by Rita Herron
Assure her he was safe.
She’d lost Brent already. She didn’t want to think about Cal falling prey to the dangers of his job.
Remembering the commendation Brent had earned for bravery and courage, she went to the desk in the corner of the kitchen.
She removed the keepsake box where she’d stored the medal, opened it, and ran her fingers over the carving. She’d been so proud of her husband the day he’d received it, although Brent had been humble, had shaken off the praise, saying he didn’t deserve it.
She studied the photograph of the award ceremony. His face was stoic, eyes cast downward. Cal stood beside him, ramrod straight, not looking at Brent as Brent shook hands with the mayor, who’d called him a hero. Brent had not only busted up a big gang, but he’d saved two lives during the takedown.
Later at dinner, though, neither Brent nor Cal had wanted to talk about the actual arrests. She’d heard Cal mention something about losing a CI and suspected there was more to the story. But she hadn’t pushed Brent.
She found Cal’s number in her phone and punched Dial, but the phone rolled to voice mail.
“Cal, this is Mona. I need to see you. There’s something of Brent’s I want to give you.”
Maybe Cal would finally tell her what had happened that day, why neither of them wanted to talk any more about it. Why Brent being heralded a hero had made them both so uneasy.
She’d also find out what he knew about the murder in Graveyard Falls.
Cal’s phone dinged that he had a message, and he checked it, surprised to hear Mona’s soft voice.
His gut clenched as he listened. She needed to see him. Was something wrong?
Had she learned more about her husband since his death, something that had upset her?
Of course it would upset her . . .
Sweat broke out on his neck. How could he tell her that he didn’t want anything that had belonged to his best friend?
Anything except her.
But he would never confess that. Not with the lies and secrets he’d kept for Brent.
Damn his friend. He’d owed him, but never expected the price to be so high.
He’d postpone that call as long as possible. He had a case to work. He needed to get to Knoxville and find out more about the victim.
Solving this murder was all that mattered at the moment.
He smiled at the young woman with the blonde hair. She’d been eyeing him all night. Flirting in a shy-like way that was even more appealing than the blatant perusal from some of the women he’d met at the bar.
Of course their interest had turned him on. But he reminded himself what Mama said about slutty girls. They didn’t make good wives.
Every now and then, she lifted her head from the book she was reading to let him know she was interested.
Yep, she was the one he’d met online. Constance Gilroy. And she looked just like her picture.
Of course he looked nothing like his, but that was all right. He had to be careful.
She had a stack of child development books on the table.
Excitement zinged through him. She must like children. Maybe she’d want to have a baby right away.
Mama would like that. A grandchild would make the perfect Mother’s Day present.
Even better, the idea of being a grandmother might spark some life back into her. Give her a reason to live.
He pictured his mama cuddling his son like she’d held him when he was little and suffered from nightmares. She always kissed his scrapes and made them better.
She’d cradled him in the bed with her when he heard monsters outside, held him close, and he’d felt her big, warm, soft bosoms against him. Then she’d rubbed his back and shoulders and kissed him until he’d fallen asleep next to her.
When he and his wife had a little boy, she’d do the same for him.
A smile split his face. Yes, his son would grow up to be a good man just like him.
The blonde shifted, fiddling with her hair again, and heat shot through his body. But he jabbed his palm with the angel pin he carried to remind himself to take it slow, to stay calm. Just like the hunt in the wild, he had to be patient. Eye his prize. Watch it. Study it. Not make any sudden moves to frighten her.
He closed his book and laid his hands on top of it. A drop of blood seeped from his palm from the pinprick. Another reminder to stay focused. He stood, approached her, and asked if she wanted to get coffee.
“Have we met?”
“On Facebook,” he said with a smile.
She narrowed her eyes as if trying to place him.
“My friend put up an old picture. I guess I’ve changed since then. In fact, you know him. Doug, he’s in one of your classes.”
Constance stood. “Oh, right. I like Doug.” She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to turn him down. Then she smiled. “All right. I’ll meet you at the coffee shop.”
He followed her to the door, sniffing her feminine scent like a bloodhound following a trail. As soon as they stepped outside into the cold, she looked up at him with glowing pink cheeks and a smile that made her look like an angel.
He struggled to find his voice. “It’s cold. Let’s take my truck.”
She pulled her keys from her purse. “No, thanks. I’ll drive.”
He gritted his teeth. She was being cautious.
Or was she afraid of him?
Either way, he couldn’t let her get away.
She headed toward a small sedan, and he hurried up behind her, then slipped his stun gun from his jacket and zapped her. Her body shook and convulsed, her legs shaking as she flopped against him.
She was such a pretty thing. He really wanted her to be the one.
But if she gave him trouble, she’d have to go bye-bye just like Gwyneth.
CHAPTER SIX
Cal parked at Rock Ridge Apartments, an affordable option for students commuting to colleges in the area, and situated on a hill with the mountain peaks soaring behind it.
