by Dani Pettrey
He wondered what it looked like now, how it’d changed over the years or, even more so, how it had remained the same. Did the floorboards still creak and the upper-right windowpane slide sideways for a bigger view of the harbor outside what had once been his bedroom?
“You still with me?” Kate asked at his prolonged silence.
He blinked out of memory lane. “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About?”
Our life together that I was foolish enough to destroy. “Everything.”
She let out a throaty laugh. “No wonder it looks like smoke’s about to come shooting out of your ears.”
“Ha! I haven’t heard that one in a while.”
Kate shrugged. “My mom’s still got a thing for those old-fashioned sayings—itchy nose means someone is thinking about you, burning ears if someone’s talking about you, though ‘a penny for your thoughts’ is still her favorite.”
He set down his roast beef, gouda, and horseradish sandwich and moved to her side—captivated by her presence and thrilled they had some time to themselves. “I remember,” he said, his voice low.
Her expression shifted, the playfulness changing to a look of wariness.
He took hold of her hand, holding her palm against his cheek, her touch surging a pulsating current through him. “I remember it all. The way your silky hair falls through my fingers.” He ran his free hand through her golden hair. It was the first time she’d worn it down in days, and while he liked her trademark ponytail, he loved her hair falling free across her shoulders.
He inched closer still, his voice deepening. “The scent of your shea butter lotion and the way it makes your skin so supple.” He trailed his fingers along the underside of her left arm. He exhaled, trying to steady himself and his racing heart. “The way your lips feel against mine,” he whispered hoarsely and, braving another slap, he cupped her face and lowered his lips to hers.
Tentative at first, she finally melted into the kiss, sliding her hands up the back of his neck and into his hair. Releasing a guttural moan of pleasure, he moved his arms around her waist and pulled her tighter against him, their kiss growing heady, powerful, reconnecting them body and soul.
“Oh!” A female squeak came from the doorway. “I’m so sorry.” One of Declan’s fellow agents quickly retreated and closed the door behind her.
Kate instantly broke the kiss and stepped back, raking a hand through her tousled hair.
Her lips were full and rosy, the mark of his kiss evident upon them. He moved to pull her back into his embrace.
She held up her hand. “This is a bad idea.”
He heard her words, but her eyes said something far different. “What happened to the audacious, dive-in-headfirst girl I knew?” he said teasingly.
“You crushed her heart.”
His heart hammered in his throat, all playfulness vanquished. “I know.” He swallowed. “Don’t let my idiotic choice change you from the free spirit I knew into someone who is guarded. Even if you never forgive me—which I understand is a strong possibility—please don’t lose that part of you.” It was heartbreaking to see that shift in her and to know he was the cause of it.
She linked her arms across her chest. “Your leaving taught me how to protect myself.”
“Protection is good, but not when it shuts you down.” He knew that only too well.
She shook her head, a sarcastic huff expelling from her freshly kissed lips. “So I’m just supposed to put my heart right back out there for you to crush all over again?”
“No.” He stepped toward her and tipped her chin up, forcing her to look him in the eye. “I will never hurt you again.”
“How can I ever trust you?”
“Only time will prove you can.”
“What if I’m not willing to put my life on hold for you again? For however many years you will disappear next time?”
“As soon as this case is over and Ebeid is stopped, I’m out.”
Her eyes widened. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I’m leaving the Agency.”
“Why?”
He linked his fingers with hers, intertwining them. “Do you really have to ask?”
“Don’t do it for me.”
“I want everything I do from now on to be for you.”
She shook her head, backing away, shutting down. “You said that before.”
“I know, and in my own messed-up, complicated way, I convinced myself my leaving was for you—to protect you—but I see now it was my selfish, immature way to have an adventure.”
“There’s that word again.”
He frowned. “What word?”
She glared at him. “Adventure.”
Why on earth did the word adventure bother her so much?
Suddenly, the office door swung open. “We’ve got a problem,” Declan said.
“What is it?” Kate asked.
Declan rested his weight against the doorframe. “Guards went to move our detainee from his holding cell to the interrogation room and discovered he’d hung himself in his cell.”
Luke’s jaw tensed. “How?”
“Best we can tell, he waited until the guard standing watch got called away for a moment. He apparently had a length of paracord sewn into his waistband. Pulled it out and hung himself.”
“Ebeid has them trained disturbingly well,” Luke said. “They are so terrified he’ll kill them if they talk—or do far worse before he kills them—that they’d rather take their own lives than face him.”
“Or they truly believe they are serving a greater purpose and cause by taking their own lives rather than risking compromising the mission,” Tanner said, entering behind Declan.
Kate shook her head. “I can’t get over how ruthless Ebeid is. It’s like he’s got mind control over these men.”
24
Griffin studied his beautiful wife, deep in slumber. She’d fallen asleep before they’d even reached cruising altitude. Though he wasn’t surprised after the night they’d had, followed by another intensive and draining day.
Once drink service began, he took the cup of coffee from the flight attendant and settled in to work during their flight to Wilmington, North Carolina.
