Stemming the Tide, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Synopsis
Bella Books Social Media
Praise for the work of Rebecca K. Jones
Other Bella Books by Rebecca K. Jones
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Acknowledgments
Bella Books
Synopsis
After an attack that left her both physically and emotionally scarred, Tucson prosecutor Mackenzie Wilson is ready to get back to work. Reassigned from prosecuting to public relations, Mack is trying to make the best of her new situation. And though she’s back together with her ex-girlfriend, Dr. Anna Lapin, their reignited relationship has already begun to fray.
When the body of a young woman is found with Mack’s business card in her pocket, Mack becomes an obvious suspect. When support from Anna wavers and Mack is put on administrative leave, Mack begins to spiral. And then another body is found.
Battling to protect her reputation and her job, Mack turns to her best friend Jess Lafayette. Together, they find themselves doing the only thing that they can—investigating the murders before time runs out for them and for Anna.
The Mackenzie Wilson Series Book 2.
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Praise for the work of Rebecca K. Jones
Steadying the Ark
Steadying the Ark from Rebecca K. Jones is an impressive debut novel. Mack is a very engaging protagonist with her heart and head in the right place while working on her trial. She is written as singularly focused and driven while building the case which rings very true to me.
I must mention the book cover art is what drew me to this novel. It is stunning. As well the title, once it is explained deep into the story, is a thought-provoking religious conundrum of faith. And it is the perfect fit for the novel. I wholeheartedly recommend this new author be added to your to be read lists.
-Della B., NetGalley
I’m impressed. I thought this courtroom drama was riveting and great. It touched on so many topics such as sexual abuse, rape and religion. I thought the book was beautifully written. Well Done!! I recommend.
-Bonnie A., NetGalley
Hard to believe this story came from someone who has never had a book published, it’s that good. If this is a sample of Ms. Jones skills as an author, I look forward to reading her next book because I’m sure there will be others. Very enjoyable read.
-Bonnie S., NetGalley
After reading Steadying the Ark by Rebecca K. Jones, I must tell you how impressed I am with this book and the author. This is the debut novel for Ms. Jones, and honestly, I’m having a really hard time finding anything to criticize. The story is practically flawless and very entertaining. I can’t wait to read more from this author. If you love a courtroom drama filled with excitement, suspense, and thrills, then this is the book for you.
-Betty H., NetGalley
Steadying the Ark is a fantastic debut—I cannot wait to read more from Rebecca K. Jones in the future.
-Natalie T., NetGalley
Other Bella Books by Rebecca K. Jones
Steadying the Ark
About the Author
A proud graduate of Choate Rosemary Hall, Middlebury College, and the University of Arizona James E. Rogers College of Law, Rebecca K. Jones now lives in the Phoenix, Arizona area, where she has been fighting crime since 2012. This is her second novel.
Copyright © 2023 by Rebecca K. Jones
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
First Edition - 2023
Editor: Heather Flournoy
Cover Designer: Kayla Mancuso
ISBN: 978-1-64247-488-6
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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To my parents. You make this book, and everything else, possible.
Prologue
Just another Tuesday evening behind the bar, waiting for karaoke to start at nine. It’s quiet, a few regulars scattered around the dim room, lit only by the Christmas lights that stay up year-round. We’re off the main drag—don’t get many customers who just stumble in. It’s easy to get to know people, get them talking. We learn their usual drinks, don’t make them waste time ordering. For some of them, the ones who come on a schedule, I even have their drinks waiting when they come in. They eat that up, feel like big shots.
It’s unseasonably hot out, and I’ve got the AC on full blast, overcompensating. It’s not as bad as it was back in the depths of summer, but it’s still bad enough that I send Willow to bus the tables on the patio rather than risk sweat stains. Appearances matter in this job. No one wants to get their drinks from an ugly bartender, and I live on tips. I buy a stack of new shirts three times a year, when the old batch is bleached to the point of no return. It pays to look sharp.
I find myself watching a couple so clearly on a first date it makes my teeth hurt. They’re out of place, too young for this bar, and one of them can’t keep their hands off their phone. They can’t pay attention to the other one for more than a couple seconds at a shot. Either the date is going really poorly, or they’ve got some ADHD they need to address. Or both, I guess. I wonder if they’re even old enough to drink and remember that I don’t care. I’ve had this place a couple years, and in all that time the cops have never pulled an ID check. Never seen anything like it any place else.
