by Rita Herron
“River Street Rapist trial,” Tinsley said, her voice shocked.
“That’s right,” Korine said. “Did you follow the trial?”
Tinsley clamped her teeth over her bottom lip. “I watch the news. I keep hoping that . . .”
“That the man who took you will be found,” Hatcher filled in.
Tinsley gave Hatcher a wary look but nodded.
“Is there anything about the figure you saw outside that seemed familiar?” Korine asked, steering them back to this case. “Anything that stood out?”
Tinsley rubbed her temple again, her eyes darting around nervously. “Not that I recall.”
Korine hated to pressure her, but sometimes witnesses forgot details until they were pushed to remember. “Did he have a limp? Was he short? Tall? Heavy?”
“I don’t know, it was too far away to tell,” Tinsley said.
Korine offered her a sympathetic smile. “I understand you don’t want to come to the station, but we could bring mug shots here for you to look at.”
Tinsley lurched up and motioned to the door. “I told you I didn’t see his face. And I don’t want to look at any mug shots. Now please leave.”
Korine glanced at Hatcher, who shrugged. She slipped a business card onto the coffee table. “All right, but my work and private number are on there. Call me if you think of anything, or if . . . you just want to talk.”
Tinsley’s gaze met hers, the pain and fear so deep that it nearly stole Korine’s breath.
Tinsley rushed them to the door, a desperate fear in her jittery movements. Although the parakeet remained inside the cage, it had hopped to the edge near the open door, feathers ruffled.
“We’ll find him,” Hatcher said as he and Korine stepped onto the porch.
Tinsley’s only response was to slam the door in their faces. The sound of half a dozen locks being clicked and shifted echoed from the inside.
CHAPTER SIX
Fog fell like ghostly fingers across the cove, misty rain splashing onto the sand and palm trees, spreading into the mercurial water of the Atlantic as if the shadow of Tinsley’s past had followed her to Sunset Cove.
She couldn’t escape it, no matter how far she’d run. And she had run, dammit.
She paused by her parakeet’s cage, reached a finger inside, and stroked his head gently. When she’d finally come home, she’d been relieved to know her neighbor had taken care of Mr. Jingles. But she’d churned over the fact that she was keeping the bird locked in a cage. During her abduction, she’d learned what it felt like to be trapped. That night she’d moved Mr. Jingles with her to the cottage and opened his door, giving the bird its freedom.
Mr. Jingles used to talk and sing tunes from TV commercials all the time—the reason she’d given him the name. Now, he sat quietly and stared at her as if he were angry because she’d abandoned him for so long. She’d hoped allowing him to fly around the house freely would soften his attitude, but he’d yet to venture outside the cage.
This place—the cove with its spectacular sunsets, the beach, the view from her cottage—was supposed to give her solace and peace. It was supposed to help her recovery process. To make her forget the helplessness and pain she’d experienced and move on with her life.
Yet tonight the ocean, vast and wide, loomed beneath the inky sky like an endless tomb of nothingness without light.
All because a dead body had been left on the dock in front of her house.
She closed her eyes and envisioned the beauty of the twinkling stars and the vibrant reds and oranges and yellows of the sun as it faded each night.
When she opened them, the dreary blackness outside chilled her to the bone. The sound of her own screams the night she’d been abducted reverberated in her ears and drowned out any pleasant sounds, a reminder that evil had stolen what constituted her normal life at twenty-nine.
Afraid she was bordering on psychotic with her morose thoughts, she turned to her blog. At her therapist’s advice, she’d started journaling her thoughts about her abduction, her attacker, and the fact that he’d escaped. Surprisingly her entries had incited others to share their stories of being victimized and of the injustices that had cost them their sense of security, their happiness, and . . . their future.
She’d named the blog Heart & Soul because that’s what she did—she poured out her heart and soul in the words that filled the screen. She’d been surprised at the interest the site had drawn.
The blog had brought her friends, a support group, a way to not feel lonely when she was a prisoner in her own house—and very much alone.
The photo of the sandy shore dotted with broken shells and sea glass to her right made an ache stir deep within her. She wanted to be part of the world again, to comb the shore and search through the broken shells and find the one or two that had survived the tides undamaged. To recover the bits of sea glass that she’d collected as a child and craft them into jewelry to wear as a reminder that beauty still existed in the world.
She wanted to feel the sunshine on her face and hear the children’s laughter as they chased the waves, not be an outsider watching through locked windows and closed doors.
Rain drizzled down, pattering the tin roof and splashing raindrops against the weathered glass windows.
Not that it mattered whether the sun was shining or the heat was unbearable, or whether it was cold outside or there was a hurricane.
Not when she was trapped inside these walls.
It was a prison she’d made for herself—to keep safe.
Only she didn’t feel safe. Or alive.
Each day blended in with the others—the monotonous routine of climbing from bed for morning coffee, then checking the news to see how many innocents had become victims, how many criminals had escaped, how many times the system had screwed up and another man who’d hurt someone walked the streets, free and able to hunt again.
