Uncovered

By S.X. Bradley

Last year sixteen-year-old Autumn solved her sister’s murder. This year, she is part of a high school forensic dream team that assists the police when teens arekidnapped. When it’s discovered the kidnappings are part of a secret online survivor game, the police and team focus on the game maker—the man behind the game.

The focus of the investigation shifts when Autumn is singled out and becomes the target of the Game Maker’s sick game. Through encrypted messages hidden in steganographs, Autumn must discover who the last kidnapping victim is if she hopes to save him in time.

14+ due to violence and adult situations

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Aug 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781771309554

Book preview

Published by Evernight Teen ® at Smashwords

www.evernightteen.com

Copyright© 2014 S.X. Bradley

ISBN: 978-1-77130-955-4

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

Editor: Brieanna Robertson

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

For my sister, Devon, who is moving into the next chapter of her own story.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

While writing is a solitary function, writers don’t write in true isolation. I have so many people to thank that have been part of this journey and my writing world.

Firstly, I need to thank my SHU mentors, Dr. Lee McClain and Shelley Bates. They helped and encouraged me to make this book the best it could be. To my critique partners, especially Gina Anderson who stuck with me through several terms.

My SHU family, especially my fellow Unteachables. I love you guys.

To my daughter, my #1 supporter and fan. Your unconditional love and joy about my stories keeps me going. I love how passionate you are about mommy’s stories.

To my family, my mom and dad, Chris, Monique, Lizette, Devon, Ethan, Megan, Madison, and Grayson. You all always make me feel so loved and like I can accomplish anything.

My dear friends who continually support my dream of writing down stories. John Perryman, Mary Tillman, Ellen McElwain, Jacque King, my SICCO and SCBWI family.

To my Evernight Teen family, especially Elle Stone and Brieanna for believing in me and helping me bring Autumn’s stories to life.

To the #WeNeedMoreDiverse campaign and www.DiversityinYA.com—thanks for supporting the need for more diverse books for teens.

A special thanks to the fans of Unraveled. I hope you continue to follow Autumn’s journey.

UNCOVERED

An Autumn Covarrubias Mystery, 2

S.X. Bradley

Copyright © 2014

Chapter One

There was minimal blood spatter on the black and white checkered floor. Mainly small, spherical droplets. My hands trembled as I removed the ruler from my new black case. The numbered evidence markers outlined a crimson polka dot path. Squatting down, I held out the ruler, and it landed with a loud ping as the steel hit the tile. All eyes darted toward me. I shrugged an I’m sorry.

Everyone resumed their tasks, except for Minerva. She rolled her eyes at me, which was miraculous considering the spider-leg eyelashes she wore. I gave her a country-club smile, then refocused on the blood spatter.

I picked up my ruler and measured the diameter of several drops. Average was 6 mm. Low velocity. She could still be alive.

"Clear. Shock , silence. Sorry for your loss, miss."

I shook my head, trying to clear the memory. This was different. Low velocity meant small force of impact. These types of droplets were caused by someone dripping blood, not by a blow or gunshot. Or by knife wounds. They could belong to the missing ice cream girl, or if we were lucky, the kidnapper. The Texas state crime lab would have to sort that out, and it could take forever.

I documented the results in my evidence log. My handwriting was shaky, but legible enough for my team.

It’s not her. This is different. This girl may still be alive. There’s hope.

I blew out the fear in one big breath and got back to work. I examined the pattern on the floor. The low blood volume found at the scene was a positive sign, but it wouldn’t matter to her family. They were being tormented every second she was gone. Right now, the tricks their minds were playing on them, the things their imaginations were conjuring, were sadistic. Panic loved to be a bitch like that.

I had to help her and her family. After all, it was why I’d accepted the offer to participate in the Science and Technology Associates in Forensics Foundation’s—or STAFFF’s—forensic training camp.

I stepped back and looked at the ice cream parlor from all angles the way I’d been taught this past summer.

