Don't Make a Sound (Sawyer Brooks #1)(4)

The square-jawed man smiled at her as he leaned over and took her hand in his. “Come,” he said. “I’ll take you to your room.” His smile. Those sky-blue eyes and the soft lines around his mouth. She’d never forget him. For the two minutes it took to get to her room, she’d thought he was her savior.

But he’d turned out to be the opposite.

“Don’t make a sound,” he’d said after he closed the door and turned her way. He’d been Satan in the flesh, blue eyes and all, there to strip her of all goodness and light, spending hours on top of her, inside her, his sweat and sour breath all over her, leaving nothing for his friends but bones and whatever else made up the human body, including a darkened heart and a newfound aversion to being touched.

A car honked. Sawyer slammed on her brakes. Tires squealed.

Shit!

A pedestrian attempting to cross at the red light slapped his hand against the hood of her car and shouted at her.

Her fingers clutched the steering wheel. Her body trembled. She’d been lost in thought and could have killed him. The light turned green. She drove off. The navigation system on her cell phone informed her the apartment complex was a quarter of a mile ahead to the right. It was easy to find. A row of police cars lined the front of the building, lights swirling.

As she turned into the parking lot, she assessed the area. A group of journalists stood to the left of the entrance, most likely waiting for an update from the police chief or a case detective. To the right, a group of people huddled together, consoling one another—neighbors, friends, and maybe family members.

Sawyer parked in the back, away from the chaos. She shut off the engine. Chills washed over her. Someone was watching her. She looked around, took a breath, relaxed. Although nobody was looking her way, a young man—early thirties, she guessed—was sitting behind the wheel of a nearby truck. He’d backed into the space so that he was facing the apartment building. He had a bushy, dark beard, and his hair was mussed. He looked her way, his big brown eyes glistening and overly bright. Had he been crying?

She grabbed her camera, raised it to eye level, and pressed the shutter button.

His expression changed, his eyes suddenly darker, colder.

Sawyer jumped out of the car, hoping to see a license plate. Tires squealed as he sped off. She raised her camera and pressed the shutter button. Another car pulled into the space next to hers. The driver was an elderly woman with silver hair pulled back with a clip. It took the woman a moment to climb out, retrieve her cane, and make her way to the trunk of her car.

Sawyer looked from the line of police vehicles at the front of the building to the woman opening her trunk.

An idea struck her.

She tucked her lanyard inside her shirt, strapped her camera over her shoulder, and went to where the woman struggled with her groceries.

“Let me help you,” Sawyer said.

The woman looked relieved. “Are you sure? I live on the third floor.”

“Not a problem.” Sawyer gathered two heavier bags, leaving the lightest for the woman to take before shutting the trunk and following her toward the entrance.

“Do you live here?” she asked.

“I moved in a few days ago. My name is Sawyer Brooks.”

“Nancy Keener.”

“Nice to meet you.” After a short pause, Sawyer added, “I wonder what happened.”

“A young woman named Kylie was killed last night.”

“How do you know?”

“Vivian lives in the apartment next to mine, and she called me while I was getting groceries to let me know. I like to go to the store early before too many people clog the aisles.”

“Did you know Kylie?”

“Not well. She lived on the third floor too, but she’s usually gone during the day and tended to keep to herself. Vivian thinks it was Kylie’s boyfriend who killed her.”

“Why?”

Nancy shrugged. “He spent more time at her apartment than she did. Who else could it be?”

She had a point. Fifty-four percent of murder victims were killed by someone they knew. Thirty-five percent of female victims were killed by their husband or boyfriend. Sad, but true.

“Did he drive a red truck?”

“I don’t know,” Nancy said.

As they approached the front of the building, Sawyer caught sight of Sean Palmer at the edge of the crowd. He made eye contact and gave a subtle tilt of his head. Apparently, he’d been shut out and didn’t want to risk her being stuck outside the crime scene too.

The woman Sawyer was following showed security her key card. He entered both their names into a logbook and let them through. The lobby was long and narrow, one wall covered with mailboxes, the other with mirrors. “I’ve never signed in before,” Sawyer said. “Have you?”

“No. They probably don’t want a bunch of lookie-loos coming around right now.”

Sawyer looked around for any signs of a camera. Nothing. A key card would get anyone inside. Crime scene tape blocked the stairway while evidence technicians took photographs of what looked like bloody footprints. Chills swept over her as she followed the old woman to the elevator, where they were quickly herded inside. A uniformed officer stood next to the control panel, her gaze unforgiving as she appeared to consider them as potential killers. “What floor?” she asked.