The Fallen Girls
An absolutely unputdownable and gripping crime thriller
Kathryn Casey
Books by Kathryn Casey
Detective Clara Jefferies Series
The Fallen Girls
Her Final Prayer
The Sarah Armstrong Mystery Series
Singularity
Blood Lines
The Killing Storm
The Buried
True Crime
Evil Beside Her
She Wanted It All
A Warrant to Kill
Die, My Love
Shattered
A Descent Into Hell
Deadly Little Secrets
Murder, I Write
Possessed
Deliver Us
In Plain Sight
AVAILABLE IN AUDIO
The Fallen Girls (Available in the UK and the US)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Her Final Prayer
Hear More from Kathryn
Books by Kathryn Casey
A Letter from Kathryn
Acknowledgments
*
For my husband, who’s been with me through all the good times and the bad. Life is a journey, an adventure. How wonderful to have a trusted companion.
Prologue
Sixteen brothers and sisters perched on chairs and table edges, sat hip to hip on the cramped floor: the girls in long-sleeved prairie dresses that swept to their ankles, the boys in pants and collared shirts. All heads bowed and hands clasped, as twelve-year-old Delilah whispered, “Heavenly Father, thank thee for this day. For the rain that fell this morning and watered our crops. Please send more. Thank thee for the well the men are digging and the water it will bring.”
Evening prayers. Delilah had always cherished the ritual, the calm before the chaos of helping prepare the little ones for bed. Yet she dreaded what followed. The prospect of leaving the family’s mobile home and walking into the night terrified her.
The double-wide trailer smelled of the coming day’s bread baking in the oven. On the couch, the women of the household huddled together, serene yet attentive, hands folded piously on laps. Delilah’s smooth brow wrinkled in worry as she focused on her mother. The girl looked so like Sariah that townsfolk who saw them together remarked on the resemblance. From her mother, Delilah inherited her thick auburn curls, her startling blue eyes, and the sprinkle of pale freckles that arched across her upturned nose. Sensing her daughter’s gaze, Sariah formed a cup of her palm and drew it toward her chest, a signal the children understood meant “more.”
As instructed, the youngster resumed her posture, pinning her chin to her chest. “Thank thee, Lord, for my brothers and sisters, for our mothers. Bless our father and Mother Constance, who have left us to live with you in heaven.” Delilah paused, and then murmured, “Oh, and if you could please tell Sadie—”
“Amen!” Mother Ardeth roared.
A snicker flitted through those gathered, the scattered teenagers rolling eyes, the adolescents glancing nervously from Delilah to Ardeth, while the youngest sensed something significant had happened but didn’t understand what. Fourteen-year-old Lily leaned into Delilah and whispered, “Sis, you know my mom doesn’t like any talk of Sadie. You shouldn’t—”
“Enough, daughter!” Mother Ardeth snapped at Lily. A staunch woman with arched black eyebrows, Ardeth held a special place in the household. As first wife, she functioned as the family matriarch. But she’d also taken on her dead husband’s roles, and these responsibilities weighed on her, in the past year turning her long black hair a steel gray.
Seated between Ardeth and Sariah, Mother Naomi made certain no one misunderstood. A softly round woman with wire-rimmed glasses, a slender nose and a pile of fading brown hair, Naomi tilted her head back. “Thank you, Heavenly Father!” she cried, as enraptured as if she gazed on heaven’s gate rather than stained ceiling tiles. “Evening prayer has ended.”
At that, Mother Sariah rose and clapped her hands. “It’s time, children. Lily and Delilah, take the young ones out, then pajamas.”
“Mom, I…” Delilah pleaded. Her stomach churned dinner’s beans and tortillas, perhaps a physical manifestation of her fears. To quiet it, she pressed her hand against the wide white sash that belted her worn blue cotton dress.
Bending down, Sariah whispered in her daughter’s ear, “No more, Delilah. Please, stop. You’ll frighten the little ones.”
The girl’s bow-shaped lips melted into a frown. “Yes, Mother.”
The battered aluminum door squeaked in harsh complaint as it scraped the concrete stoop. Lily and the children jostled behind her as Delilah stepped out into the night. All around her, insects chirped and burred. The double-wide rested on concrete blocks on the edge of the community cornfield, acres of pencil-straight stalks heavy with the year’s harvest. In the near distance, a mountain ridge formed a solid black wave between the shadowy valley and a cloudless, navy-blue sky speckled with pinpoint stars. A golden oval, a nearly full moon hung high above Samuel’s Peak. A hundred years earlier, the leaders of Elijah’s People, a small fundamentalist Mormon sect that settled the valley, named the precipice in honor of its great prophet, the saint who led its people to Utah’s Alber Valley.
