by Rita Herron
His body hardened, his cock twitching.
Shit. He could not go there again.
He was just about to push away, but she did it first. “We’ll talk about the case tomorrow.”
A second later, she slammed the door, shutting him out.
He stood on the front stoop for a moment, drinking in the night air, wallowing in the lavender scent of her hair and the strength and vulnerability in her voice and body.
Korine Davenport was an interesting woman. Hardheaded and tough. A woman with problems. Baggage.
He had his own.
But the memory of her body against his taunted him as he drove home. He wanted her. Again. And again . . .
Korine locked the door, desperate to escape Hatcher.
The sound of music wafted to her, and she froze. Her music box . . . I feel pretty, oh, so pretty, so pretty and witty and bright . . .
Senses alert, she went very still. She’d left her music box on the mantel, but the music was coming from the back of the house . . .
Fear whispered against her neck, and she reached for her gun. Was someone inside?
She scanned the living room and kitchen, then eased into the hallway. The wood floor creaked as she walked, and she paused every few inches, listening for sounds of an intruder.
Nothing except the music.
She peered inside her bedroom first, then her bath. Nothing.
Breathing a little steadier, she stepped into her office. The music box sat on her desk, the ballerina twirling, the melody drowning out her own breathing.
She hadn’t left the music box in her office. And she certainly hadn’t left it open and playing.
Someone had been there.
She made a quick visual sweep but didn’t see anything else that was disturbed.
What the hell was going on? Why would someone come in and play the music box? And why leave it in her office?
Had someone been interested in her files?
She crossed the room and studied the wall. Snippets of cold cases covered a section, while another featured her father’s case.
She focused on the notes from the sheriff who’d investigated her father’s murder. Her mother’s statement. Kenny’s. Hers, although at five and having fallen in her father’s blood after watching him get shot, she’d been too traumatized to talk.
All the notes and pictures and files appeared to be intact.
For a brief second she considered filing a report about a break-in, but there was no threat here. No damage.
She’d look like a fool if she claimed someone had come in and messed with her childhood music box.
She rubbed her temple, then went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine, and sipped it while she fixed a grilled cheese sandwich and carried it to her desk.
But she couldn’t shake the sadness from being with her mother. It was almost as if she’d lost both of her parents the day her father died.
A memory floated into her consciousness: a summer day—hot, humid, the sun relentless. Fourth of July.
Her mother had packed a picnic lunch with fried chicken, homemade buttermilk biscuits, fried peach pies, and fruit cups. Kenny had been so excited he’d grabbed his fishing rod and hat, eager to spend the day fishing off the pontoon boat their father had rented.
They swam in the river, floated on inner tubes, and picnicked beneath a giant oak tree. Her mother had fallen asleep on the picnic blanket, reading a book.
The wind stirred again, launching her back to that scene.
Kenny baited his hook. “I’m gonna catch our dinner.”
She laughed. “Mama brought chicken just in case.”
Kenny stuck his tongue out at her, then cast the line.
“Look, Daddy!” Kenny yelled.
Her daddy patted Kenny’s shoulder. “Do you want to fish, princess?”
She shivered. She didn’t like the squiggly worms. “No, I wanna swim.”
Her father laughed, then scooped her up and tossed her in the river. She squealed, and he dove under the water. She climbed on his shoulder. Time after time, he tossed her in the water. She made big splashes, then went under. Each time he ducked below to catch her.
They laughed and played, and she squealed and pumped her arms and legs, determined to learn to swim.
Finally, her arms and legs grew tired. They climbed out, and he carried her to the blanket, and she snuggled beside her mother.
Then he turned to look for Kenny.
But Kenny was gone. His fishing rod lay on the riverbank.
“Kenny!” Her father’s shout scared her. She sat up and scanned the area. No Kenny.
“Kenny, come here!” her daddy yelled.
Tears blurred her eyes. What if something had happened to Kenny? He was a good swimmer, but he could have fallen in, gotten swept up by the current, and dragged downstream.
If he’d hit his head, he could be dead.
Korine blinked, focusing again and trying to blot out the fear she’d felt that day. After an hour of searching, her father had found Kenny by the bait shop at the pier. He was furious with Kenny and grounded him for a week.
Kenny had been sullen and moody for weeks afterward.
Looking back, she realized Kenny had been jealous because he’d wanted his father to fish with him. Instead, he’d ignored Kenny and spent the day with her.
Kenny’s resentment of her grew from that day on. Whenever her father spent time with her, Kenny had done something to get his attention. He’d acted out. He’d snuck away from the house. He’d turned to friends who rebelled against their parents and upbringing.
Her father had become increasingly impatient with Kenny, while her mother defended and coddled him.
He was adult now, though—she couldn’t coddle him.
“I’m bailing you out one last time, Kenny,” she whispered. “But tomorrow you’re going to rehab.”
Decision made, she turned back to the two murder cases she and Hatcher were working. Tinsley Jensen had called in the first crime.
