Page 12 of Bad Mother

“Yeah, of course. About the design I drew for the Gavin Decker cards?” She gave a small shrug. “Those have to be the ones you were referring to. They’re the only cards one of my drawings was featured on. And that was only because I was the president of his fan club.

“The design was inspired by a tattoo he has on his wrist,” she explained, turning her arm over and tapping on the same place where Gavin’s tattoo was inked. “I had a friend who ran a printing company, and he did a small batch for me just to use for giveaways for the fan club members and whatnot. I also sent a set to Gavin, and he posted about them on social media.” A look came over her face that Sienna could only describe as adoring. “He’s the best. A lot of women went gaga over him because of his looks, but he’s the whole package. I started an Instagram page featuring all things Gavin Decker, and it blew up, so I formed the fan club.” That adoring look increased, crossing over into the realm ofworship, before she giggled softly. “He was alwayssogenerous to his fans, me included.” She sighed dreamily.

Sienna figured the levels of hell were deep and full of suffering, and she didn’t want to be overly dramatic, but watching someone visibly swoon over the ex who had broken your heart had to be at least one of them. “Did you have a lot of personal contact with Mr.Decker?” she asked, working to make her tone sound businesslike and casual.

“Iwish. No, he was a busy man, and he traveled a lot in those days, but he was always great about replying online and making time to autograph items and send them. And then once he posted a picture of those cards on his social media, giving me credit, a company reached out and purchased the rights to the artwork. It was a nice little paycheck, and they sold well.”

“Do you have the name of the company that bought them?”

“Yeah. They’re called Mister Ace. They still print them, though not nearly in the same quantities as when Gavin was playing professionally.”

Sienna typed the name into the notes app in her phone, then set it back down. There was no reason to speak to them immediately, but she’d keep their name just in case things changed. She thought for a moment. “Do you have a list of the fan club members who received those decks?”

Lucia squinted one eye as she thought about that. “I can forward you a list of the old members, but I didn’t keep any information about who won the giveaways. I don’t even know if their information would be current. It’s been several years now.”

Sienna reached in her purse and pulled out a card. “If you could email me that list, I would appreciate it. And if you think of anything else at all that might be helpful, even if it seems like nothing, please give me a call.”

Lucia nodded, taking the card and looking at it before putting it in her wallet, which sat next to her drink. “I will. And if there’s anything I should know about the letter, will you call me?”

“Absolutely. Oh, and one more thing—can I take that straw to rule out your DNA on the envelope?” Sienna asked.

Lucia stared at it a minute. “Oh. Yeah, sure.” She plucked the straw from her drink and handed it to Sienna, who wrapped it loosely in a napkin.

“I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.” She picked up the tea and took another long sip. “This was fantastic. Thanks.”

Settled back in her car, Sienna put on another pair of gloves from the kit in her trunk and brought the envelope contained in the evidence bag from her purse. She opened the outer envelope and slid the smaller white one from inside. The message, handwritten on the front, was exactly as Lucia had said:Sienna will call you. Give this to her, and only her.Which was eerie as hell, considering she’d only moved to Reno less than a week before. Why hadn’t it been addressed to Kat or SergeantDahlen? Who knew her name? Who knew she specifically would call Lucia?

She thought the writing looked very similar to that of the note found in the waistband of the murder victim, but she’d compare them side by side when she got back to the station.

She turned the envelope over, but there was nothing on the back. It had been opened hastily by Lucia, who had likely torn open the end and then dragged her finger along the top, tearing the seam. Hopefully she hadn’t unknowingly destroyed DNA or other evidence.

Sienna slipped out the note and began to read.

A week after my thirteenth birthday, a stray dog had shown up in our neighborhood, and I’d been secretly feeding him on our back porch each morning before school. He was a shy mutt but obviously hungry, and I’d sit nearby while he scarfed down the offered food, one eye on his bowl and one eye on me. For the first couple of days, he’d slink away, but finally he began sniffing my outstretched hand tentatively, then allowing me to pet his head. It gave me a strange sense I’d never experienced before—the idea that I might matter to a creature I could hurt if I wanted to. It was an odd power to consider. But I didn’t want to hurt the dog. Just the opposite—I wanted to care for him. I wanted to help him because no one else had bothered.

That day, before I left for school, I fed the dog I’d begun calling Jaxon, and he nuzzled my hand after his meal, his tail wagging back and forth as he lay on the porch to nap in the sun. I thought about Jaxon that day, wondered if Mother might let me bring him inside and keep him. I worried she wouldn’t. Mother kept a very tidy house and liked things just so. Perhaps if Igave him a bath outside with the hose and brushed his black fur until it shone. Maybe then, Mother would let me keep him. I pictured Jaxon curled up at the end of my bed, keeping me safe as I slept, and at the image, that same unknown feeling wound through, glittery and warm. I bet you’ve experienced that feeling. I bet you’ve experienced it a lot. But it was new to me.

My stomach dropped when I arrived home to see my father’s car in the driveway. I hurried inside, placing my backpack on the hook near the door just as Mother liked and lining up my shoes underneath. My heart had begun to race, my stomach lurching the way it did when Father arrived home from his travels, tired and hungry and, if business had been less than stellar, looking for someone to take his aggression out on.

I first went to the back porch to see if Jaxon was still there, curled up in his pool of sunshine. But when I looked out the window, no Jax. That’s when I heard what I thought was a small, muffled whimper coming from the side of the house. I raced out the back door, rounded the porch, my socked feet skidding in the grass, a cry escaping my lips when I saw Jaxon, covered in blood, using his front legs to pull himself forward, his back legs splayed uselessly behind him as though he’d somehow become paralyzed.

Horror filled me and the world seemed to slow as I looked up, my father just feet away, a gun in hand, squinting through the sight as he aimed it at the wounded dog. I opened my mouth to yell, but my voice didn’t seem to work, and only a terrible gurgle came up my throat. My arms reached forward, towardJaxon, who was looking at me now, terror on his face, his eyes beseeching me for help.

My father had tortured him. He was broken and half-dead, but he was still trying to crawl away. To escape. I knew what that felt like. I knew just what that felt like.

Something clanged loudly inside my head, black spots appearing before my eyes, the world rippling around me like an earthquake was erupting, but only in our yard. Beyond us, there was blue sky. There was stillness. And safety.

But not here. Never here.

The shot rang out, and Jaxon’s upper body collapsed to the grass, blood pouring from the hole in his head, his body still. Lifeless. My voice erupted then, breaking through my horror, my yell piercing the stillness as all went utterly dark.

I awoke on the kitchen floor, my throat raw, my head pounding. “There, there.” Mother’s voice. “Take your time. You fainted, silly boy.”

I groaned and pulled myself up, the room swimming as I brought my hands to my head and took a minute to get my bearings. Once the worst of the fogginess had cleared, I lowered my hands, opening my eyes and gaping at the scene in front of me. My father sat at the table, his arms and legs bound to a chair with duct tape, a gag in his mouth, and blood dripping from a gash across his skull. He followed me with his wide, glazed eyes as I came to my feet, looking at Mother, who leaned casually against the counter, a glass of lemonade in hand. She held it out to me. “Take a drink. It’s quite refreshing.”

I took the glass from her. Lemonade was my favorite drink, and I was very thirsty. I drank every last drop before setting the empty glass on the table and wiping the back of my hand across my mouth.

“Better?” Mother asked.

---