Missing Hearts

by Wright, Kenya

  Besides being dark brown and from Fullbrooke, what else do these girls have in common?

  Before arriving, I had made so many notes on the plane. There seemed to be no real method to the Angel Maker’s process of picking the girls. Felicia was twelve years old. Karen was ten. One would think that he would pick an eight-year-old next if he was doing something weird with numbers and ages. Instead, he kidnapped Ariana Waterson who was six years old.

  Ariana attended Sunday School that morning at Fullbrooke Baptist—Pastor Miller’s church and my old one. My mother still went. She’d called me that night crying about the missing girl. Ariana had been in my mother’s Sunday School class. Each class was divided by age groups. Toddlers were in one. Three to five was in another. Children that were six to eight had my mom as a teacher. There were other groups too, going further up in age.

  My mother took her students to the bathroom and waited outside. She said it was around fifteen kids, but she was sure Ariana had been with them. When everyone left the bathroom, Ariana didn’t come out. My mother went inside the bathroom and couldn’t find her. Twenty minutes later, the whole church stopped classes and searched.

  The only thing they’d discovered was Ariana’s blue watch on the chair where she’d sat.

  She became victim number three.

  An ache filled my chest. That was how Pastor Miller and his congregation joined the pursuit of the Angel Maker. That night, my mother cried on the phone, begging me to come down and help.

  Here I go, Mom. I hope I can do something.

  I checked out the other girls’ photos but then felt someone watching me.

  I turned to the right.

  Who’s that?

  A tall, muscular man leaned against his desk and wasn’t entirely sitting on the surface. A scowl covered his face and his huge muscular arms were crossed over a big chest. Midnight black hair. Blue eyes. Strong jaw. Full lips. Sculpted face with dimples.

  My breath caught in my lungs.

  Alexander King. Damn. He looks even better than his photos.

  Not cute or handsome, but sexy as hell. Not adorable or gorgeous, but panty-wetting fine.

  Swallowing, I turned away.

  Should I go over there? No. I’m supposed to talk to Special Agent Stein. Not him.

  From my right, another man walked up to me. “Hello?”

  I swallowed. “Hi, my name is—”

  “Agent Haven Barron?” He gave me a weak smile.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” He extended his hand. “I’m Agent Brett Stein, but you can call me Brett.”

  Alexander King’s deep voice sounded from across the room. “Keep it to last names.”

  Stein and I turned his way.

  King said nothing else, and so I went back to Stein.

  “Sorry,” Stein said. “He’s grumpy—”

  “I’m not.” Alexander King rose from the desk. While I thought he was reasonably tall, he reached beyond 6’5, towering over my 5’5. I was pretty much a midget next to him. He stalked over and stood in front of me.

  Stein gave him an odd look and then returned his attention back to me. “I read your file, Barron. I’m impressed. Top grades and—”

  “Top grades won’t shield you from bullets.” King glared at me. “Have you ever shot a gun?”

  I widened my eyes. “Yes.”

  “On a case?”

  “No. I go to the gun range twice a week.”

  “A gun range?” King snorted. “You solved missing persons cases, but you’ve never truly gone out in the field. You did most of it at your desk like an old person sitting in a nursing home, putting puzzle pieces together.”

  Okay. Asshole. That was unnecessary.

  I cleared my throat. “I plan to do whatever is needed to solve this case.”

  “This isn’t a case. This is hell incarnate. This is little girls, dead and rotting in pretty dresses right before your eyes. Not pages on a desk.” King unfolded his arms. “This is a serial killer, not a file that you can stuff back into your drawer, if it upsets your stomach.”

  “I understand.”

  “You don’t.” King frowned. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-five. Close to your age.”

  “I’m forty.”

  “That’s close,” I countered.

  “It’s not when it comes to aging in the Bureau and in a unit like this. I’m basically a hundred years old and a very tired man.”

  Okay. I’m done talking to you.

  I turned back to Stein.

  Appearing a bit uncomfortable, Stein scratched the side of his head. “Okay. So, this is Special Agent Alexander King. He’s the unit supervisor, but you’ll mainly be dealing with me.”

  King shook his head. “No. She won’t. She’s going back to her safe little desk in D.C.”

  “No. What?” I held out my hands. “I just arrived.”

  “I have enough nightmares.” King glared at me. “Your death is not one I want to add to the list.”

  “I don’t plan to die during this case.”

  “Go home, Barron.”

  “No.” I remained right there. “I am home.”

  King leaned his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m from Fullbrooke. This is my hometown.” I pointed to the wall. “I went to school with all of the victims’ parents. My mother still lives here, along with several of my cousins. My father was a cop at this station. I know both of your biggest critics very well.”

  “My critics?” He widened his eyes.

  “Pastor Miller baptized me. I used to date Reverend Thompson’s son.”

  “That’s a shocker. I didn’t think Reverend Thompson liked anybody but good old Christian white people.”

  “He doesn’t. When his son and I broke up, I went off to college. Reverend Thompson sent me a card with a big check to my college dorm.”

  Stein jumped into the conversation. “What did it say?”

  I turned to him. “What?”

