by Rita Herron
“Neither do I.”
Hatcher stopped beside his vehicle and glanced at his watch. “Hopefully tomorrow we’ll have time and cause of death and can get warrants for the judge’s files. We also need to question the victims of the River Street Rapist.”
Korine’s lips slanted into a frown. “I know. Although after the way they’ve suffered, they don’t deserve to be treated as suspects.”
“But they do have the strongest motive,” Hatcher pointed out.
Korine unlocked her car. He was right.
That didn’t mean she liked it.
God, she’d held Andi’s hand while she sobbed her heart out in the hospital. She’d helped her through the rape exam, had seen her bruises and pain.
That night she’d wanted to hunt the bastard down and kill him herself.
Hatcher unlocked his SUV. “We’ll need a warrant for the judge’s files. And I’ll ask for help to analyze them. We need to prioritize suspects and follow up on the judge’s cases and any threats against him.”
“I can question Andi Rosten in the morning while you handle that,” Korine offered.
A muscle jumped in Hatcher’s jaw. “We do the interviews together.”
Korine raised a brow. “Don’t you trust me to get a read on her?”
He hissed between his teeth. “You may not like working with me, and I don’t particularly want to be partnered with you either, Korine, but we are partners for a reason. To watch each other’s backs.”
“You just want to make sure I’m tough enough on Andi,” Korine said through gritted teeth.
“Don’t make this personal,” Hatcher said.
Anger shot through her. “Like you did on the last case?”
His cold look had her regretting those words.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was out of line.”
He didn’t comment, simply gave her another icy stare.
Korine sighed, determined to get back on track. Hatcher was the senior agent. If she pissed him off, he might talk to Bellows, and she’d be sidelined.
At least if they talked to the rape victims together, she could make sure Hatcher didn’t push them too hard.
She also needed him to attest to the fact that she was impartial in this case.
And she would be impartial.
Although she wouldn’t blame Andi or any of the rape victims if they celebrated the judge’s death tonight.
Because of Judge Wadsworth’s ruling, the man who’d violated them was still on the loose.
Milburn had sworn when he raped the women that he’d come back after them if they talked. He’d made that same threat in court.
Those three women would live in terror until he was behind bars for life.
Hatcher phoned about the warrants as he drove to his bungalow on the outskirts of Savannah.
Korine thought he didn’t care or that he wouldn’t sympathize with the rape victims.
He probably sympathized too damn much.
But he had to do his job, and that meant questioning them.
Although if one of them had killed the judge, he wasn’t sure he could make the arrest.
After the trial and the judge’s decision, the press had run stories with both slants—one that the judge was a hard-ass and shouldn’t have let the sadistic, maniac rapist off. The other, that the judge hadn’t had a choice, that the cops hadn’t done their jobs, and that the judge had to take the fall because they’d fucked up.
Either way, it didn’t give the victims any comfort. They wouldn’t have relief until Milburn was in prison.
Just like Tinsley Jensen wouldn’t have peace until the Skull was caught.
He parked at his rental house, agitated about both the case and Korine.
The marsh loomed, dark and desolate, its silence a welcoming retreat yet haunting at the same time. He’d chosen this location so he could escape the hub of Savannah and the tourists.
So he could be alone.
His boots dug into the dry grass as he strode to the side door and let himself inside. The old furnishings in the house gave it a musty feel. The odor of empty booze bottles added to the rancid smell.
He hadn’t noticed before because he’d been dulling his pain with the stuff.
The fact that he had to question rape victims in the morning made him crave a drink. But he bypassed the bottle on the kitchen counter, grabbed the bag full of empty bottles, and carried them outside to the recycling bin.
When he came back in, he poured himself a glass of water and chugged it down.
Felicia’s picture mocked him from the mantel as he stepped into the den. He’d left her photograph there as a reminder that she was dead.
It should have been him instead.
CHAPTER NINE
Beverly Grant hurried into her town house and made a beeline for the bathroom. She’d forced herself to attend a special counseling session her friend Liz had organized for first responders and others who worked with violent crimes, but it hadn’t helped. She was still wound up and sick to her stomach.
Five years she’d worked as a court reporter. She should be used to the ugly, sordid stories of the violence and pain humans inflicted on others. She should be immune.
But every now and then some of them got to her. Especially the ones that involved children.
No child should suffer.
And that monster in the courtroom had shown no remorse on the stand today. Instead, he’d graced the jury with a smarmy smile as if he was proud of the child-porn pictures the prosecutor had shown.
Simply typing the vulgar man’s testimony had made her feel vile inside.
She flipped on the hot water and scrubbed her hands, but she couldn’t scrub the images from her mind.
That sick perv had to pay. So did the others who shared those pictures. The DA was going to cut the man a deal if he revealed the names of the members of the child-porn ring.
That meant they might let him go free.
If they did, he would hurt someone else.
Unless they stopped him.
She lifted her head and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Rage seethed inside her. Her eyes looked shell-shocked and wild.