Even though the parlor had a 1950s décor, it was a new addition to the city of Nogales. The overhead fans kept the space cool, and the clack, clack, clack rhythm echoed in the empty shop. The checkered floor was a nice contrast to the deep red booths and bar stools. The walls were adorned with vintage signage and photos of Nogales landmarks. A Wurlitzer jukebox stood proudly by the front entrance. On any other day, it would be a place I’d like to visit with my boyfriend, Caedon.

My four other STAFF teammates were walking around performing the various tasks assigned to them. It was our first case, and I prayed we’d do a kick-ass job, because there was still hope and a chance to impact her fate.

Today, we were at the ice cream shop to act as free consultants for the Nogales PD and to learn about forensics firsthand. Our first team objective was to form no judgments or conclusions before all the facts were in. We would then create a crime scene analysis and summary to forward on to the detective in charge of the investigation. He’d give us his feedback, and that would factor into our grade.

Objectivity was key. Quick-draw conclusions could lead you down the wrong path and to the home of…oh, I don’t know, let’s say…my high school principal. Principal Tamez still hadn’t forgiven me and never would. Ponzi Scheme Boy knew I was onto him, except there was this little thing called evidence that the police liked to have before arresting anyone for embezzling.

He reeked of dishonesty and was definitely hiding something underneath that greasy comb-over. One day, I’d find out exactly what he was up to and find the evidence I needed to put him away.

I moved from the main sitting area to behind the ice cream counter, then maneuvered around Heather who was busy drawing the space I was about to examine. A massive industrial- grade blender glowed below the red neon Kissick’s sign. Two stainless steel sinks flanked an assortment of fruit, and ice cream toppings littered the countertop. I smiled at the jar of caramel sauce. Her favorite.

There was additional blood spatter on the countertop and on the floor immediately below it. I was convinced most of the physical action had taken place there. Sugar and waffle cones were shattered all over the floor, and rosy-colored ooze made its way from behind the counter to the edge of the cake display.

I knelt down to touch it. Even with latex gloves on, I could tell it was thick, sticky, and dense. My guess was a strawberry milkshake, but I wasn’t about to taste it to find out if I was right. I had no idea why they always did that on TV.

The liquid had tempered, and according to Asher’s latent heat calculation, ice cream girl had been snatched over thirty minutes ago.

The blue footies blanketing my feet made the floor slippery as hell. I prayed I wouldn’t fall flat on my face, disturb the evidence, and incur another eye roll from Minerva. At least I’d remembered to put them on this time. When I’d forgotten, one of my instructors, Mrs. Tavarez, had made me wear these hospital-looking footies for a whole week as punishment.

I pushed record on the voice memo feature of my STAFF-issued cell phone and began describing the scene as I walked a gridline pattern, covering every square foot of Kissick’s ice cream parlor.

So, team, any conclusions? asked Mrs. Agate, our Gifted and Talented Education teacher. With her proper gray hair fastened in a bun, glasses, and an English demeanor, she reminded me of Mrs. Potts from the Beauty and the Beast movie. When she was still a teapot. Her grin showcased all of her teeth. She was far from matronly, though. Rumor had it that she wrote romance novels on the side and was just waiting to sell a novel so she could retire.

Five of us had been chosen from the GATE program to study forensics for the year. Heather Landers represented the music and art program; Nicolai Petrovich, language arts; Asher Taccone, science & physics; and Minerva Riviera would deal with the press and other law enforcement agencies since she was our social studies rep. I’d been chosen as the mathematics go-to girl.

The news media had sensationalized and debated the formation of a high school forensic dream team, so there was a ton of pressure on us not to screw this up. I could name a few haters that would love to see us fall flat on our Gifted and Talented noses.

It looks like someone caught her by surprise, then picked her up and carried her off. I walked to the back of the counter to illustrate my findings. There’s a little bit of blood on the countertop, which probably came from her kicking out. I’m guessing he must have bear-hugged her from behind.

From behind? Minerva put her hand on her hip to emphasize her point. Why do you think that?

The cones on the floor suggest her legs had to be up at least four feet off the floor, and since you really can’t kick that far behind you, her legs had to be out in front of her, I answered, trying not to let her get to me, since social science wasn’t her only talent. Look how far back on the counter the other cones are. No way she’d have been able to kick them if she and the kidnapper were face to face.