He’d phoned ahead to ask the manager of the complex to meet him at Gwyneth Toyton’s apartment.
The nondescript cement building was dingy and needed paint, but the parking lot held dozens of cars, indicating that many of the units were occupied.
He battled a gust of wind as he hurried up the sidewalk and found 13A. A gray-haired man with small wire-rimmed glasses stood by the door hunched in a tattered wool coat.
Cal flashed his badge. “Agent Cal Coulter. Thanks for meeting me here, sir.”
“Walt Clancy.” Keys jangled as he jammed one in the lock and twisted it. “You say the girl Gwyneth is dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
The man’s eyebrows climbed his wrinkled forehead. “What happened?”
Cal didn’t want to divulge details, although the news, which was already reporting that a body had been found, would quickly pick up that it wasn’t an accident. “She was murdered,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Lord help us.” Clancy staggered back, his eyes bulging. “How? Who killed her?”
“We’re investigating that now,” Cal said. “That’s why I need to get inside.”
Quickly recovering, Clancy pushed open the door. “You want me to show you around?”
“No, sir, this could be a crime scene. It’s important that no one else enters the apartment or touches anything. Do you understand?”
The older man bobbed his head up and down, but he still looked shaken.
“What can you tell me about Gwyneth? Did you know her well?”
“Barely knew her at all. She signed the lease and moved in the next day, a couple of months ago. Said she was getting some kind of computer degree, but her mama’s health was failing so she wanted to stay close by.”
“Did she have a roommate?”
“No, li
ved by herself. Hers is an efficiency, pretty small, but she insisted it was fine for her.”
“Did she have friends over? Anyone you remember?”
“Listen, Mr. . . . I mean, Agent Coulter. I manage the units, but I mind my own business.”
“But you must know if she was a party girl. Any complaints from anyone about her?”
He shook his head.
“How about her fiancé?”
Clancy’s eyes narrowed, accentuating the wrinkles on his forehead. “Didn’t know she was engaged.”
“You didn’t see her with a steady guy?”
“No.”
“Did she ever complain about another tenant?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“How about strangers lurking around? Someone who might have been bothering her or watching her?”
The man shook his head. “I don’t keep up with everyone’s goings on. Long as they pay the rent and don’t cause trouble, I leave the tenants alone.”
Cal nodded. “Thanks. If you think of anything, no matter how small, please give me a call.”
Clancy accepted the business card Cal offered. “You need me to stay around?”
“No, sir, I’ll lock up when I’m finished. Thanks.”
The old man rubbed his chin as he hobbled back toward the stairs. Cal turned back to the apartment and stepped inside.
Hopefully he’d find something to lead him to Gwyneth’s killer.
Graveyard Falls was the last place on earth Anna Buckley DuKane wanted to be.
But here she was, back in the same little house where she’d grown up. Back in the town where the murders had occurred thirty years ago. Where the secrets had nearly destroyed her.
She’d had to come home, hadn’t she?
Her father needed her.
Except how could she help him when the two of them hadn’t spoken in years? When he’d forced her out of town with his hatred and determination to drive a wedge between her and the boy she loved?
When he’d arrested Johnny . . .
Even worse, her daughter Josie had insisted on coming with her. On her twenty-ninth birthday this year, Josie had announced that she wanted to be a true-crime writer. She was intrigued by the Thorn Ripper case.
Which meant that she might be asking her grandfather questions.
Thankfully his memory was shoddy. And he didn’t want to discuss the past any more than Anna did.
It was almost as if Josie knew that Anna had once been involved with a killer. But she’d never told her daughter about Johnny.
And she didn’t want to now.
Would people in town still point at her and gossip behind her back?
Would Josie discover the truth?
No . . . she couldn’t let her.
Although she’d heard whispers today at the ceremony that Johnny might get paroled. Was there new evidence? Something to prove he was innocent?
Hope budded in her chest, but she tamped it down as she remembered the last time she’d seen him. She’d gone to the jail to visit him, but he’d told her to leave. That the only way she’d be safe was if he was locked up.
The cold way he’d said it had terrified her.
Locals thought she’d known about Johnny’s psychotic behavior back then, but she’d been in love with him.
All the girls at school had wanted him. In fact, she’d heard that Tiffany, Candy, and Brittany had made a secret pact, that they all intended to sleep with him before graduation. And all three were vying to be his prom date.
Oddly, plain Anna Jane Buckley had landed the prize after she was assigned to tutor him, and their connection blossomed.
Then he’d been arrested and she’d wondered if everything he’d said was a lie.
She tiptoed to her father’s room and peeked inside. He was sleeping. Thank God.
The nights and days were hard for him now. The brain tumor was destroying his mind and affecting his moods. But maybe it was God’s way of helping him forget the shame she’d brought on the family.
He’d never forgiven her for loving Johnny.
She’d never forgiven herself for loving him either.
