One Last Step Read online

  O N E

  L A S T

  S T E P

  (A TARA MILLS MYSTERY—BOOK ONE)

  S A R A H S U T T O N

  Sarah Sutton

  Debut author Sarah Sutton is author of the TARA MILLS mystery series, which includes ONE LAST STEP (Book #1), ONE LAST BREATH (Book #2), and ONE LAST UNVEIL (Book #3).

  Sarah has always been fascinated by the mystery genre and loves to write suspenseful books with complex characters. Sarah would love to hear from you, so please visit www.sarahsuttonauthor.com to email her, to join the mailing list, to hear the latest news, and to stay in touch!

  Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Sutton. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BOOKS BY SARAH SUTTON

  TARA MILLS MYSTERY SERIES

  ONE LAST STEP (Book #1)

  ONE LAST BREATH (Book #2)

  ONE LAST UNVEIL (Book #3)

  CONTENTS

  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

  EPILOGUE

  Prologue

  She could taste it—the distinct metallic aftertaste. It was blood. She knew it well, for she had tasted it many times before. She was an athlete after all—a soccer player—and she’d had her fair share of hard falls. But that was the past, and this was different.

  She looked behind her one last time, as she rested against a tree to steady her breathing. She squinted, and in the distance she could see him. On the forest floor, his body, face down. She had gotten him good, hitting him over the head with a rock when he thought she was unconscious.

  It was something her father taught her once, knowing that she often ran and hiked alone. It was her father’s worst fear that something would happen to her on one of those adventures, so he took it upon himself to teach her self-defense. Grab whatever you can find and hit your attacker in the head, as hard as you can. He said the brain was the most delicate organ in the body. It was something he’d told her over and over again, and each time she would smile because she only listened to make him feel more secure. But now she understood, and the thought of her father sent a jolt of adrenaline through her body.

  He’s not going to find me dead, she said to herself, as her eyes welled.

  She stared at him a moment longer as she tried to find the energy to keep going, but just before taking another step, she could swear she saw movement. It was slight, and at first she couldn’t tell if it was her mind playing tricks on her, but then she watched in horror as he slowly reached his large hand toward his injured head.

  Her heart began to pound as she quickly turned around, facing the edge of the woods. The sun peeked through a break in the trees; she was almost there.

  Dizzy, she focused on the ground, meeting small goals of movement as she limped across the forest floor. But with each step, she felt more detached from her body. Her wound was serious; she knew it. After all, he had shot her with an arrow. It was a reality she still couldn’t quite grapple.

  She pushed off of each tree, letting the forest guide her, until she reached the edge. She could see a lawn—a house—and hope began to wash over her. A car was in the driveway. Someone was home.

  She stumbled across the lawn toward the porch, hope flooding her body. Just as she reached the steps she heard something. The sound of movement behind her—the slap of a bow.

  Something cut the air—and suddenly, she felt it. Something in her back—another arrow.

  A spasm of pain shot up her body as she struggled to find her breath. But she couldn’t dare look back, or even scream. She had little energy left and she knew she needed every bit of it as she fell to her knees and proceeded to pull herself up the porch stairs.

  She wanted to cry, but no tears could fill her eyes. Her body was too dehydrated from her hike and loss of blood. She pulled herself up onto the porch and, with every ounce of energy she had left, reached her arm out in front of her and pounded her fist into the base of the door.

  Seconds later she heard hurried footsteps as the door in front of her began to open.

  But she knew it was too late.

  She already felt cold, and as the door opened, she envisioned her father. He would check in with her soon, but her phone would only ring.

  She would never hear his voice again.

  Chapter One

  The door in front of her vibrated with each thump of struggle and her mother screamed out in pain. Tara was in the closet, hiding, just as her mother would’ve told her to do.

  “Please don’t!” her mother yelled.

  Tara hadn’t seen who it was, but she only knew of one person who could make her mother scream with such desperation—her father.

  She reached for the doorknob. She had to do something. He was going to kill her.

  But, just then, a shrilling shriek filled the air.

  Tara Mills jolted upright at the buzzing of her alarm, and she quickly turned it off.

  John stirred slightly at the sound. But to Tara’s relief, her boyfriend’s eyes remained closed. It was just a nightmare, she said to herself. He didn’t notice.

  Before this week, she had managed to go two months without a nightmare occurring, but this was the second one in the past four days and it troubled her. She had thought therapy had worked, and so did John, and she couldn’t bear to tell him that it was happening again. He was finally worrying less about her—he seemed happier—and Tara wanted to keep it that way.

