Pretty Little Killers

by Rita Herron

  After her father’s death, her mother let most of the roses go and then the garden.

  Although the incident the last time she was at her mother’s nagged at her. Why had her mother suddenly been digging where Kenny had buried the doll?

  She averted her gaze from Hatcher and wiped at a tear. “Apparently he became agitated during therapy, so I don’t know what kind of mood he’s in. If he shows up, call me.”

  Esme assured her she would, and Korine pocketed her phone.

  “Your brother checked himself out?” Hatcher asked as he finished his burger.

  “Not exactly. He just left.”

  Hatcher waved the waitress over for the check. “Do you have any idea where he’d go?”

  “Maybe to a bar, some place to drink.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “In a loft near downtown.”

  Korine offered Hatcher her credit card, but he waved it off. “He might pick up some booze and go home.”

  Hatcher jangled his keys. “Then let’s go.”

  Korine caught his arm, but heat speared her, and she wished she hadn’t. The day was wearing on her. Leaning on Hatcher was too tempting.

  “Take me home, then I’ll go. You don’t need to get involved in my personal problems.”

  Hatcher’s eyes darkened. “Stop pushing me away, Korine. If your brother is upset and inebriated, you shouldn’t face him alone.”

  A tiny smile tugged at her mouth at his protective tone. “I am a federal agent,” she said. “I know how to defend myself.”

  He made a sarcastic sound in his throat. “We’re supposed to back each other up.”

  Without another word, he strode toward the door.

  Emotions warred inside Korine. She didn’t want to face Kenny alone, but having Hatcher so close made her want more.

  He was nothing like the other men she’d met. He was strong, brave, protective.

  Handsome. Sexy.

  He knew how to treat a woman. How to respect her.

  How to love her and make her crazy in bed.

  If they weren’t working together, she might consider sleeping with him again just to feel his hands on her body and his lips touching her intimately.

  Hatcher had seen too many drunks get violent. He didn’t know Kenny Davenport, but a quick background check revealed that he’d been arrested twice in barroom brawls. Apparently he had a temper when he was intoxicated.

  He was also angry that Korine had forced him into rehab.

  He might turn that anger on her.

  The thought of Korine’s brother hurting her made Hatcher’s stomach knot. Korine was a damn decent woman who took care of everyone but herself.

  Someone needed to take care of her, whether she liked it or not.

  She gave him the address for Kenny’s complex, a series of three brick warehouses that had been turned into lofts. Hatcher wove through Savannah, then veered into the parking area.

  “What kind of vehicle does Kenny drive?” Hatcher asked.

  “An old Range Rover, but I don’t see it here.” She unbuckled her seat belt and opened the car door. “I hope he isn’t drinking and driving.”

  Storm clouds darkened as they climbed the steel staircase to Kenny’s second-floor loft. Korine pounded on the door. “Kenny, are you in there?”

  She leaned her ear against the door and listened. “Kenny?”

  Nothing.

  She twisted the doorknob, then pushed at the door, but it was locked.

  “He’s not here,” Hatcher said.

  “Or if he is, he’s passed out or not answering.” Korine pulled a set of keys from her pocket, then inserted one and the door swung open.

  “You have keys to your brother’s loft?” Hatcher asked, surprised.

  “One time Kenny passed out in an alley. When I got him home, I made a copy of his key while he slept off his binge. I’ve called too many times, and when he doesn’t answer, I imagine him dead in the streets or in a dumpster somewhere.” She shrugged. “At least this way I can check.”

  She stepped inside, and Hatcher followed her into the room, a large space with an open-concept living, dining, and kitchen area. The bedroom was designated by a platform and folding screen.

  From the doorway, Hatcher could easily see the guy wasn’t home.

  Korine mumbled something that he didn’t understand, and he followed her to the table. Dozens of photos of Korine and her parents were spread across the surface . . . except the photos had been mangled and destroyed.

  “My God,” Korine said as she picked up a picture. Its edges had been jaggedly cut with scissors.

  Hatcher didn’t know what to say. The pictures were disturbing.

  Hatcher glanced at the floor on the other side of the table, and his blood ran cold.

  A music box identical to the one Korine had sat on the floor beside a porcelain doll. A doll whose face had been smashed.

  A doll with a knife protruding from its chest.

  A knife dripping with blood.

  A shiver slithered up Korine’s spine. What had happened here?

  She’d known that Kenny resented her, but the violence displayed in the shredded pictures and in the doll’s destruction hinted at more than resentment.

  That bloody knife . . . was it from one of their victims?

  “I think you should issue an APB for Kenny,” Hatcher said. “He appears to be dangerous.”

  “I can’t have him arrested for tearing up some pictures,” Korine said, knowing her mother would hate her if she discovered she’d sent Kenny to jail.

  Hatcher gripped her arm and forced her to look at him. “Your brother’s out of control. He obviously has rage issues. Coupled with drinking or drugs, that rage could escalate.” He gently cupped her face in his hands. “I don’t want to see him take it out on you.”

  And the doll was an indication that he would.

  Korine didn’t like feeling vulnerable, especially in front of Hatcher. She was supposed to be his equal, not a flailing, needy female.