  “The card. What did it say?”

  I swallowed. “It said, ‘Thanks for leaving town and don’t bring your black ass back.’”

  Stein quirked his brows. “How much was the check?”

  “A thousand. I didn’t cash it.”

  Stein shrugged. “Why not? I would have.”

  “I didn’t need his money.”

  “You’re a proud woman.” Stein nodded.

  Unimpressed, King walked off. “Go home, Agent Barron.”

  I marched after him. “I’m not going home, even if you push me off this assignment. I’ll use my vacation time and stay in Fullbrooke. I plan to help find the Angel Maker.”

  “Oh really?” King turned around. “All by yourself, little Ms. Haven Barron?”

  I glared at him. “Special Agent Barron.”

  “You barreled your way into this assignment, contacting the governor and mayor. Pushing the race and gender card. For this? Wrong case. What do you think will happen after this? You think you’ll get a fat director position? Maybe run for senator somewhere?”

  “I didn’t do it for fame. I want to find the man who took those girls.”

  “You also want a jump in your career.”

  “That’s a normal part of working any case, but that’s not the reason why I came here.” I stepped close to him and scowled. “Had I been younger, I could’ve been one of those girls.”

  “This is too close to home.”

  I shook my head. “So, you say go because I just want a promotion. And then you say go because it’s too close to my heart. What is it?”

  “Pick one of those and then leave.” King stomped off, went into his office, and slammed the door. Unfortunately, his office had a huge glass window. He continued to march off to his desk, sat down, and scowled when he saw me watching him.

  Asshole.

  Stein got to my side. “So, that went pretty well.”

  “Did it?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t y
ell.” Stein looked at me and smiled. “He usually yells.”

  “At the new person?”

  “At. . .anybody. However, he doesn’t like new people. Or. . .people. It takes time to gain his trust.”

  I rolled my eyes and walked back to the wall. “Well. . .I’m not here to be his BFF. I’ll do my best to stay out of his way, but I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good.” Stein nodded. “Because we need you.”

  My heartbeats picked up. I looked back at him. “Do you?”

  “Yeah. Your community ties will get this case moving. Half the time our agents knock on doors, people won’t open them. The ones that do, I feel like they’re not telling us everything.” Stein sighed. “We need you.”

  “Good. I want to help. I want the Angel Maker under the jail.”

  “He’s not the Angel Maker here. That’s what the news calls him. For us, he’s Unsub— Unknown Subject.”

  “That’s right. Unsub.”

  “And for me, a jail cell won’t be enough for this maniac.” Stein shook his head. “I’m hoping the Unsub will need a casket.”

  “Me too.”

  The red-head walked over to us.

  Stein cleared his throat. “And this is Special Agent Tina Richards. She’s our new profiler. Our old one. . .needed a break.”

  “I heard he burned out.” Richards shook my hand. “You can call me Tina. I’m not a fan of being called by my last name.”

  “That’s fair.” I took my hand back. “Call me Haven.”

  “Nice to meet you, Haven.” Tina turned back to the board. “I overheard that you’re from Fullbrooke.”

  “I am.”

  “If you don’t mind, I would love for you to take me around town so I could get a feel of the people. It would help me come up with the Unsub’s background.”

  “You think he’s a local?” I asked.

  “I do. He’s able to grab the kids in public places without anyone spotting him. It could be extreme planning that helped, but there’s a strong sense that he’s familiar with the area. He grew up here. He knows the nooks and crannies of buildings and shortcuts in roads.”

  “That’s a good assessment. King thinks the killer is local too,” Stein added. “Our last profiler disagreed, but as we noted, Will Johnson had burned out.”

  Tina had a sad smile. “It doesn’t take long for profilers to lose it.”

  “Will also found out that his girlfriend was pregnant. This isn’t the best case to be on when you’re expecting a kid.” Stein nodded. “By the way, you both can call me Brett. It’ll be nice to shake things up around here.”

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  Alexander King watched us from his office like a dark, brooding villain.

  I’m not going anywhere so get used to it, buddy.

  I looked back at the wall. “Tina, what else are you coming up with for the Angel Maker? Sorry. Unsub.”

  “Serial killers usually fall into one of two subsets—organized or disorganized offenders. Through the evaluation of the crime scene, victims, and forensic evidence, it’s possible to conclude personality and behavioral characteristics.”

  Stein glanced back at the evidence on the wall. “What do you think about our Unsub?”

  “He’s organized. The crime scene suggests that he planned his attack. He is careful to not leave blood and fingerprints behind.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “What can you tell us about organized killers?”

  “They usually kill due to some sort of reaction to a stressful event.”

  “So, something triggered our Unsub to begin taking little girls?”

  She nodded. “He should also have an organized, yet average life. Above average intelligence and socially competent, but there may have been some awkwardness due to possible bullying in his life.”

  I turned back to the wall. “So, a disorganized killer would leave a mess at the crime scene?”

  “Easily. Everything would be in disarray. Blood all over the place. Maybe even fingerprints. With a disorganized serial killer, the murder is opportunistic and close to where he lives. He’s also socially inadequate and has a below-average intelligence.”

