Wildflower Graves: A totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Ellie Reeves Book 2)

by Rita Herron

Ninety-Eight

  Derrick stared at the photos. Finding them here made McClain look as guilty as sin, and he was shocked to read denial on Ellie’s stunned face.

  “These pictures are his souvenirs,” he said.

  “I can’t believe Cord would do this,” Ellie replied, a tremble in her voice.

  “He fits the profile of the killer,” Derrick added. “He lives out here alone, knows the AT, led us to bodies, has knowledge and books on the symbolism used in the unsub’s MO, and allegedly liked to dress up corpses. Evidence doesn’t lie, Ellie.” He pointed toward the shelf of taxidermy tools. The jar of eyes was downright disturbing. “Just look at his hobby. Taxidermy.” How on earth did she need convincing?

  Walking over, Ellie studied the tools. “I’ve known him since I was a teenager, and he’s never seemed violent. He’s risked his life on rescue missions, carried lost hikers and children for miles to get them medical attention.” She shook her head. “It just doesn’t fit with the man I know.”

  “Sometimes we’re too close to people to see who they really are. We just see what we want to see in them.”

  She flinched. His comment had clearly struck a nerve about her parents.

  “I know it looks bad,” she said in a low voice. “But this is all circumstantial.”

  “His past suggests he’s troubled. Maybe those crimes with the girls triggered something in him––you know about the cycle of the abuse. And these photographs are of the crime scenes. He had to be present to have taken them.”

  “Where’s his camera, then?” Ellie said. “And the dresses? If he prepares ahead, why aren’t those things here?”

  Derrick chewed the inside of his cheek. “Maybe he keeps them somewhere else. He could have a secret place on the AT that we don’t know about.”

  “The perp could have planted these pictures to frame Cord,” Ellie said.

  She had her head in the sand. “Did he plant those books on symbolism, too? And what about how he grew up? And the fact that he won’t talk now?”

  Ellie cut him a venomous look. “I’m calling a team to process the house.”

  “I was just going to do the same thing.” She could argue Cord’s innocence all day long.

  But he went by the book. Evidence told the story. And right now, it was stacked against Cord McClain.

  Ninety-Nine

  He’d heard those old biddies gossiping in town. One of them, that crazy-mean old Maude Hazelnut who liked to dish about everyone in town, pointing fingers here and there and airing everyone’s dirty laundry when she was nothing but a fraud herself, had gotten under his skin.

  Her granddaughter was just like her.

  Except she was as pretty as a peach. She knew it, too. Used her good looks to lure men into sleeping with her until she got knocked up. Then she robbed them blind.

  It was time she got a lesson of her own.

  He jimmied the lock on the door to her plush bedroom. He knew it was plush because he’d been here before. He knew all about the women he took. His feet sank into three-inch deep white carpet and the smell of some expensive perfume nearly knocked him over as he tiptoed to her underwear drawer to rifle through it. He was sure it was full of sheer lace and satin.

  But she wouldn’t be wearing any of that when he was finished with her.

  And Meddlin’ Maude would be screaming at the heavens, wondering why God had forsaken her and brought evil into her family’s life.

  Truth was, Maude was evil herself. And one day everyone would know it.

  Exposing her was just icing on the cake.

  One Hundred

  Stony Gap

  Ellie was not only confused as hell but pissed too as she and Derrick entered the sheriff’s office. Her parents’ betrayal had nearly destroyed her. Cord couldn’t have committed these heinous crimes, he just couldn’t have. This devastating blow would be one too many.

  “You have something I can use?” asked Bryce.

  Derrick filled Bryce in on what they’d discovered at Cord’s. “I’m going to lay our cards on the table and show him the evidence we have against him.”

  “You can go in with me. But not Ellie,” Bryce said, tugging at the waistband of his pants.

  Outrage seethed through Ellie. “That’s not right, Sheriff. Cord might talk to me.”