Each time she posted to Heart & Soul, she was flooded with tales from soul sisters who understood and shared her fears and pain. Ones who wanted justice for the innocents as much as she did.
She inhaled and took a sip of tea, then settled down to write. Her fingers moved over the keyboard, and she lost herself in pouring out her turmoil:
I want to leave the house, to walk along the surf, to sift my toes through the sand and feel the gentle waves lapping at my feet, the sun warming my skin, and the breeze ruffling my hair.
But I am trapped. A hostage who may never know that freedom again.
He kept me inside a cage like an animal. Inside a small room with dark walls that had been scratched by others he’d caught. Each one of us marked the days we were held with fingernail claws into that wall, as if we were animals ourselves.
Little did he know that we were—I was—simply sharpening my claws and waiting on a time I could use them on him and escape.
But even when I did, he got away. And I was trapped again.
This time I locked myself away.
I mark the wall with the days—ninety-two now—that I have hidden in this place. Too afraid to step foot outside the door. Too afraid to walk on the beach or venture into town to shop or go to a restaurant to have a meal.
Too afraid of dying to really live.
Yes, I am an agoraphobic.
While he is running free, I’m chained to him, to his voice, his touch, the things he did to me. To the memories that choke me and sometimes make me want to die.
The only way I escape is in my head and my dreams.
Yet too many times I am tormented by the nightmares, and he is chasing me again.
It will never end.
Unless she ended it.
Five minutes later, responses from her followers flooded the screen. Some were sympathetic and offered hope. Others poured out their own horrid experiences. Two women had been victimized by the River Street Rapist, who’d terrorized Savannah’s college coeds for the past year. Another at the hand of her own husband. Then a post from a mother who’d killed her boyfr
iend to stop him from molesting her son.
Most of the comments were anonymous.
The victims connected and didn’t need names.
Sometimes it hurt more to read the other women’s sorrowful accounts than it did to think of the inhuman way He had treated her. She didn’t know his real name and refused to say the name he’d called himself.
She slipped open the desk drawer and stared at the knife inside. The ivory handle felt cold. Slick. Foreign. Yet the blade comforted her as she ran her finger over the sharp edge.
Sweat beaded on her neck. Her hand trembled.
Relief was only seconds away.
She envisioned raising it to her wrist and slicing the pale skin. Blood would flow, freeing her of the burden of living each day when she wasn’t really living at all.
It would feel too good to be free of the pain.
To know that He wasn’t keeping her hostage.
But killing herself wouldn’t be killing him. It would mean He’d won.
She shoved the drawer closed.
A light outside the window flickered in the dark, distant and foggy in the rain. Pulse hammering, she stood and moved to the window.
The police—Hatcher—and that other agent had left.
But someone was out there. More police or investigators? Had Hatcher returned?
Or was it Him?
Terror made adrenaline shoot through her veins, and she grabbed the knife from the drawer. She wouldn’t use it on herself.
But if he came after her, she would use it on him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hatcher scanned the area as he veered onto the mile-long drive to Judge Wadsworth’s house. Live oaks dripping with Spanish moss flanked the drive, the giant branches of the trees curling and bending as if linking arms across the plush acreage to protect its residents.
Yet the Spanish moss looked brittle and dry, like an old woman’s scraggly hair, casting an eeriness to the area and reminding him of the legend of Skull’s Crossing, the place where he’d lost his wife.
Rumors claimed that two women were murdered there years ago, their bodies dumped in the ocean for the sharks to finish off. Yet the tides had tossed pieces of their remains in the marsh, drawing the gators as well. The women’s souls were caught between land and water, in limbo between heaven and hell. They haunted both the sea and the marsh, their cries echoing at low tide.
In the past months, three more skulls had been found at the same place—three that had never been identified. Three suspected to be victims of the Skull.
The wind whistled off the sea, the dry brush and sea oats a testament to winter and a reminder of death.
But the judge’s body hadn’t been left at Skull’s Crossing.
Instead, it had been left on the dock in clear sight of Tinsley Jensen’s cottage.
But why? The judge had nothing to do with Tinsley’s case or the fact that her abductor had escaped. But it had to have been left there for a reason . . .
He heaved a breath, then climbed from his SUV, the loamy scent of the marshland behind the judge’s house assaulting him. Or maybe it was the scent of death.
The sound of a car motor rumbling echoed behind him, and he stood by his SUV with arms folded and waited for his new partner to climb from her vehicle. He didn’t want to work with Korine. But he had no choice.
The breeze snatched a strand of her hair and sent it flying around her face. She swiped it away from her cheek as if annoyed at the intrusion. Her gaze skated over the house and property, but instead of looking impressed, she showed no reaction.
A gray Mercedes was parked in the circular drive in front of the mansion. Through a window in the detached brick garage, he spotted a BMW convertible.
“Wonder where the judge’s Lincoln is,” Korine said.
He arched a brow. While he’d buried himself in the bottle, she’d been honing her skills and studying cases big time. “You did your research?”