  I sighed. “So, back to our Unsub. He’s organized and most likely from Fullbrooke? What else do you think?”

  Tina stirred a little. “This will be an unpopular opinion, but the FBI will have to consider this.”

  Brett quirked his brows. “What’s that?”

  “Fullbrooke locals and most of the media have been hinting at this being a white man racially preying on these little girls, but I think it could be a black man.”

  I let out a long breath. “You’re right. That’s an unpopular opinion. The last thing these folks want to hear, after six dead black girls are killed, is that the FBI will be investigating all the black men in the area.”

  Tina frowned. “It’s a myth that serial killers are all white males.”

  “A myth, but accurate in many ways.” I forced myself to not roll my eyes. “Not all, but most are white men.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, the racial diversification of serial killers mirrors that of the overall U.S. population. There are White, African-American, Hispanic, and Asian ones.”

  I shrugged. “I’m well aware of the different ones. Charles Ng was Chinese, and he murdered many in Northern California. Derrick Lee was an African-American and he killed six women in Louisiana.”

  Brett jumped in, “Carl Watts was also African-American, and he killed five in Michigan.”

  “And murdered another twelve in Texas,” I added. “But that’s not my point. I know I’m new to this unit, but I’m not new to this town. Fullbrooke was built on racism. The town is named after one of the meanest slave owners of the state—Tom Fullbrooke. And although he and his ways are gone, this town thrives on racism to this day. So. . .I just don’t want the white men in Fullbrooke to be overlooked.”

  “Or white women. We can’t just look at men either,” Tina offered. “And I understand, Haven. I’m here to get this psycho off the streets. However, think about this. It sounds like Fullbrooke is racially divided.”

  “It is.”

  “Then, wouldn’t the black community notice a white man sneaking around and taking the girls?”

  “Yes and no.” I studied the photos on the wall. “Black girls are taken by many in black communities all around the United States. It’s not that no one notices. It’s that sometimes I fear we’re not watching over our girls like we should.”

  My heart broke as I took in those faces. I’d seen them all over the news and social media. I’d read their files and backgrounds. I’d noted the similarities they’d had with their parents—many I’d gone to school with.

  But being in the investigation room felt different.

  I was in the center of it all.

  Like standing in the eye of a hurricane. One would think that a person would be destroyed being in the center of the storm, but the eye was the calmest place on a hurricane. The eye was the focus—the point where the rest of the storm rotated and where the lowest surface pressures were found. Above the eye, skies were clear, and winds were light. However, the position gave the perfect view for all the destruction happening around it.

  And with the Angel Maker gifting the FBI with the Fullbrooke six’s bodies, more would surely come. This town would not survive more dead little girls. The place was heating up with rage and fear—two things that never went well together. The Fullbrooke black community was a proud, hard-working bunch. Many marched in the civil rights protests. Most fought for voting, equal housing, and other things that made my childhood easier. There was only so much this community would take without tearing up the streets.

  We must find this guy before more girls are lost and people start taking out their own means of justice.

  I thought back to what Alexander King had said.

  “I have enough nightmares. Your death is not another one I want to add to the list.”

 
; King thought I was weak and would get in the way.

  Something fragile.

  I would prove him wrong and show him how much of an asset I was to this task force.

  I was going to find the Angel Maker and get his psycho ass out of my town.

  Chapter 3

  An Unnecessary Distraction

  Alexander

  Haven Barron.

  Her file had told me many things about her. Four degrees—double major in Psychology and Criminal Studies, Master’s in forensic psychology, Doctorate in Criminology. She had a high solving rate too, almost perfect. At thirty-five, she was already a legend in the Bureau. No field time, but her work spoke for itself.

  Whispers about her had floated through every area of Quantico. There wasn’t a test the woman didn’t ace. Wasn’t a drill she didn’t nail. She’d graduated at the top of her class. Then been swooped up by Missing Persons the next day. She had worked difficult cases over the years, busted her ass and proven that she knew how to catch monsters better than anybody.

  Haven Barron would be a benefit to any unit.

  But the file didn’t say how beautiful she was, or how much of a distraction she could be.

  It wasn’t fair to think this way. Barron couldn’t control the soft glow of that rich brown skin. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been blessed with those big, gorgeous brown eyes that widened with annoyance when she got angry. Her silky hair was pulled back in a long ponytail.

  I imagined the feel of those strands on my fingers.

  She was too enchanting for this case.

  She must go home.

  I frowned.

  Was it her fault that her sweet scent had hit me first before I turned and caught her view? Was it her problem that the curve of her frame and the tone of her voice had triggered heated thoughts in my mind?

  We were in a time when men had to be accountable and less cavemen. Time’s up and all that. Men had to act accordingly, treat women with respect, and see them as equals.

  But she wasn’t equal. She was a breathtaking creature that needed protection. Soft and delicate. She had no business so close to a case like this.

  What would she do when she walked up on the corpse of a precious little girl? How would it bruise her soul?

  Sitting at my desk, I watched Haven through my office window. Stein hadn’t left her or Agent Tina Richards’ side yet. No doubt, he felt that same animal attraction and didn’t want to walk away.