Fatal Bonds

Chapter 1

Chapter One

I stared down the street long after her vehicle had disappeared—a scene that had played itself out in eighteen seconds flat. I know because I counted. A difficult feat while holding one’s breath, but it was a necessary exercise, especially if I planned on retaining my sanity.

My best friend had just walked out of my life.

And I’d let her.

Perhaps I needed to revisit that sanity bit.

There was a lump in my throat and an ache I would not soon forget. I’d felt it before.

When Ramirez left.

What did it say about me—that the important people in my life felt they needed to leave?

Had they been given the option, would they have run, rather than walked?

Would they have left sooner?

I sucked in a breath, puffed out my cheeks, and released it before focusing on the paper Leah had given me. Talking to Maria Reynolds would be beneficial, as it could lead me directly to Decker’s childhood friend, who would be crucial in helping to decipher the murder of her mother.

Question was, now as an adult, would Danielle be willing to resurrect the past and relive what must have been the most terrifying moment in her young life?

As I collected my thoughts and punched the number into my cell phone, I had to wonder why Leah hadn’t supplied a direct connection to the friend. Considering how thorough she was in her research, there had to be a good reason.

“Hello?” The woman’s voice was hesitant.

“Hello, is this Maria?” I asked, forcing as much cheerfulness into my voice as I could muster without sounding like a chipmunk.

“She’s not available.” Hesitation quickly transitioned to suspicion. “Who is this?”

“My name is Arianna Jackson. I’m a friend of Kelly Decker’s. I was hoping to speak to Ms. Reynolds about a matter of mutual concern—”

“Is this about Ellen?” I wasn’t sure who Ellen was but never had a chance to ask as the woman continued, “I swear—every time the anniversary of her murder comes up, you reporters turn over every stone and stick your noses where they don’t belong. The woman’s been dead and buried for nearly thirty years. Can’t you just let her rest in peace?”

I was about to respond when the connection abruptly disconnected.

I stared at the phone. The brief conversation—albeit one-sided—had yielded three things. One: Ellen was likely Decker’s mother. Two: The woman, while not Maria Reynolds, had some association of her own with Ellen and/or Decker. Three: I needed to get my act together before proceeding any further.

I no longer had the benefit of Leah’s crack investigative skills, and had I not jumped the gun making the phone call, might have taken an approach that would have provided some actual results.

Sighing, I shuffled to the kitchen, where my laptop slept on the island. Waking it up, I searched for all Maria Reynolds listed in the metro Phoenix area, as per the area code, and found seven. Letting my fingers do the walking, I was quickly able to narrow the selection by age and, with a few more clicks, obtained an address in nearby Mesa.

It’s pretty amazing what you can find on the Internet with relatively little effort.

And a little frightening.

It was also fortuitous that Maria had moved from California to Arizona at some point. After several attempts to contact Maria Reynolds without receiving as much as a voicemail, an in-person visit was next on my list. I wasn’t about to let Maria’s self-appointed phone monitor stand in my way.

Pausing to glance in the hallway mirror to ensure I was somewhat presentable, I noted that the face staring back looked a bit road-worn. Sleep deprivation and stress tended to have that effect on me. At least my hair, which at some point I’d managed to wrangle into a high ponytail, looked somewhat smooth, and my long bangs helped to obscure the dark circles under my eyes.

I pasted on a smile that would have made the Joker cringe. Eh, best not to overdo it on my first visit.

Patting down my shirt to ensure there were no stray Alaskan Malamute fluffies, I noted my jeans and Chuck Taylors’ had seen better days, though I gave myself a few points for their cleanliness.

Just then, Nicoh sauntered out of my room, looked around, and shook off. The more I backed away, the faster he advanced.

Sighing when he pressed his massive head into my hip, I gave into his low whoo-whoos and scratched him behind his velvety ears.

“Ready to go for a ride, buddy?” He responded by whipping his curly tail from side to side before trotting to the rack near the door where his lead was hung. “Alright, then, guess I don’t need to ask you twice.” I chuckled.

As we exited the house, he paused to sniff the ground where Leah had placed her luggage and released a quiet whimper before glancing back at me.

“I know, buddy. I miss her, too.”

According to the address I’d looked up, Maria Reynolds lived in an apartment complex off Ellsworth Road and Southern Avenue in East Mesa. After a few wrong turns, I eased my way into a parking spot near the “C” building. I wistfully looked at Nicoh after spotting a sign that read: “NO Dogs Exceeding 50 Pounds Are Allowed. NO EXCEPTIONS.”

There was no way I could disguise those extra forty-plus pounds.

“You’ll hold down the fort, while I attempt to have a chat with the mother of Decker’s friend?” Rolling my eyes when he turned so that his back was facing me, I added, “Great. My wingman has gone from a snarky blond to a passive-aggressive canine. I’m not sure which is worse, but I certainly didn’t get an upgrade.”

Though it was a cool day by desert standards, I rolled the windows down to an acceptable level, scruffed Nicoh’s nose, and made my way to the apartment, which, according to my search, was on the ground floor. I rounded the corner into a courtyard and nearly stumbled over a woman in a wheelchair sitting in the middle of the pathway leading to Maria’s.

She was slumped to one side, mouth partially opened and eyes closed with hands carefully folded in her lap. Though the ebony halo of frizzy tufts was graying at the temples, her tanned face showed only the slightest hint of creases, suggesting that her physical condition had betrayed her. I pegged her for at least two decades younger than she appeared.

I approached carefully in an attempt not to rouse her as I passed to knock on Maria’s door, but something alerted her to my presence, and she awoke with a shudder. Her eyes were wide as she peered around without moving her head. Finally, her gaze rested on me, though it was difficult to tell if she really saw me.

“My apologies if I startled you. I am here to see Maria. Do you know if she is home?” I gestured toward the door behind her, but her eyes never moved.

I started to repeat myself when a stout woman clad in baby blue hospital scrubs rushed out of Maria’s apartment. Her messy reddish-brown topknot swayed precariously as she hustled toward us.

“Mother! What are you doing out here?” Ignoring me, she gripped the handles of the wheelchair, swiveled it around with ease, and began to retreat into the apartment.

“Excuse me. Is Maria home?” I hastened after them, stopping short as the woman pushed her mother across the threshold of the apartment before turning.

“Listen, I told you on the phone. Leave it alone! Can’t you see”—she jabbed a finger in her mother’s direction—“that she’s already been through Hell and back? Have you no compassion? No mercy?” She stepped closer until we were eye to eye and whispered between clenched teeth, “Leave. Before I do something we’ll both live to regret.”

When I didn’t respond, she huffed, turned on her heel, and stomped into the apartment, grasping the wheelchair where her mother sat idle.

“Are you Danielle?” I called after her in a last-ditch attempt.

She spun, her eyes narrowing. “Leave. It. Alone. Danielle is dead.” She slammed the door in my face.

The woman had asked about compassion and mercy, and while I had no idea the extent of what their family had endured over the years, I was quite clear on one thing.

The man who had mutilated and killed Decker’s mother had possessed neither.