CHAPTER TEN
Gray clouds shrouded the morning sun, adding a dismal feel to the small garden area behind Korine’s house as she jogged up the steps and let herself inside. Her five-mile morning run usually relieved stress and helped her focus for the day.
She needed a shower but poured herself a cup of coffee first, then took it to the garden, a peaceful, quiet reprieve from the city.
Except yesterday she had seen someone in the bushes.
Senses on alert, she scanned the area but saw nothing except the shimmering mist rising above the treetops. Morning shadows almost made them appear as spirits lingering and lost.
Like some homes in the area, the owner claimed this one was haunted. A house with a history always drew interest, although those afraid of ghosts tended to shy away from buying. Others bought for the history that was part of Savannah’s charm.
She didn’t mind the ghost stories. The legends of Savannah added character. Star-crossed lovers had allegedly been murdered in the garden, their killer never caught. Sometimes she thought she saw them lying, entwined, bloody, and weak, their eyes begging her for help, their hearts linked as one for eternity.
She couldn’t imagine loving a man with such devotion.
Or a man loving her that way.
Her job and her office with her wall of wanted criminals and articles and pictures of crime scenes usually sent the normal ones running.
Hatcher’s strong, square jaw and deep-set dark eyes teased her with longing, though. That night with him had been filled with animalistic passion.
Passion, not love.
He’d lied to her, had said he was single when he was still married.
Because he’d wanted in her pants.
Not going to happen again.
She rolled her aching shoulders and ti
lted her head from side to side to crack her neck. She had no time for lingering and dwelling on her mistakes.
The first soothing taste of caffeine sent a much-needed jolt through her system. She liked her coffee strong and black.
The nightmare had invaded her sleep again last night. The music playing, her father’s loving voice singing, “You’re so pretty, oh, so pretty . . .” as he danced her around his office.
Then the gunshot. The blood. He was falling. A crash followed.
Her beautiful new doll, her porcelain face shattered . . .
She screamed and slipped in the blood . . . reached out to catch herself and sliced her hand on one of the shards of broken porcelain.
She flexed her left hand and stared at the scar. It had faded somewhat but was still visible. It was the ones on the inside, though, that never faded.
She’d woken from that nightmare, then finally fallen back asleep, but this time she’d dreamed about Tinsley Jensen being locked in her house. A shadow was lurking outside, watching Tinsley. The Skull. He enjoyed tormenting her, thrived on her fear, lived for the game.
A second later, Tinsley screamed . . .
That nightmare bled into another.
The faces of the rape victims pressed against the window, terrified, their tear-filled eyes, their throaty whispers begging her to save them . . .
She stood and paced the garden. She didn’t want to interview those victims today. But she had to do it.
Sweaty from her run and determined not to be late and give Hatcher any excuse to get her reassigned, she quickly showered and dressed. She strapped on her holster and weapon, clipped her phone to her belt, and poured another strong coffee to go.
While she waited on Hatcher, she booted up her computer and flipped on the television. Photographs of women’s marches across the state and protests against the judge’s ruling, as well as marches to raise awareness of spousal abuse, flashed on the screen, then the story about the judge’s murder. The lead investigative anchor, Marilyn Ellis, was aggressive and a pain in the Feds’ ass.
“Special Agents Hatcher McGee and Korine Davenport are investigating the case,” Ellis said. “Speculation has surfaced that the judge’s decision to release the alleged River Street Rapist could have been motive for the judge’s murder.”
Photographs of Wadsworth and his family flashed on the screen, along with images of the judge in court looking very much the staunch authoritative figure he’d been.
The fact that his body had been left on the dock facing Tinsley’s bothered Korine. She texted Cat to see whether she had any information on the case yet and immediately received a reply.
Ten years ago, Judge Wadsworth owned the cottage next to Tinsley Jensen’s rental. No reports of a crime or disturbance at the house when the judge and his family owned it.
Also, no police reports filed regarding spousal abuse involving the judge.
Wadsworth probably paid the doctor off so he wouldn’t report it.
She accessed Tinsley’s blog, Heart & Soul, and skimmed an entry Tinsley had written the night before, then another posted this morning.
I am alone again this morning, trapped in this world of darkness. Held hostage by my fears. In a prison I made for myself to protect me from the monster who nearly stole my life.
He’s still out there. Perhaps he’s a million miles away. Hiding out in another country.
Perhaps he’s right next door.
Watching me. Waiting to trap me again. Waiting to take my life.
The pain and fear are like living, breathing beasts inside me. Sometimes I think death is the only answer, the only thing that will make them go away.
But I did survive and I escaped. And I didn’t live through his evilness to die at my own hand.
I will fight for myself and for you, and for all the other women in my shoes.
We can’t let the monsters win.
Tinsley signed the post—Taking Control.
A shudder rippled through Korine. She felt the same way about her father’s killer. As if one day he’d come back for her.
Maybe he’d even killed again . . .
Several responses to Tinsley’s post followed.
Free124
Hostage No More
I understand how you feel. I was held prisoner by my own husband. I feared him for years.
