by Jenna Kernan
A Killer's Daughter
An absolutely addictive mystery and suspense novel
Jenna Kernan
Books by Jenna Kernan
A Killer’s Daughter
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Hear More from Jenna
Books by Jenna Kernan
A Letter from Jenna
Acknowledgments
For Jim, always
Prologue
Couple one
I’m not a monster. But I do kill people, have been for more than two decades. Mostly, I’m doing the world a favor.
Sitting in my kayak, hidden in the mangroves, I wait for the lovers to arrive. I’ve watched them before; their affair so old it has become routine. Their other partners wait at home as they “work late” every Saturday night. She’ll arrive on her paddleboard; he’ll arrive on foot from the parking lot with wine and the blanket.
The scrape of her board on the sand gives me a rush of power and foresight. Beyond the Intracoastal Waterway, lights from the million-dollar homes wink on, most set on timers in the summer months as their owners are back up north. The view from that private key is spectacular, with the sunset already in progress, but from their shore, this barrier island and the adulterers are invisible against the dark greenery of the city park. Most of the boaters have already headed to their moorings or berths. The few people left here are on the Gulf side of the point, watching the sinking sun. Sunset is an event here every night, weather permitting. And today, the weather is perfect.
I retrieve the rope and fish-filleting knife, then slip on my latex gloves as the lovers embrace. Lifting my paddle, I leave the tangled roots of the mangroves and cross the inlet.
Before today, I feared I faced the impossible. But now I recognize the point is not about being in total control. It’s about legacy. What lives on after we are gone.
It’s also about commemorating a master. And she was that. What I admire best about this killer’s trail of death is how simple she kept it. The water concealed the bodies, washed away the blood and gave her time to flee.
The challenge, the risk and the start of a journey combine in a heady rush of pleasure. I’ve never taken one outdoors before. I’m aroused at this new challenge and lick my lips, anticipating, exhilarated, feeling younger and, oh, so very alive.
A knife isn’t my weapon of choice. The death it brings is usually too quick for my liking, but this is an homage, re-enacting her creations with an added purpose beyond meeting my own needs. And I admit that a kill by knife has a simplicity, an elegance.
This pair is so like Gail and Charlie. Those two cheated on their spouses in the back of the carpet warehouse, screwing on a bed of foam instead of sand. The similarities are important; otherwise, how will she know?
They are in a hurry, dropping to their knees, face-to-face as they tussle with unwanted clothing. I beach the kayak. I’m so close to them now, close enough to smell the sweat on their bodies and hear their sighs. The woman senses me and opens her eyes as I reach out and slice through both his Achilles tendons. I hit one hamstring on the return stroke.
He cries out in pain and turns, looking at his legs. I grip the knife, now slick with blood. Confusion blankets his flabby face. In the twilight, his blood is dark.
He falls from her arms into the sand. Her eyes dart from him to me. She sees but doesn’t understand, the shock blinding her. She lifts her hands in defense.
Why doesn’t she scream? I like to hear them scream. But she seems paralyzed, mouth gaping. Meanwhile, his words are a jabbering garble of cries and pleas as I open an artery.
I look him in the eye as I cut again, a long slice down his upper arm. Was this what she felt, carving into the one who betrayed her? Did she experience this rush of power and appreciate that the killing is the point?
Another sweeping arc and slice, her this time. The blade is so sharp that the laceration across her abdomen doesn’t even seem to break the skin. The line of red is razor-thin—at first. Then the pain receptors register. She screams at last. The sound carries across the water, but who is to hear? The boaters over the roar of their motors? No, her scream is just for me.
She presses her palms to her stomach, and I slice the vessel at her neck.
He’s struggling to his knees. He roars with fury and lunges for the knife. So, I give it to him, swinging wildly across his wrists and forearms. He recoils, falling to his seat, opening the opportunity for me to slice his femoral artery just below his junk.
The blood sprays across the sand and blanket and me. She’s reaching for him, calling his name.
“David! David!”
Her hero, only he’s not. He’s a butcher at a local market.
Who’s the butcher now?
A panicked look blankets her face as she sucks in a breath. She sways as her blood spurts, pouring down her naked torso. Her final scream is a gargling yowl.
I grab his arm and drag him to the water. He struggles and ends up facedown. I lift his wrist and make a final cut, then return for her. She’s holding her belly and her neck. Her face is pale as moonlight.
“Did you find everything you need today?” I ask.
Her eyes widen as she recognizes the words that she has spoken to me dozens of times from behind her register, never really seeing me. She sees me now.