They’d spent the remainder of their time in Houston speaking with the final two detectives, who were both friendly, though not overly helpful in offering new leads. The most Griffin and Finley had gained from them was confirmation that the victims in both of their cases had endured at least three out of the seven words from Burke’s list. The words neither case was tied to in a clear way were leader, agent, and barn.
Thankfully, they hadn’t had another encounter with either of their intruders, but unease still raked through Griffin. Shifting, he scanned the passengers around them, wondering if the killer was aboard the flight, if he was following their steps.
He had a nagging feeling that wouldn’t release its hold, suffocating the peace out of him. The killer was near. He could feel it. Perhaps not on their flight, but definitely on their trail.
He continued surveying the passengers, his gaze not locking on anyone in particular, so he settled back in his seat—though he wouldn’t be truly settled until this case was over and the killer behind bars.
They’d also spoken with the victims’ families before leaving, which had torn him apart, bringing back memories of the detectives who’d come to his home after Jenna’s disappearance, and again after her body was discovered. He didn’t know that they’d learned anything pertinent to finding the young women’s killer from the families, but they now had a much better feel for the victims, and that was always helpful in an investigation.
According to their families, all the victims had been beautiful, vibrant, loving women. All in relationships—most with young men the parents didn’t know about until after their disappearance. In addition, four out of the five Houston victims had recently moved from an old boyfriend to a new one in the months prior to their murders. It was an interesting, if not un
ique, thread. Jenna had secretly been involved with Parker, and the relationship was relatively new. New, but deeply intense, as the two were planning marriage.
He exhaled and reached for his coffee cup, the Styrofoam warm in his palm. Was there something in the victims’ relationship statuses that the killer didn’t like? It seemed too frequent an occurrence to be a coincidence. Perhaps, in the killer’s warped eyes, he viewed the young women as betraying their families with the secret relationships, or perhaps betraying their former boyfriends.
If that was the case, it meant the killer had studied the victims or, at the very least, searched out young women involved in that type of relationship.
If he’d stalked them, as Griffin believed, there was a higher likelihood of catching the killer, because it tied him to the victim for a longer period, rather than if he had just randomly snatched them. No. Griffin bet he’d studied and stalked, and if that were the case, there had to be evidence of that somewhere—a trail to follow. They just had to find the beginning.
Thankfully, the victims’ families had all provided some contact information—phone numbers and known or last-known locations of the victims’ boyfriends at the time of the murders. All of them had been suspects, but eventually all had been cleared when no physical evidence tied them to the crime. That fact only strengthened Griffin’s belief they were dealing with one killer.
It was a strong new thread to study and follow. Now, if he could just lose the sensation of the killer’s presence hovering nearby.
Initially, Griffin had hoped to talk with the detective on Megan Atha’s case after arriving in Wilmington, but when he called the station soon after landing he found out the detective had retired and moved to Amelia Island about three months back. He was gracious enough to speak with them by phone, though, and an officer at the precinct let them look through Megan’s official case file. It was helpful but didn’t offer anything new in the way of leads. As they entered the station in Topsail, Griffin prayed Julie Goss’s case would be different.
Topsail was a small beach town about an hour northeast of Wilmington and about seven hours south of Baltimore. Griffin’s family had spent a week every summer on its fine shores growing up. It saddened him to think one of the Shore Killer’s victims had been found on those same shores.
The intake officer directed them to the desk of the detective who handled Julie’s case. “Detective Cullen?”
“That’d be me,” Cullen said with a smile.
The detective stood. He was a little over six feet tall, had a swimmer’s build, short blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a tan.
“Hi, I’m Detective McCray and this is my wife”—he rested his hand on the small of Finley’s back—“Dr. Scott-McCray.”
“Right. Thanks for flying all the way out here to talk about Julie’s case. Being in a smaller precinct, our cases don’t typically garner much outside attention, but it sounds like Julie wasn’t the only victim of the killer, according to your call?”
“We don’t believe so.”
“Why don’t we head outside? It’s a bit quieter than in here and it’s a gorgeous day out.”
“Fresh air sounds amazing.” They’d been stuck in planes, rental cars, and police stations. And it really was a beautiful day.
Detective Cullen led them outside into the salty sea air that smelled wonderful, a moderate breeze blowing off the ocean, sand dunes rising in the distance.
“Julie Goss’s body was found about three blocks from here, on the sound side.” Detective Cullen pointed west. “I can show you, if you’d like.”
“That’d be helpful.” The more familiar they could become with the crime scenes, the better. So far they’d only found the dumping sites, though, never the location where the murder itself took place. It was possible the victims had been killed near the water before being dumped, but Griffin had a strong sense that the killer murdered the women in barns—since barn had been among Burke’s key words—and then moved their bodies to the water. He wondered if the killer studied the currents to ensure the bodies washed up on shore. Did the killer want his work to be discovered? Did he want the world to see what he’d done? Was it some perverse need to show off his work? Or had he been unlucky, wanting the bodies to remain submerged, but they rarely did?
