Pretty Little Killers

by Rita Herron

  Hatcher parked in front of Korine’s just as a flash of dark-red hair caught his eye.

  That luscious hair was enough to drive a man insane.

  He struggled to rein in his lust as she jogged down her stairs to meet him. Her skin glowed in the dim morning light, her dark-blue jacket accentuating her vibrant eye color. She wore her hair, which still looked wet from a shower, in a long braid draped over one shoulder.

  Except for dark smudges beneath her eyes, she looked fresh and young and . . . sexy.

  He glanced down at his finger where his wedding band used to be. The tan line had faded, the passage of time erasing any sign that he’d been married.

  Korine opened the door and leaned inside, adjusting her holster.

  He gestured toward the coffee in his cup holders. “Hot coffee if you want.”

  The wariness in her eyes made him wonder at her thoughts.

  “You don’t like coffee?” he asked with a twitch of a smile. Or was it that she just didn’t like him?

  Maybe it was better she didn’t. He had no business doing extra favors for her, bringing her coffee . . .

  “I do, thanks.”

  “There’s sugar and creamer—”

  “Black is good.” She accepted the mug, but she still didn’t get in. “I’ll meet you at the station.”

  He leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Anything I can do?”

  She shook her head, a grim expression on her face. “I’m driving my brother to rehab this morning. I’ve already made arrangements.”

  “Will he go willingly?” Hatcher asked.

  “I doubt it. But if he doesn’t, I’m done with him. I’ll leave him in jail.”

  He didn’t blame her. “If you need support, I’m here.” Now why the hell had he offered that?

  “Stay out of it,” she said tersely.

  An awkward moment passed between them. “Everyone has stuff,” he said, wishing he were better with words. “Considering what your family went through with your father’s murder, it’s not a surprise.”

  Her mouth flattened. “I don’t want to discuss my family with you.”

  Shit. He’d overstepped. “Don’t get defensive, Korine. I’m a detective. We solve crimes. Don’t tell me you didn’t research me.”

  Her face blanched then, and she hissed a breath between her teeth. “I didn’t have to. You’re legendary at the bureau.”

  He arched a brow. That almost sounded like a compliment.

  “We’re both screwed up,” she said, shattering any semblance that she actually might admire him.

  “True.”

  She jangled her keys. “I’ll meet you at the station in an hour.”

  He nodded. “I’ll check on Banning in lockup, see if he’s decided to talk.”

  She started to close the door, then gestured to the coffee. “Thanks. I needed this.”

  Her soft admission did something to his insides, made his gut twist and sweat bead on his forehead. He couldn’t drag his gaze from the sway of her hips in those tight jeans as she hurried to her car.

  He didn’t want to want her. Or to like her.

  But he did.

  Agitated, he glanced at his ring finger again, then at the seat beside him, searching for Felicia’s image.

  But the seat was empty.

  Determined to beg her forgiveness so she could move on, he drove toward the cemetery. A flower shop on the street caught his eye, and he swung in and parked, then jumped out and bought a bouquet of roses.

  He put them on the seat beside him, then drove to the graveyard, parked, and carried the roses to her grave.

  Felicia’s image appeared, hovering above the marker, but it was thin and papery, and he couldn’t make out her face.

  He dropped to his knees in front of her grave, wiped away twigs and leaves that had fallen on her marker, then lay the flowers on top as an offering.

  Then he closed his eyes and willed her to come back to him.

  A light touch settled on his shoulder. His breath caught, and he opened his eyes, then looked up.

  She was there. Bathed in a soft white light. Her image was paler today, almost transparent as if she was disappearing.

  “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I should have taken your call . . . I should have been there.”

  But her cold gaze pinned him to the spot, and the blood dripping from her neck mocked him.

  Korine didn’t have time for her brother’s bullshit. She had more important matters to deal with, murders to solve.

  She rubbed her tired eyes as she entered the jail. Sometime soon she had to get a decent night’s sleep. But those blog posts had kept her awake most of the night.

  She flashed her badge and went through security, then an officer led her to the holding cell. Kenny was passed out on one cot, while a homeless man lay snoring on another.

  Disgust and worry fueled her anger, and she banged on the bars. “Kenny, wake up.”

  He didn’t stir.

  She banged again. “Kenny, get your butt up. We have to talk.”

  The homeless man stirred, looked up at her, then leaned over and shook Kenny’s arm. “Someone’s here for you, boy.”

  Kenny roused and grumbled as he rolled toward the door and opened his eyes. He blinked a few times, obviously struggling to focus.

  “Come on, I don’t have all day,” Korine said. “Get over here.”

  Bleary-eyed, he scraped a hand through his shaggy hair, then stood and staggered toward her. His jeans were holey, his flannel shirt tattered and dirty, and he hadn’t shaved in days.

  The stench of sweat and booze wafted toward her. “God, you reek.”

