Complicit

By R. R. Coleman

Hush now and look the other way…

RJ is on a mission to discover who killed her best friend.

She's in the business of finding answers, and she'll pick at a thread until the whole thing unravels in her lap.

As RJ settles into a new town and a new life, she realizes those threads are leading her to a dark place, a place where people aren't who they seem, and unspeakable acts are hidden in the shadows.

The more loose ends she ties up, the more haunted by her friend's murder she becomes, and she wonders if she'll ever be able to put to rest the violence of her own past.

Can anyone?

As RJ moves further in her investigation, she learns more about the history of human cruelty, the dark sides of families and how abuse can twist the mind.

How many people know and do nothing?

How many people are complicit?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wind Lark Publishing
• Release date: Sep 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985669213

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The man lowered his novel, stretched, and glanced over at his wife. She was looking at the latest women’s magazine that had been stuffed in their mailbox that afternoon.

You have a program you watch tonight at nine o’clock, right? he asked as he rubbed his stomach.

Yeah, I think it’s the season finale, so I don’t want to miss it.

Got it. He patted his stomach and groaned a little.

That roast you made tonight was delicious, but I think I need some alone time. He winked at her and stood, setting his novel on the stand next to his recliner.

She looked up at him trying to read his face, but quickly returned to her magazine. She didn’t want to contemplate.

She watched him mount the stairs then heard the bathroom door close. She flipped on the television. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his shadow as he crept to their daughter’s room. She turned the tv louder and read her magazine during the show’s introduction. She imagined she could hear the squeak of her daughter’s bed. It was her imagination, right?

The shadow returned and the toilet flushed.

A tear dropped to the magazine, magnifying the clove on the Christmas ham, the paper starting to bubble already from the dampness. She knew she was complicit.

1

1966

Bang

The gun cracked.

Her mother’s eyes widened with shocked disbelief and pain as she grasped her chest, blood spewing through her fingers. The pretty blue floral pattern of her shirt was a striking contrast to the glistening blood. Her mother tried to speak, blood bubbling from her lips, tried to reach her hands to her child, but she collapsed in a heap, her eyes still wide with incomprehension

She lay dead on the floor.

The gun turned. Her father looked so sad. He shook his head and looked at his daughter with tears in his eyes. The two-day old stubble on his chin glistened with sweat.

She backed up. Watching.

Bang

Her father dropped like a sack of potatoes, the bullet penetrating his brain by way of his face.

She stared at her parents on the floor, the enormity of what had happened in front of her blew her away. She stepped back further. Her heels made contact with the wall. Ever so slowly she slid to the floor, her eyes never leaving the widening pool of blood that bathed her mother.

When she hit the floor, she stuck her thumb in her mouth, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she soiled herself.

2

MONICA

Monica sat on the cold, hard plastic chair. She wasn’t comfortable, but then, she wasn’t supposed to be, was she? After all, she was being punished. He was making her wait. That’s what men did. They made you wait.

She huffed in frustration. She only had ten minutes left of her lunch, and then she had to get back to class. Her egg salad sandwich was calling, and, at this rate, it was going to end up making the bread soggy because she wasn’t going to be able to eat it because the damn assistant principal was making her wait.

Monica, please come in. John Christian opened the door and ushered Monica into his office. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. For an elementary school principal, Mr. Christian didn’t exude enough warmth. Monica thought he was detached. Maybe he would be better when he moved on to the high school next month. She felt like the school would breathe a collective sigh of relief when he moved up the ladder, but you never knew what would take his place, now did you?

Mr. Christian settled in his leather office chair after seating Monica and looked at her expectantly, tenting his fingers under his chin. Only the slight tapping of his left foot gave away his impatience. Monica was very in tune to the impatience of a man. She was surrounded by impatient men.

I’m worried about Annabelle Sutter, Monica said, working to keep her tone even and professional. No need to make Mr. Christian think she was an over-reactor.

And why, exactly, are you worried, Mr. Christian asked, arranging his face to reflect the proper amount of concern. His mind was on his upcoming meeting with the superintendent. Although everyone knew he was moving up to the high school, the deal wasn’t finalized. He wanted a significant raise, and he didn’t trust that son of a bitch.