Detective Cullen led them across the two-lane road, the traffic light this time of year due to the lack of mainlanders, according to the detective. They proceeded down a side road and through the tall grass surrounding the marshy area leading up to the sound.
“Watch your step, Dr. Scott-McCray,” Cullen said.
“Finley, please, and thanks.” She held Griffin’s hand, her bright pink ballet flats tiptoeing around the wet sand blanketing the shore.
“You’re welcome, and call me Dirk,” he said.
Like Griffin’s favorite fictional character from Clive Cussler’s novels, Dirk Pitt.
“Dirk it is.” Finley smiled, glancing back at Griffin. She’d no doubt caught the connection.
About ten feet in, Dirk stopped at the dark bluish-green water’s edge. The smell of brackish marsh—fish, algae, and brine—imbued the air. The lap of water lulled as it swayed the tall grasses surrounding the long and narrow estuary. “Julie was found right about here,” Dirk said, pointing to a small sandy patch along the water’s edge.
Griffin looked around at the tall grasses, sand dunes, and narrow path. “Hard to imagine anyone being found back in here.”
“Thankfully, Julie was. Gave her poor parents some solace to at least bury their daughter.”
“The way you talk about Julie, her family . . .” Griffin asked, sensing a tie there.
“My kid sister went through school with Julie. I know her family. You grow up in a small town . . .” He shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” Griffin said.
“And I’m sorry,” Dirk said. “I assume from the list of victim names you read over the phone that with Jenna’s last name being McCray, there’s a relation?”
Griffin rubbed the back of his neck. “She was my sister.”
“Ah, man. I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah, it does, which is why I want to get this guy so bad. I’m hoping you can help us.”
Finley squeezed his hand, caressing his palm with her thumb in soft, soothing strokes.
“So tell me about Julie’s case,” Griffin said. “How was she found? By whom?”
“Some fishermen. Their names are in the file. We can check when we return to the station. They weren’t local.”
“Any chance the finders were involved?”
“No. We questioned them and they both had alibis for the time of death.”
“Who’s we?” Griffin asked.
“Me and Joel, my partner at the time.”
“Joel?”
“Yeah,” Dirk said. “He was new on the force, but raring to learn, so he shadowed me everywhere I went, asking questions, studying crime scenes, recording everything on that stupid tape recorder of his.”
Finley swallowed. “Tape recorder?” Griffin knew what she was thinking. Perhaps Burke’s key word leader really did mean a short strip of material at each end of a reel of recording tape for connection to the spool.
“He said it helped him study. He planned to take the detective’s examination, but with this being such a small town, the chance of an opening here was slim. He heard Houston was hiring”—Griffin saw Finley’s eyes widen just as the certainty hit him—“so he transferred out there. Did his time as a patrol officer, took the test, and made detective not long after. . . .” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you both look as pale as that albino alligator they got down at Fort Fisher Aquarium?”
Griffin found his voice. “Are you talking about Joel Hood?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
“He was the detective on one of the murders linked to the same killer.”
Dirk’s easygoing, low-key persona tensed. “I’d like to say it’s a small world, but even to a country boy like me, I’m
afraid the likelihood of that being a coincidence is rare.” He shook his head. “Joel?”
“What can you tell us about him?” Griffin asked.
“Why don’t we head back to the station? I’ll pull his employment file.”
“That’d be great,” Griffin said, still trying to wrap his head around what he’d just heard. Of all the detectives and the one agent they’d spoken with, he’d never have pegged the affable Joel Hood as the killer. Was it possible?
“Then we can head to the barn where Julie was killed, if it would be helpful,” Dirk said.
Griffin stopped stone-still. “You found the barn where she was killed?”
“We did.”
He was torn between which lead he wanted to start with.
“If you’d like, we can grab Joel’s records and go over them while we drive out to the edge of Holly Ridge where the barn is.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
Joel Hood? He could still barely wrap his mind around the possibility. Had he shaken the hand of Jenna’s killer?
Fury flared like hot iron through his veins.
25
Dirk grabbed Joel’s employment record and handed it to Griffin as they climbed into Dirk’s patrol car, headed for Holly Ridge—about a twenty-minute drive from the station, according to Dirk.
Griffin scanned the document. “Joel transferred here from a Wilmington precinct?” That’s where Megan Atha had been killed.
“Yes. Like I said, he was eager to learn, and no one there was willing to take the time and let him shadow them, so he moved here. But he’s originally from Maryland, I believe.”
Griffin’s jaw slackened. “Maryland?”
“Yeah. Was a travel agent or something up there while he got his degree in criminal justice. Moved down here not long after he graduated, applied to the police academy in Wilmington, and then graduated from there.”
“How long after he joined the Wilmington force was Megan Atha killed?” Griffin asked Finley.
She calculated it. “Roughly three months.”
He turned to Dirk. “And how long had he been working with you when Julie Goss was murdered?”