I clasp her wrist and slip on the noose. She’s too weak to struggle. She leaves a wide trail in the sand as I drag her to the shore. The gentle waves wash over his face as I tie the other end of the rope to his wrist. Can he still see us? The possibility thrills.
I cut a strip of skin from his finger and his hand twitches. Yes, he still sees me. I give him a final triumphant smile, then turn to her, squatting to carve the letters in her flank, enjoying the twitch of her muscles as the blade cuts deep.
She struggles as I yank off her wedding and engagement rings. She doesn’t deserve them. She moans as I cut, then tug away the skin around her finger and flick it into the water. When I roll her into the current, her mouth opens. She breathes in seawater. The convulsions are fascinating.
The rope pulls tight, tugging his wrist, and I heave him after her. For several moments, they roll and drag along the shore. Then the tide takes them. His head bobs like a coconut. I wade in after them to wash.
And so it begins, this new adventure. The initial step toward making her mine. I have gone to great lengths to bring her here. She is the reason that the hot blood now drips from my fingers.
“Do you feel my presence yet, my dear? Can you hear us calling you?”
I glance down the empty shore between the mangrove forest and the channel. Everyone is on the opposite side of the park, a half mile away, on the Gulf beaches, watching the setting sun paint the clouds the same color I have painted the sea.
I can’t see the couple anymore. I turn and retrieve the crushed seltzer can from my rear pocket and drop it on the blanket, wondering where the bodies will land. But I am already losing interest. The tingling excitement fades, turning me sullen. I make my exit shortly after the lovers have made theirs, heading to my watercraft, carrying an unopened bottle of wine.
One
In over your head
The 6 a.m. news opened with a breaking story. Two bodies were recovered from the water in Sarasota’s Bayfront Park. The correspondent reported from beside a kayak rental that the identities of the victims were being withheld, pending notification of the families. Law enforcement offered a big “no comment” on the cause of death.
Dr. Nadine Finch reached for the remote and flicked off the television as if it were a screaming smoke alarm. The forensic psychologist stared at the dark screen, struggling to control her breathing as sweat beaded on her forehead.
Bodies in the water. She shuddered. The sense of familiarity from these murders stirred. Two people found together in the water—it brought to mind the murders that still haunted her. But this had to be a coincidence.
A bird crashing into her front window startled her from her musings. Nadine stood up and stared out at the sunny summer morning, and watched the seemingly lifeless creature right itself and fly off. Then the alarm on her phone blared, warning her she would be late if she did not leave right now.
Her hands trembled as she collected her bag, then headed out into the oppressive July humidity. Inside her Lexus, the AC pushed away the heat as she drove to the Sarasota City Courthouse. There, she spent her morning trying to shake off a sense of dread, while administering a battery of tests to an elderly man who had starved his wife of forty-five years to death.
When she finished, Nadine motioned to the guard who stepped forward to take custody of Mr. Swineford.
The old man tried and failed to rise with her.
“Can I see my wife now?” he asked.
Her heart gave a sharp pang at his guileless expression as she considered her response, settling on, “Not today.”
Mr. Swineford began to cry. Tears welled in her eyes in response.
“I don’t like it here,” he said.
Nadine’s hand went to his forearm and she squeezed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and assisted him to his feet.
She would use her influence with the court to keep this man from prison. A plea deal including placement in a geriatric facility was all that was needed to protect society. Prison would serve no one, least of all this helpless aging veteran who could not care for himself, let alone a wife with dementia.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Swineford.”
He patted her hand. “You’re a nice lady.”
The officer handcuffed his spindly wrists before him and assisted him out of the interview room. Nadine wiped at her eyes before gathering her things and heading out.
She passed through the lobby of one of Sarasota’s most beautiful buildings, designed in Mediterranean Revival style. Colorful mosaic tile brightened the central tower, courtyard and exterior. Most days Nadine lingered to appreciate the statues, fountains and reflecting pool in the inner garden. But today, gray-bottomed thunderclouds billowed skyward, threatening rain, so she hurried along one of the interior corridors adjoining the gardens. She passed several city employees, who did not even glance in her direction.
Nadine stood only five feet two inches on a small frame, and had been told by more than one detective that she wasn’t very imposing. In much of her work, this was an advantage. Her pale complexion swung between rosy and florid depending on the heat index. Her hair was shoulder-length and a forgettable brown. While working, she mirrored a submissive posture. Most people never noticed her hazel-green eyes, because she limited direct eye contact to avoid appearing a threat. But appearances were deceiving. Her mother had taught her that.
