A Doberman pinscher in one of the cages nearby was upset about something, and he wouldn’t stop barking. He was a newcomer and he wasn’t happy. As Aria approached, Tiffany muted the call, gestured to the waiting room, which was three plastic chairs pushed against the wall, and said, “Could you help the man over there? He was first.”

  Aria nodded and headed that way.

  The man, midthirties, was sitting in the middle chair. His wavy, overly long, light-brown hair looked windswept, covering most of one eye. He wore dark fitted jeans and chunky boots with combat-style treads. At the end of a long rope was a German shorthaired pointer, one of the top breeds for competitive hunting because of their reflexes and speed.

  The man stood as she approached.

  “Hi,” she said. “I’m Aria.”

  “Corey.”

  Her gaze settled on the dog. Aria let the animal sniff her hand before she knelt down and stroked the animal’s neck and back. The dog was too thin, with jutting ribs. There was no collar. Just a rope tied around his neck. “Who do we have here?” she asked.

  Corey shrugged. “No idea. I found him running around the street in front of my apartment. No pets allowed, so I brought him here.”

  “Ah, such a sweet, handsome boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  Aria looked up at him. “I was talking about the dog.”

  “I know.”

  Her cheeks flushed. She pushed herself back to her feet. “You did the right thing, you know, bringing him in.” She gestured toward the counter, where Tiffany struggled to keep the phone propped between her chin and shoulder while also trying to contain a golden retriever that kept jumping up so that his paws were on the counter, upsetting the cat in the cage. “If you don’t mind,” Aria told Corey, “I’ll need you to fill out a form.”

  “That’s fine,” he said.

  Aria returned with a clipboard and pen. She took the end of the rope just as the door opened and another man walked in. His eyes were the same dark blue as his grease-stained coveralls. The name tag said his name was Nolan. Red in the face, Nolan yanked hard on a leash, making the poor dog in his care let out a high-pitched yelp as he cut to the front of the line.

  The animal, Aria noticed, looked like a pit bull mix.

  The Doberman increased his volume, which prompted the pit bull to bark too. Nolan yanked the leash again.

  “You’re hurting the animal,” Corey said.

  “Mind your own business.” Nolan pulled up on the leash, so hard and so high that the dog’s two front feet left the ground.

  Aria gasped.

  Tiffany hung up the phone.

  The cat hissed.

  Corey, the man with the combat boots, moved fast. In the blink of an eye, he had Nolan up against the wall, his arm pressed against Nolan’s neck so the man couldn’t move. The pit bull took off down the wide cement aisle, heading for the open door at the other end of the building. All the dogs were barking now.

  With the German shorthaired pointer at her side, Aria took off running for the other dog. The shelter backed up against forty acres of what she considered to be an urban forest with lots of meandering trails shaded by alders and ash, walnuts, and willows. Relieved to see that the gate leading to the trail was closed, she didn’t have to go far to find the pit bull. Sorely neglected like so many of the animals brought to the shelter, the poor dog sat near the fence, shaking and panting. He had scabs all over his body, and he was too thin.

  Aria pulled a couple of dog treats from her pocket, gave one to the pointer, and then used the other to try to get the pit bull to come to her. She could tell he wanted to trust her, but too many years of abuse had left him wary of humans.

  Aria was within a few feet of the dog when Corey came to her aid. “You’re still here,” Aria said, surprised.

  “I wasn’t going to leave you or the other lady here alone with Nolan.”

  “Is he gone?”

  Corey nodded. “He threatened to call the police and charge me with assault.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “It’s okay. I called his bluff. Turned out that Nolan was all bark and no bite.”

  Aria smiled, then watched him get real close to the pit bull, kneel down, and talk to the dog in a soothing voice, telling the animal that everything was going to be okay.

  She thought for sure the dog would run off when he got too close, but the pit bull didn’t move. It wasn’t long before Corey was petting the animal’s head and rubbing the sweet spot under the dog’s chin.

  “Do you need a job by any chance?” Aria asked, teasing since the shelter preferred volunteers.

  He laughed. “I actually have one. As delightful as this has been, I should get back to it. Come on, boy,” he said to the pit bull. “Let’s get back in there and fill out some paperwork.”

