A survivor.
A fighter.
Colson was dead wrong when he’d labeled her response to the Slaying in the Park as “not normal.” If he truly knew anything about assault victims it was that their entire world became “not normal” after an attack as vicious as Sunny’s. I’d seen it dozens of times over the course of my career, not only as a detective, but in war zones overseas. Women thought they had it bad here? The things I’d seen done to women overseas would give you nightmares for years. It had me.
PTSD was a very real thing, and in my opinion, too big of an umbrella for conditions with so many symptoms and repercussions.
After an attack as brutal as the Dallas police report claimed Sunny’s to be, it’s not far-fetched to imagine her life taking on an entirely new normal. Shaping, adapting, changing. Constant fight or flight mode.
Yet somehow, after the attack, Sunny had picked herself up, gotten her conceal carry license, enrolled in Krav Maga, bought herself service dogs, and dedicated her life to training guard dogs for others in need. Sunny had found a way to adapt, weird behavior be damned.
But now, seven years later, another attack.
Coincidence?
Coincidence that it happened right after Seagrave was shot to death?
Was I crazy to think not?
As I stared at Sunny through the two-way mirror, I clicked off the things I knew to be true, willing the pieces of the puzzle to magically fall into place.
One, I had four ancient Wiccan scrolls, rumored to becursed, that had suddenly risen from the dead days before the annual Moon Magic Festival.
Two, I had the “Black Bandit,” the name given to the thief rumored to be responsible for stealing said scrolls.
Three, I had Lieutenant Seagrave, responding to one of those heists where he was shot six times in the chest, moments before a blue sedan was caught on camera driving away.
Four, I had a creepy voodoo shrine resurrected yards from his funeral, and hours after that, I meet Sunny Harper, gun in hand, standing over the pastor’s son’s dead body.
Lastly, I had Sunny’s story of a third mystery person who supposedly shot the pastor’s son, then vanished without a trace.
If I’m being honest here, I was still trying to figure if that last part was true. Colson didn’t think so, but he was right about one thing, nothing added up, although my gut was screaming at me that it was all connected. That Seagrave’s murder and Sunny’s attack were linked, and that every piece of the puzzle added up.
I just had to figure out how—starting with finding the damn Black Bandit.
I watched Sunny’s head jerk up as the door to the conference room opened and Colson stepped inside. I clicked on the speaker and listened as he told her she could leave for the night, but not from Berry Springs until he gave her the okay.
Colson was already on his phone and halfway down the hall as I stepped into the conference room where Sunny was slowly pushing herself to a stance.
“Here,” I rushed forward—surprising her just as much as myself.
“Don’t.” She jerked away. “Please.”
I took a step back and had to restrain myself from helping her out of the chair. Sunny was in obvious pain and I wondered if she had more than just a bruised rib.
“Is there something you need?” She snapped, her cheeks flushing with both pain and embarrassment. She didn’t like me—anyone—seeing her struggle.
I tore my eyes away and pretended to busy myself with repositioning the phone to a perfect ninety degree angle.
“You have my card, Miss Harper.” I chanced a look at her once she’d fully straightened. “Call me if you think of anything else.”
She kicked the BSPD sweatshirt to the side of the room and stepped past me.
“Thanks.”
I followed her out.
A hush fell over the station and heads turned as she walked down the hallway, her shoulders back, head held high. It was remarkable to watch, really.
