The Isolated Widow (The Widow Taker Book 2)

by Kennedy Layne

  The Isolated Widow

  The Widow Taker

  Book Two

  KENNEDY LAYNE

  THE ISOLATED WIDOW

  Copyright © 2020 by Kennedy Layne

  Kindle Edition

  Cover Designer: Sweet ’N Spicy Designs

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Rose Icon made by Freepik from www.flaticon.com is licensed by CC 3.0 BY

  Dedication

  Jeffrey & Cole—I love you both to the moon and back!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  About the Book

  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

  About The Reclusive Widow

  Books by Kennedy Layne

  About the Author

  The gripping and suspenseful search for The Widow Taker continues in this mesmerizing thriller by USA Today Bestselling Author Kennedy Layne…

  Lincoln Roche has spent most of his career profiling serial killers, and there is one thing he is absolutely certain of—the man arrested for the most recent killing spree in Connecticut doesn’t fit the profile. Evidence soon comes to light to vindicate Linc’s theories, but that only means the tally of victims will begin to rise once again.

  Quinn Simmons fully believes it was her solemn duty to warn the widows of Winter Heights that a killer is targeting them for the sheer enjoyment of killing the innocent. She never intended to be The Widow Taker’s spokeswoman, but the package she receives clearly states the rules of the game—she must broadcast his messages or else he will claim yet another victim.

  Linc has no choice but to work with the reporter responsible for giving this sociopath his desired recognition. His aversion quickly turns to emotions somewhat more intriguing when Quinn becomes the one woman he can’t quite fit into the usual categories. What is she hiding and why has she become The Widow Taker’s next target? They must now race against the clock to capture a serial killer who sees himself as Quinn’s savior.

  Chapter One

  First week of January…

  Pamela Griffith shuffled to the kitchen in her brand-new slippers that she’d gotten for Christmas from her five-year-old granddaughter. Unfortunately, the cute pink bunny slippers with floppy ears weren’t the only thing Pam had gotten from Nicole during the holidays. Eight days of running a fever, sneezing, and basically hacking up a lung hadn’t been on her wish list, but she’d still been graced with what amounted to this year’s version of the flu.

  She wondered why she still bothered going to her primary care physician to get the flu shot when they never seemed to be on target. The wrong strain always seemed to be selected from the library of variants available. Then again, it was always better to be safe than sorry. She was a big proponent of doing the right thing, and sixty-eight years old certainly didn’t qualify her as a spring chicken. She followed her doctor’s recommendations to get vaccinated along with the other adults over the age of fifty-eight. She respected Dr. Jason Murray, but she suspected that he still got carded when he ordered a beer with his dinner.

  Thankfully, her symptoms were slowly dissipating. She should be able to return to her knitting club next week. The group would be surprised to find that she’d already finished the first half of the blanket that she’d started before the holidays.

  What Pam needed more than anything right now was a cup of hot Dandelion tea, accompanied with a dollop of honey to cut the edge. It didn’t take her long to fill up her favorite copper kettle and set it on top of the gas burner. She’d been alternating between reading her romance novels and sleeping the majority of the day, so the house had been quiet as a mouse. The only thing she could hear was the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. She hadn’t quite gotten used to the silence after Marvin’s sudden heart attack fourteen months ago, and she still missed him with every fiber of her being.

  They’d stopped keeping pets a year prior to that, with the passing of their dear Snowball. Losing their tiny white Maltese had broken their hearts, but it had been especially hard on Marvin. He’d claimed afterward that no one should get a pet at their age, because there was a chance that he or she could outlive them. She’d gone along with his sentiment, knowing full well that they’d end up with another rescue, but his statement had turned out to be quite prophetic.

  Pam had been reaching into the cupboard for the jar of local honey that she always kept on hand when an odd scraping noise could be heard right outside of her kitchen door. She wondered if it was a branch off the crabapple tree scratching the siding. She didn’t have one of those fancy houses with the patio sliders. Hers was the old-fashioned door with a brass knob, along with the standard white and yellow checkered curtain hanging from a single adjustable curtain rod that Marvin had installed many, many years ago. She’d had a difficult time changing anything in the house when she enjoyed the small pleasant reminders of the man she’d been blessed to spend forty-four years with.

  After putting the bottle of honey on top of the laminate counter that was still edged with chrome, she inched closer to the back door until she could shift the curtain to one side. She frowned, not able to see any of her back yard in the pitch blackness, let alone the branches of the crabapple tree. The noise could have come from one of those big ornamental planters that she’d stored underneath her maple tree for the coming spring. She had stacked them on top of each other, and they could have easily blown loose with the gusts of winds they’d been getting this winter.