As the door swings open, I glance up, hoping it’s her before I see her. It is. A slow smile spreads across my face. She’s a regular, yeah, but she doesn’t keep to a schedule. I’ve known her ten years, since she was just a kid. The days of her crashing in my office are long past, but we still keep in touch. I’ll text her, call her, but she’s bad about responding. Usually, I just have to wait until she comes in. Like tonight. Sometimes, she’ll come in a couple nights a week for three or four weeks in a row, then disappear for two or six or long enough that I’ve almost forgotten her by the time she pops back in. But I’m always glad to see her. Watching her walk in is almost as nice as watching her walk away. I wonder who’s going to join her tonight. It’s too much to hope that she’s here for me. Her friends are pretty, nice, and they make for a laugh, but they’re a distraction.
She smiles back, and I fill a pint glass with Angry Orchard and slide it to her with a wink. She blushes. Not to brag, but I know the effect I have on women, and this one is no exception. The scar on her cheek is new, red and angry against her skin. It doesn’t look like a casual injury. It looks like someone hurt her. I feel a surge of anger, a swell of rage that I breathe through. I don’t let her see my reaction.
“Long time, Pumpkin,” I say, my voice friendly.
She raises her glass and salutes me. “Too long. I missed you, and this place.” She takes a deep pull on the drink and sweeps her long blond hair over one shoulder. She’s gotten a tan since I last saw her. Taking advantage of the nice weather while it lasts. The silver chain around her neck reflects the overhead light. I can’t quite get a look at the charm. It’s tucked under her black Henley shirt, unbuttoned just enough to give me a peek at cleavage. Teasing.
“Been busy?”
She nods. “Same peanuts, brand-new circus. You?”
Some jerk down the bar gestures to get my attention and I grimace, performing for her. Just a little. Just enough to keep her interested. I’ve known her so long—I know what works. She winks as I head that way.
I’m interrupted by more patrons, clamoring for beer and our two-for-one well drink specials. Animals, all of them. I don’t drink, myself. Never developed a taste for the stuff. By the time I get back to pour her next drink, it’s crowded and loud. The heat rolls off people, and I’m sweaty despite my best efforts. A trio of frat bros commandeered the stage half an hour ago wailing country music released long before they were born. I grin and bear it, although I’m surprised this DJ even has these songs in her catalog. More people means more drinks, and the sweatier they get the more refills they order. I never fudge the receipts or their change. It’d be stupid to get caught making trouble for such a small payoff. I just keep making eye contact, smiling, and watching the singles roll in.
The next time I swing by, Pumpkin’s not alone. A young—very young—redhead who I’ve never seen before is leaning into her, and I can’t tell if they’re pressed together so they don’t have to shout, or for some other, less innocent, reason. The redhead’s got a black tank top on under an open leather jacket, and it’s way too revealing. She has her chest right up against the other woman’s arm. If Pumpkin looked down, she might see a nipple. The redhead is talking directly into her ear. Pumpkin seems uncomfortable, and my backup bartender must see a chance to play the hero.
“Get you another?” he says, pointing at her empty glass.
“Make it two,” the redhead says, throwing a twenty on the bar. She means to be cool, but her execution is flawed. It looks like she’s never tried that trick before, and I bet she won’t try it again any time soon. The bill lands in a puddle of some asshole’s spilled G and T. He frowns and picks it up between finger and thumb, showing her—showing both of them—his disdain. He wipes the bill on a bar towel.
“Can I see some ID?” he says.
She throws an ID—it can’t be hers, she’s too young, but who can really care—into the same puddle. He glances quickly at the card and silently fills two pint glasses.
I get called away before he’s formulated his retort, and the next time I look over, Pumpkin has slipped something into the redhead’s hand. She looks stern. Still hot, but mad, almost, and the kid looks disappointed, like she was expecting something more. She polishes off her drink and disappears into the crowd. Pumpkin follows her, and I lose sight of them as I rush to satisfy the vultures, already rowdy even though it’s not nine thirty yet.
