by Rita Herron
Except try to remember more about the man who’d done the same thing to her.
She didn’t know how Wyatt did his job. Moving from one ugly case to another. Putting one man behind bars, only to have to hunt down three others.
She skimmed her website and found more posts about the rapist. Then another that made a shiver run through her.
Some of us stand tall through a storm. We may come out weathered and broken, but we survive.
Others crumble like grains of sand blowing in the wind. Grains dragged out to sea to be swallowed in the ebb and flow of the tides. Like the lost souls in the marsh at Skull’s Crossing, we hang in limbo.
Not really alive. Not quite dead.
The day my sister was rescued, hope lifted me from the darkness that had become my life during the long months she was missing. I thought we would hug and cry, but that we would mend.
But we are further away from each other now. We both drifted into an endless sea of despair, drowning in our own pain.
Finding the one who did this to her—to us—is what I live for.
Destroying him is the only way to bring my sister back.
Tinsley’s heart pounded. That post . . . it sounded like something her sister could have written. As if she could be talking about them . . .
Carrie Ann had tried to contact her lately. Had made efforts.
But Tinsley had pushed her away. Partly for her own safety. Partly because she couldn’t stand the pain and disappointment in her sister’s eyes.
She knew Carrie Ann wanted her to be happy again. To be . . . normal. But she hadn’t been able to give her that gift.
Could her sister be posting on her website as a way to reach out to her?
She reached for her phone to call her, then halted and dropped it on the table. Even if Carrie Ann wanted to reconcile, she was safer if she was nowhere near Tinsley.
Wyatt and Hatcher met at the field office to pick up the photos of the orphanage and confer with their analyst about the profile.
Bernie ran her hands through her short, spiked black hair. “I’ve been searching volunteers and workers who knew Tinsley at the rescue center and comparing them to the group working on the upcoming fund-raiser with Dr. Ferris.”
Wyatt crossed his arms. “And?”
“A couple of names popped up. The first, Seth Samson.”
“He’s Hispanic?”
“His grandmother was Hispanic.” She pulled up the file on the computer, and he and Hatcher studied the man’s profile. He was average height, short brown hair, a goatee.
“Tinsley said the Skull shaved himself all over. Even his head.”
“He could be wearing a hairpiece and fake goatee.”
True. “What else do you know about him?”
“He volunteered at the fund-raiser Tinsley organized and has been helping organize the upcoming one. He also works as a psychiatric nurse at the facility where Cat Landon is housed.”
Wyatt’s pulse clamored.
“Samson’s grandmother raised him,” Bernie continued. “She died a little over a year ago.”
About the time the Skull abducted Tinsley. “Text me his address.” Wyatt felt antsy to leave. This might be a real lead.
“The other name is Wade Hinke. He’s a doc at a pain clinic. And he was denied adoption. Dr. Ferris made a note that something was off about him.”
“He had access to meds,” Wyatt said.
She nodded. “I just sent you the pain clinic’s address.”
“Thanks. See what else you can dig up on Norton Smith. Check rescue centers, vet clinics, pet stores, grooming businesses, any place that involves animal care. Find out if he knew Hinke or Samson.”
Bernie wiggled her fingers and set them on the keyboard. “On it.”
“Keep us posted.” Wyatt took the envelope of photographs, and he and Hatcher headed to the door.
Outside, they picked up their pace to his SUV. Hatcher returned a call to Korine on the way.
When his partner hung up, a frown deepened the grooves around his eyes. “What’s wrong?” Wyatt asked.
Hatcher rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Korine was at the doctor’s office. Her blood pressure is too high, and she’s showing signs of early preeclampsia. He advised bed rest until the baby is born.”
Korine and this baby meant everything to him.
They had to be all right.
“Go home to her,” Wyatt said. “I’ll drop the pictures by Tinsley’s.”
Hatcher pulled a hand down his chin. “Thanks. I can’t let Korine down.”
Like he had his first wife. The words hung between them.
