Pretty Little Killers (The Keepers Book 1)

by Rita Herron

  Wyatt eased the gun out of her mother’s hand. Her mother cried out and began to wail.

  Korine’s heart ached. Her mother was going to need therapy now.

  Slowly she inched toward Esme. She couldn’t let down her guard yet. “Esme, your daughter . . .”

  More tears flooded Esme’s eyes. “I know, I’m sorry . . . so sorry, all my fault.”

  Korine did a quick visual check. Esme had no gun, so Korine knelt in front of her and tucked her own weapon in her holster. “It wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t my mother’s. She didn’t know what my father was doing until that night. I’m just sorry that he hurt your daughter.”

  “She never could move past it,” Esme said. “I did everything I could to help her, but she hated me.”

  “She needs intensive therapy,” Korine said. “We’re going to get her help, I promise.”

  Esme nodded miserably. “She did something tonight, didn’t she? She tried to hurt you?”

  Korine murmured yes. “I’m so sorry, Esme.”

  “Where is she?” Esme asked. “Is she . . .”

  “She isn’t hurt,” Korine said quickly. “But we had to arrest her. One of our detectives drove her to the police station.”

  Esme’s face wilted even more. “She was the vigilante killer, wasn’t she?”

  Korine nodded.

  “I was afraid it was her, but I didn’t want to believe it,” Esme said, her voice filled with tears.

  “Why did you come to stay here with Mother?” Korine asked.

  Esme clasped her hands together. “At first I hated your mama and your father, but when Belinda was little, your mother came to see me. She told me she shot him so he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.” Esme shrugged. “How could I hate her then? She killed her own husband to protect you and because she was sick about what he’d done to my little girl.”

  Korine glanced at her mother, who was perched on the side of the bed now, looking miserable but calmer than she had in a long time. Wyatt stood beside Korine’s mother, his expression neutral, while Hatcher watched quietly, his big body poised to protect her if necessary.

  Esme didn’t appear to be dangerous, though. She was heartsick but not a threat.

  “She gave you money?” Korine asked, a trace of bitterness in her tone.

  Esme nodded. “Not to buy my silence like Belinda thought. To help me pay for counseling for Belinda. She needed it. She had nightmares and . . . she hated people. Hated to be touched. Hated to have me hug her. Hated everyone.”

  Korine snagged a tissue from the box on the side table and slipped it into Esme’s hand.

  “The counselor said she had a psychotic break,” Esme said on a whimper. “The doctor gave her medication, but the pills either knocked her out or made her sick. Last year, I thought they’d finally gotten her stabilized. She told me she had a good job, and I thought she was happy.”

  “Then what happened?” Korine asked.

  “When those inmates were released, she became paranoid again. She stopped taking her medication. She was following the news, upset about the River Street Rapist trial and that other woman.”

  “Tinsley Jensen,” Korine said.

  Esme nodded. “She saw the story about her, and she found her blog and read all those women’s stories, and she became obsessive. All she talked about was getting justice.”

  “I can imagine how much the victims’ stories upset her,” Korine said softly.

  “She came here one night to confront your mama, but your mama was having a bad day and it didn’t go well. Belinda laughed and said your mother got what she deserved, but I told her your mama tried to make up for what her husband did, and it was time to forgive.”

  “She couldn’t forgive, could she?” Korine asked.

  Esme shook her head, more tears filling her eyes. “She had so much hate inside her. It was eating her up.”

  Compassion for Belinda/Cat overcame Korine. Yet an image of Hatcher tied to that chair surfaced, a reminder the woman was dangerous and needed to be locked up. At least for now.

  “I’m so sorry, Esme. That had to have torn you up. Did you . . . want revenge, too?”