A soft breeze carried the scent of fresh-cut alfalfa drying in the fields. As Delilah clomped down the five stairs to the dirt path, eight little ones followed like a brood of chicks trailing a hen.
Each step as loath as a prisoner’s to a cell, Delilah marched forward. Wielding a neon-orange plastic flashlight thicker than her arm, she pointed a wide funnel of light ahead and followed it. The short procession turned a corner, and Delilah could no longer see the trailer.
Hastening to catch up, Lily shuffled beside her. “You need to stop talking about Sadie, Delilah. You know my mom—”
“I know!” Delilah came to an abrupt stop that left the younger children bumping into one another like dominoes behind her. “Lily, can you feel it?”
“What?”
“Someone,” Delilah said, a catch in her throat. “Watching
.”
Lily’s black hair was gathered in a topknot and puffed to frame her coffee-colored eyes. An analytical girl often in trouble for questioning her elders, she appeared doubtful. Why would anyone watch them? They took the young ones out every night, and no one ever bothered them. But as she nudged her sister forward, Lily trained her own flashlight, a twin to Delilah’s, on the cornfield and searched between the rows. When satisfied, she proclaimed, “This is silly. I don’t see anything. Why do you think someone is—”
“I can feel him.”
“Who?”
Delilah gulped back the bile rising in her chest. “I don’t know.”
“Delilah, no one is—”
“He is, Lily. He watches me.” She repeated, “I can feel him.”
Again skimming the field, Lily craned her neck to peek between the rigid stalks. Nothing moved save the ruffle of leaves in a draft off the mountain, beginning to turn cool after a blistering late-summer day.
Impatient, Lily scowled at her younger sister. She wanted to put the little ones to bed, so she and Delilah could finish the checkers game they started before dinner. Lily felt pretty sure she had Delilah outmaneuvered.
“There’s no one out there,” Lily insisted. “Let’s just—”
“You sure?” Three inches shorter than her sister, Delilah looked up to Lily not just literally but figuratively. She was the closest to Delilah in age, and the sisters had consoled each other through their father’s death and shared the difficult days when they were evicted from their big house in town. In the past year, their lives had become increasingly difficult. Even with Father and Mother Constance gone, and the oldest of their siblings married off, that left nineteen living in a three-bedroom trailer without indoor plumbing. At night, every inch of floor became a bed.
“Yeah,” Lily said. “I’m sure no one’s out there.”
Delilah swallowed hard.
At the metal-sided outhouse, the children took turns entering through doors marked ‘MEN’ and ‘WOMEN’. They fidgeted and snickered in line, whispered in each other’s ears. A ten-year-old girl picked a nearly closed buttercup from the weeds at the edge of the path and held it under a younger girl’s chin. “If I see a reflection, you have a boyfriend.”
The other children clustered around.
Wide-eyed, the smaller girl asked, “Do you see one?”
The older girl nodded yes.
Clapping her hands, the little girl bounced up and down. “Who is it? Who is it? Who’s my boyfriend?”
The other children hooted, as the girl holding the buttercup giggled. “It’s too dark!” she teased. “Silly, silly. No reflections in the dark!”
The minutes ticked past until all but one straggler finished in the outhouse. Four-year-old Kaylynn habitually dawdled.
Growing impatient, weary and ready to end the day, the youngsters squabbled. Two boys shoved one another, and Lily ordered them to be still.
Watching her older sister, Delilah felt ashamed. For days, her mother had assured her no one hid in the corn. I’m not a little girl anymore. I need to be strong. I need to grow up.
“Sis, take the children into the house,” she told Lily. “I’ll wait for Kaylynn.”
“You sure?” Again Lily focused her big orange flashlight on the brittle stalks, heavy with ripening corn. In days, it would be ready for harvest. Then there would be canning for the girls to do and cornbread to bake for dinners. A pale moth fluttered lazily by, weaving through the beam.
“I’m sure,” Delilah said, pulling up her shoulders, standing up straighter.
“Good! Hurry up and we can get back to our game.” Lily waved at the children. “Let’s go. Pajamas and bed.” The little ones padded off toward the trailer, twittering and talking.
Moments later, Delilah stood alone in the night, regretting sending Lily away. In the moonlight, the shadows grew ever longer. The incessant hum of the insects swelled.
“Kaylynn, hurry up,” Delilah shouted through the outhouse door.
“I’m trying,” the little one called back.
