“A little dramatic?”
“Possibly,” she said. “Is it working?”
“River Rock,” he said under his breath, ignoring her question. “The name rings a bell.”
“That’s probably because in 1996 the murder of Peggy Myers got national attention. School was out, and Peggy, a fourteen-year-old girl, was found dead by the edge of the river. She’d been mutilated, her skull smashed in with a hammer, a chunk of hair chopped off. Authorities were baffled.” She shrugged. “But many people in River Rock are poor, and investigations are expensive. The killer was never found.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but Sawyer wasn’t finished, and she was quick to the punch. “That’s not all,” she said. “Four years later, it happened again. Avery James, fifteen years old. Hammer to the back of the head. A clump of hair chopped off. No signs of sexual assault.”
He nodded. “Another unsolved murder in River Rock.”
“That’s right. And if all that wasn’t enough to frighten a young girl, that girl being me,” she said, pointing to her chest, “five years later, my best friend, Rebecca, disappeared on her way home from swim practice.”
“Was she ever found?”
“No.”
“I don’t remember that story,” he said.
“I’m not surprised. By that time, River Rock had gotten so much airtime, even the media yawned.” Sawyer was done. That’s all she had.
Long pause, and then: “I have limited resources. And the Independent doesn’t circulate in your hometown.”
“Anything I look into over the weekend will be on my own time and dime,” Sawyer said. “I only need a few days after that to talk to people and gather information.”
Palmer was a tough one to read. Judging by the serious look on his face, it could go either way. “I believe this story is important,” she added calmly. “People travel to River Rock from Sacramento every weekend, just like they travel to Reno. We’ve done stories in Reno, Auburn, Roseville. Why not River Rock?”
He smoothed a hand over his beard. “What could our audience learn from it?”
“That victims of murder need justice,” she said passionately. “Peggy Myers and Avery James should not be forgotten.”
Silence.
“Give me a week to talk to people, interview them, and dig deep for new information. I know how to scramble. I can make this work.”
“I’ll expect impartiality.”
“Of course.”
“And gobs of content. Good stories that will make our readers take notice and send me emails congratulating our good work.”
She nodded.
“I want you back here on Wednesday.”
She exhaled. “I should talk to Coleman, let him know what’s going on.”
“He knows. I’ll tell him you agreed and that you’ll be starting when you return from River Rock.”
Maybe that was why Coleman had been acting so strange this morning. “Okay,” she said. She stood there for a second longer than necessary before starting for the door. Then she turned back to face him. “Will I be getting a raise?”
“Three percent now. Three percent in six months if all goes well.”
“Sounds reasonable. I should go.”
He nodded.
And that was that. One of the worst and best days of her life, packed into one. Life could be funny that way.
CHAPTER FOUR
Malice opened her laptop to see what The Crew was up to. They didn’t want to glorify vengeance by calling themselves The Enforcers or The Avengers. They were merely five women who’d had the misfortune of being wronged.
They had met on Reddit, a massive collection of online forums where people shared news or commented on posts. After Reddit banned the darker markets, which were basically a swamp of disgusting internet activity—child abuse images, drug markets, gore, stolen shit, terrorist chats—The Crew moved to a Dark web forum dedicated to harm reduction. Media coverage on some of the high-profile cases in their group had died down long ago. Life went on . . . for some. For others, it wasn’t so easy.
Psycho had had the misfortune of being kidnapped on her twenty-first birthday, then held captive for three years in an underground room built beneath a small cabin in the woods. She was raped often and sliced open with a hunting knife, her wounds sewn with fishing line. It wasn’t until her captor was stopped during a routine traffic check that he was caught. He’d made the mistake of carrying around Polaroid pictures of Psycho, naked and bound. A couple of photos lay scattered about on the passenger seat, along with an empty soda cup and a crumpled bag from McDonald’s. The monster was ultimately convicted and imprisoned. That was twenty years ago. He would be released soon. His projected release date was sometime next week. The Crew planned to be the first to greet him when the time came.
Cleo had been gang-raped during a three-day-weekend party at a fraternity house. When it was over, Cleo did everything right. She went to the hospital, told her parents, and talked to the school board. Her case went to court. The frat boys—young, rich, and privileged—stuck together like flies on sticky paper. The boys, their parents, and the media painted the victim out to be sexually promiscuous. She’d been looking for it, they said. She’d wanted it. A dozen boys came forward, all friends of the accused, to swear before the judge that she was no virgin. As if that mattered. They knew because they claimed to have been with her. The only proof the lawyer provided were pictures of Cleo’s short skirts and semi-see-through blouses, and skimpy-bathing-suit shots while on vacation with her family. It was enough for the jury to wipe their hands of the mess and let the boys off without so much as a scolding. Cleo had a list of six names.
Lily had been thirty-five when she made a connection with a man through an online dating app. She met him at the restaurant and was surprised to see that he looked like his profile picture. She was even more surprised that the conversation was good, bordering on great. He made a lot of effort to get to know her, asked all the right questions, and regaled her with childhood stories that involved the ups and downs of growing up in a big family. They talked for hours, ate, shared a bottle of wine. It wasn’t until they walked out of the restaurant that she began to feel dizzy and slightly nauseated. She knew immediately that something was terribly wrong.
Her date showed no sign of disappointment when she turned down his offer to go back to his apartment. He simply walked her to her car. While she fumbled around for her keys, he pulled out his key fob and clicked the button. The black car parked next to hers whistled. His car had not been there when she’d pulled into the parking lot earlier, which meant he must have moved it when he excused himself to go to the men’s room.
Before she could question him, her legs buckled, and he caught her in his arms, almost as if he’d been waiting for her to pass out. That was the last thing she remembered until she woke up in his bed the next morning, naked, her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts. It was the weekend. She lived alone. Nobody would worry about her until Monday. For the next forty-eight hours, her blind date did unspeakable things to her. She fought him until 11:58 on Sunday. She knew the time because there was a clock on the wall, and she’d been staring at it throughout her ordeal. At 11:58, he untied her, dragged her into the bathroom, where he had the shower running. He washed her hair, scrubbed every inch of her body, then tossed her a towel and told her to get dressed and get out.