Whoever had left the judge near her cottage was making a point—that finally, justice was served. Not to the man who’d hurt Tinsley, but to the judge’s victims because he’d released a rapist.
Tinsley’s blog had drawn hundreds of comments. Maybe the killer had left her a message hidden among the posts.
Adrenaline surging through her, she Googled the blog and began to read. The first entry made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
I clawed the wall to mark the days I had been held hostage here.
Seven so far.
At first I was strong and I fought him. I even challenged and goaded him. Called him less than a man.
He punished me for that. My skin was still raw from the cleansing. My body hurt from the beatings. My back burned from the whip.
I finally learned to keep my mouth shut.
Except for when I screamed.
He liked that sound. He laughed and taunted me. I tried to hold it in.
But as he drove whatever object he’d chosen to shove inside me to my core, I felt like I was splitting in two.
And the sobs and screams came. But even they could not drown out his breathing and his laughter . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY
Anxious to get off his wet jeans and rid himself of the river-water smell, Hatcher showered and yanked on sweats and a T-shirt. His stomach growled, and he heated a frozen pizza and reached for a beer, then decided to get a bottle of water instead. Too wired to sleep, though, he went to work.
He accessed records of the Davenport murder case and skimmed the file. The sheriff had identified no real suspects or leads. The fact that Dr. Davenport was a child psychologist was interesting, especially in light of the cases Hatcher and Korine had been working lately, but his murder had occurred twenty-five years ago. There was no connection.
The sheriff had questioned the families of Davenport’s clients, his secretary, and colleagues, but no one raised suspicions. He’d found no motive f
or murder and finally speculated that it was a robbery gone awry.
The problem with that theory was that even though it was Christmas Eve and mounds of presents were under the tree, and even though the Davenports had expensive silver and Mrs. Davenport’s jewelry box was full of gemstones, nothing had been stolen.
Of course, the intruder could have thought the family was out for the night, then panicked when he discovered they were home.
Still . . . if he’d seen lights on inside the house, why not come back a different night?
According to the sheriff, Korine’s mother loved her husband. He was a brilliant child psychologist, adored his kids, and provided for the family. He was faithful to her, and they had a good marriage. No complaints from patients or their families either.
Davenport had held seminars on children’s behavior and psychological issues, including schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. He’d also treated children who’d suffered trauma from loss of a parent or sibling and had earned awards for innovative therapy techniques in forensic interviewing.
Hatcher scratched his head. Now to the details of the night he was murdered.
The family had attended church, then had a celebratory dinner at the country club. When they returned, Mrs. Davenport went to bed with a migraine. Korine’s brother had been moody all night.
When they arrived home, Kenny retreated to his room.
Korine’s mother had left Korine and her father in his study. According to Mrs. Davenport, Korine’s father had let Korine stand on his feet while they danced.
“I Feel Pretty” had been playing the night of the murder. The same song had been playing when they’d stopped at the Davenports earlier.
Mrs. Davenport had just been drifting off to sleep when a noise jarred her. The gunshots. She raced down the steps and found her husband lying on the floor, soaked in blood.
Apparently, he’d collapsed with Korine in his arms. She was screaming and had blood on her pink satin dress and hands.
The porcelain doll her father had given her had fallen from the piano. Korine had cut her hand on a shard of the doll’s shattered face.
The photo of Dr. Davenport’s body lying on the floor in shock with blood pooling around him matched the description of the murder scene.
But it was the picture of Korine at age five, her eyes wide in horror, blood splattered on her dress and hands, that made his chest clench.
He’d seen death too many times to count. The most personal one: his wife’s.
But Korine had been five years old when she’d witnessed a bloody shooting. An innocent little girl, dancing with her father on Christmas Eve . . .
He forced himself to look at his wife’s picture on the desk. Their marriage had been a mess, but he shouldn’t have ignored her call.
He flexed his fingers and stared at his hand where his wedding ring had once been. That band had symbolized his love for his wife, his commitment and devotion.
But he never wore it on the job. In fact, he’d taken it off weeks before he’d asked Felicia for a divorce.
The memory of Korine in his arms taunted him, and he closed her file, then stood. When they finished their current assignment, he’d help her investigate her father’s murder.
Meanwhile, he’d keep his hands to himself.
Once Korine started reading, she couldn’t stop. The women’s stories made her skin crawl. But like a rubbernecker watching a car accident, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
He called me Sprite.
I hated it, but he said he only gave pet names to special little girls, and I was special. He chose Sprite for my name because I giggled when the bubbly drink tickled my nose.
I stopped giggling a long time ago.
At first I wanted to please him. He told Mommy I had nightmares because my daddy died, and he would help me.
He said he loved me like Daddy did. That he would teach me about love.
But I didn’t like his lessons.
They were icky.
When he took me on his lap and rubbed me all over, I closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else. Like in a magic castle. But I felt the wind blowing through the castle against my bare skin, and suddenly I was freezing. Then my dress was gone.
