by Herron, Rita
Lloyd Willing’s face materialized behind her eyes.
She searched the articles for any mention of Willing or Eaton in the investigation, but neither of them had been interviewed by the police. The police had concentrated on talking to students for background on the girls, then focused on the father.
Howard Darling had been their primary person of interest. Although one neighbor suggested he abused his children, and the police had visited the house twice for domestic violence, the police hadn’t arrested Darling. They hadn’t had enough evidence.
According to Mrs. Darling, her husband adored the girls. Yes, they argued, even spanked them when they were younger, but she insisted parents needed to discipline their daughters or they’d turn into whores.
Marilyn stiffened as she read that last line. Did Mrs. Darling have reason to worry her girls were experimenting with sex, or had she been overreacting? Had she covered for her husband because she was afraid of him?
In more than one interview, Mrs. Darling had been drinking heavily. Police assumed she was simply distraught, but what if her drinking had been problematic in the marriage?
What if . . . what if she had been the one who’d hurt the girls?
If so, it explained why she defended her husband. But why wouldn’t Mr. Darling have done something to stop her?
Marilyn ran a hand through her hair and sighed. It was just a theory.
If the girls were being abused, they could have run away out of fear. Where had they been going?
She skimmed the articles again, searching for names of classmates who might have answers, but the articles hadn’t printed the teens’ names.
They would be listed in the official police report.
She returned the microfiche, then stood and stretched. Ryker had access to that report.
Ryker’s phone buzzed as he and Caroline climbed the steps to the library. He glanced down at the screen.
His captain.
“I have to get this,” he said.
“No problem. I’ll try calling Aretha Franton again.” Caroline stepped aside.
Ryker connected the call.
“What the hell is going on?” Captain Henry bellowed.
Ryker tensed. “What do you mean?”
“Listen, Ryker, I know you’re seeing that damned reporter, but you can’t let her interfere with the Eaton case.”
He bristled. There was no way the Captain could know about Marilyn’s earring. “What makes you think I am?”
“I just received a call from Lieutenant Granger, head of the ERT. They found the Ellis woman’s prints at Eaton’s. They’re running the blood sample they collected from his sheets against her DNA now.”
Why the hell had they called the captain instead of him?
He pinched the bridge of his nose as the truth slammed into him. Because they know you and Marilyn are hooking up.
Dammit to hell and back. He liked being with Marilyn. She was gutsy and strong, vulnerable and soft, sexy and mysterious. If she’d only open up to him . . .
But he couldn’t risk his career for her. Could he?
“I haven’t seen or talked to Marilyn since I left the crime scene,” he said. “But trust me, Captain. I’ll find out why she was at Eaton’s.”
He glanced up and saw Caroline watching him. Shit. She’d overheard his side of the conversation.
“Ryker, stop thinking with your dick. Marilyn will do anything for a story. She’s been defending the Keepers. If she’s somehow involved in this murder, she could feed you false information and intentionally lead you astray.”
Ryker inhaled a deep breath, striving for calm. Would Marilyn really distract him from the scent of a killer to get the scoop?
“Don’t worry, Captain,” Ryker said. “Nothing will keep me from finding the person who murdered Eaton.”
“Bring Ms. Ellis in for questioning,” Captain Henry ordered. “I want to hear what she has to say.”
Ryker hung up, his pulse pounding. His association with Marilyn was already costing him.
But hell . . . it was worth it. She was worth it.
“What’s going on?” Caroline asked.
Ryker jammed his phone in his pocket. “It’s about the Eaton case.”
“Let me guess. The reporter you’re seeing was at the crime scene?”
He didn’t like her smug tone.
He replayed the morning in his head. Marilyn making love to him, then rushing out the door. Marilyn showing up at Eaton’s after he’d arrived, then pretending she didn’t know the man.
Marilyn . . . all lies.
“I’ll handle it. Let’s talk to Libby Barrett,” he said.
“You aren’t going to share inside information on this investigation with her, are you?” Caroline asked.
Ryker glared at her. He didn’t need her on his back, too. “I know how to do my job, and I’m damn good at it. So don’t question my integrity.”
Her dark eyes studied him. “I don’t trust her.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But if you’re going to work with me, you have to trust me.”
Ryker didn’t wait for a response. He strode inside, the wind beating at his back as thunder rumbled and rain began to pour.
Marilyn was headed toward the exit when she spotted Ryker and a tall, attractive auburn-haired woman approach Libby Barrett at the desk.
She ducked behind one of the dividers separating the research books from fiction, but stayed close enough to hear the conversation. Ryker introduced himself and the federal agent, Caroline Manson.
Marilyn’s stomach tightened. Damn. She was pretty.
She needed to talk to Ryker, but she’d speak to him in private, not in front of the agent.
“I’m sure you heard about the skeletal remains recovered from Seaside Cemetery,” Ryker said to the librarian. “Two of the bodies have been identified as Deborah and Candace Darling.”
