Displacement: A Sylvia Wilcox Mystery: The Sylvia Wilcox Series, #0

By Braylee Parkinson

Sylvia Wilcox can't ignore her desire for justice, even when she's mourning the loss of her husband, Derek. As the reality of her new normal sets in, Sylvia is determined to find out what happened to her husband. While digging into the mysteries surrounding her husband's death, Sylvia finds herself involved in a multiple murder case that threatens to reveal a college town's dark secrets. (Prequel to Who She Was)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Braylee Parkinson
• Release date: Nov 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393111146

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The oak-hickory forest, carefully carved into a planned nature preserve, covered the edges of the quiet two-lane country road. Just seven miles from the college town of Ypsilanti, Prospect Road served as a connector for local cities and towns, shuffling traffic between small municipalities in the Ann Arbor area to the more populated communities in metro Detroit. The natural spaces, lush and full from Michigan’s summer rains, had been designated long before the subdivisions and cookie-cutter condos that threatened the greenery. The area, safe and quiet, served as a sanctuary for the college town’s students and locals. The township’s police station was less than a mile away, but even so, the area was a perfect spot for privacy, seclusion, and quiet mayhem.

The road had been clear that morning. A man delivering a small pile of the local newspaper drove by at four a.m., tossing the thinly rolled periodicals into driveways near the city. Later, as the sun began to rise, Claire Bennett drove her dated, blue Chevy minivan along the road, headed toward a highway that would take her to the interstate. The van chugged along, a loud buzz emitting from the vehicle due to the recent theft of her catalytic converter. Claire was taking a sip of her coffee when she spotted a black, mangled dress shoe in the middle of the road. Pulling to the side of the road, Claire looked in the ditch. Seeing nothing, she took a peek into the overgrowth, squinting her eyes, and scanning the abundance of greenery. That was when she saw it. A foot wrapped in a black sock, sticking up in the air. Completely stiff and not belonging to a live person. She let out a loud gasp, threw the van into drive, and headed to the police station. As she sped away from the body, large, heavy raindrops began to fall.

Claire, frantic and distraught, burst through the doors of the police precinct.

Dead body! Dead body! she screamed, sending the officers scrabbling, seeking clarification on the location.

After Claire calmed down and accepted a glass of water from the desk clerk, she told them there was a dead body about a mile down the road. Two officers rushed to the scene, where they found the shoe and Chris Stanton’s body.

Wonder what he was doing out here, one officer whispered.

The rain arrived at the worst possible time. As the detectives rushed to secure the scene, large pellets of water beat down on the ground, washing away potential evidence. The victim wore black dress slacks and a starched white shirt with a dark death stain spread across the front. The man had a neat, carefully cropped crew cut and a pale face with a gaping mouth. His terrified green eyes were wide and frozen with fear. His arms, already stiff from rigor mortis, stretched out at his sides.

Someone was angry with him, the second officer said.

You think it’s connected to the animal slayings?

Could be. Too early to tell.

Meanwhile, six miles north of the murder scene, a woman’s scream pierced the sky. Her feet beat against the pavement as she sprinted through large raindrops, and her voice interrupted the early-morning air. She yelped with pain, begging for help, but the street’s occupants lay dormant in their homes. Thunder crackled, and lightning split open the sky. It was hard to know where she should go or how she could escape. Steady falling raindrops beat harder and harder, as if the elements were against her desire to survive.

The situation was hopeless, but she continued running, refusing to give up. The rain beat down against her face as she threw her head back and screamed out, her voice swallowed by the ominous drops of the downpour. Rushing forward, looking for safety, her heartbeat thumped rapidly against her chest, fierce and rough, causing her to lose her breath. Continuing through the early dawn, drenched streets, the woman fought for clarity. Her clothes stuck to her body, and the rain, warm and brutal, beat through the strands of her hair, thumping against her scalp. Where was she going? Would she escape? The rush of air around her body prevented her from moving faster. Terrified of what would come next, she made a sharp left turn, stepping off the edge of the curb and crashing to the ground. The woman scrambled to gain control, slipping on the soaked pavement; she felt someone grab hold of her legs. Kicking with all her might did not deter her captive. As she twisted her body, ready to fight off the pursuer’s grip, she felt a thump, and the world went dark.

1

Acold, soft breeze blew across my face, tickling the bridge of my nose. Moving my head caused a sharp pain to shoot through my neck, and when I tried to turn my face to the other side, I realized that my head was buried in a pillow filled with down feathers. My hair, thick, soft, and warm, enveloped my head, rubbing against the side of my face. Upon opening my eyes, I looked around the room. Bright white walls caused me to squint, and rubbing alcohol filled my nose.

Where was I?

Sylvia, don’t move.

The voice came from a corner of the room I couldn’t see. I twisted my neck, fighting to locate the source of the sound. Seconds later, a pair of warm, sad, brown eyes stared back at me. It was Charles, my childhood friend. His voice was low and calm, and the even cadence told me that something terrible had happened.

Where am I?

Hospital. You’ll be getting out soon.

This is annoying, I said, grasping for the dense pillow that was preventing me from moving my head.