  Esme dabbed her eyes with the soggy tissue. “At first, I thought about getting back at your mother. But then I saw the pain she was in, and I heard her crying at night and saw how lost your brother was, and I realized your mama was a victim, too. So were you and Kenny.” She drew in a deep breath. “It was odd, but . . . that awful tragedy brought us together.” She fidgeted. “Your mama and I were the same—two mamas wanting to protect our babies. I thought I was doing right by Belinda by keeping quiet. I figured your father was dead and telling the world would only bring attention to Belinda. I didn’t want her growing up in the public eye, with people and teachers and other kids gossiping.”

  Korine gave Esme a sympathetic look. No child deserved that kind of life.

  Yet keeping quiet had driven Belinda’s shame deeper.

  The depth of Esme’s compassion made Korine’s heart well with love and admiration for her.

  Korine pulled her into a hug. Esme hugged her back, and Korine soothed her while she cried.

  Hatcher wanted to take Korine home, but she insisted on staying with Esme and her mother for a while.

  The officer guarding Bellamy called with news that Bellamy had regained consciousness.

  Hatcher and Wyatt rushed to the hospital, then to Bellamy’s room. The young man was awake, propped up with two pillows. He still looked pale, but he was sipping water.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Hatcher asked.

  Bellamy pushed the cup of broth they’d brought him away, uneaten. “The past few weeks I sensed something was off with Cat. We went out a couple of times, but she didn’t want me to touch her. When those prisoners were released, she was irate. She was always ranting about justice and how often it failed.”

  Wyatt leaned on his cane. “Go on.”

  Bellamy rubbed a hand over his face. “The night the judge was murdered, we were supposed to have dinner. But she stood me up. I went by her place, and she acted strange. She seemed agitated and didn’t want to talk, so I left her alone.” He hesitated. “The night Hortman was killed, she showed up with a pizza. She looked kind of wild-eyed, like she was high. I noticed blood on her shirt, but she said she’d cut her finger.” Bellamy fidgeted with the sheet. “Later I realized that the lab result on the blood I collected from Hortman’s car wasn’t right.”

  “What do you mean?” Wyatt asked.

  “There were two samples,” Bellamy said. “I logged them in myself. But the report showed only one. I saw Cat leaving the lab, and I asked her about it. She got really pissed off. Then I started thinking about the things she’d said, the way she tracked down those blog comments so quickly. I know she’s a computer whiz, but that’s not easy to do. I wanted to ask her how she did it, so I went by her place again, but she wasn’t home.” Bellamy pressed a hand over his chest as if it hurt. “A window was open, so I went in.”

  “What did you find?” Hatcher asked.

  “Broken doll faces in the living room,” Bellamy said. “I didn’t know what that was about but remembered those at Korine’s, and I realized something was way off.” He leaned his head back against the pillow. “Then I found files on Cat’s desk. There were pictures of all three murders, the judge, that child molester, the driver’s ed teacher.”

  Hatcher folded his arms. “She took crime photos from the scene?”

  Bellamy shook his head. “These shots were taken before the police arrived. The men were still alive, but they were tied up, pleading for their lives.”

  Hatcher shook his head in disgust. “Trophies. She wanted to relive the crimes.”

  Bellamy’s face went ashen. “Then I opened the drawer, and there they were.”

  “What?” Wyatt asked.

  “The murder weapons. The gavel she used on the judge. The bloody knife she used on Whiting.” He scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “The hatchet
she used on Hortman.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Exhaustion tugged at Korine as she let herself in her house. The emotional strain of the night had taken its toll.

  She flipped on lights as she entered, then undressed and showered, letting the hot water soothe her aches and pains and wash away the soot and stench of the fire.

  Slowly, images of Hatcher in the shower with her, running his hands over her, cradling her hips as she wrapped her legs around him and was impaled by him, replaced the gruesome memories.

  Only it stirred another kind of tension.

  She wanted Hatcher. Again. Tonight.

  The temptation to call him was so strong she could barely resist.

  But she had to. If she didn’t, she’d never be able to give him up.

  She scrubbed herself until the hot water turned cold. A quick towel dry, then she dragged on a tank top and pajama pants and padded to the kitchen for a glass of wine.