Pumpkin comes back, upset. Her face is red, and it looks like maybe she’s been crying. Her mascara is smudged. Still the prettiest girl in the place, though.
“She a friend of yours?” I say when I get back to my favorite spot at the bar, right in front of her.
She shrugs and starts to speak, and then someone says “Mack!” and she spins at the same time I glance up toward the voice we’ve both heard.
It’s Anna. Haven’t seen her here in a long time. Thought she must not like me, or maybe she just hates the bar. Haven’t exactly been mourning her absence—I’ve been getting Mack all to myself when she deigns to come in at all.
“Hey, Doc,” Mack says with the biggest smile I’ve seen from her in a long, long time. She runs her hand up the sleeve of the brunette’s leather jacket and pulls her closer by the back of the neck. There’s an easy familiarity born of habit, but—last I heard—they’d been broken up for years.
“Can I get some help here?” one of the wannabe cowboy karaoke stars shouts from the other end of the bar. I’ve never been less interested in doing my job but move reluctantly down the rail.
When I look back, they’re still kissing. The next time I look, they’re gone.
Chapter One
Mackenzie Wilson groaned as she faced the stack of boxes in front of her. No matter how many the tall blonde unpacked, their number didn’t seem to decrease.
“You have too many books,” Dr. Anna Lapin said, removing her Astros cap and wiping the sweat off her face with the hem of her Michigan State T-shirt. “When you said, ‘Come help me organize the office,’ I pictured some light unpacking of files, not building your own legal library.”
Mack was distracted by the sight of the psychologist’s tanned stomach and set the books she was holding on the ground. “Way too many.” She looked at the shelves that lined her new home office, already half-full, and gathered her long blond hair in her fist. “I maybe should have listened to you when you said to donate some before the move. I guess it’s too late now—they’re already here! Want to take a break?”
Anna grunted and reached for another box. Like the others they had unpacked that morning, this one was labeled BOOKS, but it was lighter than a box of books should have been.
“What’s in here?” she asked, pulling the lid off.
Mack peered over her shoulder and shrugged, then pulled a brown expando-file out of the otherwise empty box. She opened it.
“Oh, shit,” she said. “I know what this is. It’s the case file on the girl from the desert. I was wondering where this got to.”
“What girl from the desert?” Anna asked.
“I might not have told you about this one,” Mack said. “I think you were out of town when they found her, and the case never went much of anywhere, but I was obsessed with it when it happened.” She looked around the room. The desk chair and futon were still covered with boxes, and the ceiling fan wasn’t cutting the heat in the south-facing room. “Let’s take a break. Do you want a beer?”
Anna looked at her watch. “Isn’t it a little early to start drinking?”
“Suit yourself,” Mack said. “But it’s a long story.”
Once they were settled on Mack’s new living room couch with bottles of Kilt Lifter and the case file between them, Mack pulled a school photo out of the file. The girl was pretty, in a bland sort of way—light brown hair curled for the photo, freckles across her upturned nose, a winning smile.
“This is Sabrina Fisher. She was sixteen when this photo was taken. A year before her murder.”
Mack pulled six more photos out of the file and spread them on the coffee table. She tapped on one, showing a skinny young white man in a blue tank top pointing away from the camera into the desert. The picture was blurry. It had been taken at night with the camera’s built-in flash.
“Back in 2011, this guy and his girlfriend were riding ATVs in the desert, out by Rita Ranch one night. You know, like people do. The girlfriend saw what looked like a bonfire, so they rode up to it, just curious, but when they got close they saw that a human body was burning. They called it in, thankfully. By the time police got out there, they’d put the fire out by shoveling dirt on the body, which—”
“Which eliminated any trace evidence,” Anna finished.
“Nailed it.”
“What was the cause of death?”
Mack took a long swallow of her beer. “Inconclusive,” she said. “The medical examiner thought maybe strangulation, because the hyoid bone was damaged, but he couldn’t rule out drugs or just about anything else, because of the state of the body.”
“How did you get involved?” Anna was fanning herself with a travel magazine that had been sitting on the coffee table, her olive skin flushed from the heat of the office. Mack watched a bead of sweat roll down her forehead and lost her train of thought. Anna nudged her. “Easy, there. Focus. How did this turn into your case?”
