Killer Secrets

Better yet, I could disappear. Sometimes when I was allowed to play outside, my mother said I’d never met an obstacle I couldn’t go over, around, under or through. I could run and run until my lungs burst, and he wouldn’t keep up. Everyone around was taller than me. He would have only a vague idea of where I’d gone, and I would get so far away from him that he would never find me.

Suddenly he jerked me to a stop and bent low to look into my face. His fingers squeezed so viciously around mine that the tips turned red, and after a spike of pain, mine went numb. “You wipe that smile off your face, you stupid little brat. You try to run away, I’ll kill you.” He yanked hard on my hand, pulling me closer. “You understand?”

I knew what he wanted, and I gave it, a solemn nod.

“You believe me?”

Oh, yes, I believed him.

I’d believed for as long as I could remember that someday my father or my mother was going to kill me.

—Excerpt, The Unlucky Ones by Jane Gama

“Hey, Poppy, are you surprised to see me home early?” Mila leaned against the door, held there by the dog’s paws on her shoulders, and rubbed the base of her ears. Gramma had rescued the yellow Lab mix from Cedar Creek a few years ago—had seen the puppy perched on a tree stump snagged in the middle of the creek, alternating between whining at the current and barking for help. There had been other people around, but only Gramma had taken action, kicking off her shoes, wading into the waist-deep water and calming the dog for the trip back to shore.

Gramma hadn’t wanted a dog, but she’d saved its life, so she’d had to find it a safe home. Where else would that be but with Mila, she’d asked, as if it was the most logical question ever.

She had already given Mila two incredible gifts: unconditional love and escape from the terrors that were her parents. Trusting her with Poppy, with the care and nurturing of another living being, had been the third treasure. Twenty-four years old, and Mila had cried over the big-eyed waterlogged puppy who had climbed into her lap and promptly peed.

The Lab had changed Mila’s life. She’d never had a pet before, had been too terrified to even show interest in dogs, cats and hamsters. Showing interest in anything to her father was a one-way trip to pain.

Even over Poppy’s happy barking, Mila heard the police chief drive away. She exhaled, tightness easing in her chest and her stomach. He seemed a perfectly decent person, but being away from him made her feel the same way she did after a long swim: like a fish breaching, bursting from the crushing depths of the ocean into fresh, clean, light, sweet air.

He was a cop.

And she was what she was.

Not right. Damaged. A killer.

Numbness spread through her, closing her eyes, but she still saw things. Still heard. Still smelled. Thankfully, Poppy broke the moment by licking Mila’s face from the bridge of her nose all the way to her chin. “Ew, Poppy, no dog slobber.” Her voice trembled over the words, and she dragged in a breath before catching the dog’s face in both hands and pressing a grateful kiss right above her eyes.

“Okay, sweetie, let me get away from the door and maybe I’ll find some treats in the kitchen.” She caught the dog’s front paws and half pulled, half pushed them to the floor. After removing her ball cap and long-sleeved shirt, she bent to unlace her boots and kick them off on the rubber mat next to the door.

Goose bumps rising on her arms—and an odor so unpleasant that even Poppy wrinkled her nose and stepped away—Mila walked across the cool living room, the dining room and into the kitchen. Her landlord claimed the house had a thousand square feet of living space, but she was convinced that included the front porch, the back stoop and the shaded portion of the backyard. The kitchen’s maximum occupancy was one, though that never stopped Poppy from trying, and the bathroom was small enough that a two-by-three-foot rug covered all except the outside edges of the floor. Her bedroom was about ten by twelve feet—enormous compared to the second one, which had room for a twin bed, a night table and a skinny person standing sideways.

She got treats for Poppy before heading to the bathroom. She turned the water to hot, then shed her clothes in the hallway hamper. Once steam drifted on the air, she adjusted the water from scalding to merely breath stealing and stepped into the glass-enclosed shower.

The water streamed down her, washing away sweat and grime and the tensions she wore like a second skin. She luxuriated in it for one minute, three, five, then washed her hair and scrubbed her body. When she’d started working at Happy Grass, she had welcomed long days in the sun, wearing only short shorts and a tank top. That first day, Ruben had looked at her and shaken his head chasteningly. That day she’d burned despite her olive-toned skin and a zillion-SPF sunblock. She’d quickly adopted Ruben’s ways.

