Such a Pretty Girl

by Tess Diamond

  “Reaping the rewards of what . . . being my sidepiece?” Grace said.

  It was a calculated blow, meant to shatter the fantasy he’d obviously built in his head.

  “Get real, Carthage,” she added.

  Zooey pumped her fist in the air in a “You go, girl!” gesture. It was oddly cheering in such a tense situation.

  “Real?” Carthage thundered. “Do you want to hear something real? How about I profile you? Would you like that, Grace?”

  “Not really,” Grace said, trying to sound disinterested. Her stomach wound in knots, she looked over to the tech, who gestured at her to keep him talking. Were they ever going to get the trace, or was this fruitless? “But why don’t you give it a try?” she asked.

  Carthage chuckled. “Soon, my love,” he said. “You know, I think back to those days . . . You were such a pretty girl. You had so much potential. You were so sweet, so trusting. And look at you now: bitter, loveless—I know all about your string of men, Grace. You never let them stay the night. You never see them more than once. You just use them and discard them. You’re like those insects that eat their mates. Deadly, dangerous. You need to be stopped.”

  She wanted to reach through the phone and slug him. “I’m not the one who’s killed five people in three days, Carthage,” Grace said. “You are.”

  He sighed. “You need to be taught a lesson, pretty girl. It’s really a shame it’s come to this.”

  “Wait—”

  But he’d hung up.

  Grace looked at Zooey, who shook her head. “I couldn’t triangulate the signal,” she said.

  “Dammit!” Grace threw the phone across the room, where it hit a wall and shattered. Zooey stared at her with wide eyes, and Gavin strode over to her, grasped her arm, and pulled her toward the door.

  “Come on,” he said. “You need to cool down.”

  Silent but still fuming, Grace let him steer her out of the room.

  She didn’t need to cool down.

  She needed to get angry.

  It was the only way she could win.

  Chapter 24

  My pretty girl,

  I’m grinning like a boy who’s seen his first naked woman right now.

  How I’ve missed talking to you. It’s been a long ten years. Lonely. You burned brightly, my Grace. You burned hot, searing into my skin, marking me forever.

  At first, I tried to ignore it. The persistent ache that plagued me. I immersed myself in my work, my students—the loyal ones, not ungrateful little bitches like you. But as the years passed, as your achievements grew, I found myself unable to enjoy the things I once did.

  There has always been something about you that set you apart. The other dalliances, they were easily dismissed. Girls who went on to achieve little, much to my disappointment.

  But you soared . . . even though you made all the wrong choices. You left when I didn’t want you to.

  I wasn’t finished with you, and you left.

  How dare you? When I loved you so? When I did everything to keep us together?

  I deserve more than that from you. I deserve everything—your very soul.

  I taught you your value, and instead of being grateful, you took what I unveiled, what I molded, and used it to get whatever you wanted. I can’t imagine the number of beds you had to hop in to get where you are today. There’s no way you got there on your own merit. You’re talented, but you’re devious. That pretty face of yours hides a vicious heart.

  I love you for it.

  I’ll destroy you because of it.

  I’ve forced you into a corner. You have to listen to me now. You have no way out. Not unless I let you. A pretty little girl in a clever trap you have no hope of escaping.

  Perfection.

  I have you where I want you. You talk a big game, spinning your stories like you do, and your idiotic theories, but I see through all that bravado.

  I know you.

  You’re hurting. Weak. Emotional. Questioning.

  Angry.

  I love it when you’re angry. It’s a pure, beautiful thing, pulsing off you like pleasure pulses off other women.

  Anger means guilt. Guilt means blame.

  You are to blame, you bitch. All the blood I’ve spilled is on your hands. You made me do it. If you’d just stayed, if you’d just submitted . . .

  You’ve forced my hand.

  You need to be put in your place. Below me. Under my control.

  And I’m going to make it happen.

  It’s time to up the stakes, pretty girl.

  Are you ready?