She’s showing more signs of withdrawal, and I noticed marks on her upper arm this morning. Marks consistent with being grabbed. You can see the finger marks clearly.

Mr. Christian was annoyed. This could take some time, and he didn’t need to deal with this right now. As a mandated reporter, they both were now trapped in a web of responsibility. He sighed internally. Unless…

Please have Mrs. Trudy put a call in to the school psych… What’ s his name? Carl Stewart, and he can do an eval and move forward as necessary. He looked down at his watch. He needed to get going. It would take him fifteen minutes to walk over to the admin building where the superintendent had his office.

Mr. Christian, I’m sorry, but Carl Stewart is a male. She looked at him expectantly.

Ms. Avery, Dr. Stewart is a professional. What you’re suggesting is insulting. He pinned her with his eyes.

Monica forced herself not to squirm. Despite her best efforts, she cast her eyes down and to the side. Fuck. Instead she forced a smile.

Of course, I was just… Damn it. Stop. I’ll stop by Mrs. Trudy’s desk and ask that she takes care of that right away. She resisted telling the principal it was important that they intervene before the dismissal bell rang and they lose their opportunity. She bit her lip. She didn’t want to send that sweet child back into a dangerous situation.

She stood up and turned to leave.

Oh, and Ms. Avery, didn’t you blow the whistle on Sunny Ricter’s parents last year? A false concern if I remember correctly?

Monica felt the flush race up her neck onto her face. That turned out badly. Sunny’s father threatened to sue the school. It was an empty threat, of course, mandated reporters were a hard sell to the court in a lawsuit. Still, it was uncomfortable for a while. Until the parents bought a nicer home in a better neighborhood, finer schools, problem solved. Still, in her gut, Monica knew that Sunny was abused.

She muttered a possible thank you, or maybe a fuck you, and left Mr. Christian’s office, stopping by Mrs. Trudy’s desk on the way out of the inner sanctum as her fellow colleagues were prone to call the glass enclosed main office.

After securing a promise from Trudy to make certain Dr. Stewart would check up on Annabelle, Monica practically ran down the hall so she could reach her room before her students returned from their lunch with the inevitable pizza sauce and nacho cheese dip still smeared in the corners of their mouths.

That was the one part of teaching she didn’t expect or enjoy. Nobody told her she would have a classroom of crusty noses, snot-covered lips, vomit surprises, and lunch later snack remains on every imaginable part of her students’ bodies. Any normal person would have expected it and shrugged it off, but Monica was raised to be neat and clean. Even at an early age she would never have been caught with detritus on her face or anywhere else. The whole cleanliness next to Godliness and all…not that her family had any type of relationship with God.

3

CINDY SESSION ONE

Which one angers you more, your mom or your dad?

Neither.

Don’t play games, Cindy. It’s not productive, and that’s why you’re here. To be productive in your healing.

Who said either one angers me?

The question wasn’t insolent. It was matter of fact. Devoid of emotion.

I think, if you’re honest, you will admit that you’re angry. After all, that’s why you came to see me. You said you wanted help managing your anger? Isn’t that correct?

What makes you think it’s one of them that I am angry with?

Dr. Ramsey sighed inwardly. It was going to be a difficult day, and she really wasn’t in the mood. That wasn’t fair to her patient, of course, but she was only human. She tried to keep her cool.

In our last session, you said that your parents caused you grief, you hinted that they caused you some kind of pain, but you didn’t elaborate. Care to do that now? She tried a different track, wondering if it would make a difference.

Cindy sat quietly, considering her options. She wasn’t sure yet. She didn’t trust Dr. Ramsey yet. She was a nice enough woman. She had kind eyes, but today, they looked harried. Today, she didn’t have the doctor’s undivided attention. Nope, today was not the day to get into it. This was her third session. Each time, she threw the doc a little bone to keep her mildly interested. Last week, she hinted her parents had been an issue. Dr. Ramsey had perked up, but Cindy really wasn’t ready. Cindy wanted absolute, razor-focused attention.

I had a toy once when I was a little girl. I loved that toy. Cindy signed appropriately, knowing that the doctor was going to love this next revelation. It would give her something to ponder between visits.

What happened to it?

My dad burned it.

And that hurt you? Did it make you angry?

It made me sad.

Why did he burn it? To punish you?

No, because it was dirty.