Fighting a mounting disquiet, Delilah sought comfort by murmuring the verse of a familiar children’s song. “God watch over me…”
At the far side of the outhouse, a patch of stalks shimmered. Delilah stiffened. The flashlight beam searched. Nothing.
“When are you coming out?” she yelled at Kaylynn.
From inside the outhouse, the little one shouted, “In a minute.”
“Please hurry!” Holding the flashlight with both hands, Delilah scanned the hard dirt visible between the rows and continued her song. “God watch over me and keep me—”
Something moved. Something unseen disturbed a clump of stalks.
The flashlight held before her, Delilah crept toward the corn. Peering between the stiff green shoots and their long slender leaves, she searched. She heard a throaty purr. The flashlight’s beam skimmed low. From the darkness, two iridescent gold eyes emerged.
“Ebenezer?”
A scrawny gray tabby inched forward. Relief flooded through Delilah. “You’re the one watching me?” Holding the flashlight tight, she leaned into the corn. “Don’t tell anyone how scared I was, okay?”
Crouching to pet the cat, Delilah didn’t notice the stalks shiver a few feet to her right. She never saw the man shuffle out of the corn. By the time she looked up, he towered above her. In a single movement, he wrapped one thick arm around her waist and clamped his other hand over her mouth, muffling her screams.
One
I stared at the guy, not blinking. He said nothing, just squirmed off and on in the rickety metal chair, his handcuffed wrists resting on the battered gray metal table between us. I wished, not for the first time, that I had X-rays coming out of my eyes like the ones they show in comic books, the kind artists draw with pulsing heat rays. The truth? I wanted the guy to fry. Right there in the interrogation room.
While I watched.
The waste of DNA that held my attention was on camera at a local drinking establishment nine hours earlier, a cowboy bar on Dallas’s city limits. He’d liquored up and gotten into an argument with the bartender, who cut him off. The bartender picked up a phone and started to call someone, I figured a cab for his drunken customer. The guy stood up and shouted at him, something I couldn’t hear on the surveillance tape. In a final effort, the bartender made a move to grab the perp’s car keys off the bar. The drunk beat him to them. Shouting back over his shoulder, the guy staggered out the door.
Ninety seconds later, he moseyed back in, this time with a pistol in each hand.
The only good news: near closing, the joint was almost empty. An hour earlier, five times the number of people could have died. As it was, we had four victims: one dead bartender; one dead waitress; one dead twenty-two-year-old college student who’d pulled an all-nighter and stopped in for a drink to unwind; and a regular at the bar, a guy from the neighborhood who spent most nights drowning his sorrows with shots and beers. That guy, lucky stiff, lived. At least so far. He was in the ICU, holding on by his fingernails.
While I stared down the guy across from me, I thought about the squad of cops spreading out over the city, ringing doorbells. Family members would answer, little suspecting that they’d receive the worst news of their lives. One family would head to the hospital, perhaps arriving too late to say goodbye. The other three vics were never coming home. Last I heard we were still looking for next of kin for the college student. His family would never see him walk across the stage at graduation, never celebrate when he landed his first real job, never dance at his wedding. The waitress? The bartender? That’s where it got really sad. A total of five kids between them, the oldest twelve. What would happen to them?
I thought about the three bodies on the way to the morgue. Such a waste. Those folks woke up yesterday morning never considering that it would be their last. Life? Well, it’s not always fair.
In my world, events make that clear entirely too often.
Our office door reads: CRIMES AGAINST PERSONS. Although fairly new, only a detective for the past three years, I pull the toughest cases—murders and sexual assaults. At Dallas PD, I have something of a jacket, a reputation. I work leads to death, no pun intended. The truth is, I have a lot of time on my hands, since I don’t have a life outside the job.
That’s how this particular shooter became the focus of my undivided attention.
My shift didn’t start until eleven, but I arrived early. My calendar empty, I didn’t have anything else to do on a Saturday morning. So I was at my desk dissecting a case folder when this guy shuffled through the door in leg irons and cuffs at 8 a.m., two beat cops piloting him by his elbows. Somebody heard shots and called it in. They found my companion passed out with his head on the bar, his hand curled around a half-empty beer mug.
Guns don’t mix well with stupid. Guns and stupid are even more dangerous when paired with crazy drunk.
“You know, booze can make you do things you wouldn’t otherwise,” I said to the guy. I gave him a sociable smile. As much as I wanted to vaporize him, I needed him to cooperate and talk. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to hurt those folks. Really the alcohol is to blame, don’t you think?”
The Fallen Girls: An absolutely unputdownable and gripping crime thriller (Detective Clara Jefferies Book 1) Page 1