Marilyn inhaled a deep breath. She’d only seen one of the girls that night, Deborah. But their bodies had eventually been dumped at the same graveyard.
“The third body hasn’t been identified yet,” Ryker continued. “The high school counselor from Seahawk High said you had some trouble with the Darlings, that they bullied you.”
Libby touched her throat, her face paling. “There really wasn’t anything to it. They just teased me, you know, kids’ stuff.”
“But you were upset enough to see the counselor about it,” Agent Manson said.
Libby fidgeted. “Yeah, but I got over it.”
A heartbeat of silence passed.
“Students talk,” Agent Manson went on to say. “Did you happen to hear the sisters mention running away from home?”
Libby shook her head no. “I stayed away from them and their friends.”
“And those friends were?” Ryker prodded.
“Mellie Thacker and Aretha Franton. The four of them used to meet up and whisper. They made fun of those of us who weren’t popular. And they flirted with the jocks.”
“Anyone in particular?” Agent Manson asked.
Libby shrugged. “Two football players. Jeremy Linchfield and Preston Richway.” An odd smile tilted her mouth as if she was lost in a memory. “But those guys didn’t want anything to do with the Darlings.”
“Why not?” Ryker asked.
“Because they could have anyone they wanted.” Libby blew out a breath. “I mean anyone.”
“How did the girls handle that?” Agent Manson asked.
“Not well,” the librarian replied. “Deborah and Candace had a mean streak. Mellie said they’d get revenge. That Jeremy and Preston would be sorry.”
“What did they do?” Agent Manson asked.
“I don’t know what they planned.” She raised a brow. “Jeremy had a bad wreck the last day of school before Chris
tmas break. Rumor was that he was drinking and driving.”
“Does he still live in town?” Ryker queried.
Libby nodded. “The wreck tore his leg up. Couldn’t play football his senior year and lost out on a scholarship. Think he works with computers now.”
Marilyn rubbed her temple. If the Darling girls had something to do with Jeremy’s accident, he had motive to hurt them. But . . . she hadn’t seen a young guy with Deborah.
She’d seen Eaton.
Libby pushed her glasses up on her nose. “If you want to know what those girls were up to, you should look in Deborah’s diary,” she told them. “She was always writing in it.”
Marilyn bit the inside of her cheek. The police never mentioned a diary. Had Deborah taken it with her when she’d run away?
Or if she hadn’t run away and Darling had killed her, it might still be at his house.
Libby stepped from behind the desk and glanced around. “I don’t want my name involved in this,” she said. “That’s why I didn’t talk to that reporter a while ago. You won’t tell her what I said, will you?”
Marilyn’s stomach tightened.
“A reporter was here asking about the Darlings?” Ryker asked.
“Yeah, you know that lady who covered the vigilante murders.” Libby hesitated. “She went to the back to look through old microfiche.”
“Really?” Ryker’s voice rose an octave, and Marilyn knew she had to leave.
She inched along the divider until she reached the opposite end and peeked around the corner. The coast looked clear. She stepped from her hiding spot, but a second later Ryker’s voice stopped her.
“Marilyn, imagine seeing you here.”
She squeezed her eyes closed and took a deep breath, then squared her shoulders and turned to face him. Anger darkened his beautiful brown eyes, eyes that had looked at her with passion this morning.
Eyes that now held distrust.
He snatched her arm. “You haven’t been returning my calls.”
“I’ve been working.”
He ushered her into the hallway near the restrooms and blocked her from leaving. “You were at Daryl Eaton’s house before I arrived this morning.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he silenced with a stern look.
“Don’t even think about lying to me,” he said. “Your fingerprints and blood were found in Eaton’s bedroom. My captain wants me to bring you in for questioning.”
Marilyn gritted her teeth, then offered him a smile. “Ryker, it’s me, Marilyn. You can’t possibly think that I killed Daryl Eaton.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ryker shifted. The wheels were turning in Marilyn’s head. He knew every delicious inch of her body—and every nuance of her body language. And he could tell when she was hiding something.
She was doing both now.
“What’s going on, Marilyn?” he asked. “Why were you at Eaton’s this morning?”
She had the audacity to give him a sexy smile. “Ryker, I don’t like to discuss my story until I get it right.”
“So you were investigating a piece on Eaton?”
She blinked, a sign she was stalling. “I thought he might be a source.”
Ryker raised a brow. “A source for what? What’s your angle?”
“I’m doing a story on the history of Seahawk Island and the lighthouse. He used to be the lighthouse keeper.”
Ryker chuckled. “He did. But you and I both know you don’t cover routine pieces.” He leaned closer, so close he inhaled the scent of her body wash. Lavender.
Dammit, that scent always aroused him.
He sharpened his tone. “If you won’t talk to me here, I’ll take you down to the station.”
Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t!”
He reached for the handcuffs inside his jacket. “I don’t have a choice. You’re officially a person of interest. And my boss thinks I’m feeding you information.”
Worry flickered in her expressive eyes for a second. For him or for herself?
“Come on, Marilyn, why were you at Eaton’s?”