Being overlooked and underestimated were two of her superpowers, which was why hearing someone shout her name startled Nadine.
She found Dr. Juliette Hartfield heading in her direction.
Juliette was a new hire and one of two medical examiners in their district. The medical examiners’ offices were three miles south, though Juliette was occasionally in court as part of her job.
She’d only started here one month ago, and Nadine hadn’t figured her out yet, but there was a connection forming that went past the workplace. She was becoming a friend, which was concerning. Nadine didn’t let anyone get too close. It wasn’t safe.
“I was about to text you,” said Juliette. She lifted the seltzer and drained the can’s contents.
“Oh?”
“I just testified for the first time.” She sagged in mock exhaustion.
She’d forgotten Juliette had mentioned her first court appearance.
“How did it go?” asked Nadine.
“Easier than expected.”
Her golden complexion and brilliant blue eyes would have been Juliette’s most distinguishing features, if she did not dye her hair platinum-blond and spike the five-inch strands in every direction, so it bristled about her. Despite the use of sunscreen, her skin was perpetually tan.
“You just missed Officer Dun.” Her grin was conspiratorial.
“The creepy lurker?” Nadine made a face.
You would assume the forensic team would be creepy, taking apart bodies day after day. But the one who gave her the willies was a court security officer who always managed to be in the same courtroom as her, and always stood a little too close.
“Nathan isn’t creepy. He’s sweet on you and a little awkward.” She tossed the empty can in a recycle bin with the proficiency of a basketball player.
“I’m not getting that. He’s always watching me. It’s disturbing,” she said.
Juliette grinned. “Because he’s attracted and too shy to speak to you. I think it’s cute.”
“He isn’t shy. In fact, I have to make excuses to get away from him.”
“Anyway, he’s gone.”
Nadine ceased scanning the corridor and blew away a breath, then turned back to Juliette, who was holding a grin.
Getting on so effortlessly with Juliette made her cautious. But she and the new ME were both single and new to Sarasota, so exploring together seemed harmless, if it only went so far. Acquaintances. Never friends.
She remembered the old joke about not wanting to join any club that would have her as a member. That was how Nadine thought of friends. If they wanted to connect, there was something wrong with them.
Still, she longed for true companions, family and all the normal things that seemed too dangerous to pursue.
As a girl, she knew never to bring friends home. And now she was grown, if the loneliness and isolation weighed heavily, she reminded herself what had happened when she had tried in the past to connect with people. Once she told them the truth about her past, they never looked at her the same way again.
Who could blame them?
“I’ve still got work to finish up,” Nadine said, thinking Juliette was looking to catch lunch together.
“Me too. I have three today and the court thing really set me back.”
Three, meaning three bodies and their autopsies. How Juliette kept so cheerful when she spent much of her day up to her elbows in noxious bodily fluids and decomposing corpses, Nadine would never understand.
Were any of her “three today” the victims recovered from the bayfront that she’d seen on the news?
“Were you on hand for the two found this morning?” Nadine swallowed and repressed a shiver despite the July humidity.
Juliette’s brows lifted. “You heard?”
“Morning news.”
“Ah. I saw the reporters there.”
“Was it a drowning?” asked Nadine. Did she sound hopeful?
Juliette held her gaze as she gave a slow shake of her head. “Nope. Papers might report it as a drowning because I haven’t released
the cause of death yet.”
“Why not?”
“Well, first off, autopsy’s pending. But I also have orders from above.” Juliette pointed to heaven.
“Is that normal?”
“I haven’t been here long enough to know. My supervisor said it’s all right to hold the death certificate pending toxicology results. That gives us a couple of weeks.”
Which made Nadine wonder why they needed to hide a cause of death for a period of weeks. For the sake of the homicide investigation? She wasn’t sure.
There was no way to know it was homicide. Two victims. That was all. She didn’t even know if they were a male and a female. That would mean another similarity. Another red flag.
“One male, one female,” said Juliette. “Sliced up like a Sunday ham. We have a wacko.” She glanced at Nadine. “Sorry. Disturbed individual.”
Nadine focused on Juliette’s mouth. She was speaking, but the ringing in Nadine’s ears distorted her words.
“… Stabbings… Multiple lacerations.”
Nadine squeezed her eyes shut, imagining the blood, so much blood. Juliette kept on talking as Nadine swayed.
She was sure she knew these two deaths. Intimately. They’d have been married, engaged in an illicit affair. The woman would have taken the brunt of the attack.
But wait. She didn’t know that for sure. The only parallels were the two victims, and a stabbing. And the water…