So she’d married another man, one she didn’t love, because she’d vowed never to let her heart be broken again. In the end, her husband had known that, and he’d left, too. Then he’d been killed.
Now here she was, back in Graveyard Falls, in the house with a father who hated her one day and didn’t recognize her the next. In a town where her name had been etched in the minds of the locals like that folk legend about the falls had been.
Back in the house where she’d scribbled in her diary about falling in love, about her first kiss with a serial killer who’d made the town famous by murdering three teenage girls.
Cal yanked on gloves as he entered Gwyneth’s apartment. He flipped on the light and surveyed the interior.
He could see the entire space at one glance. A tiny kitchen connected to a living room/bedroom, which consisted of a couch, chair, small desk, and television, and an adjoining bathroom. One window in the living space, another small one in the bath. The couch was faded blue, the desk scarred, but Gwyneth had obviously tried to punch up the place with bright throw pillows, a multicolored rug in fuchsia and blue, and a lamp with a bright blue shade.
At first glance, he saw no signs of a break-in or a confrontation, or any blood.
Had the killer been inside Gwyneth’s place? Was it a fiancé? Or was it possible a stranger had abducted and killed her on her wedding day?
Instincts on alert, he scanned the room once again before he moved forward. No photos of Gwyneth and a boyfriend on the wall. No signs of a man living here, but he’d have to check the closet and the bathroom.
He examined the kitchen first. No dirty dishes in the sink, no wineglasses or beer mugs either, so she hadn’t been entertaining before she’d been killed.
Or if she had, the killer had cleaned up.
He leaned forward to sniff the sink and counters, but didn’t detect bleach. A crime team would be able to tell more with their chemicals and lights, but her apartment didn’t appear to be the crime scene.
He opened the fridge. Milk, eggs, cheese, salad fixings, a veggie lasagna, a bunch of kale. Definitely food for a woman living alone. Although he did find a couple of steaks, burgers, and a six-pack of beer in the fridge.
He closed the refrigerator and searched the basket on the counter for bills and notes. Everything was neatly organized, no late bills. All the mail was addressed to her.
Nothing to indicate she lived with a man.
The desk in the living room held a laptop, which he’d have to send to the lab for further study. He also found books on computer programming, brochures on the grad school programs at various colleges, and a ticket stub to a movie at the local theater. One ticket, not two.
He searched for notes regarding wedding planning, a copy of an invitation, tickets for a honeymoon, but found nothing. He glanced at the day calendar on the desk, but all he saw noted were dates when school projects were due.
A picture of Gwyneth and a woman he assumed was her mother sat on the mantel. In the photograph, Gwyneth’s hair was long, not chopped off above her shoulders.
Odd. If she had been involved with a man, why no pictures of the two of them?
Maybe they were all stored on her phone or computer.
He checked the bathroom cabinet but found no second toothbrush or male toiletries. No shaving kit.
The bed was made, the pillow on the right side flat as if it had been slept on, while the left one was still plump.
Maybe she was an anomaly and the boyfriend didn’t stay over. Or maybe they spent the night at his place.
He glanced in the closet, frowning at the bare interior. A few pairs of jeans and shirts, tennis shoes, and boots.
/> Gwyneth was either not into shopping, had little money for frivolities, or . . . she’d moved some of her things to the place she and her fiancé planned to share. Hell, maybe they’d bought a house.
Hopefully the girl’s mother would know.
He sat down at the desk, opened the laptop, and scanned Gwyneth’s browser history. Mostly research sites for a paper she was writing. She had a Facebook account, but there were few posts, again mostly about school projects.
She did have several male friends, including a couple of men who’d suggested meeting up in a bar, both seeking a long-term relationship.
He made a note to have Peyton check out the names and find out where the guys lived so he could question them. Maybe one of them had become interested and had killed her because she’d chosen another man over him.
But there were no pictures of her and her lover in her Facebook profile. No posts about a wedding date or plans.
Now that was odd.
He skimmed emails and found several to a girl named Rosalyn, but they were comments about school, meeting for coffee, and a bar date at Blues and Brews.
Same bar as the men who’d Facebooked her had suggested.
He made a note to talk to Rosalyn.
His cell phone buzzed, and he pressed Answer. “Agent Coulter.”
“It’s Deputy Kimball. I’m at Gwyneth Toyton’s mother’s house. You need to get over here now.”
He carried Constance into the cabin, hating that he’d had to subdue her. But she’d looked as if she might run, and he couldn’t let her leave him.
They were soul mates.
Or at least he’d thought they were when he’d seen her smiling at him over those books on children.
The tests would tell, though, if she would be the one.
He brushed snow from her hair as he laid her on the sofa by the fire. Mama sat hunched in her wheelchair watching him, the afghan over her legs slipping slightly.
He hurried to tug the blanket around her legs—Mama did get so cold. The circulation in her legs had gone downhill fast with the sugar, and she was always freezing. He poked the fire to stir it up again, then set the poker on the hearth.