He thought Hatcher had let go of the guilt. But hell, that was easier said than done.
Where Tinsley was concerned, he had his own share.
Hatcher veered toward his own vehicle, and Wyatt climbed into his SUV. He’d drop the pictures at Tinsley’s so she could look at them while he questioned Samson.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Skull sipped his vodka tonic from a barstool at Nomad’s, an eclectic restaurant near the place where he used to work. Some days he missed that job.
Although he’d found another place to work where no one asked too many questions. It wasn’t in the best area of town, and they’d been robbed twice by druggies, but he was still helping people.
Someone at the bar asked the bartender to turn up the volume on the TV, and he cursed into his drink.
That damn bitch-assed reporter was on TV, yakking about the missing vet again. Bunch of bleeding hearts would be on the lookout for him now.
He pressed a hand to his face, making sure the facial hair was still in place. He had to be careful. Keep up the disguise.
The beast inside him was screaming again, though.
But not for the vet.
A sketch some idiot police artist had drawn flashed on the TV screen.
Thankfully it looked nothing like him. The eyes were too close together. The forehead too high.
How could Tinsley have described him anyway when she’d never seen his face? At least not that she remembered.
That had hurt. That she hadn’t recognized him when he’d wanted her for years. When he’d compared every girl he’d met to her. She’d set the bar high, and no other female could measure up.
A short young woman in a low-cut top glanced from the TV to him, and he froze. Did she recognize him in that damned artist’s drawing?
Then she offered him a smile, flirting like she had before. He didn’t find her attractive, but he smiled at her anyway. Didn’t want to attract suspicion.
But she wasn’t his type. Hair too black. Makeup too thick. Skirt too short.
He’d heard her talking to her friend on the phone earlier. Naughty, filthy language. She was a cunt.
Not a good girl like Tinsley.
“Help us find this maniac and save Dr. Ferris,” the reporter said. “She has won several awards for her efforts in rescuing animals injured and lost in Hurricane Irma . . .”
Her voice faded, the tribute to the doctor nauseating. He tossed cash on the bar to pay for his drink, then slipped out the back door.
Rage filled him as he drove back to the good vet. She wasn’t what he wanted. She could never fill Tinsley’s shoes.
That was the reason he hadn’t taken anyone in months, not because he’d been arrested or was back on his meds or had moved to another city or state, as the FBI had suggested.
Taking Dr. Ferris had been impulsive, a reaction to the impostor who’d left those skulls on Tinsley’s porch.
To the fucking cops who’d implied he was a coward.
His anger mounting, he swung his car into the drive and jumped out. His boots crunched gravel as he strode toward the door.
Five minutes later, stripped of his work clothes and the damn fake hair and in his skull mask, he entered the dark room where his captive awaited. She lay on the floor in the cage, limp, curled into a fetal position.
His heart pounded with dark d
esires.
Yet as he approached and she opened her eyes to look up at him, anger robbed him of feeling anything for her but disgust.
She was all wrong. She didn’t stir his blood or his body. She wouldn’t feed his hunger.
Because she wasn’t Tinsley.
Memories of his father punishing him returned to haunt him. Suddenly he was thrust back to that chicken farm. His father thought working on the farm would teach him about life, about hard work, and would cure him of his sinful thoughts.
Instead, he’d gotten off on chasing the chickens and watching them run and squawk. He could still hear the bones cracking and the screech of the bird as he snapped its neck.
Smiling, adrenaline churning, he walked toward the cage. The doc’s eyes widened in terror as he opened the door and stepped inside. She cowered, kicking and screaming, as he grabbed her by the throat.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“Tinsley, it’s Wyatt. Open up.”
The sight of Wyatt’s handsome face as she let him in was so comforting that she almost threw her arms around him. But she caught herself before she did.
Too much was riding on her helping Wyatt find Joyce Ferris for her to act foolish. He had been kind to her, but he was just doing his job.