And he was heavy on top of me.
“This is our special time,” he whispered. “And you’re my girl.”
Only I didn’t feel special. I felt cold and dirty, and I hurt all over.
He wiped my tears with his fingers and told me not to cry. That he’d never leave me like Daddy.
That we had to keep our special time a secret.
Korine pinched the bridge of her nose. God. The poor little girl. How long had she suffered before an adult discovered what was going on? Or had an adult found out? Had she kept the man’s dirty little secret?
Was that man still free to hurt more children?
Shivering from revulsion, she moved to the next entry.
It was a Friday night. The night my little sister died.
She was a virgin. Only fourteen years old.
But that monster changed everything.
She liked basketball and pizza and country music. She had a crush on a guitar player who played in a country band named Boot Stompers. She snuck out to see him play that night, but some creep jumped her in the parking lot of the teen center before she went in.
He dragged her into an alley, tore off her clothes, raped her, then beat her until she was unconscious.
Now she’s in a coma, where she lies in silence.
She’s not technically dead, but the girl who looked at life with rose-colored glasses is dead. Gone forever.
The bruises on her face and body are healing. The bones were put back together.
But she won’t open her eyes. I don’t know if she hears me when I sit by her side and talk to her.
I want her to wake up and tell us who did this to her.
I want him to pay.
I want to make him suffer for hurting her. Because when she opens her eyes, I know she’ll have to relive the horror of his attack again.
Maybe she’ll play basketball once more. Maybe she’ll still like pizza.
But she’ll never smile that innocent virgin smile again.
The monster who did that to her needs to die.
Hatcher couldn’t sleep. That image of Korine at age five in her pink satin dress covered in blood kept flashing behind his eyes.
Frustrated, he finally tossed the covers aside, threw on sweats, and went for an early-morning run. The fresh air, woods, and a trip along the river helped to clear his head. Unfortunately, even jogging couldn’t completely stamp out his lust for his new partner.
He phoned Korine as he returned to the house and left a voice mail relaying that he’d set up a briefing with everyone involved in the case. Next, he texted all the parties involved with the time and location.
He showered and dressed quickly, anxious to steer his mind back to the job. Last night he’d dreamed about Felicia. As usual, she’d screamed his name and begged him to save her.
But instead of going to her, he’d pulled Korine into his arms. Driven by passion, he’d stripped her clothes and touched every inch of her.
Then Korine was panting below him. Her lips parted in a moan of pleasure. She cried out his name and begged him to take her again . . .
He’d woken up shaking and craving Korine so badly he’d reached for Jack Daniels.
He’d gone as far as to pour himself a shot. But when he’d lifted it to his lips and sniffed, he’d seen Wyatt’s face. Wyatt, who’d been severely injured but was fighting back.
He’d tossed the bottle aside and gone for a run.
Eager to get to work, he brewed a pot of coffee. Then he polished off a piece of toast and poured to-go mugs, one for himself and one for Korine. He had to get out of the house. Away from the photo of Felicia staring at him, blaming him for her death. Calling him a cheater for thinking
about how good Korine felt, naked and writhing in his arms, when his wife lay in the cold ground.
Rain clouds hovered outside, obliterating the sun and casting a dismal gray over the river and marsh. For a brief second, a hazy figure floated above the water. A woman. Her hair swirled around the slender heart-shaped face.
Felicia. She was reaching toward him. Her mouth open in a plea. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
She was in pain, in limbo, and she couldn’t move on. He didn’t know how to help her . . .
Anger mounted inside Korine as morning dawned. She needed to stop reading and get some sleep. But she’d been too intrigued by the heart-wrenching posts to close her eyes.
I didn’t mean to kill him . . . it just happened.
I lifted my hands and stared at the blood dripping down my fingers. It splattered the floor and my feet with its vibrant color.
Panic seized me. I had to wash it off. Clean up. Call the police.
Instead, I stared at my bloody fingers in awe. That blood had come from a monster.
He was gone because of me. I could finally sleep without the terror clawing at me every night.
Although even with my eyes open, those creepy doll eyes stared back at me. Glowing in the dark like they were possessed by the devil.
Except this time they were staring at his dead body. And they were smiling as he lay limp and helpless.
Korine rubbed her eyes.
The stories could have been written by the victims from the cases she was investigating.
Could one of them be connected?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Morning joggers, commuters, and tourists were already filling the Savannah streets as Hatcher drove toward Korine’s.
He flipped on the radio to hear what the media had to say.
“Downtown Savannah is expected to be flooded today with women from all walks of life as they take part in the Women’s Protest Movement spreading across the country. Although purported to be a nonviolent march, police will be out in full force.”
The reporter continued. “In addition to women’s rights, the groups today are protesting the release of over fifty prisoners statewide. The governor, with the consent of the president, cited overcrowding and poor prison conditions as the reason for the decision. However, many of the inmates were in prison on domestic violence charges, creating fear in the minds of the victims and their families.”