  He squeezed the bridge of his nose with two fingers, then growled. “Did you come to jump down my throat or bail me out?”

  “Both.” Korine clenched the bars of the cell in a white-knuckled grip. “I’m going to post bond, but there’s a price.”

  He kicked at the floor. “What the hell? I don’t have money—”

  All because their mother had wisely put restrictions on when and how they could access their inheritance. “I’m not talking about money,” she said in disgust. “I’ve made arrangements for you to enter a rehab program. It’s not too far from here—”

  “I don’t need a goddamned rehab program,” he muttered. “Those places are for losers.”

  Korine folded her arms and glared at him. “Take a look in the mirror. What do you think you are?”

  He kicked the floor again. “I just had a bad night—”

  “You’ve had a lot of those,” Korine said. “Too many. I won’t keep enabling you while you drink yourself to death or hurt someone else.” Her voice cracked, the pain and anger so strong that her chest was going to explode with it. “For heaven’s sake, think of someone besides yourself. Esme had to call me because Mother was so upset. You were her favorite, so why are you breaking her heart now?”

  “You’re just mad because we’re an inconvenience to you and your job.”

  His antagonistic tone made her grip the cell bars tighter. “You really hate me, don’t you?”

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head into his hands. For several tense moments, she watched as he wrestled with emotions she didn’t understand.

  “Well, go ahead and hate me,” she said quietly. “But I won’t post bail unless you agree to go to rehab. It’s time you figured out the reason you drink, big brother.”

  He mumbled an obscenity, then stared up at her, his eyes clouded with turmoil. For a moment, he looked like a lost child, as confused and hurt and angry as he had the night their father was murdered. Not that she really remembered his reactions that night.

  They’d both been in shock.

  But it was time for him to get help. “Shall I leave, or do you agree to go?”

  He cursed again, then clamped his mouth tight but nodded.

  She just prayed he’d stay when she left him instead of sneaking out like he’d done before.

  Hatcher tried to put Korin
e out of his mind as he asked to speak to Banning. She was a big girl. She could take care of herself. And her brother.

  So why did he wish he’d gone with her?

  The lean young officer behind the desk cleared his throat. “Sorry, Special Agent McGee, but Banning lawyered up. Attorney’s bailing him out now.”

  Muttering a curse, he strode down the hall toward the clerk’s office and found Banning looking haggard as he sat slumped in a chair. A young blonde woman in a gray pantsuit stood at the clerk’s window.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “We’ll be going now.” She turned toward Banning, then spotted Hatcher as he approached. Banning’s eyes widened in panic, but he dug his hands in his pockets and bent his head back down.

  Hatcher stopped in front of the man’s big feet. “Banning?”

  The woman’s heels clicked as she stared at Hatcher. “May I ask who you are?”

  Hatcher gritted his teeth, but flashed his badge. “Special Agent Hatcher McGee.”

  “Kendall James.” She extended her hand and Hatcher reluctantly shook it. “I’m Mr. Banning’s attorney. I’ve advised my client not to answer any more questions without my presence.”

  Of course she had. “You realize that we found Pallo Whiting murdered?”

  Her eyes sparkled with an odd look. She seemed . . . pleased. “Yes, I’d like to say that was a tragedy, but under the circumstances . . .” She let the sentence trail off.

  Unfortunately, Hatcher couldn’t argue.

  She shifted her briefcase to her other hand. “As far as I know, you have nothing to hold Mr. Banning on—”

  “He fired a gun at me and my partner, so actually I do have something to hold him on.”

  She lifted her chin. “I meant no evidence that he committed a crime against Whiting. That said, I believe we can strike a deal regarding those other charges. Mr. Banning was distraught and frightened when you approached, and he panicked.”

  Banning lifted his head slightly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t much trust the cops. Not after what happened with my boy.”

  James rubbed Banning’s back sympathetically. “That’s understandable, and we’ll stress the reason for that in court.” Her gaze met Hatcher’s. “By the way, there is new evidence to support Mr. Banning’s statement about his son being framed. Gerard Banning was a victim of a faulty justice system. He spent years incarcerated for a crime he didn’t commit, during which he was physically and mentally abused. Then the poor man was murdered by Whiting. If the system had worked and Mr. Banning’s son had been free, he would be alive today. And you wouldn’t be questioning his father regarding Whiting’s death.”

  “That may be true, but—”

  “But nothing.” The lawyer gave him a challenging look. “Go ahead, Agent McGee, take my client to court, and I’ll prove just how much a victim he and his son have been in this situation. The jury will be sobbing when I’m finished. Not only will they acquit my client, but they’ll be ready to give whoever killed Whiting a medal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The dolls sat like beautiful little princesses on the white scalloped bookcase. Their bright hand-painted faces and eyes were a result of an artist’s touch.

  Their hair looked human—gold, brown, red, black; it draped their shoulders, some long and silky straight, others curled into ringlets that spiraled along the doll’s back.