Charles grabbed my hands, gently holding them in place.

Your mom wanted you to be comfortable. Leave it. She’ll be back in a minute.

Derek? Where’s Derek?

A heavy silence filled the room.

Charles, where is Derek?

There was an accident. We’re not sure what happened …

An accident. That was cop-speak for someone is dead. That was how we started the conversation with a victim’s family before delivering the news that a loved one had been lost.

Charles, I said, struggling to sit up.

Don’t try to get out of bed. You’ve got some sprains and bruises.

Charles! What the hell happened? A thickly muscled arm reached out and restrained me.

Sylvia. We aren’t going to have you running out of here like you did the other night.

I wanted to cry, scream, and hit someone, but most of all, I wanted to know what happened.

The other night? The scene came rushing back. A knock on the door in the wee hours of the morning. Me, stumbling to the door, woozy, wobbling, and holding the doorknob tight to steady my body.

There’s been an accident. Charles’s eyes telling me the rest—what he wasn’t saying, and then … That was it. That was all I could recall. I frantically tried to dig myself out of the web of sheets and blankets.

Calm down, Charles said, holding my arms and keeping me in bed.

My body relented, coming to a rest against the pillow. I was exhausted.

I’m gonna go get your folks. They’ll want to know you’re up.

I put up a slight resistance that sapped the rest of my energy. Days later, my body would ache from the altercation we’d had the previous morning, but I only had vague memories beyond opening the door and hearing Charles’s words. A vision came to my mind. Me, kicking hard as Charles fought to hold me down.

My parents came rushing in, their eyes wide with fear and grief. None of us knew what to say. Charles turned to face them; his head hung low.

Sylvia, we’re so sorry, my mother said, her voice quivering. My father doubled over and sobbed. Derek had always been one of their favorite people.

I want to know what happened, I demanded through clenched teeth. When no one spoke, I started to fight my way out of the covers. I felt faint as I found the edge of the bed and started pushing myself out from under the heavy blanket. My parents rushed to my side, holding me back while I fought until I passed out.

From the night I woke up in the hospital to the day of Derek’s funeral, a downpour hung over southeastern Michigan. I made an abundance of phone calls to arrange Derek’s funeral. Full regalia, salute, cops from around the state, the Michigan State Police would escort the procession—the works. It was grand and expensive, and I rented a hall in Redford for a grand luncheon after the service.

Why did you go to such extreme? my mother-in-law asked.

I responded with a quiet, I had to, and walked away from her.

In reality, I’d done it out of guilt. The most important person in my life had been taken away forever, and I had no idea why. No one was really talking with me about what happened, but the whispers I caught mentioned suicide. The official story was that Derek had been depressed and driven off a highway near Ann Arbor and into a river. But no one else knew what I knew. They didn’t have the information that debunked that theory. Waiting for the initial grief to pass before starting my search for the truth, I numbed my thoughts and watched the events of the funeral unwind. I wasn’t there. Instead, I watched the service unfold as if they were on an old projector reel, ticking by in an antiqued movie house.

My parents crowded around me at the funeral, both taking my arms and sitting close enough for me to feel their breath on my neck. They had always liked Derek. He’d had a way of helping me stay within the lines. I could be reckless if I thought my actions would lead to the truth. There were times when I pushed too hard. Derek had helped me find balance in life.

Graveside, crouched under an umbrella with Martin, Derek’s younger half-brother; my parents; and Charles crowded around me, I stared at the coffin. I closed my eyes as I listened to the bagpipes and rifles and tried to send thoughts to Derek. I wanted to apologize for everything and tell him that I would find out what happened. A loud clap of thunder crackled through the sky, as if to rebuke me for making a promise I might not be able to keep. Perhaps it was Derek reminding me from his grave that I didn’t have a good track record when it came to solving crimes involving my loved ones. I’d failed my brother Simon, who’d gone missing when we were ten, never to be seen again. My entire life from the moment Simon disappeared had been built around the idea that I would not rest until I found my brother. Unfortunately, Simon was still lost, probably buried in some shallow grave not too far from our childhood home. And I, the detective who was known for solving cold cases, hadn’t been able to solve the crime that had taken him away. A hint of painful nostalgia rose up in my soul. Would I fail Derek the way I’d failed Simon?

The night after the funeral my old partner, Bob Alderson showed up on my doorstep. Since Bob was one of my least favorite people on the planet, I considered ignoring the doorbell. I opened the door on the third ring.

What do you want, Bob?

Came to pay my respects.

You did that at the funeral. What do you want?

Bob Alderson had been my partner for the first few years I was on the force. We’d been in constant flux during our partnership because of his shady backdoor deals and laziness. We hadn’t been partners for six years and rarely spoke outside of the occasional greeting at work.

I knew you’d be alone tonight. Why ya doing this to yourself?

Bob was five feet four with thin, salt and pepper strands of hair plastered to his forehead. He wore an unzipped, black Member’s Only jacket that revealed the spillover of his belly.

I just want to be alone tonight.

That’s the wrong way.

Why are you here? I asked, raising my voice before plopping down on the couch.