  She wasn’t going to worry about some plastic planters that were easily replaceable, though. While her symptoms were waning, she still wasn’t up for going outside in this weather. They could wait until she got one of the neighborhood boys to tend to it. She didn’t even try to flip up the light switch. The yellow bug bulb that Marvin had screwed into place had gone out around a month ago, and she hadn’t had time nor the patience with all the hubbub of the holidays to find a moment to change it.

  Pam went about getting her favorite hand-painted English teacup out of the dishwasher when she remembered that she hadn’t turned on the cycle in a couple of days. She grimaced, but she wasn’t about to do such a light load when it wasn’t needed. It was just a waste of water and dishwashing detergent. Instead, she chose one of the larger mugs that she usually reserved for coffee.

  Another noise, this time louder and more of a bang, had her startling enough that she almost dropped the cup.

  “What on earth?” Pam whispered to herself, walking back over to the back door.

  She parted the curtain once again, but the darkness prevented her from seeing anything past the small con
crete pad that served as a patio. A noise that loud couldn’t have been from a branch scratching against the siding. It had to be one of those big plastic planters blowing around out there.

  She and Marvin had always wanted to have either a wooden deck or maybe some pavers installed, but they just hadn’t gotten around to such a big project in their later years. This would teach her to postpone doing the little things around the house. A two-minute task during better weather would have given her the ability to see farther out into the yard.

  It had been all over the news about some serial killer targeting widows in Winter Heights. She was wise enough to take heed of any danger since she’d been keeping up with the latest information, reading the newspapers and listening to the podcast of a local journalist who had been covering the case.

  Pam doubted anyone would take notice of her, though. Whomever it was would probably go after the younger women. Regardless, there would be no going outside tonight, though she vaguely remembered opening up the front door to get the newspaper this morning.

  “Oh, dear,” Pam muttered to herself, quickly shuffling across the old tiles of the kitchen in her pink bunny slippers as she made her way into the living room. “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to you, Pam.”

  Had she left the front door unlocked all day long? How many times had Marvin reminded her to lock up after herself? He always said locks made for good neighbors.

  “I know, Marvin. I know.”

  The kettle had begun to whistle right after she’d sidestepped Marvin’s recliner, one that she now claimed as her own. She’d heard over and over during her marriage that the best seating location was right in front of the television. She doubted that she’d ever get rid the old broken-down recliner. It reminded her so much of him. As for the shriek of the kettle, that piercing sound had always set his teeth on edge, even though he’d had dentures for years.

  He’d been such a complainer, but he had been her complainer…her partner.

  She wouldn’t have changed a thing about the time they’d spent together.

  The living room was usually a lot warmer than the kitchen, so she was surprised when she suddenly caught a chill. It was as if a breeze had been left inside from somewhere. She squinted her eyes as she got closer to the door, chastising herself when she saw that the deadbolt had never been thrown back into place.

  She suddenly stopped right where she was with her pink bunny slippers.

  Something wasn’t quite right.

  Pam rubbed her arms as she stood next to the coffee table and took in her surroundings. The low murmuring of the television, set to her favorite cable station that replayed episodes of “The Golden Girls” at least twenty times a day, could barely be heard over the shriek of the kettle. The piercing noise covered up any telltale sounds that might be coming from other parts of the house. She honestly didn’t believe that someone had come in through the front door unnoticed, but it was a bit unnerving that a brief draft had settled inside the room.

  Living alone had taken some adjustment, but she’d promised herself that she would never be scared in her own home. She’d taken precautions. She chalked up her trepidation to her being sick and still feeling a bit weak at the moment. Releasing the hold that she had on her own arms, she marched to the front door with a purpose and twisted the deadbolt home.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Pam muttered as she turned back around so that she could go into the kitchen to finish making her tea. She finally understood why Marvin hated the kettle’s insistent nature. Even her ears were beginning to ache at the constant screech of the boiling water. “Oh!”

  It took her a moment to realize that the gasp of utter shock had come from her. She’d actually made it to the middle of her living room when she caught sight of a large figure standing next to Marvin’s favorite chair. The phantom just stood there without saying a word. Her mind registered that the menacing visage was cloaked all in black, from head to toe, with a matching full ski mask.

  Somewhere in her scattered and whirling thoughts, she understood that the man before her must be the one who had been all over the news. He was responsible for the deaths of at least four women in the past of seven months. She’d wondered quite often lately after listening to the horrifying reports what had happened in his life to make him resort to killing women in cold blood. Never in a million years had she ever imagined that he would be standing in front of her looking down with such a passive demeanor in those black eyes of his.