  —C

  Chapter 25

  Grace stared at the Colonial-style house across the street. The rose garden up front was beautifully cared for, the blooms splashing color and fragrance across the yard.

  She didn’t want to go anywhere near the place. Gavin had offered to go with her, but she knew he’d be of more use raiding Carthage’s office as soon as he secured a warrant.

  Joann was her problem.

  She was expecting her. Grace had called ahead, giving her a brief rundown of the situation. Partly, this was practical: She needed Joann focused when she spoke to her, and breaking the news that her ex was a serial killer over the phone gave her a good forty minutes to absorb the information before Grace arrived.

  Partly, though, it was personal: Every time Grace thought about showing up at Joann’s door with no warning, a sour, heavy feeling settled in her stomach like lead.

  She couldn’t do that to her. So she’d gritted her teeth and made the call. Then she’d gotten in her BMW and drove.

  And now she was sitting there, drumming her fingers nervously on the dashboard, wishing she were anywhere else. She couldn’t stop the dread from building inside her whole body. As she got out of the car and walked across the street, she felt like she was struggling through drying cement.

  The dark blue door had a stained glass window set in it. Grace traced her fingers along the bright colored glass as she pressed the doorbell.

  A few moments, and the door opened. And she was face-to-face with the woman whose marriage she’d helped to ruin.

  Joann Taylor—she’d gone back to her maiden name—stood there, regarding Grace calmly. She was a statuesque woman with short auburn hair and delicate features, dressed in flowing batik pants and a sleeveless silk shell that showed off her toned arms. She wore no makeup, no jewelry, and it suited the raw, natural beauty of her face.

  “Hello, Agent Sinclair,” she said, stepping back to let Grace into her home.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to see me,” Grace said as Joann led her into a small living room. Pots of succulents were scattered across floor, tables and shelves, and large windows on the north wall allowed light to stream into the room, giving it an airy conservatory feel.

  This was a woman who valued nature. Life. She was probably a vegetarian. Grace would bet her art collection that she did yoga. A tea drinker, instead of coffee. She’d traveled extensively, preferring Asia to Europe. Most likely an only child. She’d never remarried, and it was unlikely she ever would.

  Grace couldn’t fault her there.

  “Sit, please,” Joann said, settling herself on a sage-green fainting couch, folding her hands together. She looked at Grace, and her eyes softened as she smiled.

  “Ms. Taylor, I know this is awkward—” Grace started.

  But the older woman waved her off. “It’s in the past. I’ve moved on.”

  “Still,” Grace said, little frissons of shock going off under her skin at how casual Joann was acting. “I am sorry about what happened. I never meant to be the cause of a marriage ending.”

  “Honestly, back then, I thought you did me a favor,” Joann said. “And now, if what I was told on the phone is true, I know you did.”

  Grace looked down, not sure how to respond to such magnanimity, class, and, well, grace.

  “He was never a good husband,” Joann continued. “I always sensed . . . something in him. A
darkness, I suppose you could call it. He never yelled or belittled me, but I always felt very secondary in his life. He was so focused on his studies and then his students. Their admiration and respect were always much more important than mine.”

  Inside her purse, Grace’s phone began to ring.

  “Do you need to get that?” Joann asked.

  Grace shook her head. “Please, continue,” she said.

  “Well, I’m sure you know you weren’t the first of his . . . wanderings,” Joann said. “But I could tell something had changed when you left for Georgetown. He locked himself up in his study for days, and when he finally came out, almost everything in the room was broken. He began to drink heavily. And one night, I came home to find him in a rage. Ranting about appreciation and fate and star-crossed lovers. About showing ‘her’ what he was made of. He was throwing things, tearing books off the shelf. I tried to stop him. And he backhanded me.”

  “So you left,” Grace said.

  “I was raised in a world where women were encouraged to ignore infidelity,” Joann said. “But a man hits me once, and only once,” she added grimly. “I filed for divorce the next week.”