Wyatt closed the door. “We interviewed one of Norton’s coworkers. He claims he didn’t know what Norton was up to or anything about the Skull. But we got the name of a psych nurse that I’m going to question when I leave here.”
He laid an envelope on her desk. “Here are pictures our analyst pulled from the orphanage where Norton grew up. She also included some of his classmates and boys he worked alongside doing community service.”
Nerves gathered in her stomach as she watched him remove the pictures. “Do you want coffee?”
“Actually, I can’t stay. Hatcher had to check on Korine, so I’m on my own at the moment.”
Tinsley glanced at a picture of a group of boys. “Is everything okay with Korine and the baby?”
“Her doctor wants her on bed rest. Hatcher tried to play it cool, but I don’t know what he’d do if he lost this baby or Korine.”
She could understand that.
Every morning this summer, she’d watched families on the beach, and her heart had ached for one of her own.
Wyatt pointed to one of the kids. “This is Norton. Does he look familiar?”
Tinsley focused on the skinny preteen. He was tall and lanky with bony shoulders, a jagged scar on his left cheek and a burn scar on his arm. His eyes looked bleak, dead, as if he had nothing to live for. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember meeting any kids from an orphanage.”
Wyatt removed a file from the envelope and gestured toward the contents. “Bernie also dug up copies of his school records, as well as the social worker’s report on him. According to her, he was a loner. Didn’t make friends. Kept to himself. He was abused by a foster father who claimed he tried to beat sense into the boy. The man insisted the beatings didn’t even faze Norton. That he laughed when they were over. The mother was afraid of Norton, said something was off, so they turned him back over to the state. Same story about his behavior with two more families. He ended up in a group home until he aged out.”
Sympathy for the child moved Tinsley, yet she couldn’t feel sorry for the man who had killed Felicia.
“After vandalizing some property, the judge ordered Norton to do community service. He worked cleaning up the roads, then later cleaned cages at an animal rescue shelter.”
Tinsley jerked her head toward Wyatt. “You think he and the Skull met at a rescue shelter?”
Wyatt shrugged. “It’s possible.”
“And that’s how he met me,” Tinsley said.
“Could be. Something about you drew him, and he became fixated on you.” His dark eyes raked over her. “Our analyst pinpointed a possible suspect who fits the profile. A man who works at a pain clinic. He also applied to adopt a pet last year at your event, and he applied again this year. He was declined both times.”
“Why?”
“Dr. Ferris made a note that something seemed off about him. He also refused a home visit, so he could be hiding something.”
“You think he was angry because we denied his application?”
Wyatt shrugged. “Not sure that’s enough of a motive. He could have bought a pet somewhere, gotten one online or at another rescue center.”
“That’s true.”
“But I want to question him. Will you be all right looking at these while I’m gone?”
She lifted her chin and nodded. She’d do whatever it took to help find Joyce.
He reached out his hand, his fingers hovering just over her cheek. She ached to have him touch her again, something she thought she’d never want. But she craved his gentle fingers on her skin.
Their gazes locked for a moment. Heat and tension simmered between them.
But Joyce might be suffering this very moment, and it was her fault.
She took a step back. Dropped her gaze. Silently willed him to leave before she forgot what she needed to do.
Focus.
He told her he’d be back in a while, then left quietly. The sound of the door closing brought tears to her eyes. She wasn’t whole, and she never would be.
And she couldn’t pretend. Wyatt deserved better.
Pushing her feelings for Wyatt aside, she turned to the photos. Her finger shook as she arranged them on the table. Was the monster who ruined her life in one of these shots?
Wyatt squashed the lingering need to stay with Tinsley as he parked at the pain clinic where Wade Hinke worked. On his application to adopt, he said he was a doctor at the clinic, but the name Hinke wasn’t listed on the directory on the door of the building.
If he worked here, he had access to drugs that he could use to subdue victims.
That thought sent anger through him.
He was starting to care too much for Tinsley.
