by Herron, Rita
Table of Contents
DEAD LITTLE DARLINGS
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Acknowledgments
Other Books
About the Author
Dead Little Darlings
Copyright © 2019 by Rita Herron
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, transmitted, or distributed in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without specific written permission from the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher are illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Beachside Reads
Norcross, GA 30092
Cover Design: Jeffery Olsen
Cover Photo: 123RF.com
Print Design: Dayna Linton, Day Agency
eBook Interior Design: Dayna Linton, Day Agency
ISBN: 978-1-949178-08-1 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-949178-06-7 (eBook)
First Edition: 2019
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed in the USA
In memory of my mother who taught me to never give up.
Prologue
Pain seared Deborah Darling’s abdomen. She clutched her belly and tried to breathe through it. But she refused to scream.
Because he was watching. He always watched.
Her cries of terror gave him pleasure.
Another contraction, excruciating. Sweat drenched her face and hair. The baby was coming. Now.
Tears blurred her eyes as she looked around the cold empty room. It had been her prison cell for the last few months. A tiny window allowed only a small stream of light inside. But through that window, she’d seen the ocean.
Then the lighthouse.
Home.
If she could just get out of the room, make it to the water, find a boat . . .
Fear and panic stabbed at her. She was only fourteen years old. She didn’t know how to do this. Not alone.
She needed her sisters. But they were gone now.
Another pain, sharper, faster, then another and another. She bit her tongue and tasted blood. Time to push this baby out.
She clawed at the sheets covering the thin mattress, then grunted and began to push. Something wet streamed down her legs and soaked the bedding. Blood followed.
She pushed again, harder, breathing through the pain . . .
The labor went on forever. Exhausted, she cried out. She couldn’t do this. She was too tired.
Then another pain. One more push. The baby slipped out. Her body trembled. Blood was everywhere.
The baby was quiet. Not crying. Something was wrong.
Cold terror washed over her. She swiped her hair from her face, then reached between her legs and scooped up the tiny infant. Blood and fluids covered the newborn. Its skin was wrinkly, sticky.
A girl.
She had a daughter.
A sob caught in her throat, and she brought the baby to her chest and patted its back. Suddenly a wail broke loose.
Tears rained down her face as she cradled her daughter closer.
“Mama’s here,” she whispered.
The baby wiggled and kicked, and Deborah smiled for the first time in months. Anger followed as protective instincts kicked in.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” she murmured.
A noise outside the door. Footsteps.
She froze, heart pounding. Was he coming back? Would he take her little girl?
No . . . she wouldn’t let him.
The footsteps faded. Relieved, she grabbed the towel on the nightstand that he’d left for her and cleaned the baby. Perfect pink skin.
She was so tiny.
She cradled her infant against her chest as exhaustion overcame her, and she dozed to sleep.
The routine was the same for the next three days. He left food and water for her through the opening at the bottom of the door. She forced herself to eat and drink. She nursed the baby as she’d seen the other girls do.
She waited and watched through the window.
The ocean was close. He kept a small boat there. And a canoe.
Finally, an opening—he took the boat and left.
Jumping into action, she wrapped the baby in a clean towel, then she dressed in one of the thin gowns he’d given her. No shoes.
It didn’t matter.
She tried the door. Locked. Not surprised.
She cried out in frustration, then rushed to the corner and grabbed the nail she’d pried from a loose plank in the floor. Her hand trembled as she picked the lock. The baby began to cry.
“Hush, little darling,” she whispered. “Mama’s going to save us.”
The door sprang open. Knowing he could return any minute, she snatched her daughter and raced through the dark hallway. The basement was cold, dank, scary. She stumbled along, feeling the wall until she found the door. Trembling, she shoved it open and rushed outside.
It was night, barely a sliver of moonlight. The sound of the waves echoed close by. Thunder rumbled. Rocks and shells dug into her bare feet as she ran toward the ocean. She ducked behind trees as she held her baby close to her.
Her legs were so weak, it seemed like miles until she reached the shore.
Thunder crackled again. She had to hurry. It was going to storm.
Her foot slipped, but she trudged on.
He’d taken the motorboat. But the canoe was wedged between the trees.
