Don't Make a Sound (Sawyer Brooks #1)(7)

“I’ll let you go,” her father said into the silence. “The funeral will be held at the River Rock Chapel on Friday at one p.m.”

“Why so soon?”

“You know how your mother is.”

She did know. Mom couldn’t sit still or relax. Everything needed to be done yesterday. Mom and Gramma Sally had never gotten along. No doubt Mom was of the belief that the sooner Gramma was buried six feet under, the better.

Sawyer’s mom had always been stubborn and strong, passionate about the Rotary Club she’d formed. Admired by many but liked by few. Sawyer had always wondered if Mom’s behavior was the reason Dad locked himself in his office.

“Are you still there?” Dad asked.

“Yes. I’ll come down for the funeral,” Sawyer said. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Have a safe drive. We’ll see you soon.”

Sawyer’s chest ached. Gramma Sally was gone.

She had mixed feelings about returning to River Rock, but it was only a few hours’ drive, and she wanted to pay her respects to Gramma and say goodbye.

Her cell buzzed, letting her know she had an incoming text.

Sean Palmer wanted to see her in his office.



Although they worked in the same building, Sawyer never got the opportunity to see or speak to Sean Palmer. His office was on the floor above with a view of the American River. In his late sixties, he possessed flyaway white hair and a neatly trimmed beard to match. He was fond of black turtlenecks, wool jackets, and eyeglasses with square, black frames. He always smelled like his last cigar: earthy, woody, sometimes fruity and nutty.

His office door was open, but she knocked anyway.

His back was to her. He waved her inside, and after he finished what he was doing, he pivoted around in his chair and reached a hand toward her, palm up.

It took her half a second to realize he wanted the photos she’d taken inside Kylie Hartford’s apartment. Something bubbled at the pit of her stomach as she reached around inside her pants pocket before she realized the USB was in her left hand. It irked her to know he had that effect on her.

“Relax. Have a seat.”

While he worked on uploading the digital files to his computer, she settled down and took note of his work space. On the shelf behind him were rows of fiction and nonfiction novels, starting with Killings by Calvin Trillin and ending with The Journalist and the Murderer by Janet Malcolm. Also in the work space were an ancient police scanner, a printer, and stacks of files. Framed pictures of Palmer posing with various local celebrities covered the walls. At the beginning of his career, he’d won the Livingston Award for Young Journalists when he covered criminal justice and the death penalty. He’d won the Investigative Reporters and Editors Award in 2007, and myriad other medals and certificates for his outstanding work.

Pulling her back to the moment, Palmer said, “Interesting choice of photos you took.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over a slight paunch.

She wasn’t sure what to think about that comment. “In a good way or bad way?” she asked.

He smirked. “Both.” A painstakingly long pause followed before he added, “I remember you.”

She lifted a brow.

“Journalism. CSUS. Correct?”

She nodded.

“I believe I told you to get out of your head.”

She was surprised he remembered. “You pegged me as high anxiety and said all the baggage I was carrying would prevent me from attaining the focus needed to become a good reporter.”

“Sounds about right. I guess you didn’t listen. Good on you.”

He was being a smart-ass, letting her know he didn’t have to be psychic to see that she hadn’t let it all go. “Not true . . . about the listening part,” she told him, chin held high. “I took care of the baggage—most of it—and committed myself to learning how to observe and pay attention to my surroundings.”

He swiveled his computer screen so he could share one of her photos with her. A bloodied young woman on the floor, her leg twisted awkwardly. “A little grim, don’t you think? Focusing on blood and gore.”

“Scroll back to the first picture,” she said.

He did.

“That man was in the parking lot when I pulled up. He was sitting in his truck, watching, crying. Under the circumstances, he stood out, so I snapped his picture.”

“Boyfriend?” he asked.

“Not sure. But if he is, according to a neighbor, he and Kylie have been dating for a few years. The neighbor believes jealousy played a part in the murder after Kylie went on a date with a man she works with.”

“Interesting.”

Interesting? His demeanor and tone set her on edge. Not only had she gotten inside the apartment where the murder took place, she’d managed to talk to people who lived next door to the victim. What the hell did he want?

“Did you leave your business card with the neighbor?”

“No. I rushed out of there so fast, I didn’t have—”

“Did you get their names?”

She nodded.

“How did you get inside the victim’s apartment—a crime scene?” He turned the computer screen back around and scrolled through the rest of the pictures.

“My plan was to talk to the officer standing by and see if he would allow me to take a few pictures. That’s when I noticed the door to Kylie’s apartment was wide open and unguarded. I saw an opportunity and I took it.”