Her brown skin and black hair helped her live up to the name she and Gramma had chosen so long ago. People heard the name, looked at her and thought, Yes, she looks like a Milagro Ramirez. Even Chief Douglas had seemed surprised when he’d heard her unaccented voice.

She had no accent because she came from everywhere and nowhere.

Someday, she hoped to hear Oklahoma in her voice.

After shutting off the water, she pushed the shower door, but it moved only a few inches before stopping. Poppy lounged on the bath mat, her yellow hair drifting in the air. Mila coaxed her back enough so she could step out, throw on some clothes and then let her into the fenced backyard and watched her through the window over the sink. The garden there was as elaborate as the one out front, and if blooms escaped the dog’s huge feet only to fall victim to the sweep of her brushy tail, it was a small price to pay for having her.

One word in that thought stuck in Mila’s brain, refusing to fall away into oblivion as the others had. Victim. Evan Carlyle’s image appeared, as sharp and clear as it had been in the relentless glare of the midday sun, his body slack, his neck gaping, his eyes... It was always the eyes that stayed with her. A dead body wasn’t obscenely different from a living one, just a shell for a soul that had been ripped away. But something about the eyes... The spirit left them last, watching her, accusing her.

“It wasn’t my fault!”

The words exploded from her with such emotion that Poppy, curiously sniffing a frog, directed her gaze to the window, her head tilted to one side, concern on her goofy, doggy face. Mila wanted to tell her it was all right, to go back to her exploring. She wanted to pet her and thank her for caring. She wanted to drop to the ground beside her and wrap her arms tightly around her neck and let her wild hair tickle her nose.

But fear held her at the sink, on the inside looking out. That had been her life for eleven years: no friends, no family, no school, no everyday dealings with the world. Her father had left her home when he worked or drank. Her mother had left her home when she grocery shopped or paid bills or drank. Most of their neighbors in the towns where they’d lived had never known Mila existed. She didn’t go to the doctor when she was sick or play in the yard or get too close to a window where someone might see. The only people who’d ever seen her were the victims.

For eleven years. An eternity.

When the cell rang, it startled Mila. Her head whipped toward the hall, where the phone was still tucked in the pocket of her jeans. Her breathing was heavy, and her hands shook, but her feet were rooted to the floor.

You try to run away, I’ll kill you.

The ringing stopped, but it would start again in seconds. The only person who ever called her was Gramma, and Gramma wouldn’t be deterred by voice mail.

Fifteen years ago, Gramma hadn’t been deterred by time or distance or the obvious message that her daughter wanted nothing to do with her. She hadn’t even been deterred by the evil in the flesh that was her son-in-law. She’d come to Mila’s rescue, same as she’d done with Poppy, and given her a chance at living. Real life. Not cowering in isolated fear.

The ring sounded again, and so did the faint, faraway whisper. This time it didn’t frighten Mila. After all, she had run away, and he had died in the process.

That was one death she would proudly take credit for.

Dashing into the hallway, she grabbed the phone and held it to her ear. “Hi, Gramma. I’m glad you called.”

* * *

When Sam walked into the squad room at the station the next morning, Ben Little Bear was typing at his computer. He looked comfortable, like he’d been there awhile and intended to stay a good long while longer.

Sam sat down in the chair next to the desk, its ancient wood creaking beneath his weight, and put his hat on the next desk. It was the most beat-up one they had and had gone unused for as long as he could remember. According to his predecessor, some chief long ago had gotten it in the hopes of one day being fully staffed. Operating on a budget, that had never happened.

“What do you have on the Carlyle case?”

Ben saved his work, then swiveled to face him. “The State Department located the wife and kids in Rome. The embassy notified her, and they’re helping expedite their return home. I talked to his boss. He said Carlyle was a solid manager, got along with everyone. He seemed happy in his marriage and adored his daughters. No problems at work, no disgruntled employees, no ex-wife, no money problems, no problems of any kind that he knew of.”

“Basically, no reason for anyone to want to kill him.”