  She stiffened and pulled away. “I can take care of myself and my family. If you want to process that knife, bag it.”

  She headed toward the door. Hatcher caught up with her, his breathing puffing behind her. “Where are you going?”

  “Home,” she said stiffly. “If Kenny wants to find me, he’ll go there. If not, at least I can study that chat room. Maybe we’ll get lucky and someone will post about Hortman.”

  She clamped her mouth shut to stifle a sob as she glanced back at the doll. Kenny knew how much those gifts from her father meant to her.

  She hadn’t realized how deep-seated his jealousy was.

  The fresh air helped to jolt her out of the shock enveloping her as she and Hatcher stepped outside.

  “We need to process that knife, Korine. You know that, don’t you?”

  Tears clogged her throat, and she nodded. “I’ll wait. You get it.”

  He murmured that he would, and she leaned against the railing and drew in a breath.

  A minute later, he returned, and they hurried down the steps to his SUV.

  She checked her phone for messages as Hatcher drove from the lofts toward her house, but there were no calls from Kenny or Esme.

  Hatcher parked the SUV in front of her house. She thanked him for driving her home, then reached for the door handle.

  He covered her hand with his. “I’m not leaving until we check out your house.”

  He let the sentence trail off, but she understood the implication—he wanted to make sure Kenny wasn’t lurking around.

  At one time, she wouldn’t have been afraid of her brother. But after seeing that knife in the doll . . . she didn’t know.

  “I can handle myself,” she said and exited the vehicle.

  He didn’t say a word, but he followed her up to the front door. She scanned the property, and he did the same, but nothing looked amiss.

  Inside, though, the lamp in her bedroom was on.

  “I turn
ed off the light in my room when I left.” Instantly alert, they both drew their weapons as she fished her keys from her pocket and unlocked the door. The moment she did, she knew someone had been inside.

  The entryway and den looked untouched, but a strange scent in the air made her pause. What was it—perfume? Bodywash? Aftershave? Or something else . . .

  Straining to hear, she glanced at Hatcher. He raised his brows, and she gestured for him to check her office while she did her bedroom.

  One step down the hall, and she glanced into her room. Anger welled inside her as she looked at her bed.

  Dozens of broken pieces of doll heads were scattered over the surface.

  Hatcher’s sharp intake of breath echoed behind her.

  She blinked to stem the tears. Had her brother done this?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Perspiration beaded on Tinsley’s forehead as she stared at the image in the Facebook Live post.

  A man was tied up, struggling to escape, his face covered by a mask.

  Things were out of control.

  The blog had started out as therapy, a way to help herself and others.

  But some of her followers had taken it too far.

  The federal agents were searching for a vigilante killer. Marilyn Ellis had aired the story on the evening news and hinted that there might be a conspiracy.

  Emotions boomeranged inside Tinsley. She didn’t want it to be true. Didn’t want any of the troubled souls she talked to online to be responsible.

  But her instincts warned her they were.

  A post quickly appeared beneath the photograph.

  You’ll be safe soon, Tinsley. Then the Skull can’t hurt you or anyone else again.

  No . . . Tinsley yanked on her glasses and peered at the man on-screen. His face was hidden in the shadows, also disguised by a skull mask.

  The Skull had always worn a mask. She’d never seen his face.

  Could this be the man who’d held and tortured her?

  She leaned closer, scrutinizing his features. Though he was sitting in a chair, something about him was off. He seemed shorter. More muscular.

  And . . . the scar on her abductor’s hand . . . the tattoo . . . it wasn’t on this man’s hand.

  He could have had it removed. But why would he do that? She hadn’t seen his face, so she couldn’t identify him. But the tattoo—she would recognize it.

  There was something else wrong, too.

  She zeroed in on the man’s left hand. The middle finger on her attacker’s left hand had been scarred horribly.

  This man’s finger was smooth.

  God . . .

  Her heart hammered in her chest. Whoever had taken this man hostage thought he was her attacker. They might have killed three people already. Three who deserved it.

  But this time they had the wrong person . . .

  Panic surged through her.

  An innocent man might die unless she did something to stop it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hatcher cleared his throat. “I’m calling an evidence team to process your house again. If I were you, I’d have a security system installed as soon as possible.”

  Korine winced. “It’s a rental. I’ll have to talk with the owner.”

  Hatcher stepped into the living room to make the call, and she checked the bathroom, closet, and her office to see whether anything else had been disturbed. The family picture she’d hung in the hallway had been removed.

  She hurried back to her bedroom and found the picture lying on the floor on the far side of the bed, the frame shattered. The photograph that had been inside was torn into pieces and scattered on the floor.

  Kenny.

  She’d seen him smash one of her dolls before. But she’d never thought he’d break in and destroy family pictures . . . or leave broken dolls on her bed.

  Hatcher inched up behind her, and gently gripped her arms with his hands. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded and told herself to pull away from him. But it felt so comforting to have him stroking her arms that she couldn’t bring herself to move. “I didn’t realize Kenny’s resentment ran so deep. He really needs psychological help.”