  “You’re not objective,” Bryce replied.

  Ellie opened her mouth to protest, but Derrick touched her arm. “Watch the interrogation and let us know if you pick up on anything.”

  So, he thought she shouldn’t be in there either. “Just be fair,” she said. “We want the truth, not to railroad an innocent man into jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Shondra’s life depends on it.”

  Bryce’s look said he didn’t appreciate her comment, but she didn’t give a damn. Cord was not a killer. He couldn’t be.

  Yet you believed in your father, and he betrayed you.

  She shook her head. No, it couldn’t happen again.

  As Derrick followed Bryce through the double doors, Ellie slipped into the observation room. Five minutes later, Bryce escorted a handcuffed Cord in and Ellie wanted to scream at Bryce to remove them.

  But, despite her faith, questions nagged at her. Like where had Cord been all those years between juvie and meeting her father? Had he suffered a trauma that had turned him into a monster? Had he been able to hide the truth from her? Had she, yet again, been blind?

  The questions piled up in her head. What motive would he have to take Shondra and the others? Why had he refused to answer Derrick’s questions? And who would know enough about Cord to frame him?

  The ranger dropped into the chair with a sullen expression, anger radiating from him in waves. He spotted the small camera in the corner and turned his brooding eyes toward her.

  Derrick claimed the chair across from him while the sheriff stood, as if to intimidate Cord by towering over him. But Cord simply stared at his battered hands, which he flexed on the wooden table. The scratches there looked fresh. She remembered seeing blood on his hands before when they met on the trail. He’d been running, panting, sweating.

  “Why don’t you start by telling us the truth?” Bryce began.

  “The truth is that you’re wasting your time. You have the wrong guy.”

  “Really?” the sheriff asked in a sardonic tone. “Because all the evidence we found points to you.”

  A twitch of Cord’s mouth was his only reaction.

  Derrick laid the pictures of the victims on the table, naming them as he did. “These are the four women the Weekday Killer has killed so far.”

  Cord stared at them, saying nothing.

  “Ellie received texts about the murders,” Derrick paused, then added photos they’d found at Cord’s. “Look at these,” Derrick said. “We found these at your house.”

  “That’s impossible,” Cord said. “I’ve never seen them before.”

  “They were in your workroom, McClain, along with all those knives you collect.”

  Sweat beaded on Cord’s upper lip, and he rubbed his hand over it, distressed.

  “We believe the killer took Shondra to get Ellie’s attention.”

  Cord lifted his head and stared directly at Derrick. “Why would I do anything to torment Ellie?”

  “Because you want in her pants but she turned you down,” the sheriff snapped.

  Ellie gritted her teeth at Bryce’s crude remark, while Cord gave the sheriff the coldest look Ellie had ever seen. “That’s your problem, Waters, not mine.”

  Bryce pounded the table with his fist. “You’d better watch it, McClain. We have enough evidence to put you away for life.”

  As Derrick held up a warning hand to silence Bryce, he laid the photos of the jar of blood and the fingerprint evidence on the table. “When we searched your house, we found your collection of books, which matches the MO. And when we test this blood, I have a feeling it’s going to match the blood left on Ellie’s door. Blood that was Shondra Eastwood’s.”

  �
��I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cord said, shaking his head in denial.

  “We also have your print on Shondra’s truck,” Bryce said with a smug look.

  Cord blinked, his expression earnest. “I didn’t kill those women, and I sure as hell wouldn’t hurt Ellie.”

  “Come on, these photographs are proof, what we call souvenirs,” Derrick said tersely. “We know about your foster father. That he told the social worker you liked to play with the dead bodies. You dressed them up and put makeup on them and—”

  “No,” Cord said through clenched teeth. “That wasn’t me.”

  “You’re accusing the social worker of lying?” Derrick asked.

  The handcuffs clinked as Cord flexed and unflexed his hands. “No, my foster father did. He was a sick son of a bitch who liked to touch the dead women. He dressed them up in lingerie and laid beside them and did… other things.”