  She took the glass to her back deck, sank into the glider, and stared out into the dark woods. The storm clouds had lifted, and it was a beautiful, clear night. Stars shining. The quarter moon shimmering through the tree branches.

  But a dozen thoughts bombarded her—the case, the women who called themselves the Keepers, Tinsley Jensen locked in her own cottage terrified of the man who’d attacked her, her brother Kenny in rehab because of what he’d witnessed as a child, her mother living with the horrible truth that she’d shot her own husband, Esme and her mother’s secrets that had tied them together . . .

  The justice symbol painted on the victims’ faces . . .

  Where was the justice in any of this?

  At one time, she’d thought finding out who’d killed her father would give her peace.

  Tonight she felt anything but at peace.

  Instead, she felt torn up inside. And alone. Very much alone.

  Hatcher and Wyatt got warrants and searched Cat’s—Belinda’s—house. The pictures, evidence bags, and murder weapons were exactly where Bellamy said they’d be. A search of her computer revealed a list of people they suspected were her next targets.

  With Bellamy’s testimony, Cat’s attack on Hatcher and Korine, and now this physical evidence, they would be able to lock Cat away. Her lawyer would no doubt use her traumatic past and possibly PTSD as a defense.

  He and Wyatt had driven back to the field office to interrogate Cat. She’d taken full credit for the vigilante murders and claimed that the other four women they’d arrested were clean. She’d intentionally steered them toward the women to give her time to continue her mission.

  The women were being released and the charges dropped.

  Hopefully Cat/Belinda would end up in a mental health facility where she could receive therapy.

  “What’s going on between you and Korine?” Wyatt asked as he parked in front of Hatcher’s cabin.

  Hatcher bit the inside of his cheek. “Nothing. The case is done. If you’re ready to come back and want to work with me again, Bellows will find another place for her.”

  “I do want to come back,” Wyatt said. “And of course I want to work with you.”

  Hatcher clenched his jaw. “Really? ’Cause I know I let you down.”

  Wyatt hissed between his teeth. “Get over yourself, Hatcher.”

  Hatcher’s brows furrowed. “What?”

  “You are not responsible for the entire world. First you blame yourself for Felicia’s abduction, then for me getting hurt.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. We were partners. You did your job, and I did mine. We both know the risks that come with it.”

  Hatcher’s chest ached. Could he really let his guilt go?

  “Besides,” Wyatt said on a dark chuckle, “I wasn’t talking about the job when I asked about Korine. I was talking about the two of you . . . the chemistry.”

  It felt good, like old times, to be able to talk to his buddy. “I slept with her when I was doing the training at the bureau.”

  Wyatt’s eyes widened.

  “In fact, I was in bed with her when Felicia called to say she’d been taken.” Emotions made his voice hoarse. “That’s another reason I blamed myself.”

  A tense second stretched between them. “Listen, man, maybe you crossed the line, but we both know your marriage to Felicia was over. That girl had problems. She wasn’t right for you.”

  Hatcher stared at his empty ring finger.

  “But Korine, she’s a different story. She’s tough and strong and . . . hot as hell.”

  Hatcher couldn’t resist a smile. “Yeah, she is.”

  “If you ask me—”

  “I didn’t.”

  Wyatt laughed again. “I’m going to speak my mind anyway. I should have done that when you told me about Felicia. The first time I met her, I knew she was trouble.”

  Yet Hatcher had been snowed by her attention. Until it had become unhealthy.

  Wyatt arched a brow. “Anyway, if you aren’t interested in Korine, then you won’t mind if I ask her out?”

  Hatcher’s heart skipped a beat. “Who said I wasn’t interested?”

  Wyatt punched him on the arm. “That’s what I thought. If you are, man, don’t let her get away. The good ones are hard to find. Especially ones who’ll put up with our line of work.”

  Hatcher stewed over that comment as he climbed from the vehicle and went inside.

  The scent of sweat and burned ashes permeated his skin, so he showered and pulled on a clean T-shirt and jeans.

