by Rita Herron
Why couldn’t he have resisted her?
His hand shook as he poured the tumbler half-full.
His mouth watered as he lifted it for the first sip. He missed Jack. Missed numbing his pain and problems with the rich, dark taste.
Missed the warm burn as it slid down his throat. The comforting feel as it seeped into his blood and helped him forget his failures.
He carried the tumbler to the porch, stood, and looked out into the woods.
Felicia’s image rose in the murky fog, her hand stretching toward him in that silent plea again, and he turned the drink up and tossed back half of it.
He closed his eyes, savoring the whiskey and waiting for it to begin its magic.
“Hatcher?”
Korine’s soft voice jerked him from the bliss of escape.
Her footsteps padded on the wood floor as she walked up behind him. “Come back to bed.”
The gentle touch of her fingers on his arm was so tempting he turned to face her. She’d put on his shirt and buttoned it. His clothes on her were even sexier than her being naked.
But she was reporting to Bellows, watching him like he was a damned child.
She saw the bourbon in his hand, and disappointment flashed in her eyes.
“If sleeping with me drives you to drink, then I should go.”
He hated the pain in her voice. Pain he’d caused. But anger churned in his belly. “Yeah, run to Bellows and tell him I’m a drunk.”
Her eyes flared at his bitter tone, but he couldn’t make himself apologize. Sleeping with her had always been a mistake. He sure as hell couldn’t afford to care about her.
She bit down on her bottom lip, then took a step away from him.
His phone buzzed, startling them both. Grateful for the interruption, he rushed to answer it.
“Agent McGee, this is Officer Leeks. I was assigned to guard Trace Bellamy at the hospital.”
His pulse picked up a notch. “Is something wrong?”
“The doctor said he’s out of the woods. He’s waking up if you want to talk to him.”
Of course he did. “I’ll be right there.”
Korine was watching him, questions in her eyes. “News on the case?”
“Bellamy is waking up. I’m going to the hospital to talk to him.”
“I’ll get dressed.” She started toward the bedroom, but he wasn’t in the mood, not after seeing that text.
“I’m going alone.”
Her gaze met his, the turmoil deepening. He was cutting her out, and she knew it.
Before he could give in to temptation and take her back to bed, he strode into the bedroom and dressed. She was still standing in his den when he returned. But her phone was in her hand. For a brief second, he thought regret flashed in her eyes.
“We should talk,” she said quietly.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He snagged his keys, stormed out the door, and slammed it behind him.
The sooner he closed this case, the sooner he could request a new partner.
Korine watched Hatcher leave, her blood boiling. What had happened? One minute she and Hatcher were making wild passionate love and had curled in each other’s arms, sleeping. The next, he was up by himself, staring at the woods, drinking.
He had seen that text, too. And he was hurt by it.
She never should have let down her guard. Never should have slept with him again because giving her body to him meant giving her heart.
He didn’t want her heart or her as a partner.
His wife had been clingy and needy. She couldn’t become that kind of woman.
She lifted her chin, fortifying her resolve, and hurried to get dressed. She wouldn’t rely on Hatcher or pressure him for anything.
But she was part of this case, and she wanted to hear what Trace Bellamy said.
Mind made up, she phoned for a taxi.
Just as she was hanging up, her phone buzzed. Probably Hatcher. Maybe Bellamy was awake and had identified his attacker.
She checked the number. Not Hatcher. Her mother’s home.
She glanced at the clock. Four a.m.
A bad sign.
She quickly connected the call. “Esme?”
“You’ve got to come over. Kenny showed up and . . . he’s upset,” her mother’s caregiver said on a ragged breath. “He has your father’s gun.”
Korine’s pulse jumped. “I’ll be right there.”
She grabbed her purse and jacket, then strapped on her gun and holster.
Armed and ready, she stepped outside to wait on the cab.
Five minutes later, it arrived, and she jumped in and gave the driver her mother’s address. Anxiety seized every muscle in her body. It was only a few miles to the house where she’d grown up, but it seemed like it took them hours to get there.
Questions needled her as the driver turned down the drive.
Why did Kenny have her father’s gun? Was it loaded? Would he use it?
She handed the driver some cash, then climbed from the cab and jogged to the front door, bracing herself to defuse the situation inside.
To treat this incident just as she would a call on the job, not like it was personal.
But the moment she opened the door and heard her mother’s shrill scream, fear flooded her.
Praying she didn’t need her weapon, she paused in the foyer to listen. Kenny was shouting something. Her mother was crying.
Kenny’s voice was coming from her father’s study.
The very room he’d died in.
She didn’t want to lose another family member in there.
Easing her weapon from her holster in case she needed it, she held it down by her side and slipped to the doorway.
Her heart stuttered at the sight. Her father’s gun was tucked in Kenny’s pants, and he wielded a hammer in his right hand—the hand he had brought down to smash one of the porcelain dolls on the floor.
The dolls her father had given her.
Her cell phone buzzed with a text before she could step in to intervene. She quickly glanced at it. Cat.
Traced the Facebook Live post to a phone.
Korine choked on a breath.