Ben nodded. “Funny how many times we hear that about people who have, indeed, been killed.”

A person who didn’t think in terms of resolving issues with murder was always puzzled by someone who did. Sam had learned to understand the thought processes, the motivations, but it still amazed him that people chose murder.

“There was no sign of forced entry,” Ben went on, and Sam swore he could almost see him ticking items off a mental list. “You need a code to get into the house and another for the backyard. I’ll have to get a list from the wife of everyone who knows the codes, but obviously the yard service and probably the pool service have the gate code. Pool service isn’t due until Friday, and I’ve confirmed the yard people’s whereabouts for the morning. They were out at that private school on Highway 117 for three hours, then ate lunch at Scott’s, where they’re regulars. Cameras show them arriving at 11:05 and leaving at eleven thirty. Guard has them logged in at Hawk’s Aerie at 11:42. The 911 call came in six minutes later.”

There was nothing like a routine that allowed a person to document practically every minute of their day, Sam thought, then wondered...how was Milagro?

She’d been on his mind ever since he’d driven away from her house yesterday. Had she called her grandmother? Had she managed a peaceful night? Was she back at work this morning? It wouldn’t be a bad thing if she was. In his experience, the best way to deal with trauma was by keeping busy.

And maybe she was one of the lucky ones whose spirits were strong enough to cope, to adjust, to say a prayer, take a deep breath and go on doing what they had to do. Though she’d seemed fragile enough to shatter in a breeze yesterday, he suspected she was much stronger than that.

But he would check in on her later today just to be sure. It wasn’t an unusual action for him to take. In fact, witnesses to violent crimes pretty much always got a well-being check a day or two later. Usually it was the detective handling their case or Lois, but Sam made some of them. He would make this one.

“We got a lot of fingerprints,” Ben said, drawing Sam’s attention back to the case. “Most of them belong to the same four people, presumably the family. There was no sign of a struggle, no skin under his fingernails, no obvious attempt to get his cell phone out of his pocket. My guess is he let someone in, and after he sat down, the person came up behind him. Surprised him. A sharp blade, no hesitation marks. By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late.”

As Sam stood and retrieved his hat, he asked, “Why was he home yesterday?”

“He told his assistant Tuesday night that he was working from home Wednesday. He’s done it before, but it’s an occasional thing.”

Maybe he’d planned on having a late night Tuesday. Maybe he was having company who was staying over for breakfast. Maybe he was taking advantage of his wife and kids being out of the country.

Or maybe he’d just wanted to sit by the beautiful pool and enjoy the beautiful view he worked long hours to pay for.

“You’re thorough, Detective.”

“You might be as thorough if you made a list from time to time,” Ben replied, giving a rare smile. As if an afterthought, he added, “Sir.”

“I may stumble a bit without your endless lists, but I always wind up in the same place.”

“Yeah, well, stumbling isn’t my thing.”

From her desk outside his office, his secretary called, “Telephone, Chief.”

“Got it.” Sam returned Ben’s smirk. “Keep me updated. If you need anything—”

In unison, they said, “Lois will be the first to know.”

With a nod, Sam headed to his office and picked up the phone. “Chief Douglas. What can I do for you?”

“Morning, Chief, good morning. This is Ed. I just wanted to check in and make sure my employees cooperated fully with you yesterday. I give ’em a job and I treat ’em like family, but that gives me certain expectations of them, you know.”

No, Sam didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure whom he was talking to. His work involved a lot of phone conversations, double that yesterday, and he couldn’t place the unctuous, smarmy...

Oh, hell. Ed Lawrence of Happy Grass was the kind of guy Sam wanted to forget as soon as their business was done, but no, he’d buddied up to Lawrence to be sure Milagro got some time off without losing pay. Now Lawrence was going to return the favor by buddying up to Sam. Damn.

“Hang on, Ed. I just this minute walked in the door. Let me get settled.” He set the phone down, closed the door and set his hat in its designated spot atop an old oak filing cabinet. Finally he sat down behind the desk and took up the phone. “Sorry about that, Ed. I’m here.”