  John’s dark blond hair pointed in all different directions as it did every morning. She reached her hand out, brushing it lightly against his forehead and pushing the few strands away, before leaning over and kissing him.

  He began to sit up. “Coffee,” he groaned.

  Tara smiled in return before throwing her short brown hair up into a messy bun.

  “I’ll go put some on now.” She pulled back the covers and walked barefoot across the cold hardwood floor.

  As she prepared th
e coffee, she looked over her island counter at her newly painted walls and beautiful hardwood floored living room and couldn’t help but marvel at how perfect their life had become. It had been two weeks since they moved into their new apartment in Washington, D.C., and it was finally beginning to feel like home, affirming to her that their lives were moving in the right direction. They were building a life together, and Tara knew it was only a matter of time before John would propose. She just hoped her psychological baggage wouldn’t ruin it.

  “How’s that coffee comin’?” John asked as he walked into the kitchen.

  Tara spun around toward the machine, realizing that it was finished brewing, and poured it into his mug. Tara smiled as John reached around her waist and pulled her in for a kiss. He was taller than her, lean but slightly muscular. He wasn’t someone who worked out often, but he had a naturally large build that always somehow made Tara’s worries feel less significant—his arms always felt safe.

  His hands slid away as he grabbed hold of the mug and took a seat on the barstool.

  “Ugh…I don’t want to go to work,” he muttered as he took his first sip of coffee.

  Tara sighed. It had only been a week since they both started their new jobs—him in accounting and her in the FBI—but John had already made it clear that he wasn’t enjoying it, and it gave Tara an unsettling feeling. It was the only setback in the perfect life they were moving toward, and she knew that if the feeling didn’t go away, it was inevitable that something would need to change.

  “Just give it time, it’ll get better,” she said as she took a sip, but John only stared at his coffee in silence, as if expecting that response.

  She wanted him to feel what she felt—thrill and passion. Even though her first week as an FBI agent was filled with paperwork and research, she knew they were just easing her in before her first case.

  Suddenly, John’s phone beeped. He reached for it and began to text someone back.

  “By the way, don’t forget that my parents are coming for dinner,” he said as he looked up at her.

  Tara nodded. She almost forgot that they were coming that night, and she spun around to the fridge and began rummaging through it, making sure she had all the ingredients for dinner. She was looking forward to them coming—after all, being closer to them was partially why they moved—but she still always felt this need to impress them, and she knew why. It was her deepest desire to have a family, after losing hers so young, and John’s parents treated her like their own daughter.

  But even though they had a great relationship, there was an anxiety that would bubble up in her at times. She knew it was because of her mother’s murder and her father’s imprisonment. It had taken years of therapy for her to understand that it had completely disrupted her sense of security. Yes, she had her grandmother who took her in after, but the damage was done. She had learned too early how fleeting life can be, and as she grew older, that perspective trickled into all aspects of her life, including her relationships—a fear that it was only temporary.

  “How did you sleep, by the way?” John suddenly asked, as he looked up at her.

  He was referring to the nightmares. It was a question he had been asking less and less, but it was odd that of all days, he asked it today. Did he sense she was hiding something?

  “I slept well last night…I still haven’t had one,” she replied as she closed the fridge.

  It was a lie, but telling the truth would only mean that she would have to talk about it, and that was not something she was willing to do, at least not now.

  John nodded and directed his attention back to his phone. He hadn’t noticed. Tara was sure of it now, because he would never let it go that easily if he knew.

  But she was also aware that it was only a matter of time before he would find out. They were going to keep reoccurring because she didn’t know why she was having them. Her therapist had concluded that it was due to survivor’s guilt—something Tara learned was very common—and it had taken a lot of therapy to remind herself that she was just a child, that it was unfair to blame herself. Hiding in the closet was what any child would’ve done.

  Once she overcame the guilt, the nightmares stopped. But now, Tara knew that it wasn’t the root of the problem. It was just the surface of something much deeper.

  Tara’s phone interrupted her train of thought as it vibrated on the counter. She picked it up. It was a text from her boss.

  MEET AT HQ ASAP

  Tara’s heart thumped against her chest. Her boss had never texted her before, and she knew it could only mean one thing—that there was a new case, one she could possibly be assigned.