The address Cat listed was her mother’s house.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Korine balled her hand into a fist. How was it possible that Cat had traced that Facebook Live post to this address?
Her mother didn’t even have a cell phone. Neither did Esme.
And the post had to do with the man the Keeper had thought was the Skull, which had nothing to do with her family or her father’s death.
Her mother’s cry rent the air. “Stop it! Your dad loves those dolls. He’s saving them for Korine.”
Esme snatched Korine’s hand and pulled her behind the door. “I’m so glad you’re here. Kenny is out of control.”
Korine touched Esme’s shoulder. “What happened to start the argument?”
“I don’t know,” Esme said. “Kenny just showed up and started talking crazy, and then your mama got upset.”
“Stay here. Let me talk to them.” Korine held her breath as she stepped into the doorway.
“Mom? Kenny?”
Her mother was sitting on the sofa, eyes glassy, rocking herself back and forth while Kenny paced in front of her. The broken pieces of the porcelain dolls lay scattered across the floor just as they had across her bed.
He raised the hammer and smashed another doll. Her mother screamed and covered her face with her hands as porcelain shards flew.
“Kenny?” Korine eased toward him. “Please put down the hammer and the gun.”
Kenny hesitated in front of the fireplace, his eyes wild and unfocused. He kept swinging the hammer back and forth, his body rigid.
“Please, let’s sit down and talk.”
“Why? All this family does is lie!” Kenny shouted.
“Stop it, son,” their mother cried. “Your daddy bought those dolls for Korine for her birthday and Christmas.”
Korine ha
ted the pain in her mother’s voice, but at least she’d come out of her silent shell and was speaking.
“I know he did.” Kenny threw the hammer onto the floor, then grabbed the gun from his pants and waved it in the air. “It was always about Korine, his special, pretty little girl.”
“I’m sorry you felt left out,” Korine said. “Really. But Dad loved you—”
“I hated him!” Kenny said, venom in his tone. “I hated him and the things he did.”
“Because he gave me gifts?” Korine asked quietly. “You were jealous and wanted more of his attention.”
Kenny wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. “How can you be an FBI agent and be so stupid?”
Korine gripped her weapon by her side and inched toward her mother. She had to get that gun away from her brother. “Okay, maybe I’m clueless, so why don’t we sit down and you can explain everything to me?”
Kenny rubbed his hand over his eyes as if he was debating what to do. Her mother was still rocking herself back and forth on the sofa, confusion clouding her eyes.
Korine patted her shoulder. “I’m here now, Mom, we’ll work things out. I promise.”
“The dolls, I know you loved them . . . ,” her mother said in a low whisper.
Korine gritted her teeth and glanced at Kenny, hoping he’d realize how much his behavior was upsetting their mother. Instead, he looked angry, distant, like a child reliving some horror.
“Kenny, please,” Korine said. “Put down the gun so we can talk.”
He paced in front of them, his movements jittery. “It’s too late to talk.”
“No, it’s not,” Korine said softly. “I love you, and I want to understand.”
He spun on her, eyes filled with bitterness. “No, you don’t.”
She gestured for him to put the gun on the table. “Tell me what upset you so badly that you left rehab. What happened in that therapy session?”
Kenny’s face contorted with pain. “They wanted me to tell them everything. But I couldn’t talk about it, not with strangers.” His body shook as a sob was wrenched from his gut.
Korine took advantage of the moment and eased the gun from him. Carefully, she placed it on the table, then stowed her weapon in her holster. “Tell me, Kenny. What can’t you talk about?”
“That night,” Kenny shouted. “The doll. And that fucking music . . .”
“You mean the night Dad was shot,” Korine asked.
Tears streamed down her brother’s face. “I heard the music, and I remembered the other time.”
“What other time?” Korine asked, desperately trying to follow the conversation.
“The time with the little girl,” Kenny said in a faraway voice. “He gave her a doll just like yours.”
Korine struggled to understand. Was he confused? “Dad gave another little girl a doll like mine?”
Kenny nodded, choking on a sob. “He gave a lot of dolls away, to his patients.”
Her father had loved children . . . he helped them in therapy. “He gave them to the girls when they were ready to move on from therapy?”
“No, no . . .” Kenny’s face contorted in rage. “I saw where he kept them in his office. It was the day fathers were supposed to take their sons to work.”
“You were at Daddy’s office?”
Kenny nodded, his movements jerky. “He told me to stay in the break room. Even gave me doughnuts. I guess he thought I’d pig out and wouldn’t bother him.”
A sense of foreboding washed over Korine. Kenny was finally opening up. Although, so far, he wasn’t making much sense. “What happened then?”
“I wanted a soda, but there weren’t any in the refrigerator so I was going to ask Daddy for money for the vending machine.”
Korine nodded. “Go on.”
He pulled at his hair, a nervous habit he’d started in his preteens. “I heard the music box playing, and I tried to open the door, but it was locked. Dad was supposed to spend the day with me.” His voice cracked. “I was so mad at him. The secretary had gone to lunch, so I found the key to Dad’s office in her desk and unlocked the door. I was going to make Dad pay attention to me.”
The agony in Kenny’s voice tore at Korine.
