“Ouch!”
She pulled the needle out, dropped it inside her sling, and pretended to swat at an insect as the girl rubbed her leg.
“I think it was a wasp!”
The girl shook her head and pointed to her sling. “You did something.”
“Me? No.” The girl should be unconscious soon. Inwardly, she counted to five.
The girl’s eyelids appeared heavy as she rubbed her thigh. She began to scoot her way out of the car, leaving the box behind.
What was happening? Why was the child still awake? She needed to stop her. “What about the box?” she asked.
The girl looked confused. She opened her mouth, ready to say something, when her body collapsed and her eyes closed.
Finally!
She leaned inside, tossed a light-blue blanket over the girl, then shut the compartment door.
Another car drove past. She could see its reflection in the window. She didn’t dare look toward the street. Nothing to see here, she thought as she opened the door and climbed in.
Only then did she dare take a breath. Once the engine started, relief seeped into her bones. She turned the radio on before merging onto the street, humming along to the sound of “Take the A Train” by Duke Ellington.
Life was good.
Her daughter was finally coming home.
CHAPTER TWO
Sawyer Brooks, crime reporter for the Sacramento Independent, was the first one sitting at the conference room table, waiting for everyone else to arrive. Her boss, Sean Palmer, insisted on regular editorial meetings to make sure his team always met their deadlines and had enough content.
At 7:55 a.m., Cindy arrived. She was the editorial assistant, but everyone called her the Cheerleader. Every group needed one. She’d been working with Palmer for fourteen years. If someone on the team did a standout job, she was the one who made sure they knew they were appreciated. Not everyone in their small group thought she was sincere—just a robot hired to encourage the troops. Whatever. As far as Sawyer was concerned, Cindy’s gratitude was refreshing.
David Lutz showed up a minute later. He was tall with a thick head of blond hair. He liked to wear suits, which made no sense. This wasn’t the ’80s. Nobody wore suits anymore. Even worse, he wore ties with his suits. Like Sawyer, David was a workaholic. Unlike Sawyer, he got handed most of the sensational stories—the breaking news and headliners. He’d been at the job longer, but she had a feeling it was the suit working in his favor.
Next to enter the room was Lexi Holmes. Forty-one, Lexi had dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark aura. A woman of few words in the editorial meetings, but she knew her shit when it came to reporting. She also knew the beat. She was resourceful and naturally inquisitive.
Despite all the talent sitting at the table, Sawyer liked to think she had something the others didn’t have—endurance. Give her a story, any story, and she’d do whatever it took to cover it. Sleep was overrated.
It was five minutes past eight when Palmer joined them, which was unusual since he was never late. The only reporter missing was Donovan.
Palmer sat down at the head of the table and stroked his beard—Cindy’s daily cue to get the show on the road.
One thing Sawyer had noticed since her switch from human interest stories to crime reporting a month ago was that there didn’t seem to be a whole lot of real crime worth writing about. The Sacramento Independent was the sixth-largest newspaper in California, but so far she’d covered mostly drug arrests and assaults. Questioning people about their neighbor getting caught with a gram of meth was getting old quick. Since there wasn’t enough room in the paper to report every minor crime, she prioritized by naming only those who harmed others. That included men who hit their wives, got DUIs, or texted while driving—anything that endangered another.
After Cindy finished listing the stories assigned to each reporter, David tossed out three ideas for news stories along with proposed length and deadline. His record, he was fond of saying, was six stories in a single day. Impressive, but old news.
Taking advantage of the lull, Sawyer raised a finger and said, “I’d like to do a story on the guy who uses dating apps to scam his victims out of their life savings.”
“That’s mine,” David told her.
Sawyer looked from Cindy to Palmer, thinking maybe someone would help her out here since David hadn’t included the scammer story when he read off his list of ideas.
No help there. Sawyer let it go and moved on to the number two idea on her list. “What about the man who lived with his wife’s corpse for—”
“That story is taken,” Cindy interrupted.
Lexi looked bored.
“Okay,” Sawyer said. “Why don’t I wait until everyone else is finished?”
“Good idea,” David said.
Asshole.
By the time they were done tossing out concepts for stories that were either accepted or rejected by Palmer, Sawyer was left to cover a story about the man who had robbed a local bank and was caught afterward boasting about it on social media. A big yawn.
David stood and buttoned his suit jacket.
“Before any of you go,” Palmer said, “you should know that Donovan was offered a job in New York City and will not be returning to the Sacramento Independent.”
“He will be missed,” Cindy said without any emotion.
“What about the leads he was working on?” David asked.
Palmer lifted a hand. “The Brad Vicente follow-up will go to Sawyer. Cindy will take care of the rest.”
Nobody protested. Not a surprise since none of them wanted to deal with Brad Vicente, the rapist whose dick was cut off by a group of vigilantes. From everything she’d read about the guy, he deserved what he’d gotten. A month ago, the media had eaten the guy whole. But recently the trolls had come forward and were doing a good job causing discord by posting inflammatory messages about the group of women taking the law into their own hands.
Palmer’s cell beeped. He picked up the call.
David was gone in a flash, followed by Cindy and Lexi.
Palmer ended the call and then slid his cell back into an old-school holster attached to his waistband. “Come on,” he said. “Grab your things and let’s go!”
Startled, Sawyer looked at Palmer as she gathered her things. “Me?”
“Yes. You. Come on!”
She’d been working with Palmer for a month now, but this was the first time he’d invited her—make that demanded—that she go somewhere with him. It took her a second to realize he was serious. She came to her feet and slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder. She had to jog across the carpeted hallway to catch up to him. “What’s going on?”
“Bones.”
“Bones?”
“A skeleton believed to have belonged to a child was found.”
“Where?”
“Land Park. East Sac, across the lake from the amphitheater.”
“Should I grab my camera?”
“No need. Geezer is already on the scene.”
He pushed through the double doors leading out of the building and continued on at a clipped pace to his blue Jeep Wrangler Sport parked in the front row. The vehicle had two doors, a soft top, and was covered with dried mud. Palmer didn’t strike her as the four-wheeling type of guy.