She gently eased the infant onto a bed of grass then shoved the canoe into the edge of the water. Frantic, she rushed back, grabbed her daughter and climbed inside. Her heart raced as she gently laid the infant on the canoe floor and began to paddle.
The light from the lighthouse on Seahawk Island beckoned. It would guide her to safety.
She paddled and paddled, slowly drifting toward it. Waves crashed against the canoe, making the boat bounce and sway. Wind beat at her. She imagined sharks circling the canoe, smelling her blood, anxious to feed on her.
Lightning streaked the sky and then rain began to pound down. She shivered, her teeth chattering. But determination drove her. She couldn’t let him get her. He’d punish her like he had before.
She didn’t know if she’d survive his cruel punishments again. No, she’d have to.
If she didn’t survive, no telling what he’d do with her daughter.
Her arms ached and her lungs strained for air, but she gritted her teeth. Cold rain soaked her skin and ran down her face. She eased the baby beneath her legs to shield her from the rain.
A few more feet, she could do it. Once she reached the island, she’d find someone to help her.
She had to save her daughter from that monster . . .
Through the windows of the lighthouse, the Punisher watched. He could see for miles and miles across the blustery sea. The minute she climbed into the canoe with the baby, he smiled.
So predictable. Just like the others.
Except this girl had been tough. A fighter.
He had to admit he admired that part about her. That and the fact that she was so protective of her child. Maybe she wasn’t as bad as the others.
But still, she’d sinned. And sinners like her couldn’t go free.
It was time for justice.
She was paddling and rowing with all her might. In a hurry to escape what she knew was coming.
A chuckle rumbled from deep in his gut. They all thought the lighthouse would guide them to safety.
Instead, it guided them straight back to him . . .
Chapter One
Twenty-five years later
Marilyn Ellis wanted redemption. For herself. For the victims whose stories she told.
And most of all, for the teenage girl she’d seen murdered twenty-five-years ago.
But no one knew about the girl except her mother. And she’d been so terrified the killer would come after them that she’d made Marilyn keep quiet.
But hiding the truth had eaten at Marilyn every day of her life. It also spurned her to unearth others’ secrets.
The world only saw the surface side of her. That she was tough. Bull-headed. That she pushed until she peeled away layers of lies and secrets and exposed them.
They thought she had no feelings. The trouble was, she felt too damn much.
“Marilyn, aren’t you coming to bed?”
Detective Ryker Brockett’s gruff voice stirred her desire and made her want to forget about work. At least momentarily. “I’ll be right there.” She checked her schedule for the next morning on her phone calendar, then laid it on the nightstand as she slipped into the bedroom where her lover waited.
She couldn’t get enough of Ryker. At least not in bed.
He was easy on the eyes, intelligent, knew exactly what to do with his hands and tongue and cock to please her.
Even better, he demanded nothing. No ties. No expectations.
Sometimes he even shared details of his cases with her, too.
Heat immediately sparked inside her at the sight of him lying naked in bed. Tall, dark and handsome seemed cliché but fit this spectacularly sexy man. He must have taken lovemaking lessons from the devil. There was no other way to explain the sinful pleasure he elicited with every kiss and touch.
“Baby, you look good tonight,” Ryker said in a husky drawl.
She tossed her satin robe onto the chair in the corner, her breasts aching for his mouth, her center wet from wanting him. He reached for her, but she shook her finger playfully, then sank onto the bed on her knees and raked her finger over his broad, muscular chest. “Not yet, lover boy.”
She wet her lips with her tongue and kissed him thoroughly, then slowly nibbled her way down his throat and chest to his belly. He groaned, tunneling his fingers through her hair and pulling her closer. She trailed kisses over his thick erection, circling the head of his shaft with her tongue until he growled and pulled her above him to straddle him. “I want you, Marilyn.”
Her nipples tingled as he teased one then the other with his mouth, arousing her to damn near the point of pain. She wanted more.
Outside rain hammered the roof, the sound intensifying as the storm gained momentum. Normally Marilyn hated the rain, the dark clouds, the thunder. It reminded her of that night . . .
Ryker plunged his tongue inside her mouth, and she drowned out the storm and the memories as pleasure shot through her.
It was crazy. Intense. Sometimes she thought he was becoming an obsession.. All she could think about was him.