Her gaze shot over his shoulder as if she was looking for someone. He quickly glanced backward and saw Agent Manson watching. Her body was rigid, a deep frown marring her face.
She folded her arms. “Detective Brockett, you aren’t sharing details of our investigation with her, are you?”
She made Marilyn sound like a piranha.
“No,” he said between gritted teeth. “I’m trying to find out why she was at my crime scene this morning and what she knows about my victim.”
Agent Manson gestured toward Marilyn. “How did she know we’d identified two of the Darling girls’ remains?”
Ryker dropped his hands by his side and stepped away from Marilyn. “I don’t know. I didn’t tell her.”
“Ms. Ellis, why were you asking Libby Barrett about the Darling girls?” Agent Manson pierced Marilyn with an accusatory look. “And why were you looking at microfiche about the girls’ disappearance?”
Ryker searched Marilyn’s face. “How did you know about them?”
“I am investigating the girls’ disappearance, but I didn’t know for certain that you’d identified their remains until I heard you two talking to Libby.”
Ryker didn’t like the way Marilyn went ramrod straight. She had her back against the wall, literally and figuratively, and was clearly trying to figure a way out.
“The mystery of those girls’ disappearance has plagued the island for over two decades,” she continued. “I thought if I broke the story, I’d earn a promotion.”
Her explanation held a ring of truth. Marilyn was competitive. If she’d heard Caroline was doing a true crime show about the Darling case, she probably wanted to beat her to the scoop.
“And what about Eaton?” he demanded.
“I answered that already,” Marilyn said curtly.
He wanted to ask about the blood droplets found on Eaton’s sheets, but didn’t intend to discuss it in front of his new partner. Her animosity toward Marilyn was palpable. Why he wasn’t sure, but she seemed to instantly dislike her.
“I have to go.” Marilyn clutched her shoulder bag and pushed past him.
Ryker grabbed her arm to keep her from escaping, but she winced slightly. The sight of her bruised and scratched wrist surprised him. He instantly released her.
He searched her face again. “What happened this morning?”
She pulled her arm away and yanked her sleeve over the bruise. “I thought Eaton might have seen the Darling girls at the pier the night they went missing. I asked him, but he didn’t remember them.”
Then she lifted her chin and turned to Caroline. “Good luck with your show, Agent Manson. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Without another word, Marilyn strode toward the exit and hurried out the door.
Agent Manson was scrutinizing his every move, but he didn’t care. He chased after Marilyn and spotted her near the exit. But he halted when he saw her talking to a young woman with an infant.
The woman was struggling with an unruly toddler who was begging for a lollipop. Marilyn knelt to speak to the child, then offered to hold the baby while the mother strapped the toddler into the stroller. To his surprise, the mother handed over the baby, and Marilyn rocked the child in her arms and began to sing to the infant.
Ryker’s lungs strained for air. He’d never imagined Marilyn as a mother, but the sight of her comforting that baby seemed right.
She glanced up and saw him watching her, and he could have sworn tears blurred her eyes.
“We have to talk,” he mouthed.
Her gaze latched with his, the wealth of emotions in Marilyn’s eyes ripping at his heart. “I know,” she whispered in return. “Later. I promise.”
The woman reach
ed for the baby, and Marilyn gently eased the infant back into her arms.
Ryker wanted to go to her then. Go hug her and make her tell him about the bruises and everyone who’d ever hurt her. But she pressed her fingers to her mouth then blew him a kiss and walked out the door.
He watched her leave with a mixture of awe and a sense there was a lot more to Marilyn Ellis than anyone knew. The enigma of a woman was stealing his heart.
And he would do whatever he had to do to find out her secrets.
Marilyn paused outside on the stoop of the library, shivering as the storm clouds unleashed a deluge of rain on the ground.
A moment later a streak of lightning zigzagged across the dark sky. She hugged her arms around herself, struggling to remain calm. But emotions clawed at her like a heavy undertow trying to drag her out to sea.
Sometimes lying came with her job. But she hated lying to Ryker. He’d been good to her, understanding about her work. And he’d consoled her so many nights when the nightmares came.
But he was so angry now that she couldn’t gloss over the truth much longer. She had a lot to answer to. And she would tell him everything. Soon.
But she refused to share her motive for pursuing Eaton and the Darling case in front of that female agent.
Thunder boomed outside, and she startled. Shit, shit, shit. She didn’t want to run out in the storm.
But she glanced back and saw Ryker and Agent Manson talking to Libby again, and knew she had to escape.
Something about that agent had unnerved her. When she’d looked into her eyes, a chill had rippled up her spine.
Marilyn wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.
She was a pro at investigative reporting, at asking questions and putting others on the spot, at hiding things she didn’t want divulged.
Agent Manson was evidently a master at the same thing. It was easy to see why she’d earned the lead on Cold Cases Revisited. With her striking good looks, direct attitude, interrogation skills, and cool facade, she would have viewers glued to her every word.
The agent hadn’t liked her.