I pursed my lips together and tried not to laugh in her face as she kicked her legs behind her, trying to disprove my theory. Asher looked up from his position near the spilled milkshake and pointed his head toward Minerva. I shrugged my shoulders.

I guess that’s one possibility. Minerva scowled at me, but then turned on a dentist commercial smile when she turned toward Mrs. Agate. What shall I tell the press? They’ve gathered outside and you just know they’re dying for any li’l bit of news.

What do you think you should disclose? Don’t you remember this was part of your training this past summer? Heather asked without bothering to look up from her drawing. Good thing, since Minerva scratched her nose with her middle finger as she glared at my little Renoir.

I’ll go with our generic stock answer. With that, she walked out the door, but stopped to check her make-up in a napkin dispenser first. She blew open the doors and planted herself in front of the reporters. Lights flashed and the barrage of questions ensued. The warm Texas air whooshed into the cool space.

Autumn, over here. How does it feel to be working on another case? How is this different from your sister’s murder? It was that parasite, Brock Woods, yelling at me from the entryway. He held the camera over his head, snapping photo after photo of me just like he’d done a year ago. Anything to get a story.

Tears sprang to my eyes without any warning. I wanted to run, but I was trapped. There was nowhere to hide. There was no place that was safe or sacred from those vultures. My feet wouldn’t move.

"Autumn, did you do it? Did you kill your sister because you were jealous of her success as a cross country star? Had to be hard living in the shadow of someone that accomplished."

Asher slammed the door shut and rushed over to me. Nico was pacing around yelling something in Russian. Arms went around me and guided me toward a booth.

Those bastards are unbelievable. You okay?

I nodded because it was what I did when the dark monster threatened to take me into its black hole. I could feel Asher’s eyes boring into me, his human lie detectors.

Mrs. Agate, I’m taking Autumn home. They had no right to—

No, Asher, I’m fine. I don’t want to leave. My voice cracked as my mind slowly rebuilt the pieces. I can’t let them get to me. It’s all about the case, right? And finding the girl. I cleared my throat. "I have—I mean, we have to find her."

I grabbed a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and dabbed at my eyes. Rubbing made everyone notice the red. Anger was starting to metabolize inside me, and I thought about throwing everything that was not nailed down.

My legs finally cooperated and I scooted out of the booth. I’d had enough of the parasite press right after my sister’s murder, but the stalkarazzi frenzy grew exponentially after I’d solved the case and had almost gotten myself killed live on the Internet. Guess I’d brought some of this upon myself. Still didn’t make it any easier, though.

As much as I hated to admit it, Minerva would do a great job. As the liaison between law enforcement agencies, the press, and the STAFF foundation, it was her job to handle all the communication. She already had the divert and distract double talk down to a science.

I walked over to one of the other red and white booths and opened my black crime scene case. There was a box of latex gloves, Q-tips, vials, Luminol, black light, a flashlight, and other related equipment to help me process a scene correctly. I spotted what I was looking for and grabbed the measuring tape.

During my crime scene management course, I’d learned how to gather evidence and write down observations. My role was to be the math calculator on the team, so with tape in hand, I took measurements so I could make more precise conclusions. Once I was at the back of the counter, I examined the blood spatter on the countertop more closely.

These droplets of blood were also spherical. So it was a low velocity spatter also probably caused by dripping blood. Another bonus point for the missing girl. Maybe she’d cut herself while kicking out, trying to stop the asshole from snatching her. Or if we got lucky, she’d wounded the kidnapper and his DNA was right there next to the chocolate sprinkles.

The police department’s team had already processed their evidence and had released the scene to us. Mrs. Tavarez, our STAFF sponsor, had worked out a deal with the Nogales PD so we could consult on cases. The department was small, and with the increase in over-the-border kidnappings, sex trafficking, and the drug trade, the police chief hadn’t taken much convincing.

I took a swab, added some ethanol, then lightly dipped it in a droplet. Hey, Nico. Can you grab those two small squirt bottles from my case?

He held up the small plastic bottles.

I nodded.Let’s see if this is what I think it is. I squeezed some drops of phenolphthalein followed by hydrogen peroxide, and the swab turned a bright pink. Positive for blood.

