She pulled up next to him, not too close, not too far.
He looked over at her. His narrowed gaze made it clear he was not pleased with whoever had gone out of their way to park so close to his prized possession.
She made eye contact and smiled her most dazzling smile.
For a split second, she wondered if he’d recognize her from all those years ago. She would enjoy that. Another thought that suddenly struck her was that she had no plan. Zero. She thought about raising a hand and curling her finger, asking him to come to her.
Nah.
Instead, she watched him jump out of his Porsche and walk around to the back of his car without another glance her way.
She grabbed a handkerchief from the glove compartment and slipped it into her pocket. Then she opened the door and climbed out, pulled the Zip Blade Tiny Knife from her front pocket, and unfolded the blade. The knife was so small she knew he wouldn’t be able to see the blade in her hand.
He had unzipped his duffel bag and was putting a pair of cleats inside when she walked up behind him. “Excuse me,” she said.
“I’m in a hurry. What do you need?”
“I was just wondering if you remembered a girl named Lena Harris. I believe you two met at a fraternity house party.”
He whipped around fast. Stared at her long and hard.
Hands at her sides, she kept a good solid grasp on the knife’s handle. “You remember, don’t you?”
The confused expression on his face made her happy. Mostly because she could tell by the slant of his brow and the intensity in his gaze that yes, he knew exactly who she was.
Just as quickly, he snapped out of his momentary lapse of bewilderment and played it cool by slipping on his baseball cap, then tugging it low over his forehead. This time when his eyes met hers, he smiled. “How have you been?”
“Not too good,” she said, poking out her bottom lip in a “Poor me” pout.
“Well, you look good,” he said, turning back to his precious car.
As he leaned into the trunk and set about casually zipping up his duffel bag, she covered the small area between them in two long strides, leaned into him from behind so she could reach her right arm around his neck. She knew the drill. With a thrusting motion, more stabbing than slicing, she severed the trachea, the carotid artery on both sides, and his jugular all in quick succession.
He slumped forward headfirst into the trunk of his car, body twitching and blood spurting.
She wiped the blade of her knife against the clean part of his pants to get the blood off, then put the knife away. She looked around. Nobody was there, so she leaned over, circled her arms around his legs, below the knees, and lifted him up and into the back of his nice car before shutting the lift gate. She then used the handkerchief to wipe away her fingerprints.
Calm as ever, she walked back to her car, climbed in, and started the engine. She took her time backing out, making sure she had plenty of room to maneuver her way smoothly out of the parking lot and onto the street.
Her heart didn’t beat in earnest until the baseball field was out of sight. The adrenaline rush hit her full force, giving her a high like none other.
Control. She had it in spades. At this rate, there would be no stopping her. She wouldn’t just go after three rapists, she’d round up the entire mob and take them out one at a time.
Yes. That’s right, she thought happily. She would spend the rest of her life going after every guy she could find who had been at the fraternity house. Every male who had dared to touch her, or who had merely stood by and watched, would die.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sawyer was parked outside the trailer park, about to climb out of her car, when her phone buzzed. She picked up the call. “Hey, Geezer. What’s going on?”
“Sorry to bother you on a weekend, but I just got a call from a friend at the morgue. Looks like Nick Calderon died of a fentanyl overdose.”
Wow. “I’m glad you called. That’s huge. Any marks from a syringe?”
“Funny you should ask. Remember I told you I had seen a shoe and a sock under the dining room table?”
“Yes.”
“The examiner found an injection site in his toe,” Geezer said.
“That’s amazing—you know—that they were able to see that.”
“I agree. Gotta go now. Just thought you would want to know.”
“Thanks, Geezer.”
They hung up, and Sawyer got out of the car and headed for Felix Iverson’s trailer. Her immediate thought was that if the Black Wigs had been responsible for the recent deaths, then why wouldn’t they have injected Brad Vicente or Myles Davenport? She felt confident she was on the right path and that Nick’s and Bruce’s deaths had nothing to do with the Black Wigs, but everything to do with a copycat.
Dirt and gravel crunched beneath Sawyer’s shoes as she walked past a row of run-down trailers in a dilapidated mobile park. To her left was a trailer home with a roof that appeared to be made from sheets of plywood, then topped with old car parts, including scraps of metal and strips of rubber from old tires.
A rat scurried out from under the steps leading to the door and disappeared in the high weeds nearby.
The last trailer home, the one belonging to Felix Iverson, appeared to be the worst off, which was saying a lot. The metal roof sagged in the middle, as if a truck or a giant boulder had fallen from the sky and landed square in the center of his trailer before being hauled off. The grimy, rust-coated windows were covered from the inside with what looked like worn bedsheets.
Sawyer reached into her pocket to make sure her pepper spray canister was there if needed. The capsule could be unlocked with a flick of her thumb. After that it was simply a matter of pushing and spraying.
The three wooden stairs leading to Felix Iverson’s trailer door were rotted. She tested her footing before putting weight on each step. Standing firmly at the landing, she knocked and waited.
No one came. She listened for any noise coming from within. No music. No appliances. No footfalls.
After a long pause, she knocked again.
The door snapped open, catching her off guard and giving her a start. Hand on her chest, she stepped backward and nearly toppled over.
Felix Iverson reached out and grabbed her arm, holding her steady. She jerked her arm back, prompting the man to raise his hands as if he were under arrest. “Just trying to help.”
“I know. Sorry. You surprised me, that’s all.”
He was wearing a white tank top and torn-up jeans that hung low on his hips. He leaned a hand against the dented doorframe, his eyes checking her out from head to toe before his gaze met hers. “Funny that I surprised you so easily, when you’re the one knocking on my door.”
She forced a tight smile. “I’m Sawyer Brooks, reporter for the Sacramento Independent. I was hoping I could come inside and we could talk about the Children’s Home of Sacramento.”
His hair was much longer than it had been in the picture she’d seen. He flipped it back, out of his face. “It wasn’t me.”
Confused, she frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“I didn’t burn the place down.”
“Oh. I’m not here to talk about that. I wanted to talk to you about Nick Calderon and Bruce Ward.” She looked over his shoulder, tried to get a peek inside, but with all the windows covered up, the place was dark.