Hell, who was he kidding? He’d cared too much the moment he’d started hunting for her when she went missing a year ago. All those photos and stories about her made her too real. Too personal.
A few cars were scattered in the parking lot. A dark sedan pulled away. A gray-haired woman pushed an elderly man in a wheelchair toward a van.
Wyatt entered the building, went straight to the receptionist’s desk, and identified himself. Her name was Penelope. “I’m looking for Wade Hinke.”
The perky brunette tapped her finger on the appointment book. “Dr. Hinke?”
“Yes, I was told he worked here.”
She raised a brow. “He used to, but he was let go.”
“What happened?”
She leaned closer. “I’m really not supposed to talk about it.”
Wyatt gave her a stern look. “I understand, but I’m investigating the possibility that he may be linked to a kidnapping. Anything you can tell me about the man might help.”
Her eyes widened. She shifted her gaze to the side to make sure no one was watching or listening, then spoke in a hushed tone. “Well, some of the patients complained about him.”
“What kind of complaints?”
“Penelope!” Footsteps sounded, then a man in a white lab coat appeared. “What are you doing?”
Panic streaked across the young woman’s face. “Um, this is Agent Camden from the FBI. He wants to know about Dr. Hinke?”
The doctor narrowed his eyes. “We can’t divulge information about patients or staff. That is, unless you have a subpoena.”
Wyatt frowned. “Not yet, but I can get one.”
The doctor glanced at Penelope. “Then we’re finished until you do.”
One by one, Tinsley studied each photograph. Norton seemed familiar.
Then again, she’d seen his face on the news after Felicia’s death.
Four other boys were lined up in the picture, a black-and-white shot that made the sad looks on the kids’ faces even more depressing. The FBI analyst had included names a
nd backgrounds on each of them.
To Norton’s left stood a scrawny redhead named Curtis Dubinsky, and a chubby kid with braces named Pedro Ramirez. She checked the file for updated information and saw that he’d died of a drug overdose when he was seventeen. Curtis Dubinsky had moved to LA and owned a food truck that specialized in chili.
To Norton’s right were two others—a grungy, angry-looking boy who stood a foot taller than Norton. Eke Torres. His eyes looked beady, and his face bore scars—she checked the file—from abuse. According to the file, Bernie hadn’t been able to locate where he was now. It was as if he’d disappeared into thin air.
Could he be the Skull?
Nerves tightened her shoulder muscles as she studied the last kid. Ed Weakley. He was ten at the time. Choppy brown hair, a snarl on his face, a brace on one leg. The Skull hadn’t worn a brace.
She glanced at Norton again, then at the date of the photograph. Norton was thirteen when the picture had been taken.
Her breath caught. She’d been twelve at the time.
Twelve—the worst time of her life, until she’d met the Skull.
Memories dragged her back to the night she’d lost her parents. It had been a warm spring evening. Flowers bloomed outside, birds sang, a happy time. Her parents had planned to take them on vacation to this very island the next day. Their bags had been packed. The bathing suits, beach towels, bicycles, and boogie boards all ready. She and Tinsley had been practicing their knot-tying for days in anticipation of a sailing trip.
Her grandmother was babysitting while her parents attended a fund-raiser for prostate cancer awareness that had been planned for months.
She and Carrie Ann had huddled in bed together. Too excited to sleep, they’d drawn sketches of sand art they planned to create—a whale, a sea turtle, maybe even a big castle with a moat around it. Their grandmother had kept popping her head in and reminding them that they needed to stop whispering, but the twinkle in her eye suggested that she understood. The love of the beach and ocean was in their blood.
Tinsley couldn’t wait to hunt for the treasures that washed up on the beach with the tides. Carrie Ann had rattled on and on about which ice cream flavor she wanted to get at the Seahawk Island Sweet Shop. The homemade peach cobbler ice cream was Tinsley’s favorite. In spite of the fact that sugar and chocolate made her sister hyper, Carrie Ann always wanted something with chocolate and sprinkles.