  “Please,” Pam whispered, unable to hear her own voice over the tea kettle. She spoke louder, clinging to the hope that her life was not at an end. “Don’t do this. I have a granddaughter. I have a garden to tend to this spring.”

  The man tilted his head to the side, as if to weigh her plea in some mystic set of scales. She wasn’t even sure that he heard her over the loud shriek that had invaded every corner of the house. A lump formed in her throat, restricting her ability to swallow. It wasn’t the flu bug that had her almost choking, though. Unequivocal fear and adrenaline began to enter her already rundown system, and she didn’t know whether to run from or attempt to fight this monster. Somewhere deep down, she’d grasped that neither instinct would matter. The precautions she had taken were all out of reach.

  In the end, she would die—a frail old woman, unable to defend herself from the evil that had come through her door.

  Upon that realization, Pam’s body acted on its own. She spun around and almost made it to the door before he reached her. She’d even been able to throw the deadlock open and desperately grasp the doorknob as if it were the last saving grace.

  A sob caught in her throat when one of his strong arms wrapped tightly around her neck and pulled her back hard against his body as if she weighed less than a ragdoll. She quickly twisted her head to the left when he attempted to rest his cheek against hers, fighting for all she was worth. She clawed at his black jacket to try and free herself, but he was much too strong for her already weakened muscles.

  “No, no, no,” Pam pleaded frantically, losing one of her pink bunny slippers as he lifted her off her toes and began to drag her back into the middle of the living room. “Don’t—”

  “I’ll make it better for you,” he whispered into her ear at the same time she experienced pressure on her right side. She’d heard his raspy voice over the screech of the tea kettle, but she refused to stop struggling against his hold as she tried hard to understand his meaning. “I’ll make it all better, mother.”

  Pam tried so hard to free herself, but her strength began to weaken more and more until she realized that the pressure on her side was from something more than just his tight grip.

  He’d wounded her, and she hadn’t even realized it.

  He was still whispering into her ear as he began to slowly lower her to floor, but all she could hear now was the high-pitched noise of the tea kettle whistling its warning.

  Marvin had always hated that sound.

  She really should go into the kitchen and take the kettle off the burner before he got irritated. She’d have to hear about it all night, otherwise. It was odd, though. Her body wouldn’t listen to the messages she was sending it in order to move. There must be a good reason she couldn’t take a step toward the kitchen.

  Fear flooded her system when the image of a black ski mask brought her back to the present.

  She didn’t want to die.

  She wasn’t ready to die.

  She had a garden to tend to and a granddaughter to spoil.

  The last thing Pam saw right before the darkness claimed her was the fuzzy pink bunny slipper that her granddaughter had given her for Christmas…the sweet, sweet granddaughter who had so much life in her bright blue eyes.

  Chapter Two

  Special Agent Lincoln Roche of the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU) continued to observe the woman who had been on his mind for the last two weeks. She was an enigma that he couldn’t quite pin down. There was no denying that the local journalist
had been holding something back from the investigation, but he couldn’t understand why she was willing to put her life and those of others at risk for nothing more than a headline. At least, that was the consensus among the deputies at the local police station.

  Truthfully, he had a hard time believing that she could be so callous.

  There had to be something more to her motives.

  Quinn Simmons didn’t strike him as a woman to be blinded by a fleeting fifteen minutes of fame to the extent that she would allow a sadistic serial killer to walk free among the public in search of another victim. Still, she was at the heart of this investigation, and it was imperative to find out what she was holding back. It was his belief that she was one of the keys to solving such a complex case.

  He sighed in resignation when Quinn methodically closed her laptop. Today was going to be another bust, though he didn’t view these lunches as wasted time. She’d kept to her usual routine, and he hadn’t found out anything more enlightening about her than he had yesterday.

  She began collecting several papers and pens that she had scattered on her table before placing them inside her navy-blue backpack. The unassuming plain color had most likely been chosen on purpose, the same as the jeans and black sweater she’d elected to wear this morning. She swung the backpack over her shoulder and gathered up her jacket.

  For a woman in her profession, she certainly didn’t like calling attention to herself.

  That in and of itself was unusual.

  As a profiler for the BAU, Linc had spent most of his career on high-profile cases such as the one that taking place in Winter Heights, Connecticut. He’d profiled a number of serial killers, terrorists, and numerous other criminals who had needed to be brought to justice for the horrific crimes they had systemically committed against humanity. The key information needed to close the cases were almost always right under the surface if one was tenacious enough to analyze the motivations of the suspect.