  Hatcher rubbed her back. “We’ll find him, Korine, and we’ll make sure he gets help.”

  When they did, she was going to insist they talk about the family. If she had to attend therapy with him, they’d get to the bottom of his anger. Neither one of them could go on this way.

  Two hours later, the evidence team finally finished. Korine had grown quiet, withdrawing into herself.

  It was painful to watch.

  She didn’t deserve this.

  “We’ll let you know if anything turns up forensics-wise,” Drummond said.

  “Thank you.” Korine forced a smile, but Hatcher knew her well enough by now to realize that she was more upset than she wanted to reveal.

  “Did you find the instrument the unsub used to break the dolls?” Hatcher asked.

  “No,” Drummond said. “He or she must have smashed the dolls somewhere else, then brought them here.”

  Hatcher grimaced. First those creepy doll heads with the lights glowing in their eyes. Now shattered doll heads. Their eyes were broken, leaving gaping holes, and their limbs were ripped—an arm here, a leg there.

  Could it possibly be an indication of what this intruder wanted to do to Korine?

  Just like the knife in the doll at Kenny’s . . .

  The team left with bags of the shattered porcelain dolls and the shredded picture and frame.

  Korine stared out the front window. She looked so damn lost that he couldn’t leave her alone.

  Hatcher made a snap decision. “Pack an overnight bag. You’re going to stay at my place tonight.”

  Korine pivoted, arms folded, eyebrows raised. “That’s not necessary, Hatcher. I’m not afraid to be alone.”

  “Maybe not, but I don’t like this situation. Whoever did this is leaving a message. Next time, it might not be dolls he takes a hammer to.”

  “Kenny wouldn’t hurt me,” Korine said in a low voice.

  Hatcher hated the uncertainty in her voice. He couldn’t imagine a family member turning on someone like this. And what if it wasn’t Kenny?

  “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly.

  She glanced around the living area, her face strained. “I know. I don’t understand, but I’m going to keep pushing until I do.”

  She disappeared into her bedroom, and he walked to the back door and looked out at the woods. Kenny might be hiding out there somewhere, waiting for Korine to be left alone.

  That wasn’t going to happen.

  Korine threw a change of clothes and pajamas in her overnight bag, then grabbed her toiletries. She packed her running shoes and extra ammo for her gun, then checked her phone.

  A text from Bellows, wanting to know how Hatcher was doing, if he was drinking.

  Hatcher called her name. She’d respond to Bellows later.

  She was hoping the rehab center would call and say Kenny had returned, but there was no word. She punched his number and left a message, although she didn’t know whether he had his phone with him. He had turned it in to the therapist when he’d first checked into rehab, so he might be without one.

  Hatcher was waiting for her in the living room and grabbed her bag.

  “I can carry it,” Korine snapped.

  “I realize you don’t like to accept help,” Hatcher said, swinging the bag to his side so she couldn’t reach it. “But we’re partners and you’re stuck with me.”

  Korine’s instinct was to argue, but she was too tired to fight back at the moment. She needed to pick her battles, and this wasn’t the one she wanted to tackle.

  She followed Hatcher to the car in silence. Fifteen minutes later, Hatcher parked at a cabin on the marsh.

  “It’s not fancy,” he said, “but your brother won’t find you here.”

  That could be good or bad.

  Her emotions were r
unning high tonight, something a night’s sleep could help. When she confronted Kenny, she wanted to be calm and logical.

  More dark clouds hovered on the horizon, casting a grayness over the land that made it look eerie and isolated.

  The wind ruffled the dried marsh grass and brought the scent of loamy earth, shrimp, and the ocean.

  “You like living alone out here?” she asked as he unlocked the door and gestured for her to enter.

  He grunted, a mixture of pain and anger in his eyes. “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “We never talked about the loss of your wife. I—”

  “Do not want to talk about her either,” Hatcher barked.

  Korine froze, her own guilt kicking in. “Maybe not, but I am sorry for your loss. I’ve felt guilty about that night.”

  He dropped her bag on the wood floor, then gripped her arms with his hands. “I know you think I lied to you that night, but I didn’t. My wife and I . . . we were separated.” His eyes darkened. “I’d asked her for a divorce. I’d already moved out and contacted a lawyer.”

  “But technically you were still married,” Korine said. “And I don’t sleep with married men.”

  His expression darkened. “I know you regret it, and so do I. If I’d answered Felicia’s phone call that night, she might not be dead.”

  “But you didn’t answer. Why? Because we were together?”

  Anger heated his eyes. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  He started to turn away, but this time Korine caught his arm and forced him to look at her. “Tell me.”

  “She was needy,” he said. “Clingy. I . . . at first I thought her constant attention was nice, flattering, but then she became obsessive. She started making up things to keep me close by.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’d pretend she was sick so I’d leave work. One night she called to tell me that she’d swallowed some pills and was going to kill herself. But when I got home, I realized she hadn’t taken pills. It was just a ploy to get me to drop what I was doing and rush back to her.”

  Korine sighed. “My God, I’m sorry.”

  He ground his teeth. “The afternoon before she died, she called and said someone was stalking her.”