It couldn’t be cleaned?

No, there was a flood. We had to burn a lot of things because they were so dirty. My toy was one of those things.

It sounds like it was something he had to do. To be safe. To keep you safe.

Cindy looked at the doctor. She knew her time was up. She decided to leave with a zinger.

I suppose. I always wondered if I was dirty, would he burn me, too?

4

TOM SUTTER AND ANNABELLE

Tom Sutter drove into the driveway and slammed on his brakes, jamming his car into park. Every damn day. Seriously, how many times did he have to tell his daughter to put her scooter away when she was done with it? Worse, why didn’t Shelia make sure their daughter took care of her things? Shelia was home all day. At least she could make sure the damn scooter wasn’t in the driveway when he came home from a long day at work.

He cracked his knuckles as he unfolded his lanky body from the low-slung seats of the new sedan he had picked up last week. He liked it. It suited him.

What he didn’t like was the weed poking in between the expansion joints of the driveway.

What the hell did Shelia fucking do all day?

Tom half-assed kicked at the weed as he tried to tamp down his anger. It wouldn’t do to get pissed off today at his loving family. He’d had a call from the school. Annabelle had some bruises, and they were concerned. He easily explained it. She had slipped off the pool ladder, and he grabbed her to stop her from crashing to the ground.

Plausible.

That’s all it had to be.

The school psychiatrist chuckled with him about kids’ feet growing faster than their bodies and confirmed that Annabelle had told him the same thing.

Of course she did, Tom smiled. She could be a good girl when she wanted to, and smart, too. When she wanted to be.

After some meaningless chit chat, Dr. Stewart signed off, and all was right with the world. Tom tamped down the irritation that the dumb-fuck doctor had caused him. It served as a reminder to stay on his toes. Yep, all was well.

Expect for that damn scooter.

Tom opened the screen door and spotted his progeny sprawled on the living room floor, not a care in the world. Her tongue was stuck out, touching the top of her cupid’s bow lips, concentrating on coloring in the lines with a sunny yellow crayon.

Annabelle.

Her breath caught. She recognized the dangerous tone. Scrambling to her feet, her mind was racing. What did she do? What did she forget? Shit. The scooter.

She put a happy face on, trying to disarm him. Sometimes it worked. Her fingers were crossed.

Hi, Daddy. I didn’t know it was time for you to come home. I think I may have left my scooter in the driveway… She let her voice trail off, punctuated with a sunny smile.

Yes. Yes, you did. Maybe you’re not old enough for a scooter. Maybe you shouldn’t have nice things. The dangerous tone wasn’t tempering.

I’m sorry, Daddy, she said contritely in just the right voice. The one she had learned over the years. He hadn’t moved closer to her, so maybe she pulled it off. I’ll go move it right now. She skittered past him, trying to stay out of his reach and flew out the front door. Luckily for Annabelle her father caught the aroma of the meatloaf Shelia was pulling out of the oven. Shelia, at least, had learned to know what time he got home, and that he expected his dinner on the table within minutes of his arrival. It seemed like tonight she was on her A game.

And meatloaf. It was his favorite, especially if it was slathered with sticky barbecue sauce and served with cheesy potatoes with crushed chips on top.

Annabelle got her scooter put away and quietly slipped in the back door. Her mother motioned for her to set the table while her daddy washed up in the bathroom. Annabelle put the silverware on the placemats just exactly as she was taught, making certain the handle ends were even. Then she folded the napkins and creased the paper edge so it laid flat under the fork. She stood back to check. Everything looked okay. At least she hoped so.

Tom sat at the table and glanced around at the spread.

Where the fuck was the salt and pepper?

Exactly how do you expect me to salt and pepper my food? he asked, disgust dripping with his words.

Annabelle froze, her eyes meeting Shelia’s. Her mother gestured with her head for Annabelle to hurry up and remedy the situation as she tried to distract her husband. The last thing she wanted today was more drama between her husband and her daughter. It happened regularly, and she always caught the fallout.

Self-preservation motivated Shelia.

How was your day? she asked as she touched the inside of his thigh under the table, walking her fingers up his pants toward his crotch. It’s Friday, and the weekend is ahead. She smiled inanely at the man, promises of a fulfilling and satisfying night.

"No shit