Don't Make a Sound (Sawyer Brooks #1)(24)

“What about breakfast?” Mom asked.

“I’m not hungry.”





CHAPTER THIRTEEN

At 8:00 a.m., Malice parked on Nineteenth Street, closer to Brad’s house. To the left of his home was an alleyway followed by a Queen Anne Victorian with a large porch and a FOR RENT sign in the front window. The house to the right of Brad’s was occupied. Last night, through a bathroom window, she’d watched a woman leave the house with a dog on a leash. Thirty minutes later, Malice happened to peek through the blinds from the main room when she returned. The neighbor wore dark leggings and a T-shirt. Her dirty-blonde hair had been tied back in a ponytail. Malice guessed the woman to be in her late thirties.

That same neighbor was now leaving her house again. This time without the dog. She used a key to lock the front door, slipped it into her bag, and walked down the front steps. When she got to the street, she stopped to stare at Brad’s house.

A chill washed over Malice. What was the woman doing? Had she heard something? A strange noise?

Malice didn’t take another breath until the woman started off down the street. Today she was dressed in slacks, heels, and a pink shirt with a froth of petals on the sleeves. The woman suddenly pivoted and looked directly at her.

Malice froze, didn’t take a breath until the woman climbed into her Subaru and drove away.

Had she seen her?

Cleo and Psycho had spent the night with Brad. Malice pulled her baseball cap on and tugged it low over her eyes. She grabbed the bag of food she’d brought, climbed out of her car, and crossed the street, making sure the heel of her boots didn’t land too hard on the pavement as she went along.

A dog barked in the far distance. Leaves fluttered from trees like rain, sticking to her hair and shirt.

Something niggled. Am I being watched?

Paranoia could be a sneaky beast, pressing against her chest, hanging on to her like a needy child. She continued on at a steady pace. Nothing to see here, she thought as she made her way through the side gate and slipped into the cover of Brad’s backyard. Only then, safe beneath the covered patio leading into the bottom half of his house, did she take a breath.

Her hands were clammy, her heart beating wildly. As she collected herself, she set the food on the bench outside the door and replaced the cap on her head with a wig. Next came the mask that Cleo had made from neoprene.

The paranoia wasn’t going away. She found herself second-guessing everything they were doing. Why am I here? Risking everything? Will teaching one asshole out of thousands make things better for me?

Her thoughts were replaced by her abuser’s face, clear as day. His hands felt rough, calloused, his fingers touching, groping, his tongue wet against her skin, his body heavy, his breath on her ear, his words—threats of violence—holding her captive.

And just like that, she was being violated all over again.

She felt the disgrace, shame, guilt, and embarrassment until shock set in, leaving fear in its wake. Her body had shut down—eyes closed, muscles lax, mind drifting—as he took everything and left nothing.

A car backfired.

Her eyes shot open, surprising her since she wasn’t aware that she’d closed them. She filled her lungs with air as anger replaced all else, swirling around her like a mini tornado. It irked her to think, even for one second, she’d questioned what she and the rest of The Crew were doing.

Brad had done his best to break Lily down, take control of her body and mind. What would he have done to Cleo had they not intervened? How many others had he damaged? It stunned her that she felt this sudden need to think of these things at all. Brad was scum, a pervert who needed to drug women and tie them up to give him a momentary sense of self-worth to make him feel secure and manly.

Malice reached out and held firmly to the doorknob, turned it, stepped inside, and shut the door behind her. Facing the bar, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark through the tiny slits of synthetic rubber.

The curtains had been tightly drawn. Without any light coming from the downstairs bathroom, the room was much darker than it had been last night. She focused on the spot where she’d last seen Brad. A distorted shadow caught her eye. “Cleo, is that you?”

There was movement to her right. Chills washed over her. A rustling sound, and then a strong hand grasped on to her ankle and held tight.

She struggled to free her leg but was yanked to the floor instead. The contents of the bag she’d been carrying scattered about, and her head struck a hard object, sending a sharp ache through her skull.

Despite the pain, she managed to stay alert. She couldn’t see him, but she knew it was Brad who was tugging on her leg. The anger she’d felt minutes ago morphed into rage as he dragged her toward him. All uncertainty left her. She knew what to do. Feigning unconsciousness, she let him pull her closer. How many times had she lain awake at night, imagining what she would do if she were ever attacked?

Too many.

She could hear him breathing. Smell his stench. She was deadweight. He was weak and tired. His other hand reached for her leg, his knuckles brushed against her calf. She drew back her free leg and slammed her booted foot straight ahead, making contact with his chest or face, she had no idea which and didn’t care.

He let out a deep guttural sound but refused to let go.

They both knew this might be his best and last chance at escaping.

Drawing back her leg, she kicked him again, this time with more force. The bastard wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t let go!