“Don’t apologize. People always call at inconvenient times. Some of the worst times. I could tell you...but I won’t.” He cleared his throat and slid into what Sam pegged as his faux-concerned voice. “I just wanted to be sure my crew was cooperative with you yesterday. They’re good workers, but they’ve got their quirks. You know, pretending they don’t speak English sometimes when you know damn well they do, or sticking together like it’s them against me, or freaking out when they have any interactions with the police. My workers are all here legally, Chief, don’t doubt that a second, no, sir, not one second. I’ve got copies of their papers. Now if it happens to turn out that some of those papers aren’t real, well, you can’t blame me for that. I did what I was supposed to.”

Sam barely resisted a snort. If Ed Lawrence was the man he thought, any false papers had probably been obtained at his behest, thereby covering his ass while leaving everyone else out to hang.

When Lawrence took a noisy breath, Sam grabbed hold of the pretext for his call. “Everyone was fully cooperative, Ed. They lived up to your expectations.”

“Good, good. So...the dead guy—I mean, the victim. Ruben says it was Evan Carlyle. Well, actually, what he said was that they found him at the Carlyle house. Was it Evan?”

Bracing the phone between his shoulder and ear, Sam picked up a thick pile of messages and ruffled the edges. Milagro had intimated that Lawrence didn’t encourage familiarity with his employees. He doubted Evan Carlyle had, either.

“You know I can’t confirm that. An official announcement will be made once the next of kin have been notified.”

“But you can confirm that his throat was cut, can’t you?”

Sam sighed. In the reality of crime scenes, there was no such thing as private information versus public. Too many people saw the body: in this instance, the lawn service crew, the police, the crime scene investigators, the ambulance and fire crews, the team from the medical examiner’s office. And everyone talked. Lois, Ben and Simpson had surely told other officers what they’d seen. Ruben and the rest of his crew had likely told their families or friends, and hopefully Milagro had told her grandmother.

“Officially, I can’t confirm anything. When Detective Little Bear has information to share, he’ll contact the media.”

Lawrence’s chuckle held a hint of disappointment. “Aw, Chief, you know everyone shares a few tidbits with their buddies.”

“I know, but as chief, I don’t have that luxury.” Before the wheedling could continue, Sam asked, “How was Ms. Ramirez this morning?”

“Who—oh, Maria. She was fine.” His tone clearly said he’d paid no attention to her. How long had she worked there that her boss still didn’t know her name? Happy Grass wasn’t a large company. Even if Lawrence did nothing more than sign her paycheck every two weeks, he should know her name.

Thankfully, someone in the background shouted for Lawrence’s attention. With a remark about how he never could catch a break, he hung up, and Sam heaved a sigh of relief. He made a mental note to check with Milagro in another few weeks. With Lawrence now acting like they were buddies, she’d damn sure better get paid for her few hours off.

* * *

Mila liked to think she didn’t spook easily, but midmorning on Thursday, when she had to walk into the first fenced-in backyard, she’d hesitated so long that Ruben had come over and led the way. The second time Alejandro had accompanied her and then Mario.

None of them had mentioned yesterday’s discovery. None of them had teased or scorned her hesitancy. They hadn’t said much of anything at all, but she’d appreciated their actions. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with simple courtesies, and today they’d made her throat swell and her eyes sting.

She stood up from the bed she was weeding, arched her back and grunted as a soothing crack sounded in her spine. You’re making old woman sounds, Gramma warned her. I’m the one who should be creaking and popping.

Gramma had come straight to her house after yesterday’s phone call, making the five-minute drive in two and a half minutes. She’d burst through the front door, greeted Poppy, then wrapped her arms around Mila and rocked her back and forth, stroking her hair, calling her baby and sweet girl and whispering that everything was all right now.

And everything had been all right, because Gramma was there. She was the rock in Mila’s life. Once, when Mila had told her she was her hero, Gramma had laughed and said, Except the tights are support hose these days, and the cape looks more like a hairdresser’s than a superhero’s.

Having Gramma in her life made Mila the luckiest person in the world.

“Milagro.”

Her startle reflex was sharper than usual, though an instant after the surprise, she recognized Mario’s voice. He stood just inside the gate, his brows raised in question. She nodded and began gathering her tools, along with the pop-up mesh tub that held the weeds. She would be the first drop-off today, a fact she appreciated since they’d already worked an hour longer than usual. Poppy would be even more excited than usual, both with her greeting and her need to get outside.

