I know all of this because within the first few minutes of meeting Sandra, she told me herself.
“Listen, between you and me,” she says, her eyes bouncing toward the closed door of Lincoln’s bedroom. “I just can’t stand the thought of something nefarious happening again in this town.” She takes a sip from her steaming mug of tea that Daisy made her, her leg bouncing sporadically beneath her floor-length floral skirt.
“What’s more nefarious than a serial killer?” Alex asks, moving forward until he’s standing right next to where we’re sitting.
Annoyance winds its way through my middle and I glare at him. “Not helping,” I mouth before dragging my eyes back to where Sandra perches on the edge of Lincoln’s unmade sheets. Heat rushes to my cheeks when I think about why they’re unmade, but she refused to talk in front of everyone, and it was easier to bring her back here than move Lincoln’s sister and his nephew.
“I just mean, I don’t want people to be upset anymore,” she retorts. “All I’ve ever tried to do was keep the peace in this town.”
“Ma’am,” I say. “Trust that we’re doing everything in our power to make sure all of you are safe.”
“Do you have reason to believe that Jensen would be targeting your group of church friends?” Alex cuts in.
“No,” she shakes her head. “And listen, I know everyone’s convinced themselves that it’s that crazy buffoon Jensen. But I…”
“You don’t agree?” I ask, my interest piqued.
“I did,” she says carefully, taking another sip of tea. “But that was before Tracy. Now I don’t know what to believe.”
“So, you don’t think it’s Mr. Jensen?”
She shakes her head, her lips smacking. “I mean… Tracy was always very nice to Paul. Even when everyone else wrote him off. I can’t imagine he’d have reason to murder her!”
Her voice rises to a shrill level, and I place my palm over hers, trying to keep her calm. The mug in her hand sloshes hot liquid over the sides as she jerks. “Ouch,” she hisses. “Shoot.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She waves off the burn, nodding. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m sorry, I’m just… I don’t like this. I can’t sleep.”
“Do you know anybody who would?” I continue. “Want to hurt Tracy Cartwright, I mean.”
Her body stills, her eyes drooping as they coast between Alex and me. “I’ve only ever tried to keep the peace,” she repeats, her voice trembling.
My stomach rises and falls like a roller coaster and I lean in, knowing that we’re right on the edge of something big.
I can feel it.
She licks her lips and raises her head to the ceiling, mouthing silent words as if in prayer.
And then she looks back down, her eyes dark and her lips pulled tight.
“Preacher Cartwright?” she says. “He’s not the man everyone thinks he is.”
Chapter 39
Halloween usually makes me antsy.
It’s the anniversary of the night my entire life shifted on its axis, catapulting me into a world of misery while I mourned a life that could’ve been.
So, when my mother recruits me for party setup, I usually take her up on the offer with no resistance, more than happy to have something to distract me, at least temporarily.
Right now, though, my sister’s pacing is making me wish I’d declined.
Daisy moves from one end of the kitchen to the next, rocking Charlie to sleep over her shoulder as she tries Gabe’s cell for the billionth time.
“He promised, Linc.” She pauses, pointing a French-tipped nail in my direction, tugging on the end of the braided red wig she has pinned to her head. “Said he’d be here for the party, so I didn’t look stupid as one-half of a couple’s costume.”
I adjust the timer on the fog machine, glancing at the forest-green evening gown she has on. A sequin pops off as she begins pacing again, slamming her phone down on the counter with a groan.
Now I’m wishing I’d gone to the precinct with Sloane and Alex after they spoke with Sandra Wilkinson, though I certainly don’t envy that conversation. Whatever she said was enough to send the two detectives into a frenzy, though, because I haven’t seen either of them since.
I also know they haven’t released Paul Jensen yet from custody, and I can’t help wondering if what she told them proved his guilt.
“You’re dressed as a princess,” I point out, trying to ignore my own annoyance with her husband. The less he’s around, the more she gripes to me, as if I have any sort of control when it comes to what he does with his time.
If I did have that kind of influence, I definitely would’ve discouraged the whole cop thing.
“Princess Fiona,” Daisy whines. She seems dangerously close to stomping her foot on the ground, and I smirk at how fitting the outfit is. “Without my ogre, I’m just a redhead in a cheap dress. Girls with dark hair should not go red, Lincoln. I look like fucking Annabelle.”
“The creepy doll?” I ask, shuddering at the memory of watching the horror film a few years back. Pushing to my feet, I switch on the machine to test it, watching fog slowly roll in around my feet, and switch it off, turning to look at her. “At least you went easy on the makeup. Definitely more princess than possessed Barbie.”
“Annabelle isn’t a Barbie,” she grits out, pausing to hold a hand up and shake her head. “No, you know what? Not explaining that to you again. You’re just trying to rile me up, and it’s rude.”
Smirking, I cross my arms and lean back against the countertop, letting my gaze work around the downstairs of our mother’s house. Paper bats dangle from light fixtures on the ceiling, decorative pumpkins adorning tables while real ones line the front hall, and the smell of kettle corn already fills the air.