  “Did you have much contact with him after the divorce?” Grace asked.

  Joann shook her head. “I ran into Henry once, at a restaurant, shortly after our divorce was finalized. He was polite but curt. I haven’t heard from him or seen him since. That must have been nine years ago.”

  “You haven’t received any calls from unknown numbers? Hang-ups, maybe? Noticed any strange cars on your block? Or mysterious packages on your doorstep?”

  “Nothing,” Joann said. “Agent Sinclair, am I to understand he’s committed these horrible murders and you can’t find him?”

  “At the moment, his whereabouts are unknown,” Grace said carefully. On her way to the house, Zooey had called her to let her know Carthage had given up his apartment a month ago. His office at the university was their only starting point, so Paul and Gavin were already en route.

  Grace knew they wouldn’t find Carthage there. It was too obvious.

  He needed his twists and turns so he would feel clever . . . better than her.

  “You know, we met once,” Joann said.

  Grace frowned. “We did? I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “I doubt you’d remember,” Joann said. “It was at your first book’s launch a few years back. A friend of mine’s in publishing and invited me to go. I must admit, I couldn’t help myself. I was curious. You had done so well for yourself. I wanted to see what kind of woman you’d grown up to be.”

  Grace searched her memory of the night, but so much of it was an excited, anxiety-filled blur that she couldn’t place Joann in it.

  “I watched you that night. You sparkled. You had every person’s focus. They were enraptured. You were so young and beautiful and talented, and I should’ve resented you or hated you. But then I noticed something: Whenever you didn’t think anyone was looking, this shadow would fall over your face. And I realized you were a lonely girl in a crowd of people who thought they knew you but didn’t even scrape the surface. Even though you knew them, maybe even better than they knew themselves. That’s your job, after all.”

  Joann looked at her, sympathy written in the gentle lines of her face. “It’s a bit of a curse, isn’t it?”

  “Sometimes,” Grace said, prompted to honesty by this woman who should have resented her but who instead chose to see the bigger picture for the greater good.

  “You were young, Grace,” Joann said. “He took advantage of that. I lived with the man for fifteen years. He’s a manipulator. But even I couldn’t imagine he’d turn into this kind of monster.” She shook her head, the horror in her eyes saying it all. “I wish I could help you more,” she said.

  “I will find him,” Grace promised, the vow echoing through the room. “And I will end this.”

  “See that you do,” Joann said. “Because you might be the only one who can.”

  After she left Joann Taylor’s house, it took several minutes for Grace to gather herself together. Her palms were sweating as if she were sixteen and in debate class again. Her clothes felt too tight, restrictive. The air inside the car felt impossibly hot.

  She needed to breathe. Focus on something else.

  Her phone. She reached inside her purse, grabbing it. Her eyebrows drew together when she saw she had a missed call and voicemail from Dorothy, the teen from the Herman Center. She entered her passcode and raised her phone to her ear.

  “Hello, pretty girl.” His voice filled her senses, making each of them want to revolt, to flee. “I’m at the park, thinking of you. Thinking of us. Do you remember when I was your mentor, Grace? How you took that away from me?” There was a pause. “I’m going to teach you how it feels to lose your protégé. Poor little Dorothy, she can’t just click her heels and say ‘No place like home,’ can she?” He laughed. “See you soon.”

  Then the line went dead.

  The phone fell out of Grace’s numb hands. She scrambled for it and dialed the number back, her breath caught in her throat. But it just rang and rang, before going dead.

  Not Dorothy. Please, not Dorothy!

  She shoved her keys into the ignition and screeched into the street, gunning the gas so hard she was afraid the car would stall.

  She punched the center button on her phone. “Call Gavin,” she directed as she took a sharp right, heading out of the cozy neighborhood and flooring it toward the freeway. Gavin’s phone rang a few times before he picked up.

