Cockroach felt trapped, paralyzed with fear. Just as he’d been so many times at the home.
Blood sprayed on the cabinets and counter space.
The woman stood there for a moment. Shocked. Dazed.
It was then Cockroach noticed that she’d been sliced open.
She sort of folded neatly to the ground. The hunting knife dropped from her hands, clinked and clanked against the dirty floor, and landed somewhere between him and Felix.
Adrenaline rushed through Cockroach’s body, reminding him he was no longer that helpless little boy.
They both lunged for each other at the same time.
He had his syringe. Felix had his machete.
Felix swung first, the rage flowing through his veins seemingly keeping him steady.
Cockroach knew what was coming, and he ducked. His heart raced and his palms were sweating. Holding tight to the syringe, keeping it in front of him, he ignored the tremors shooting through his middle.
“You plan to kill me with that, Cockroach?”
He ignored Felix. If he couldn’t use the syringe to inject him with fentanyl, he’d use his bare hands to kill him.
The next few minutes were like a boxing match, the contenders sizing each other up, unsure who would be making the next move.
When Cockroach looked at Felix, it was as if he were again a small boy. The laughing, sneering, demented face of someone who never should have been born smiled at him, sending a jolt of electricity through him. He sprang, alarmed when Felix too easily kicked the syringe from his grasp.
Stunned, he watched in horror, thinking this might be it as Felix drew back to take another swing. Instead, Felix slipped on the woman’s blood, nearly losing his footing, giving Cockroach one more chance to get it right. He grabbed the hunting knife from the floor, then pounced, the blade landing squarely in the middle of Felix’s chest, cutting through muscle and tendons and hopefully an organ or two before they fell to the ground.
Cockroach’s head had hit a cabinet on the way down. He remained motionless, dazed. It took another second for his head to clear. When it did, he came to his feet.
Felix’s eyes were wide open, the hunting knife sticking straight out of his chest. Looking around for his syringe, Cockroach found it near the kitchen sink and placed it inside his pouch.
Someone moaned. At first he thought it was Felix, but it was the woman. She moved her arm, and he went to her.
Her bloodied hand reached into her pants pocket, where she found her phone. Her breathing was shallow and raspy. “Is he dead?”
Cockroach lifted Felix’s limp hand. There was no pulse and he told her as much.
“Go!” she said in a powerful voice that made it sound as if she hadn’t been split open.
He stood there. She was a Black Wig. An inspiration to him and so many others. He didn’t want to leave her.
“I’m calling for help,” she said. “Go. Please. Now!”
He finally did as she said, removing the bloodied wig and then using his forearm to wipe the lipstick from his mouth on his way out.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
As Sawyer took a right into the trailer park, she noticed a man walking away. A clump of wet weeds or maybe rope—it was hard to tell—hung from one of his hands. His shirt was dirty, and he wore a fanny pack around his waist.
He looked her way.
She continued on, trying not to call attention to herself. As she pulled up close to Felix Iverson’s trailer, she considered turning around and following the man she’d just seen.
The door to the trailer hung open, leaning downward as if one of the hinges had come loose. Sawyer turned off the engine, grabbed her pepper spray from the glove compartment, and got out.
She looked around.
It was quiet. Too quiet, she thought as she headed up the wood steps. “Felix? It’s me, Sawyer Brooks from the Sacramento Independent. Are you home?”
No answer.
She stepped inside, looked toward the kitchen, and saw blood. Everywhere. Smeared across the floor and dripping off cabinets.
It wasn’t until she drew closer that she saw two people.
Her stomach quivered. Felix was on his back, looking straight up at the ceiling, a knife protruding from his chest.
Next to him was a woman wearing a black wig. Lena Harris.
She reached for Lena’s wrist to feel for a pulse.
Lena’s eyes popped open, and she sucked in a breath of air.
Sawyer held back a gasp.
“My phone,” Lena said in such a quiet voice, Sawyer had to lean down close to hear her.
“I dropped my phone,” she said as her fingers made a trail through puddles of blood.
Sawyer pulled her own phone from her back pocket and was about to call for help.
“Not you,” Lena said. “You need to go.”
“I can’t just let you die.”
“I’m going to die. If you want”—she took a breath—“to help your sister and the rest of The Crew, go to my place.”
Sawyer was about to tell her to forget it, but then Lena’s eyes closed. Sawyer thought it might be over, but she was wrong. Lena was determined to have her say.
“You must get my laptop before the police do. The password”—her voice faltered, then returned—“Cheerios.”
“I can’t do that,” Sawyer said. No way could she leave this woman to die alone, never mind leaving the scene of a crime and then hiding potential evidence. But then she thought of Harper, and she knew she had no choice. She had to go to the apartment.
“Key is in the geranium. Password. Cheerios,” she said again, grimacing in pain.
Lena had managed to grasp her phone. “I already called 9-1-1. They’ll be coming soon. Go.” She hit the camera logo and then the video button and began talking. “My name is Lena Harris.” She drew in a breath. “Tell my husband and my children I’m sorry. I never meant for things to get out of hand. Most of you would never understand. I was young and I was raped. I didn’t deserve it. But in the end, nobody cared. I killed Otto Radley, buried him in the woods near an abandoned warehouse off Power Inn Road. Eddie Carter’s body is there too. Don Fulton is dead too. His body is in the trunk of his Porsche. I cut off Brad Vicente’s dick. He said there was more than one woman, but he’s a liar. He couldn’t handle being taken down by one tiny female, so he made up a big, elaborate story.” Her voice softened as if she were about to go to sleep, but then she came to and brought strength to her voice. “Myles Davenport died of a heart attack. But if he hadn’t, I would have killed him too. I killed them all. Every single one of them.”
She gurgled, coughed, waved Sawyer off without looking her way.
Sawyer could hear sirens in the distance.
She thought of Harper. She had no idea if Harper was involved, but she knew she couldn’t let her sister spend the rest of her life in jail. As she walked toward the door, she heard the last of Lena’s confession.
“I wouldn’t change a thing,” Lena said. “And to all you fuckers out there who think you can go around sexually assaulting whomever you please, this is a warning. There are more people like me just waiting for you to make a move so they can take you out. You won’t win. One way or another, justice will be served.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Sawyer’s heart was pounding like a jackhammer as she sped away from the trailer park.