  Soon the dogs were placed inside clean cages with plenty of food and water and the paperwork was done.

  Aria and Tiffany both thanked Corey for all his help.

  “We have lots of trails around here. If you ever want to take a dog for a walk, you know where to come,” Aria told him.

  He smiled as he waved goodbye.

  The minute the door closed behind him, Aria released a pent-up breath. “That sure was nice of him to help us.”

  “Yes, it was,” Tiffany said. “I’m going to feed the animals in the back and then take Chompers for a walk.”

  “If it’s okay with you,” Aria said, “I’m going to take an early lunch after you get back from your walk.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Aria went to the counter and flipped through the forms on the clipboard. Corey’s last name was Moran. He lived on T Street.

  She shook her head, inwardly scolding herself for being curious about his name and address since she wasn’t interested in pursuing any sort of relationship with the guy. With that in mind, she decided to focus on Nick Calderon’s death. Pulling her phone from her back pocket, she looked up the address for the insurance company in Elk Grove where he had worked before he was killed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was a few minutes before nine when Sawyer was greeted at the door by a woman named Debbie, then led into Palmer’s home on H Street in East Sacramento. She wanted to talk to her boss before her scheduled meeting with Lexi Holmes.

  She was led into a large room with lots of windows but not much light since the curtains were drawn tight. Palmer looked over his shoulder at Sawyer and then raised the remote and shut off the television. “I was wondering when you would come.”

  Debbie walked away.

  “Get over here where I can see you without straining my neck.”

  Sawyer did as he asked. Ten days had passed since Palmer had knocked on the door of a serial killer’s house and left in an ambulance. He was fond of telling people that he would be dead if Sawyer hadn’t shown up with a gun and taken aim at the madwoman. One shot had saved his life.

  In many ways, Palmer had saved her life, so now they were even.

  “Nice setup,” she said. He not only had a hospital bed in the middle of his living room but also one of those rolling metal food trays. But as she walked closer, she noticed that his skin color was ashen, and his arms appeared thin. Fragile had never been a word she would have used to describe Palmer until now. She had thought, or maybe hoped, he’d look a little better by now—stronger and healthier.

  Palmer frowned. “Not a pretty sight, huh?”

  Sawyer cleared her throat. “What do you mean?”

  “I look like I’m on my deathbed. Your face is like a mirror, and the ho
rror is scrawled all over it. You don’t need to say a word. I can see what you’re thinking.”

  “God, you’re a pain in the ass.”

  He tried to laugh, but it came out sounding like a cackling witch. He reached for his cup of water and took little sips through a straw.

  Sawyer sat down in the cushioned chair facing him so they could better see each other. “So you knew I was coming?”

  “I did.”

  “Are all those drugs making you psychic?”

  “You’re here because Lexi told you she talked to me about handling the Black Wigs case, correct?”

  His words quickly renewed her anger, and she jumped to her feet. “That’s right. Lexi threatened to rush her perspective on the Black Wigs story to publication if I didn’t collaborate with her.”

  He chuckled.

  “Why is that funny?”

  “Because it’s way too easy to get your goat. She came to me, asking permission to take over the story. I told her it was yours and that she should talk to you.”

  Sawyer waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming. “That’s all you told Lexi?”

  “That’s it.”

  Sawyer plopped back down into the cushioned chair. Elbows propped on knees, she rubbed her palms over her face.

  “You’re an easy target.” Palmer stated the obvious.

  “You could have warned me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  That was a very good question. Sawyer and Palmer weren’t related. He wasn’t her friend in the true sense of the word. He was her mentor and her boss, and she looked up to him. In quick succession she’d solved a couple of cases, and apparently it had gone to her head. “I’m an idiot,” she told him.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Impulsive, imprudent, rash—”

  Sawyer raised a hand to stop him.

  It worked.

  “Just to be clear,” Sawyer said, “if I’d had the good sense to hold strong and tell Lexi no, you would have stood by my decision?”

  He nodded, but she didn’t miss the self-satisfied smirk on his face. He was gloating. He’d known she’d crack like a hard-boiled egg. He’d also known that she would race to his home, uninvited, to give him a piece of her mind. Not only was she an idiot—she was all those other things he’d called her too.