“I peeked inside. She was sitting on his lap.”
A chill shot through Korine. “Who was sitting on his lap?”
Kenny wiped at his eyes. “A little girl,” Kenny said, his voice breaking. “He gave her a doll and danced with her, and then . . . then . . .”
Korine glanced at her mother for a reaction, but her mother was staring at her hands, a million miles away.
“He took off her dress,” Kenny said, disgust in his voice. “She was crying, but he told her he loved her, and then he touched her all over . . .”
Shock slammed into Korine. “What? No . . . Daddy would never have molested a patient.”
Kenny backed up, rage slashing his face. “He did,” he said sharply. “I saw him.”
Denial stabbed at Korine.
“Then that Christmas Eve, he gave you that doll and the music box was playing, and I looked in and saw you dancing, and I knew what he was going to do—”
Korine shook her head. “Daddy wouldn’t—”
“He did.” Kenny pulled at his hair again. “He did it with that girl, and then I saw a bunch more dolls and music boxes stacked in the closet in the break room, and I realized he was doing it to other girls.”
Nausea flooded Korine. Her father gave music boxes and dolls to other little girls . . .
Kenny picked up the music box and stared at the twirling ballerina. The melody “I Feel Pretty” filled the room. Except this time the music made Korine feel sick inside.
Heart breaking, she took the music box and slammed the top shut, then set it on the coffee table.
“He was going to molest you,” Kenny cried. “Don’t you see? You were my little sister, and I was supposed to protect you. I had to stop him.”
Korine’s chest ached with the need to breathe. “Kenny,” she said in a raw whisper. “What do you mean, you had to stop him?”
He glanced at the gun, his eyes glazed as if he was reliving that night.
Disbelief and denial made Korine want to run.
But reality held her immobile as she put the pieces together.
The moment Hatcher stepped off the hospital elevator, the alarms were ringing. Nurses and doctors raced into the hallway, shouting orders, and a nurse pushed a crash cart toward a room down the hall.
His gut instincts roared to life.
He picked up his pace, then spotted Officer Leeks.
“What happened?” Hatcher asked.
“I don’t know.” Leeks jammed his hands in his pants’ pockets. “The nurse was in there with him, so I went to take a piss. When I got back, machines were beeping, and nurses and doctors were scrambling around like crazy.”
Frustration gnawed at Hatcher. He wanted Bellamy alive and awake so he could identify his attacker—or attackers. Kendall James had probably stayed up all night planning her strategy to get the charges against the four women dropped.
He needed proof, dammit.
“Go get some coffee,” Hatcher told the officer. “I’ll stay here and find out what’s going on.”
The officer gave a quick nod. He had been first on the scene when the judge’s body was found, and now he was here when Bellamy was crashing.
Suspicion took root in Hatcher’s mind. In the briefing meeting, they’d discussed the possibility that someone involved in the case could be the unsub. That they should consider members of law enforcement as possible persons of interest.
Leeks had opportunity.
He stepped into the waiting room, texted Wyatt, and asked him to run a background check on Officer Leeks. Then he made his way down the hall.
A nurse was exiting Bellamy’s room.
“Is he going to be all right?” Hatcher asked.
“You’ll have to speak to the doctor,” the nurse said.
“What happened?”
“It appears that he had an allergic reaction to some medication. The doctor is running a tox screen to find out exactly what substance triggered the reaction.”
“Were you aware that he had allergies?” Hatcher asked.
She shook her head. “He was unconscious when he was brought in. There was no family to call, and we didn’t find a medical history.”
Hatcher thanked her, then knocked on the door to Bellamy’s room and stepped inside. A female doctor, probably midforties, stood by Bellamy’s bed.
He quickly introduced himself. “How is he?”
“We’ve stabilized him, but we want to get to the bottom of what caused him to crash.”
“You think it was a drug you gave him?”
The doctor pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s possible, although nothing I prescribed should have triggered this type of reaction.”
Hatcher’s mind raced. Bellamy was waking up, and he might have been able to ID his attacker.
Maybe the unsub knew that and wanted to quiet him. That person could have snuck in and injected him. Yet Leeks was standing guard . . . Unless it was Leeks.
Or someone dressed like hospital staff. Someone Leeks wouldn’t have suspected was a threat.
“Let me know what you find out.” He studied Bellamy’s ashen face. “And alert me as soon as he regains consciousness.”
If someone had intentionally dosed Bellamy with a drug to trigger a heart attack or an allergic reaction, that was attempted murder. The four women they’d arrested couldn’t be responsible.
Meaning they were innocent. And that the unsub was still on the loose.
Korine couldn’t believe this was happening. All these years, she’d been determined, driven, to find her father’s murderer. Had thought it would give her peace.
But it had never occurred to her that her search would lead to her brother. Kenny had only been nine at the time, a child.
A child who’d witnessed his father do the unthinkable.
No wonder her mother had tried to get her to stop asking questions.
Kenny slumped in the wing chair, his head buried in his hands. From the sofa, her mother twisted her hands in her lap, seemingly lost as tears streamed down her face.
Korine had a sudden urge to run. To forget this conversation and live in denial.