  Although it was way past midnight, he was too wired to sleep. Wyatt’s advice kept rolling around in his head.

  He didn’t want to disturb Korine if she was sleeping, so he texted her with the update on the case, then snagged his keys. He didn’t know where he was going, but he ended up at the cemetery, standing over Felicia’s grave.

  The night seemed still, eerily quiet, the pungent odor of dead flowers and dirt wafting around him. A thin stream of moonlight played across the grave, shimmering off the tombstone.

  He usually saw Felicia when he came here. Her eyes glaring at him in shock and blame.

  Where was she now?

  “I’m sorry I failed you, Felicia,” he said softly. “I wish I could go back and change things, bring you back to life.”

  The wind picked up, tossing leaves across the graves and making the flowers sway. A whisper of a voice calling his name echoed in the breeze and made him look up.

  Felicia was there. This time so faint, her silhouette shimmering and fading and more ethereal than before.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  He expected the same angry, accusatory look, but slowly a vision of her hand lifting drifted through the darkness; then a soft smile spread on her face, and she blew him a kiss.

  He blinked, certain he was seeing things wrong, but when he opened his eyes, she waved. Then a bright stream of light glowed from the heavens and surrounded her, and she was gone.

  Hatcher’s chest pounded. So many times he’d seen her, thought she hated him, knew she was waiting to cross. But tonight, she’d looked at peace.

  And she’d just said goodbye.

  The guilt that had held him back slowly dissipated, and the hole in his heart filled with warmth.

  Felicia had died too young.

  He and Korine had almost died, too.

  He pressed a kiss to his hand, then laid it on the tombstone. She was finally at rest.

  His chest felt lighter, too.

  His text beeped. Korine thanked him for the information. She was at home. She couldn’t sleep.

  He climbed in his car, started the engine, and drove from the graveyard. He passed two of his favorite bars in Savannah, but this time he didn’t stop. He didn’t want a drink.

  He knew exactly what he did want, though. And where he was going.

  He pressed the accelerator. He couldn’t wait to get there.

  Korine had poured a second glass of wine when a knock sounded. Hatcher had assured her that
the case was over.

  Still, nerves tightened her body as she rushed to the door and checked the peephole.

  Hatcher.

  Her pulse quickened.

  God, he looked good.

  Pulse hammering, she unlocked the door but forced herself not to reach for him when she desperately wanted to drag him into her arms. To hold him and never let him go.

  “I couldn’t sleep either.”

  His gruff voice sent a tingle of awareness through her. She gestured for him to come in.

  “The case keeping you awake?” she asked, anxious to fill the silence.

  His gaze met hers. Emotions mingled with heat, stirring her desires.

  “No, you were.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Me?”

  He nodded, then reached for her. “I couldn’t sleep until we talked.”

  She held her breath, waiting, hoping this wasn’t goodbye. “I didn’t rat you out to Bellows, Hatcher. In fact, I told him that you were the best agent he had and that you’d come back stronger than before.”

  Emotions flashed across his face and he shifted. “You did?”

  She nodded. “I always tell the truth. I also realize Wyatt is about ready to come back—”

  “This is not about Wyatt or the case or work at all. It’s about us.”

  “Us?” she asked in a throaty whisper.

  He nodded. “I don’t want to scare you off, but tonight when we were trapped and we almost died, I realized something.”

  “We made it out alive, Hatcher. You don’t have to feel guilty—”

  “I’m done with guilt, too.” His gaze darkened as he looked into her eyes. “I . . . I love you, Korine.”

  A smile curved her lips, warmth spreading through her.

  “If you don’t feel the same way—”

  She pressed her finger to his lips to shush him. “I do.”

  For a long heartbeat, they stared at each other, words unspoken dancing between them. Then Hatcher dragged her into his arms and closed his mouth over hers.

  She kissed him with all her heart, pouring her love into it as his words reverberated in her ears. He loved her.

  No promises yet. They’d have to talk about work. Being partners.