Festivities are technically underway, with my mother set up outside as the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, greeting folks as they arrive on her property.
But no one’s arrived just yet, and part of me wonders if the spirit of Halloween is a little less attainable this year because of the serial killer running loose.
That thought irritates me, reminding me about the fact that my lockbox is missing.
Everything I own that ties me to Morgan Jensen, to my innocence, was kept safe in that box, and now it’s just… gone.
As if it never existed in the first place.
And since Klepsky has been completely MIA today due to some sort of training demonstration in Portland, I haven’t had the chance to figure out if he took it.
Well, not if—there’s really no denying that he’d have taken the box, considering he’s the only person aside from myself and the guests I’ve personally allowed to step foot on my boat recently.
Of course, Jordan Thomas is a solid contender, as well—I wouldn’t put it past him to have snuck on board any of the times I was busy chasing my lust, running errands for my panic-stricken mother, or trying to figure out what the hell’s going on with this town.
They didn’t say having enemies would be easy.
It’s not like I need the contents of the box. After spending the last two decades pouring over every newspaper clipping, every photograph, every eyewitness testimony from the Jensen girls’ last days, I’ve pretty much memorized all the evidence I have pointing toward Morgan’s survival.
Problem is, I can’t prove it without something concrete.
No one believes a “gut feeling,” even though they’re often more right than not. And I’ve felt in the core of my soul since I was eleven years old that Morgan’s disappearance didn’t add up.
But how can I convince her if all of my memorabilia—things that might jog her memory—are missing?
“Hey,” I say after a prolonged silence, drawing Daisy’s attention from her phone. She glances up, raising an eyebrow as she waits for me to continue. “You haven’t seen anyone hanging around my boat lately, have you?”
“What do you mean? Like… teenagers trying to pull a prank?”
�
��No.” I snort. As if. “I don’t know. Like a car passing by more times than is socially acceptable, or hooded figures rummaging through my shit. That kind of thing.”
“Did someone rob you?” she asks, clutching Charlie closer to her chest.
I roll my eyes, although it pains me to be nonchalant about the issue. “Not exactly. I’m just trying to make sure I’m secure, with everything that’s been going on.”
She nods. “That’s fair, but no, I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary.”
Crossing the room just as our mother opens the front door to yell “let the party begin,” Daisy pauses at the bottom of the stairs, a thoughtful expression settling over her features. She turns, glancing at me, lips pursed.
“That’s the scary thing, isn’t it?” She widens her eyes. “Four women are dead, and not a single person can point out anything unusual that may have facilitated any of their murders. No clear motives, no strange phenomena, nothing. Almost as if whoever’s behind it all is just existing right beneath our noses.”
“You think it’s someone that hasn’t been looked into?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I have no eyes on the case. I’m just saying I think anything is possible.”
The first guests push open the front door and begin filtering in; I shift my foot, flipping the fog machine back on as Daisy disappears up the stairs, her braid swishing across her back with each move she makes.
Soon, my mother’s house is pulsating with life; the entirety of the island seems to have been packed inside, the promise of candy and prizes luring them away from the general sense of gloom that has a choke hold on the place.
I’m sipping a beer, throwing darts in the garage with Isa and Archer when Morgan pushes her way through the crowd, making a beeline for me.
My breath catches in my throat as I drink her in, noting the cat ears tucked into her hair and the black formfitting latex suit she has on.
The outfit clings to her like a second skin, and as multiple eyes rake over her body, bitterness burns in my gut, the urge to take her upstairs and hide her away from the rest of the party completely overwhelming.
Isa lets out a low whistle at my side, then elbows Archer in the ribs like he’s the one who made the sound.
“I’m sorry to say, but your girl cleans up good,” Isa purrs, taking her turn and throwing her dart.
Archer reaches up, tying his shoulder-length coppery hair into a loose bun. They’re dressed up as low budget Shaggy and Velma, the green and purple swapped for the characters. “Lincoln Porter has a girl? Guys at the seafood market owe me money, then. They were sure you’d die alone.”
“I wish I was dying alone right now,” I mutter, pushing off the wall just as Morgan reaches us. She stops just short of me, and I keep my hands at my sides, afraid of what I might do if I touch her now.
“You came,” I say when she’s close, letting my gaze drag slowly over her form.
Shifting on her feet, I can see the faint blush staining her face. Want to add to it.
“Alex’s orders. He said he didn’t need me to help wait for Klepsky at the station, and that it’d be good to have a police presence at the biggest party of the year.”
Pausing, she tries to pull at the latex suit, but it doesn’t give even a little. “Remind me to never again borrow clothes from your sister,” she says, gripping her biceps with both hands. “I feel extremely out of place right now. You’re not even in costume.”
I cock an eyebrow. “I’m not?”
“Sexual deviant is not a costume,” she says, laughing.
I take a step forward, and the sound dies on her lips. Our hips brush, and I know she feels me against her.
With a smirk, I reach behind me and yank the cuffs from my back pocket, dangling them from my thumb. “Undercover cop, sweetheart. Be careful who you go around calling a sexual deviant. Some people might take that as an invitation.”