We would be able to type the blood at our school lab, and sometimes that simple test could rule out a suspect. We’d need to find out the missing girl’s blood type so we could compare it against the sample. If the blood type didn’t match hers, then we’d know it was most likely the kidnapper’s. Hopefully, she didn’t have the most common blood type, O positive.

If the blood type did match, then we would have to wait for DNA testing, and I knew all too well it would take the state lab months to identify the blood as the ice cream girl’s or an unknown subject. She could be dead by then if she wasn’t already. Every hour she was MIA decreased her chances of being found alive. I hated that statistic.

I shook the thought out of my head and tried to stay positive. Celeste’s face kept popping into my thoughts, even though I knew this case was different.

Hey, Mrs. Agate, what’s the victim’s name? I asked, refusing to call her the girl one more time. She had a family, friends, and co-workers who were experiencing a horror freak show. The not knowing was probably killing them. I owed her that much.

It’s Sasha Ramirez, answered the ice cream shop manager. He was still in the corner of the shop being questioned by Nicolai, our intense Russian exchange student. It was sad that people who learned English as a second language actually spoke it better than we did. His accent made him the Pied Piper of Polk High School. My boyfriend, Caedon, had a cute slight Texas accent, though he’d never admit it.

The cops had interviewed the manager about an hour ago, but now it was our turn. We were lucky he was cooperating with us since the detectives had grilled him pretty hard earlier.

I stared over at him. He looked so lost. His eyes were darting around, and he kept running his hand through the three strands of hair on his head. His plump face was flushed. He kept wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.

I’d seen that look before. The look that said, How the hell could this have happened? Disbelief, fear, and doubt were written all over his face. I felt bad for him. The interview was just for informational purposes, since he had an airtight alibi. The police confirmed he had been at the bank, making the daily sales deposits. Lucky for him, the bank cameras had him on tape with a nice little time stamp to verify his whereabouts.

He’d only been gone for about twenty minutes when it happened. Mr. Simonsen and Sasha were on duty till close, which was around 6:00 p.m. Mr. Simonsen had left about 5:30 to make it to the bank before it closed. He told us he didn’t like leaving that much money on the premises overnight.

Hey, Mr. Simonsen, do you go to the bank at the same time every day when you’re at the shop? I asked.

He looked around the room, trying to locate the voice talking to him.

I waved my hand. Over here, by the water fountain.

Nicolai turned to look at me and waited with pencil and paper for Mr. Simonsen’s answer.

Oh, okay. He shifted around in his chair to look at me. Yes. Either our assistant manager, Josh goes, or I go to the bank before they close, except on Saturday and Sunday, of course.

So if someone had been watching the shop for a while, they’d know your routine, correct?

Yes, I suppose so.

Heather, Asher, Nicolai, and I exchanged glances. Sasha had to have been the target. The kidnapper most likely knew when she’d be alone. Clearly, the kidnapper wasn’t interested in the money or else he’d have gone after Mr. Simonsen, or come to the ice cream parlor when the money was still on site. So why take the girl? We’d need to find out what was so special about Sasha Ramirez.

It always came back to victimology. We needed to learn everything there was to know about her. We’d probably divide up the assignment during GATE class tomorrow. It’d be my job to come up with a victim profile, as well as a kidnapper profile. I would dig into Sasha’s life. The good, the bad, and the ugly would all come out and be exposed to vultures that fed on others’ misery. I’d do my best to protect her privacy. She didn’t need to go through what I had. No one deserved that.

I went back to my case and loaded in my samples and supplies. My fingers ran across the black leather. It couldn’t have meant more to me if it had been filled with gold bars. Asher was also wrapping up, and Nicolai was shaking hands with Mr. Simonsen.

I went over to Heather to see how the drawings were coming along. She was totally engrossed in her art, so I just peeked over her shoulder.

She was sketching furiously with a black fine-point pencil. The detailing was amazing. I could even see the names on the toppings jars. You’d swear you were looking at a black and white photo. She’d managed not only to include all the details, but somehow, capture the feeling of the crime scene as well. I don’t know how she did it, but