Page 69 of Sinful Reality

Lachlan cries out, fat tears tracking over his cheeks. He’s lost. Overwhelmed with noise and movement and strangers in his home.

“Reeny!” When Janiesa scrambles from the beanbag, Lachlan shrieks. “Reeny, no!”

“I’m leaving!” Gloria snaps. “I’ll make my own way home.”

“Hands up!” Pax shouts, edging closer to the little girl. “Lachlan! You need to put your hands up, or we’ll shoot.”

Lachlan’s horror makes way for anger. Fear makes way for fury.

This is the trigger switch his mother spoke of, the same one that landed Andy with a black eye and a new report stashed in his files.

Lachlan’s pale cheeks turn to a tomato red when Janiesa collapses to the floor. She scrambles to her hands and knees, a feral snarl tearing past her lips as she crawls for freedom.

But he dives for what he believes is his. He’s acting protective, even. Or that’s what his warped reality convinces him.

“No!” Pax shouts. “Hands up?—”

I startle in my seat when the boom of a gun tears through my computer speakers. When the man—the boy—a victim too, in a way, is slung backward, slamming against the cabinet and knocking the TV to the wall. His arms splay outwards, his eyes open and unseeing even as he crumples to the dirty floor and the cord from the television whips free of the wall.

Four gun-wielding cops charge forward, but Pax stays back, releasing his weapon and preparing to catch the little girl who works on getting her feet beneath her. Her legs are weak, her knees trembling. She chokes on her tears and fights for forward momentum, though her tiny body needs rest.

“It’s okay.” He scoops her into his arms, whipping a blanket from the back of a chair and draping it over her body. But she screams louder, kicking the fabric away and almost toppling from his arms when she scrambles too fast. Too frantic. “Shit. Okay. Okay! You’re okay. Suspect is down,” he barks for the record. For the ambulances waiting outside, probably. For anyone else listening. “Vic is alive, awake, and breathing.”

“Bring her upstairs,” his lieutenant commands. “Medics on standby.”

“Ms. Donohue?” A half dozen cops step in front of the woman, all caught in the artist’s body cam, and sweep her bag and jacket from her hold in one swift move. Then they turn her, pressing her already fragile body to the wall and catching her wrists in a pair of cuffs with blinding speed.

“Suspect is down,” Chavez reports through the radios while Pax’s camera bounces, muffled and half-covered by a little girl who fights his hold. He bounds up the basement stairs, gripping her tight or he risks dropping her. But she screams and kicks. Scratches and bites. She sobs, but with every heart-wrenching cry is a shrill, animalistic snarl.

Like he’s the enemy, too.

Like she’d rather be alone, than risk another man hurting her.

“I’m coming out!” Pax’s steps turn to a sprint, bursting into the upstairs kitchen and cutting right to explode through the door. Already, the street is filled with cars. Ambulances. Paramedics rushing forward. Except the fastest one is male, and Janiesa’s scream of terror grows louder. Frantic.

So a female paramedic hurries to the front of the pack and takes control, sweeping the little girl up and spinning to take her away.

A part of me expects to stay with her. To be carried to the stretcher and rushed through a million medical checks before they clear her for transport. But of course, we stay with Pax, his heart pounding and our view transforming from the street to just his feet. His hands on his knees, and his lungs heaving for air.

Adrenaline fights with common sense. The job battles humanity. “Fuck me.” He pants for fresh air and spits onto the grass, if only to combat what I wonder is a sickly roll of his stomach. “Fuck. Jackson?”

“Scene is secured, boss.” His breath comes faster, too. Just like mine. Just like Archer’s. “Suspect is down, and he’s not getting up.”

“It’s time to search the house now,” Aubree whispers. She pushes up from the couch and wanders around my desk. She doesn’t sit in my chair, but she pauses in front of it, pressing her hands to my desk and pinning me with her eyes. “It’s time to look for Serena.”

“And Alana’s baby.” I tug my hand free of Archer’s hold and sit back, dropping my head back and closing my eyes. Tears burn and escape from the corners, the hot liquid tickling my temples. “They’ll be in the house somewhere. No way she buried them or tossed them in the trash. She bagged the others and returned them to their moms.”

“Serena and the baby came from the basement,” Fletch cuts in, his voice crackling with a deep ache. “It’s where they’ll still be.”

EPILOGUE

ARCHER

Fletch and I called Danika’s parents soon after we were done with the New York case. We informed them we’d found their daughter and told them of a special act of kindness from a man currently incarcerated. When they asked, we gave them Tarran’s name and a way to contact him at the prison.

We talked them through the next steps—having her released from Minka’s facility—so they could make arrangements and lay her to rest the way she deserves.

Having your daughter murdered might be considered the worst thing that could ever happen to a parent. But not knowing where she is, not even knowing if she’s alive, is arguably worse.

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