  “Hey, Grace,” Gavin said. “We’re at Carthage’s office. It’s a bust. I’m—”

  “Gavin, listen to me,” she ordered. “Carthage is somewhere in Gusset Park. He’s taken one of my teenagers from the counseling center. Dorothy O’Brian. You need to get over there. You’re closer. I’ve just left Joann Taylor’s, so I’m not going to make it in time. Call SWAT, call DC police, call the fucking National Guard—I don’t care who. Just get someone there. Now!”

  “Oh, God,” Gavin said.

  “Get there,” Grace begged. “He’s going to kill her!”

  He hung up with no goodbye.

  Grace raced onto the highway, veering around slow-moving cars, changing lanes like a madwoman. She got caught behind a semitruck for a few minutes, forcing her to slow down, trapping her with her thoughts and the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

  She’d ignored the call. She’d ignored Dorothy, and now . . .

  “Dammit!” Grace swore, hitting the steering wheel with her palm.

  Dorothy wasn’t going to die, she told herself firmly as she finally passed the semi, zooming ahead of it. Gavin would get there in time. She knew he would.

  Gavin would save her. He had to.

  But the ball of dread in her stomach grew with each minute she spent careening down the highway, her heart in her throat, guilt pounding down on her.

  If only she hadn’t ignored the call . . .

  Chapter 26

  “Turn here, turn here,” Gavin said as Harrison sped down the street, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Harrison screeched to a stop at the edge of the park, where a street fair was being held. They both leapt out of the SUV.

  “You take the north side,” Harrison directed him, “I’ll take the south. Backup’s on its way.”

  Gavin gave a quick nod and headed out. On the way over, Zooey had texted them a picture of Dorothy O’Brian, so he knew who he was looking for.

  He moved swiftly through the crowd, his eyes sweeping the area with a tense but practiced gaze. This was the kind of work he was made for and he could feel his senses focusing, homing in as he scanned the area. Find the asset. Remove the threat. Extract the asset.

  He didn’t want to draw his gun and cause a panic—or worse, tip off Carthage that they’d arrived. He couldn’t know if Carthage had grabbed Dorothy yet—there had been no reports of disturbances from dispatch, but Carthage was tricky. He could’ve lured her
away from the crowd before . . .

  All Gavin could think of was his little sister as he made his way through the crowd and past the colorful booths hawking woven baskets and handmade soaps. Dorothy was her age. If someone like Carthage even got within a foot of her, he’d lose his mind.

  Grace’s plea echoed in his ears as he reached the end of the aisle of booths, peering over the sea of people moving toward the stage, where live music was playing. Even though he towered over most of the crowd, it was no use—he couldn’t see a damn thing.

  Okay. He needed a new plan. There was no way he was going to spot either of them—together or apart—in this crush.

  He had to stop thinking like a cop.

  And he needed to start thinking like Grace.

  Where would he go? He’d need to lure her from the crowd. Dorothy wasn’t some pampered, naive kid from a private school. She was a streetwise teen who’d probably seen way too much shit in her life already.

  She’d be distrustful of strangers approaching her, Gavin realized as he moved toward the outskirts of the fair, pushing his way through the excited, murmuring crowd. Some old guy coming up to her, maybe trying to hit on her? She’d know how to shut that down—fast. Her creep radar would be well-tuned by now.

  Which meant Carthage would need to either gain her trust somehow—or take her by force.

  Dorothy would scream her head off if he tried to grab her. She would fight back.

  So that meant the trust route. Gavin dashed past the lemonade booth, heading behind the stage, where a group of tall trees obscured one of the park exits. What would make Dorothy trust him? Who did Dorothy trust?

  It hit him in a sickening wave as he sped past the stage, the beat of the drum circle rising in the air.

  Grace.

  Dorothy trusted Grace. If someone flashed her a real-enough-looking FBI badge and told her Grace needed to see her, she’d go.

  Gavin pelted down the pathway through the trees, his stomach tightening with dread with each step. The crowd had thinned, and he could see directly down the path, toward the park gates.