I’m sorry. Just wanted to say that. I knew how sad Derek was, and I should have said something to you.

Derek and I had separated at one point, but we’d reconciled before he died. We’d decided to keep our reconciliation a secret because the precinct was a place where misery loved company. Some of the cops were gossipy, others were unhappy, and the job itself didn’t work well for marriage. So, we’d let everyone at work think that our marriage was over.

I know we haven’t always gotten along, but I want to be there for you. Know what I mean? Bob said.

Derek and I were back together, so I knew Bob was lying about Derek being depressed. What was the true meaning of his visit?

Thanks, I said, standing up and heading for the door, pulling it open and waiting for Bob to leave.

All righty. Well, I’m taking off now. Just call if you need anything.

After Bob Alderson left, I locked up and cried myself to sleep on the couch.

2

The next few days felt endless. I alternated between emotional breakdowns and fits of rage-fueled packing. Before Derek’s death, he’d surprised me with the old, crumbling Victorian I’d dreamed of buying and renovating during my grad school days. Owning the house had only been a fantasy until the bottom fell out of Michigan’s economy. The value of the old, antiquated house dropped to a level where it was nothing more than a minor player at an auction. Derek had surprised me with the house a few days before he died. We’d cemented our future and were planning to start a private investigation agency after we both quit our jobs. Now, I didn’t know what I was going to do with the Victorian. Renovations would cost more than I’d ever make as a cop, but there was no way I was selling the place. It was the last thing Derek had given me. It was mine for life. Numb from loss and unable to think a complete thought, I realized that it was nice to have monotonous tasks to complete while my heart ached. I was in the middle of wrapping dishes in strips of newspaper when the doorbell rang.

Charles was on the front porch, hands shoved in the pockets of his dark blue dress pants.

Hey, I said.

We need to talk, Charles said, pushing past me. His face looked troubled.

Okay. What’s up? I asked.

You got any coffee?

What do you think? Come into the kitchen.

Charles followed me into the small box-shaped kitchen. His size made space a little awkward. I grabbed a cup from the cabinet, emptied the carafe, and handed him the mug.

How’s it going? Charles muttered.

As good as can be expected for a widow. Haven’t found the merry part yet.

We shared a few more basic pleasantries before an uncomfortable silence settled around us. The chatter felt abnormal and false. Then Charles said, You’re not going to let this go. We should come up with a plan now.

I don’t know what to do about it.

C’mon, Sylvia. Snap out of it. I’m not going to let it go either. So let’s do something.

I held my head, feeling a headache coming on.

What can I do?

You’re grieving. That’s the only reason why you haven’t been out there looking for the truth, but I’m here to wake you up because I’m your friend. I don’t want you to look back and wonder why no one pushed you to look deeper.

They say he committed suicide.

Which you don’t believe. I don’t either. The official report says that Derek drove into the Huron River. First of all, Derek had been living in Redford for almost a year. Why was he out here at that time of night?

It was a great question. We’d just decided to get back together, but there was no reason for Derek to be in the Ypsilanti–Ann Arbor area. He’d been renting a place near Detroit. Secondly, he’d already made it clear that we were going to meet up on Friday, so why was he near my apartment? There was no way I was going to let it go, but it was so difficult to see through the pain of losing Derek. I wasn’t quite ready to dive into the mystery surrounding what happened, but the longer I waited, the less chance I had of finding the truth. What was I doing? Wasting time, I told myself.

Okay. You’re right. Will you go through it with me?

That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear, Charles said.

Hold on, I said, grabbing a whiteboard and an Expo marker out of a box. I sat the whiteboard on the couch, uncapped the marker, and started drawing columns. My adrenaline began to churn to life.

Where you wanna start? Charles asked.

I guess the night it happened. I talked to Derek, and everything was fine. He told the chief he was quitting earlier that day⁠—

He did that a week before he died.

What? I stopped drawing the columns on the whiteboard.

Syl, he had already put in his two-week notice about a week before he died. He was out the door. We were just waiting for the next week to be up. He asked me not to say anything to you because it was a surprise.

I thought I’d been the only one who knew Derek was quitting. Everyone we worked with knew as well. Why had he lied to me?

I’m sorry, Syl, but yes. He lied.

Well, that changes things. Alderson came by the night of the funeral ‘to offer his condolences.’ Said he knew Derek was so depressed.

That’s so strange. I know how well you two get along.

Right. Okay. If people knew Derek was leaving, they could have been angry at him. We’re always shorthanded. Some people probably saw him as a sellout. You know how it is. We grew up in Detroit, so when we leave, it’s like we’re traitors.

That’s not fair.

Charles, you know it’s true.

Listen, the guys weren’t happy he was leaving, but some understood. A couple of guys gave him crap, but nothing major.

Derek hadn’t made a lot of enemies on the force, but he also wasn’t the most popular guy. Mostly because he was married to me. I always had questions at the morning briefings, rarely agreed with the crimes we were told to focus on, and I tried to do the right thing, no matter how inconvenient it was. This led to other officers rolling their eyes and wondering why I had to extend the morning check-in with my