His dark gaze met hers, heat flaring. With another sexy growl, he gripped her hips and thrust inside her. She threw her head back in wild abandon as erotic sensations splintered through her. Slowly he pulled out, then drove into her again, this time so deep she rasped his name. “Ryker, you feel so good.”
“So do you, baby.” He nibbled at her neck, then flipped her to her back, grabbed her legs and wrapped them around him. Quivering with anticipation, she lifted her body to take him in deeper. Titillating sensations rippled through her. Deeper, faster, explosive, he stirred her blood to a heated frenzy and drove her mad with passion.
The storm raged on. Lightning streaked the room. She cried out as colors swirled behind her eyes and her orgasm rocked through her.
Seconds later, he joined her on the ride, his rough, throaty moans intensifying her own excitement. Faster, deeper, harder, they reached the peak together, her whispering his name, him groaning into her hair.
Finally they collapsed in a sweaty, satisfied heap, arms and legs tangled, both panting from the ride.
Her phone beeped with her alarm. She snatched it from the nightstand and silenced it, then slid her legs over the side of the bed.
Ryker caught her arm. “Do you really have to go?” That sly grin had landed her in trouble the first time she’d slept with him. She averted her gaze to keep from succumbing to the temptation to stay with him and forget about work, something she never did.
But time was of the essence.
She dropped a kiss on his sexy lips. “Sorry, it’s important.”
He arched a brow. “A new story?”
She shrugged. “Always chasing one.”
He leaned back against the pillows, his bare chest glistening with perspiration. Damn, he was so hot she didn’t want to leave.
“What’s this one about?” he asked.
“I can’t talk about it just yet. Maybe soon.” The lie came easily. She hadn’t decided exactly how to expose this story. She’d been hunting the truth for as long as she could remember.
And she would get the answers, no matter what she had to do.
She laid another kiss on him, one that was wet and sensual and hopefully would keep him thinking about her all day, then slipped from bed and padded naked to the bathroom to shower.
He might be able to help.
Yeah, but then she’d have to tell him everything. Follow the rules.
Marilyn Ellis was not a rule follower.
Detective Ryker Brockett watched Marilyn sashay to the bathroom, naked and delectably sexy, still damp with his sweat from their lovemaking.
His cock twitched and hardened as she closed the bathroom door. He was tempted to join her in the shower. Have another round with her before he headed to the police station.
But Marilyn was hiding something from him. Ryker knew it as well as he knew where to touch her to make her scream his name in ecstasy.
Unfortunately bringing her to orgasm and persuading her to confide in him were two different things. The sex with Marilyn came easily and was mind-blowing. For some reason storms tended to make it even more intense.
The conversations, the investigations, her reporting . . . that was the complicated part.
He would find out what she was up to though. Eventually.
After all, he was a damn good
detective.
Pride made him smile as he climbed from bed and padded to the kitchen. He filled the water canister, then added his favorite dark roast blend and set the pot on the brew cycle.
Over the last year he’d worked with the FBI in Savannah and Seahawk Island, investigating cases involving a secret group of vigilante killers called the Keepers. Marilyn covered the investigations and had also conducted interviews with Cat Landon and Carrie Ann Jensen, two members of the group who’d been caught.
Despite the fact that some people thought Marilyn was an insensitive barracuda who’d sacrifice anyone for a story, he knew there was more to her, had known it since they’d first met. Her tough act was a cover for her own pain. Pain she refused to talk about.
But it drove her to find the truth and seek justice for others. She’d even managed to paint Cat Landon and Carrie Ann Jensen sympathetically, focusing on the emotional trauma in the women’s past that had motivated them to commit murder.
He admired her tenacity.
Even if occasionally it annoyed the hell out of him. Like this morning when he wanted to know where she was going.
But she’d made it clear that she only shared when she was good and damned well ready. He felt the same way about his job. So they’d struck a balance between fucking each other and respecting the privacy necessary to protect their careers.
Still, sometimes he wanted more from her. Wanted real intimacy. For her to talk about what happened to make her so terrified of storms—and of trusting.
He removed a mug for himself and a to-go cup for Marilyn, but before he could fill them, she appeared. For a woman, she could shower damn fast. Her silky blond hair was spiked and feathered around her face, making her look sexy and . . . alluring.
She walked toward him as if wanting coffee, then glanced down at this erection and slanted him a wicked grin. He shrugged.