  A tense silence descended.

  “Let’s say, for a minute, that’s true,” the sheriff interjected. “It still doesn’t explain the evidence we found at your house. For all we know, you joined in with him and had a party.”

  Cord blinked, heaving a labored breath. Slowly he angled his head and looked at the camera, as if he knew he was cornered, a deer in the woods. “I’ll talk. But only to Ellie.”

  One Hundred One

  Ellie met Bryce and Derrick in the hallway. Both men looked grim-faced and disapproving, but resigned that if they wanted information from Cord, they had to use her.

  “I’m surprised he didn’t lawyer up,” the sheriff said.

  “Be careful, Ellie,” Derrick said, nodding in agreement. “He might be asking for you because he thinks he can manipulate you.”

  Ellie crossed her arms, immediately defensive. Although she guessed she couldn’t blame them, after she’d failed to see her parents’ lies. Just like at the academy, she had to work harder to overcome their scrutiny. “Believe me, I want the truth as much as you do.”

  “We’ll be watching,” Bryce replied.

  “Don’t you trust me?” Ellie asked, raising a brow.

  “About as much as you trust me.”

  Well, there you have it. They were in a standoff.

  Derrick glanced between them. “Just get him to talk, Detective.”

  Shooting Derrick a look of contempt, Ellie squared her shoulders and walked to the interrogation room. Before entering, she braced herself for whatever Cord had to say. She could handle the truth, she told herself.

  At least she hoped she could. If it turned out he was a murderer…

  Pushing her doubts aside, she entered the room. Cord drew in a breath, his gaze so intense it sent a chill up her spine.

  Her heart pounded as she slipped into the chair across from him.

  “They’re watching, listening, aren’t they?” he asked in a gruff tone.

  Ellie nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Cord’s eyes flickered with regret. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I should have told you earlier.”

  “Told me what?” she asked, gently laying her hand on his. He tensed, but instead of pulling away, he leaned closer and lowered his voice.

  “About my past,” he said in a strained voice. “But you have to believe me. I didn’t kill those women, Ellie. I swear I didn’t.”

  Relief flitted through Ellie––she believed him––but she steeled herself again. Something was still very wrong here, her instincts were alight. “Then how did those pictures and that blood get in your locked workroom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Cord, you asked to talk to me,” she said quietly. “So talk.”

  “Someone’s framing me.”

  “I had the same thought initially. But who would go to all those lengths to set you up? And how would that person know about your past, how you grew up?”

  “I can’t be sure. But I have an idea.”

  “Go on.”

  His breathing became unsteady, as if he was lost in the throes of a dark memory. “Felix Finton was a sadistic monster. He did all kinds of sick things to the bodies before preparing them for visitation. He liked to play with the corpses, especially the women. One night I caught him violating a young girl and he wanted me to join in the fun. When I refused and threatened to tell, he was furious, and then he told the social worker I did it.”

  The grisly images played through Ellie’s mind like a horror show.

  “Do you think he’s capable of committing these crimes?”

  Cord gave a slight shake of his head. “Mentally, yes. But he was in poor health back then so I doubt he could pull it off now. But his son Roy hated me. And he took after the old man.”

  “Why did he hate you?”

  “Finton took in a little girl, eight years old. I caught Roy pulling her into the prep room. He wanted to show her what he liked to do with the bodies. Sick fuck. But I intervened.”

  “You protected her?”

  He turned his hands over, staring at the nicks on his fingers. She’d asked him once how he got them, and he said he cut himself when he was whittling.

  “She was so little and scared, I had to. Roy liked to dress the bodies with his father. He’d spend hours combing their hair and painting their lips.”

  He stuttered, as if the memory pained him, then continued. “He was a year older than me and a mean bully. We fought a lot, especially that night.” His voice sounded tormented. “That’s another reason his father told the social worker I was the one who played with the bodies. He wanted to protect himself and his son.”