But finally he’s gone.
Some may wonder why I’m not sad. Why I don’t grieve for him. Why there are no tears for the man I vowed to love, honor, and cherish.
Why instead of poring over romantic pictures of us and sobbing at the sight of the empty space beside me in bed, I’m rejoicing in being alone.
He can no longer hurt me.
There is peace in that. And peace in knowing that he suffered in the end.
That I finally got justice.
Korine inhaled sharply. She understood how traumatic memories could hold you prisoner. Could keep you from living and being happy. She’d let her father’s death do that to her.
Just as Tinsley couldn’t move on or be whole again until her abductor was caught and punished, Korine couldn’t imagine a future until her past was resolved and she found the person who’d shot her father in cold blood.
A knock sounded at the door, startling her. Hatcher.
Time to get to work. Find the judge’s killer.
Talk to Andi and the other girls the River Street Rapist had victimized.
She just prayed one of them hadn’t killed the judge. Not that they didn’t have motive.
But locking up a victim wasn’t justice.
That last entry on Tinsley’s blog disturbed her. The woman had been abused by her husband. Now the husband was dead.
Had the woman killed him?
Hatcher kept his eyes trained on the road as he drove to Andi Rosten’s parents’ house. Cat had emailed him information on all three victims along with their backgrounds and locations.
All three women were in their twenties, attractive, single, and lived alone. At least they had until the attack. Andi currently lived with her mother and father.
He had to force himself not to look at Korine. She looked too damn sexy this morning, with those doelike eyes and ivory skin and pale-pink lips.
His cock twitched. Those lips had teased and tormented his body in ways he’d never forget.
Dammit, he had to stop thinking about her lips.
“I’ve been looking at Tinsley’s Heart & Soul blog,” Korine said. “One entry I read this morning could have been written by Judge Wadsworth’s wife. The woman describes being abused, feeling like a hostage, then being relieved that her husband had died.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“The screen name is anonymous.”
Hatcher made a clicking sound with his teeth. “Mrs. Wadsworth isn’t the only woman who’s fallen victim to domestic abuse. And she’s certainly smart enough not to put a confession on the Internet.”
“I realize that,” Korine said. “But since the body was left on the dock outside Tinsley’s residence, the killer may feel a connection with Tinsley.”
Good point. “If she posts something more concrete, we’ll have Cat try to figure out who she is.”
He veered onto the street leading to the Rostens’. They lived in Pooler, a small town near Savannah, in a wooded area that backed up to a creek.
The SUV bounced over a rut in the road, and he barreled down the drive, which ended at an outdated brick ranch. Winter had robbed the leaves off the trees, and the grass looked brittle and dry. Swampland backed up to the property. A rusted van sat in the drive, along with a small gray sedan.
“Tell me about Andi Rosten,” Hatcher said.
Korine wet her lips with her tongue. “Before the rape, she was a barista at a coffee shop and studying fashion design at SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design. Milburn came in for a latte every morning. She thought he was nice. Safe. He flirted with her. She . . . flirted back. She blamed herself for being a victim. Tho
ught she’d invited his attention.”
Hatcher cursed. “A facade for the sick fuck inside.”
“Exactly.”
“Did she finish her degree?”
Korine shook her head. “After the attack, she was so traumatized she moved back with her parents.” Korine paused. “Maybe if her rapist was in prison, she’d finally be able to sleep at night. And maybe she could move past the attack and get her life back.”
He understood that need. He felt it about his wife’s killer.
He could use that to make a connection with Andi and hopefully convince her to talk.
Nerves gathered in Korine’s stomach as the door opened. Andi’s father, a thin, wiry man, answered the door.
“Hello, Mr. Rosten, my name is Special Agent Davenport.”
He snapped his fingers. “I know you. You worked Andi’s case.”
Korine nodded. “I did when I was with the police department.” She gestured toward Hatcher. “This is Special Agent McGee.”
His brows furrowed. “Are you going to put that son of a bitch who hurt my daughter in jail?”
“I wish I could, but we don’t have any new evidence at this point,” Korine said. “If you see him, call the police. He’s not allowed to come near Andi.”
“Fat lot of good a restraining order does,” the man grumbled. “I feel like Andi’s the one in jail.”
“I’m sorry.” Korine took a deep breath. “Is Andi here?”
The man pulled at his chin, a wary look in his eyes. “In the kitchen, having coffee with my wife.”
He motioned for them to follow him, and they walked through a modest family room to a kitchen that smelled of coffee and cinnamon. Korine bit back a gasp as she spotted Andi.
When Korine had first met the young woman, Andi was slightly plump. Now she looked like an empty shell. Her clothes hung on her skin-and-bones frame, her face was milky white with dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her hand trembled as she self-consciously smoothed tangled hair from her forehead.
Her mother, a chubby woman with short, curly brown hair, sat with her at the oak table. Mr. Rosten introduced his wife to Korine and Hatcher, then offered them coffee, but they both declined.
