“I’m Nancy’s granddaughter.” He grabbed another list and was looking through it when she added, “Bad day to pay her a visit, but I’ll be back.” She left before he could question her further.
Outside, Sawyer took in the sea of faces as she walked back to her car. The crowd had doubled. Sean Palmer was nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER THREE
Sawyer was back in her cubicle, clacking away on her keyboard. It was ten minutes after six when she finished writing about the birthday party gone amiss. She ended the sad tale with key points about safety precautions around reptiles, then connected to her email service, composed a message to her boss, attached the file, and hit “Send.”
Immediately after leaving the apartment building in West Sacramento where Kylie Hartford had been murdered, Sawyer had called Sean Palmer to tell him what she’d seen and heard. When he didn’t answer, she drove to the hospital where the boy had died from the venomous snakebite. Sawyer had been surprised to walk into the hospital’s main lobby and find Jason Carlson, the man who’d thought it was a good idea to pull out a poisonous reptile at his son’s party, sitting alone.
When she found him, he’d been crying—noisy sobs between short, convulsive gasps. He must have needed to talk to someone, because all it had taken was for her to offer a bit of sympathy for him to open the floodgates. He hadn’t seemed to care that she was a reporter from a local paper. The man had talked freely, grief-stricken by what had happened.
Sawyer had found herself feeling sorry for him. Not a reaction she’d expected after first hearing the story. Her sisters had accused her, on more than one occasion, of lacking empathy. But Sawyer disagreed. Rather than feeling overwhelmed by the suffering of others, she believed her compassion allowed her to keep emotion out of moments like this.
Jason Carlson and his children had grown up around snakes. He swore his snakes were not aggressive and believed all the commotion that day had prompted the attack. But he also admitted to being naive to think something like this couldn’t happen. He wasn’t sure whether the boy’s parents intended to press charges, but he said he wouldn’t blame them for doing so.
If only the snake had bitten him instead, he said, over and over again.
If only.
Negligence. Accident. It wasn’t her job to judge or tell her audience how to feel. Her job was to tell the story. Be fair. Let readers make up their own minds.
Her phone buzzed. The screen showed DAD. She picked up the call and said hello.
“Are you at home?” he asked.
“No. I’m at work.”
“Gramma Sally passed away last night. She died in her sleep.”
Her heart sank. Gramma Sally was her mom’s mother. “Is Mom okay?”
“She’s fine.”
It helped to know Gramma hadn’t suffered, and yet guilt for not being there for her weighed heavily. When Gramma Sally had moved from Florida to River Rock to live with Sawyer and her parents, she’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Despite her failing health, she’d lived another seventeen years, and made it to eighty-three. The thought of never seeing her again left an ache in Sawyer’s chest. Gramma had taught Sawyer that life wasn’t always fair and people needed to learn to suck it up. Be brave. Be strong. When life gets tough, you need to get tougher, she used to say.
“I’ll let you go,” her father said into the silence. “The funeral will be held at the River Rock Chapel on Friday at one p.m.”
“Why so soon?”
“You know how your mother is.”
She did know. Mom couldn’t sit still or relax. Everything needed to be done yesterday. Mom and Gramma Sally had never gotten along. No doubt Mom was of the belief that the sooner Gramma was buried six feet under, the better.
Sawyer’s mom had always been stubborn and strong, passionate about the Rotary Club she’d formed. Admired by many but liked by few. Sawyer had always wondered if Mom’s behavior was the reason Dad locked himself in his office.
“Are you still there?” Dad asked.
“Yes. I’ll come down for the funeral,” Sawyer said. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”
“Have a safe drive. We’ll see you soon.”
Sawyer’s chest ached. Gramma Sally was gone.
She had mixed feelings about returning to River Rock, but it was only a few hours’ drive, and she wanted to pay her respects to Gramma and say goodbye.
Her cell buzzed, letting her know she had an incoming text.
Sean Palmer wanted to see her in his office.
Although they worked in the same building, Sawyer never got the opportunity to see or speak to Sean Palmer. His office was on the floor above with a view of the American River. In his late sixties, he possessed flyaway white hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. He was fond of black turtlenecks, wool jackets, and eyeglasses with square, black frames. He always smelled like his last cigar: earthy, woody, sometimes fruity and nutty.
His office door was open, but she knocked anyway.
His back was to her. He waved her inside, and after he finished what he was doing, he pivoted around in his chair and reached a hand toward her, palm up.
It took her half a second to realize he wanted the photos she’d taken inside Kylie Hartford’s apartment. Something bubbled at the pit of her stomach as she reached around inside her pants pocket before she realized the USB was in her left hand. It irked her to know he had that effect on her.
“Relax. Have a seat.”
While he worked on uploading the digital files to his computer, she settled down and took note of his work space. On the shelf behind him were rows of fiction and nonfiction novels, starting with Killings by Calvin Trillin and ending with The Journalist and the Murderer by Janet Malcolm. Also in the work space were an ancient police scanner, a printer, and stacks of files. Framed pictures of Palmer posing with various local celebrities covered the walls. At the beginning of his career, he’d won the Livingston Award for Young Journalists when he covered criminal justice and the death penalty. He’d won the Investigative Reporters and Editors Award in 2007, and myriad other medals and certificates for his outstanding work.
Pulling her back to the moment, Palmer said, “Interesting choice of photos you took.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over a slight paunch.
She wasn’t sure what to think about that comment. “In a good way or bad way?” she asked.
He smirked. “Both.” A painstakingly long pause followed before he added, “I remember you.”
She lifted a brow.
“Journalism. CSUS. Correct?”
She nodded.
“I believe I told you to get out of your head.”
She was surprised he remembered. “You pegged me as high anxiety and said all the baggage I was carrying would prevent me from attaining the focus needed to become a good reporter.”
“Sounds about right. I guess you didn’t listen. Good on you.”
He was being a smart-ass, letting her know he didn’t have to be psychic to see that she hadn’t let it all go. “Not true . . . about the listening part,” she told him, chin held high. “I took care of the baggage—most of it—and committed myself to learning how to observe and pay attention to my surroundings.”