She barely gave him a glance as she started toward the house. “I told you I followed the River Street Rapist trial.” Her grim tone matched the severe frown on her face. “His wife drives the Mercedes, his son, Theo, the Beamer. He also has a tech-savvy daughter, Serena, who lives in Savannah.”
Seashells crunched beneath his boots as he followed her up the path to the front door. She paused before ringing the bell. “Wife Annette is known for being meek, submissive.”
He bit back a comment. She was showing off, but any information she had about the family could save time.
Besides, he’d have to pick his battles. He didn’t want her tattling to Bellows that he was difficult to work with.
“Any more insight?” he asked.
In spite of trying to maintain a professional tone, he realized he’d sounded petulant.
She raised a brow. “Son is a bit of a rebel. Some kind of artist, I think.”
“And the daughter?”
“Ironically, she created a phone app to alert people of crimes in progress. She also attended the trial for the River Street Rapist. When the bastard was released, the press tried to interview her. But she refused to talk to them.”
“She didn’t defend her father?”
Korine shook her head. “She gave no comment.”
Which meant she could have agreed or disagreed with her father’s ruling.
Korine rang the doorbell. Hatcher straightened to his full six two and braced himself to deliver the bad news about the judge’s death.
He hated this part of the job.
But he had to be alert and study the wife’s reaction. She might be weak and submissive, but everyone had their limits.
If she’d reached hers, she might have snapped and killed her husband.
Korine inhaled a deep breath. Although she’d disagreed with the judge’s ruling, she hadn’t wanted to see the man dead.
She would have preferred for him to apologize to the River Street Rapist’s victims and do something to make sure the bastard didn’t hurt anyone else.
The door opened, and a woman wearing a maid’s uniform and nametag reading “Hilda” greeted them. Korine introduced them. “We need to talk to Mrs. Wadsworth.”
Hilda adjusted the collar of her uniform. “May I tell her what this is about?”
Korine softened her tone. “Actually it’s personal, but it’s very important.”
Hilda motioned for them to follow her. “I’ll tell her to meet you in the parlor.” She escorted them to a room decorated with antiques, oriental rugs, and expensive paintings. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn, the dark paneling and colors of the room regal but oppressive.
The maid gestured toward the sitting area. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” Her heels clicked on the marble foyer as she hurried toward the winding staircase.
Curious, Korine crossed the room to the corner where a glass curio cabinet held the judge’s collection of gavels, some made of expensive wood with gold trim, some bearing intricate carving. The front row showcased plaques correlating with gavels that had been used in the judge’s most famous trials.
It didn’t appear that any were missing.
“Anything else you want to share before we interview her?” Hatcher asked.
Korine tensed. “Mrs. Wadsworth appeared to be the doting wife on her husband’s arm at social functions, but she avoided the press. One reporter speculated that she was afraid of the judge.”
“I am not afraid of him.”
The woman’s voice startled Korine, and she realized the judge’s wife was standing in the doorway. She looked elegant in black pants and a gold jacket, her diamonds glittering. She wore her brown hair in a perfectly coiffured bob and her nails were manicured, her makeup flawless.
Mrs. Wadsworth tugged at the neckline of her turtleneck, and Korine thought she spotted a bruise on the woman’s neck. The judge’s wife had frequently worn high-necked blouses and long sleeves when she’d been photographed. Maybe the rumors were true.
“Is that why you insisted on s
eeing me?” Her sharp tone reeked of disapproval. “You’re chasing gossip about my husband and me?”
Damn. She’d just screwed up. “No, and I apologize for my insensitive remark,” Korine said.
Hatcher offered his hand and introduced them both, obviously trying to smooth over Korine’s gaffe.
The woman didn’t look appeased. Instead, Mrs. Wadsworth speared them both with a condescending look. “If you’re here about one of my husband’s trials or cases, I have no comment. He doesn’t discuss his work with me.”
A muscle twitched in Hatcher’s jaw. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s important that you speak with us.”
Mrs. Wadsworth toyed with the gold chain around her neck. “Then by all means, come in and sit down.” A wary look tugged at the woman’s face as she claimed a leather wing chair in front of the fireplace and folded her hands in her lap. “All right. Now what is so important?”
Korine gestured for Hatcher to speak. She’d already alienated the woman.
“When was the last time you saw or spoke to your husband?” Hatcher asked.
Mrs. Wadsworth twisted her fingers together. “I . . . don’t understand. Why do you want to know?”
Hatcher crossed his arms. “Please just answer the question, ma’am.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “He phoned and left a message with Hilda about seven last night. Said he’d be working late.”
“Was that unusual?” Korine asked.
Mrs. Wadsworth shook her head. “He often stayed late to review trials, transcripts.” She lifted her chin. “Why are you asking?”
Hatcher shifted. “Were you aware that people were upset over his recent case and the fact that he released a suspected rapist?”
She shot up from her chair. “Of course. I do read the paper and watch the news.” She straightened her jacket. “It wasn’t his fault that the lawyers didn’t do their jobs.” She gestured toward the door. “Now, I have a headache. I’d appreciate it if you left.”