She grins. “Maybe it is.”
Tipping my head back, I groan, one of my arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her to me. A tiny, feminine gasp escapes her as her soft curves fit against the stony planes of my body, and I smother the wave of satisfaction that her surprise gives me.
“Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?” I ask against her hairline.
I’m not sure if it’s normal to want to be connected to her at all times, but the second she’s close, I can’t seem to keep away. The same force that initially repelled me against her seems to be driving us together now, as if all it took was a little compromise.
And with the chaotic state of the rest of the world raging on around us, it’s nice to have her as a constant, maintaining that shred of balance.
She shakes her head, leaning into me. “Do you think I could talk to you? In private?”
“Uh-oh.” I pull back, widening my eyes. “Breaking up with me before we’re even official? I should’ve nicknamed you heartbreaker.”
“This is serious, Lincoln.” Shoving at my chest, she drops her hand down to mine, tugging me away from the throng of people and back into the house.
She leads me down the main hall to the powder room, pulling me inside, leaving the door open. Leaning against the sink, she lets out a breath, gripping the marble counter with her fingers.
Her voice is quiet, subdued, when she finally speaks.
“Sandra Wilkinson was really freaked out by everything going on in town,” she says slowly, eyes rooted to mine as the words leave her lips. As if she’s expecting me to protest the conversation.
I nod once, lifting a shoulder. “I think that’s fair. My ma’s torn up about it too. It doesn’t help that there’s no clear motive or target.”
“All the victims so far have been church-goers. Specifically, part of the congregation that exists in the same social circle—the preacher’s wife, and her closest friends. Not obviously calculated to a point where you’d make an initial connection, aside from the Latin that’s been carved into each of their stomachs. But that’s where the similarities in the victims end.”
I crouch down, sitting atop the closed toilet as Morgan works through different scenarios in her head. The cogs inside her brain start shifting, pieces of a puzzle coming together, even though she can’t quite see the full picture yet.
“What if these women are being picked off, one by one, and the common denominator is the church itself?”
My eyebrows draw in, trepidation slicking down my back like rain. “You mean like a hate crime? Against… Christians?”
“No, not that.” Blowing out a breath, her eyes blaze as she works through her thoughts, sifting and deciding what information to pass along, and what needs to stay in her brain to cook longer. “Sandra mentioned something about Preacher Cartwright ‘not being who people think he is.’”
“Sandra says a lot of things.”
“The church doesn’t exactly have a great history between parishioners and young congregations,” she says.
“That’s Catholicism—”
“That’s organized religion. People in powerful positions manipulating the weak and vulnerable.”
Tilting my head to the side, I squint at her, trying to fill in the blanks but coming up short. “What’s your point, killer?”
She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, then drops them back to me. “You said Oliver Klepsky was really involved with the church when he was young, right?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “We all were. There wasn’t much else to do on the island.”
“Well, what if…” She trails off, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, and shakes her head. “What if Preacher Cartwright did something to the youth at church? Something… evil?”
I blink, confusion rising to my chest, flooding the cavity with its questions. Unease ripples along the surface of my skin, setting my pores on fire as I think back to my time spent in church.
Vacuuming the stage and folding pamphlets for the next service, it seemed like Cartwright was hardly even around back then. We saw Tracy more than
anyone else, and she was always quick to leave us to our individual tasks, shuffling from room to room with fresh cookies and a kind smile.
A woman like that doesn’t marry a monster.
Right?
Snapping out of the memory, I shake my head. “No, no way. I’d have known if Cartwright was doing something. I was always around, for fuck’s sake.”
But even as I say it, I know that’s not exactly true.
There was always a little blue-eyed girl in need of my assistance or companionship, and I refused to deny her myself for even a second.
Leaving someone like Klepsky unprotected.
As my stomach flips violently, I toss a quick glance out the door, my heart skipping a beat when I catch a flash of a buzz cut and police uniform.
“Well,” I drawl, getting to my feet and yanking her with me. “Why don’t we go ask?”
Chapter 40
I’m convinced my circulation is completely cut off and that’s why I can’t feel my legs.
But when I showed up to The Porters’ house, Daisy stopped me at the door, baby on her hip and red wig in place, telling me that under no circumstances was I allowed to make an appearance out of costume.
Luckily for me, she had one from a couple years back.
I argued, but she was adamant, and to be honest, the Porter women are a force to be reckoned with, and I have enough on my plate.
I’m anxious to find Officer Klepsky and see what he knows. But I could tell Alex didn’t want me around, and like usual with this case, we decided to split the duties, one of us staying at the station and the other coming here.
An unofficial search.
Klepsky was the one spearheading the campaign to hold Jensen for another forty-eight hours—illegally, I might add.
But that was shot down quick. The Skelm Island PD is already making it difficult enough as it is for Alex and I to uphold our reputation, no way in hell we’re adding holding someone without just cause to the list.
Be Still My Heart: A Romantic Suspense Page 25