  Chapter Two

  Tara briskly made her way up the sidewalk to the entrance of the J. Edgar Hoover building and her heart swelled with pride. It was the same feeling she had each time she arrived at work for the past week, and she still couldn’t wrap her mind around that this was now a part of her normal routine.

  It was something she had dreamed about for so long, ever since she was a child and then as she grew older—watching true crime late into the night as a teenager until her grandmother would force her to turn it off. It wasn’t until later in life, after her grandmother passed away and when Tara went to therapy, that she realized her fascination was deep rooted. Her therapist had said it stemmed from a need to control what she couldn’t as a child, and while Tara couldn’t disagree, she knew there was more to her desire. To Tara, it was about justice and doing her part to keep the world slightly more in balance.

  Tara rushed into the FBI headquarters building and into the elevator, not wanting to be late. With each frantic step forward, she felt her palms sweat with anticipation.

  The whole way to the office, Tara contemplated what Reinhardt’s words meant, and her final conclusion was that he indeed must have a case for her.

  As she approached the meeting room, she looked through the pleated glass windows and saw that some agents were already there. She opened the big glass door and quickly took a seat. Soon after, a few more agents scuffled in.

  Once everyone arrived, all eyes turned toward Reinhardt, who sat at the head of the large conference table reading a case file, his glasses sitting on the tip of his nose. It was their morning meeting, and over the past week, Tara had learned that it was when they updated each other on their cases.

  But each time Tara took a seat at that table, she couldn’t help but feel like an outsider. She had already met all the agents, but their conversations never quite extended beyond it. They were all eagerly focused, completely absorbed in their work, and Tara understood. She respected their focus—their discipline—and she knew that to get to know them, she would have to work with them.

  But today was different, and she could tell everyone around her felt it too as they quieted down much quicker than usual and stared at Reinhardt like a flock of baby birds, waiting eagerly to be fed.

  He finally looked up and cleared his throat.

  “Three days ago a young couple went missing in Hanover, New Hampshire. They were hikers, hiking the Appalachian Trail. No bodies found, except for some blood believed to be the couple’s.”

  The room erupted into a hushed chatter before Reinhardt cleared his throat once again and the room faded into silence.

  “This morning another hiker was found on someone’s porch north of Hanover. She was shot with an arrow.”

  The room stayed silent as Tara looked around her at the other agents, quietly piecing together theories in their heads. It was obvious that the consensus was a possible serial killer.

  “Any leads?” one younger agent asked.

  Reinhardt shook his head.

  “Any connection between the victims?”

  Tara looked down the table to see who was speaking, and her eyes met Frank Warren, the FBI’s most skilled veteran. His impeccable suit and perfectly combed over silver hair screamed intimidation. He leaned forward over the table, staring directly at Reinhardt and meeting his eyes—something only an ag
ent with his amount of experience would do.

  “The couple and the third victim did not know each other. But they were hiking around the same area. All three in their early twenties,” Reinhardt replied before pulling himself closer to the table and resting his forearms on the surface. “The couple was spotted in Hanover the day before they went missing. Then search and rescue got sent out and they found the blood on the trail.”

  “Were any arrows recovered?” Warren asked.

  “Yes, in the third victim. A carbon TenPoint Alpha-Nock.”

  Warren nodded as he scribbled down the name on a pad of paper in front of him. Other agents followed his lead, including Tara, who quickly grabbed her pen.

  “I’m going to need to fly a couple agents out there immediately…Warren, I’m putting you on this case.”

  He nodded his head promptly as if Reinhardt just confirmed what he already knew.

  “Mills,” Reinhardt then said. Tara turned her head toward him, surprised to even hear her name. “I want you on this case too,” he added.

  Tara stared at him for a moment of awe as she felt all eyes peering at her from every edge of the table. She had hoped for this moment, and she had a feeling it would be today, but to hear her name felt surreal.

  Tara blushed. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  Reinhardt than preceded to dismiss the meeting, except for Tara and Warren, whom he asked to hang back.

  Tara sat in her chair as she watched the other agents leave the room. Some stopped and talked to Reinhardt a moment, before turning to leave, and as each one left, Tara felt her heart pound faster against her chest.

  This was her first real case, her first serial killer case, and a chance to really prove herself. A tinge of pride flooded through her body, but just as quickly as it entered, she immediately felt sickened by the feeling. After all, Tara knew too well how a death affected a family. It was a line she often struggled with, when to feel proud of a career gain and when she was knocking on the borders of selfishness.