  The tension in Ellie’s chest eased slightly. She believed him. And if he was right, Roy Finton might be the unsub. “Where’s Roy now?”

  “He used to live in the apartment above the funeral home, but I have no idea where he is now.” Cord’s shoulders slumped. “When I saw the way the bodies were left, the ghoulish makeup and the flowers, I thought about Roy, though. Sometimes he stole flowers from the arrangements people sent into the funeral home and spread them on the bodies.”

  Ellie felt nauseated. She remembered the odd way Cord had been looking at the victims they’d found––suddenly it made sense.

  “Why didn’t you tell me then?” Ellie asked.

  Cord averted his eyes. “Growing up, seeing that, it’s not exactly the happy childhood you want to share.” His throat muscles worked as he swallowed, his voice like gravel. “Besides, I was afraid if you knew, you’d think I was like them.”

  One Hundred Two

  Somewhere on the AT

  “It’s time to go, Cathy.”

  Cold fear swept through her. He called them all Cathy. And if she tried to tell him her real name, tried to convince him to see her as the person she really was, it only made him angrier. It only made him beat her harder.

  But she had to fight. Knowing every second counted, she struggled against the masked man as he hauled her into the woods.

  Guilt over not being able to help the others weighed on her, but survival instincts kicked in.

  He was almost done with the game, he’d told her. Now it was her time to die.

  She kicked and fought and screamed, but he simply laughed, dragging her through the forest. That damn rhyme was on repeat in her head. She’d asked him about it, but the only talking he did was with his fists.

  Her body ached and she was sure her ribs were cracked. But physical pain was nothing compared to what she’d witnessed.

  She could still see the blood draining from Shondra. Hear the steady drip of it and see the blood spattered on the wall from where he’d beaten the others.

  Ignoring her agony, he hacked away weeds and hauled her over a tree stump. Rough stones stabbed at her and a tree limb smacked her in the face. Insects buzzed around her face, worsened by the wet ground and mud.

  She tried to resist him, but he carried her like a sack of flour over his shoulder. Ahead she heard the rush of water over rocks.

  “Help!” she screamed. “Somebody help me!
”

  The wind whistled, and the other women’s shrill screams echoed in her ears, just as her own boomeranged off the sharp mountain ridges and faded into nothing. No one else was out here. No one would hear her.

  She was going to die, just like the others.

  He’d only kept her as leverage if he needed it. Now he didn’t need her anymore she would simply become another part of his ritual. Another one bites the dust.

  He reached a clearing near a waterfall, stopped beside a large boulder and propped her against it.

  Slowly he began to pull the bag of wildflowers from his duffel bag, then a red dress and the makeup. He’d shown her the photos of his handiwork.

  It was the only time she’d seen him smile. Even through the eyeholes of his facemask, a perverse exhilaration lit his eyes. She could sense his pulse quickening, his body radiating heat and excitement. The sharp knife blade glinted in the shadows as he laid it on the rock.

  Panicked and knowing she only had minutes, maybe seconds to live, she wrestled with the ropes behind her back. She rubbed her hands against the sharp edge of the rock, sawing back and forth. The stone cut into her wrists and hands, blood trickling down her fingers. But she moved her hands up and down, sawing away at the ropes, biting at her lip to mask the pain.

  He lifted the knife up to examine it, then removed a tool and began to sharpen the edge. The sound of metal against metal echoed in the quiet but helped to disguise her uneven breathing as she worked to loosen the ropes. Finally, she felt the rope fray, and she gently jerked her hands free, beginning to steadily unravel the knots at her feet.

  “Monday’s child is fair of face. Tuesday’s child is full of grace. Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Thursday’s child has far to go. Friday’s child is loving and giving…”

  She knew she was going to be Friday’s child.

  Slowly, she loosened the ropes from her feet. He was looking at the flowers now, lost in total madness, in the fervor of what was about to unfold.