Don't Make a Sound (Sawyer Brooks #1)(3)
She got down on all fours. The poor thing looked half-starved. Its fur was long and matted, and there was no collar. When she opened the car door, the cat darted across the street and disappeared under a thick hedge. She felt bad that she didn’t have time to run after the animal to see if it belonged to anyone in the neighborhood.
In her car and back on the road, Sawyer kept her hands steady on the wheel and tried to tamp down the emotions swooshing through her—a pinch of anger, a dab of disappointment, and a bucketful of reality that she just wasn’t that into Connor.
Unlike her sisters, she wasn’t plagued with OCD, and she wasn’t afraid of conflict. But Sawyer definitely had her demons, and some of them came in the form of heightened distrust. Overall, Sawyer felt as if her self-contained anger kept her in control. But she was clearly at war with the world. Like many people, she suffered from anxiety, much of which stemmed from being touched.
Connor had been one of two men she’d had consensual sex with. When it came to having sex, she had rules. No grabbing hold of her hair, face, or buttocks. No fucking the shit out of her. Connor had known better than to dare press her against the wall or pin her to the bed. She needed to be on top—full control at all times. Otherwise, terror set in and made her feel things she didn’t want to feel—wild, feral. Her heart would beat erratically, and she would struggle for breath. Her jaw would harden, her teeth grinding together, and there was no telling what might happen. Not that she would ever purposely harm anyone. It was just that moment of feeling trapped that would set her off, filling her with a burst of energy, like a caged animal breaking free.
Her therapist wrote her a prescription every time they talked, but Sawyer always crumpled it up and threw it away. Not because of any clean-body and clean-mind bullshit. But because she knew firsthand what pills could do to her. They made her loopy and calm and vulnerable. Screw being calm and vulnerable. She’d stick with tight fists and body tremors.
She turned her thoughts to where she was headed and Sean Palmer, one of the best crime reporters in the country. He was the reason she’d decided to apply for a job at the Sacramento Independent. Years ago, he’d been invited as a special guest to one of her journalism classes at CSUS. When class ended, she’d worked up the courage to tell him how he’d inspired her to seek out a career in journalism, more specifically, crime reporting. Instead of shaking her hand and moving on to the next student in line, he’d looked her in the eyes and fired off point-blank questions, personal questions about her life. He said he’d easily picked her out of nearly fifty students in class, pegged her as troubled and high anxiety—too much foot bouncing, fidgeting, and shifting in her seat. In a matter of minutes, he’d concluded that whatever baggage she was carrying would weigh her down and prevent her from obtaining the sort of sharp-edged focus it would take to become a decent reporter.
She’d returned to her run-down apartment with its rusty appliances and spotty plumbing, disillusioned but not defeated. Taking his words to heart, she’d decided to do something about the baggage he referred to. Starting with finding the cheapest therapist alive and telling her story.
Of all those tragic memories, the night her sisters left was the most troubling, often as eerily vague as it was disturbingly real. Sawyer had been wearing her favorite nightgown, a light-pink cotton shift with a torn hem that fell below her knees. Out of breath and freezing cold, her heart hammering against her chest, she’d stood on the front porch of their old house in River Rock, staring into the night, praying it was all a bad dream and her sisters would return. That’s when a weighty hand had clamped down around her shoulder.
It was Uncle Theo, the person left in charge whenever their parents took off in search of antiques and collectibles for their store downtown.
Earlier that night, Uncle Theo had told Sawyer and her sisters he’d be out for an hour or two and to stay put. But he was back. His eyes were glassy, his forehead covered with sweat. He was angry with her sisters for taking off. It was her oldest sister, Harper, who usually calmed him when he got like this, but minutes earlier, Harper had driven away and abandoned her.
Her uncle yanked Sawyer into the house and slammed the door shut. His hands were cold, but his breath was warm, reeking of liquor. Her shoulder felt as if it might pop out of its socket as he dragged her down the hallway. He kicked open the double doors leading into the living area. Four men waited inside, two of them sitting in her mother’s newly acquired nineteenth-century French Painted Rococo Boudoir chairs.
Sawyer had no idea what was going on. She didn’t recognize anyone in the room. Why were they here?
“She’s younger than the others,” her uncle announced in a booming voice that ricocheted off the walls. “Double the price if you’re still in. I’ll give you five minutes to make your decision.”
“I’m in,” the man farthest away said without hesitation.
“Me too,” said another.
A third man nodded. “Same here.”
The youngest man, the one wearing a suit and sitting in her father’s recliner, stood. He had a thick neck and a wide, square jaw. He walked toward her, his expression hard to read as he reached out and used one of his slender fingers to move a strand of hair away from her eyes.
Her knees wobbled. “I want to go to bed.” She looked over her shoulder. Uncle Theo had left the room.
Rooted in place, she didn’t move. Her heart beat so fast she thought she might collapse and die right there in front of the four strangers. Why would her uncle have left her alone with them? Nothing made any sense.