Most of the equipment was already loaded in the trailer. Ruben secured his weed trimmer while she stuffed her tools into their spot, then they both climbed inside the truck and headed out of the neighborhood. The silence was comfortable, she realized with surprise. She’d always lived mostly in silence, and she’d always been acutely aware that it wasn’t exactly normal. But the crew wasn’t quiet because they were angry or suspicious or plotting. They were tired, thinking about a shower and dinner and a good night’s sleep, just as she was. It was familiar. Normal.

When Ruben turned the old pickup onto her block, he glanced her way. “Huh.”

She looked at him, then ahead. A white pickup truck with police department markings was parked across the street from her house. Chief Douglas. Huh, indeed.

Her mouth went dry, her stomach clenching hard. Did he have more questions? Pretty much everyone involved with a murder was looked at closely. Had they looked at her? Had they found out that Milagro Ramirez had formed out of thin air fifteen years ago, that before then she hadn’t existed? Did they wonder what she was hiding and if it had anything to do with the dead man she’d discovered?

Ruben pulled up to the curb opposite the police chief. She got out of the pickup, holding the door so Alejandro could move from the back seat to the front. Before letting go, she managed an action that was more grimace than smile and said, “Thanks, Ruben. Goodbye.” She didn’t look to see if all three men were staring at her. She’d never said thank you, goodbye, hello or anything else voluntary to them.

No wonder they were never chatty with her.

She wanted to go straight inside her house and lock the door, but it would be futile. If Douglas could be put off that easily, he wouldn’t be police chief. With a deep breath to control the queasiness in her stomach, she turned to face his truck. The engine was shut off, the windows rolled down to let in the stifling heat, stirred only by the occasional rustle of wind. The sun was at just the right angle to shine in the driver’s side window, making the cab significantly warmer than the outside air, enough to make sweat glisten on his forehead.

It wasn’t a bad look on him.

He got out, closing the door with a thud, and crossed the street to join her.

“You should have waited on the porch. At least you would have had shade and a breeze,” she said, not realizing until after she’d spoken that a greeting of some sort would have been polite.

Being polite had never been one of her goals, regretfully. Not being noticed had always been far more important to her—and to her survival.

“I would have, but my going on the porch and knocking on the door made your dog crazy. I figured if I didn’t go away, he was going to come right through the door.”

“She,” Mila corrected automatically as she opened the gate, then led the way to the porch. “Poppy is excitable.”

“To say the least. What breed is she?”

“Mostly yellow Lab. Maybe something wiry. She lives in a perpetual bad-hair day.” At the top of the steps, she stopped. Poppy’s barks demanded attention, but Mila didn’t yet know why the police chief was here, and she didn’t want to invite him into her house. No one but Gramma had been inside in the three years she’d lived there, and there were things in there she preferred no one else saw.

Awkwardly, she faced him again. He’d stopped one step below her, putting them on eye level and much closer than she’d expected. He still had that undeniable air of authority about him...and he was still handsome. His eyes were as blue as she’d remembered, his mouth as full of promise, and without crease marks from his hat, his hair looked soft and smooth, though shorter than she usually liked.

Hmm. She hadn’t realized she had a preference in men’s hairstyles.

He smelled faintly of sweat and sunshine and cologne, reminding her that she smelled like a rotting garbage heap under the fires of hell and didn’t look much better. Her clothes were soaked and stinky, and her face was dirty and baked dry. It felt as if too much expression might actually crack her skin. This wasn’t a bad time to wish, for the ten thousandth time, for invisibility.

Poppy’s barks and bangs at the door were frantic, though not an indication of doggy emergency. She acted much the same when Mila came back from the bathroom or returned from getting the mail on the porch. She and Gramma were the only creatures in the whole world who were always happy to see Mila.

But Chief Douglas wasn’t here because he was happy to see her. He’d come about the body, or about information they’d found on her—or hadn’t found on her. It wasn’t a social call. Just police business, and she’d spent her life not getting involved in police business.