Colson was dead wrong when he’d labeled her response to the Slaying in the Park as “not normal.” If he truly knew anything about assault victims it was that their entire world became “not normal” after an attack as vicious as Sunny’s. I’d seen it dozens of times over the course of my career, not only as a detective, but in war zones overseas. Women thought they had it bad here? Shit, the things I’d seen done to women overseas would make your balls shrink to your throat and give you nightmares for years. It had me.
PTSD was a very real thing, and in my opinion, too big of an umbrella for conditions with so many symptoms and repercussions. PTSD effects almost ten percent of people over a lifetime, with women twice as likely to experience it than men. Most cases are short-lived, with symptoms easing with time. Some, though, experience chronic effects including legit personality changes. New studies have shown that chronic PTSD creates an “amped up” nervous system—think constant ‘fight or flight’ mode—causing actual chemical changes in the brain.
After an attack as brutal as the Dallas police report claimed Sunny’s to be, it’s not far-fetched to imagine her life taking on an entirely new normal. Shaping, adapting, changing.
Yet somehow, after the attack, Sunny had picked herself up, gotten her conceal carry license, enrolled in Krav Maga, bought herself some badass dogs, and dedicated her life to training guard dogs for others in need. Sunny had found a way to adapt, weird behavior be damned.
But now, seven years later, another attack.
Coincidence?
Coincidence that it happened right after Seagrave was shot to death?
Was I crazy?
As I stared at Sunny through the two-way mirror, I clicked off the things I knew to be true, willing the pieces of the puzzle to magically fall into place.
One, I had four ancient Wiccan scrolls, rumored to be cursed, that had suddenly risen from the dead days before the annual Moon Magic Festival.
Two, I had the “Black Bandit,” the name given to the thief rumored to be responsible for stealing said scrolls.
Three, I had Lieutenant Seagrave, responding to one of those heists where he was shot six times in the chest, moments before a blue sedan was caught on camera driving away.
Four, I had a creepy-ass voodoo shrine resurrected yards from his funeral, and hours after that, I meet Sunny Harper, gun in hand, standing over the pastor’s son’s dead body.
Lastly, I had Sunny’s story of a third mystery person who supposedly shot the pastor’s son, then vanished without a trace.
If I’m being honest here, I was still trying to figure if that last part was true. Colson didn’t think so, but he was right about one thing, nothing added up, although my gut was screaming at me that it was all connected. That Seagrave’s murder and Sunny’s attack were linked, and that every piece of the puzzle added up.
I just had to figure out how—starting with finding the damn Black Bandit.
I watched Sunny’s head jerk up as the door to the conference room opened and Colson stepped inside. I clicked on the speaker and listened as he told her she could leave for the night, but not from Berry Springs until he gave her the okay.
Colson was already on his phone and halfway down the hall as I stepped into the conference room where Sunny was slowly pushing herself to a stance.
“Here,” I rushed forward.
“Don’t.” She jerked away. “Please.”
I took a step back and had to restrain myself from helping her out of the chair. The woman was in obvious pain and I wondered if she had more than just a bruised rib.
“Is there something you need?” She snapped, her cheeks flushing with both pain and embarrassment. I tore my eyes away and pretended to busy myself with repositioning the phone to a perfect ninety degree angle.
“You have my card, Miss Harper.” I chanced a look at her once she’d fully straightened. “Call me if you think of anything else.”
She kicked the BSPD sweatshirt to the side of the room and stepped past me.
“Thanks.”
I followed her out.
A hush fell over the station and heads turned as she walked down the hallway, her shoulders back, head held high. It was remarkable to watch, really.
I shoved ahead of her and opened the door that led to the lobby, then the door to outside.
The early morning was as black as midnight. A cool breeze carried through the air, a brief reprieve until the blazing sun came up.
Sunny’s long curls whipped around her face as her pace quickened down the steps. The woman was practically running away from the station—or away from me. Either way, Sunny was beelining it somewhere.
“Do you have a ride to your car?” I asked from the steps.
“Yes,” she hollered back, her focus staying ahead.
I looked around the parking lot. Only a few cars, and none were running. I glanced over my shoulder at no one coming outside, keys in hand. It was then that I realized Colson had either not offered her a ride, or she’d declined. Based on the way she shot out of the interview room, I assumed the latter.
“Is your driver on his way?” I promise I hadn’t intended the condescending rich-girl implication. She didn’t respond.
I jogged to catch up with her abnormally long strides, making me wonder exactly how long they were, and how they would feel wrapped around my waist. This led me to wonder what time it was and how long since I’d eaten or slept.
I was losing my mind. I was literally chasing after a woman, a first for me.
I wish I could say it was the last.
Sunny stepped onto the sidewalk that led to Main Street. The streets were bare, store fronts black. It was that unsettling time of night, or early morning I should say, when darkness seemed to envelop everything, including sound.
The street light short-circuited above her as I finally caught up.
“Take it easy, Flo-Jo. Where’s your ride?”
She ignored me, laser focused on her destination, wherever the hell that was.
“Didn’t doc tell you to take it easy until your body heals?”
Still, no response. Not even a glance.
“Something happen to your ears during the attack, Miss Harper?”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to keep up with those stilts you call legs.”
“I mean, why are you following me?”
“You’ve never had a gentlemen walk you to your car?”
“I told you I had a ride.”
“I wasn't asking if you owned a motor vehicle. I was asking if you had someone to drive you to your ‘ride?’”
“I’d rather walk.”
“Would you?”
A crack in the sidewalk caught her toe and she stumbled forward. The groan of pain that escaped her lips sounded like a dying dog.
“Alright. That’s it.” I stepped in front of her, cutting her off. “I’m going to touch you, Miss Harper. Don’t go all Krav Maga on my ass.”
She didn’t smartass back, suggesting she was in a load of pain.
I touched her with my fingertips first, as one might an injured bear, then slowly wrapped my hand around her forearm, then my arm around her back.
“This is what’s going to happen here. I’m going to slowly pick you up.”
“No.” The low, gruffness of her voice and the fact she didn’t fight me confirmed her pain.