  Rosy cheeks glowed above pink lips that smiled back at her. Tiny delicate ears were adorned with shimmering earrings that matched the doll’s dress.

  All chosen carefully to create the perfect image a little girl would dream about and treasure forever.

  Especially when that doll came as a gift.

  Like the ones Korine’s father had given her. She had a collection. Ones she’d gotten from her loving, doting daddy.

  The Keeper had wanted a daddy like that. Had wanted to be special like Korine was to her father.

  But she wasn’t special. She was ugly and empty.

  So she’d started her own doll collection. A sick weakness, an obsession that she couldn’t control.

  She had twenty-six now. Her shelf was full.

  The dolls watched her suffer at night, watched her toss and turn as she fought the demons. They listened silently to her screams and her cries.

  They whispered that she should just say goodbye.

  She wanted to oblige.

  But each time she tried, each time she stuck the blade tip to her wrist and watched the first droplet of blood seep down her arm and drip onto the floor, she stopped. The pain gave her life. Gave her purpose.

  She didn’t know how to live without it.

  You miss him, don’t you, one of the dolls whispered. You want him back. To touch you. To love you.

  To make you feel something other than the hollow, ugly emptiness you have inside.

  No one will ever want you again.

  Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she tasted blood as she bit down hard on her lip.

  No one can ever love you. They’ll smell his touch on your skin. They’ll know he’s been inside you. That you have no place for anyone but him.

  Rage burned through her, and she picked up the knife, took one doll from the shelf, and slashed its head off.

  The porcelain head fell to the floor, its eyes staring vacantly, its body limp and headless on the cold stone. Yet the doll’s scream echoed in the room and bounced off the walls.

  Laughter bubbled inside her, and she carefully removed another doll from the shelf. She straightened its perfect green dress, then raised the knife and slashed its neck, sending the head flying against the bedpost.

  A surge of excitement spiked her adrenaline. Yet one of the dolls was laughing at her.

  The doll with the ivory gown.

  “Shut up!” She waved the knife in front of the doll’s face, but the doll sneered at her. One quick swipe of the knife, and its head flew through the air and landed against the floor.

  The other dolls screamed in protest.

  Filled with exhilaration, she took the dolls one by one and slashed their necks, pummeling the room with the doll heads.

  Their beautiful eyes and rosy cheeks and lips didn’t look so pretty now.

  Their whispers that she was unlovable died as their own pain took root and they screamed for their lives.

  She showed no mercy. They hadn’t shown her any.

  Instead, she laughed at the sight of the doll heads scattered across the floor, their cries blending with the wind as the ocean outside stirred the tides.

  Then the last one—the one with the pink satin dress.

  She kissed its precious cheek, then brought the blade down quickly and added its body to the pile of porcelain carcasses and its head to the mass on her floor.

  The screams continued, loud and shrill. The choked last breaths. The pleas for help.

  She raised her foot and stomped on the heads, shattering the eyes and then the mouths.

  Slowly the cries and screams died. The whimpers lingered longer, but eventually they faded, too.

  Then finally . . . finally everything was quiet as it should be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Korine’s heart ached as she signed the admission forms for Kenny’s rehab. He shot her venomous looks, then scribbled his name on the consent form with a low curse.

  “You may not believe it right now, but you’re making the best decision of your life,” E. L. Foote, the addiction counselor, said with a welcoming smile. “Our staff has had great success in helping patients in the recovery process.”

  Kenny slumped forward and stared at his hands, twisting his fingers around and around, a nervous gesture he’d developed after their father’s murder. Korine remembered fixating on his hands the day the sheriff had questioned them.

  Except then his fingers hadn’t been shaking from withdrawal.

  Two years later, Kenny had discovered their dad’s liquor stash. He’d dived in and never looked back.

  “I’ll give you a few
minutes to say goodbye,” the counselor said. “Then I’ll show you to your room, Mr. Davenport.”

  Kenny shoved the chair back so hard it toppled over. The counselor didn’t seem surprised or upset at all by his moodiness.

  “I don’t need time,” he said, swinging toward Korine. “Just throw me away so you don’t have to bother with me anymore. Here I am, sis. Happy now?”

  Korine blinked back tears. “I am anything but happy, so don’t put this on me. You made the choices that landed you here. I love you, or I wouldn’t have brought you for help.”

  “Love?” he barked. “You have no idea what love is.”

  She ignored the hateful barb. He was always belligerent when he was hungover. And judging from his shaky hands and dark eyes, he needed a drink bad.

  “I do love you,” she said softly. “But this is it, Kenny. If you sneak out or leave this time, you’re on your own. I want you to stick it out so you can get healthy and happy again. So you can have a future that’s not at the bottom of a bottle.”

  She didn’t bother to wait for a response. She spun around and strode out the door. His curse words echoed behind her.

  Korine sympathized with the counselors and staff. They had their work cut out for them. Then again, their work was their calling, just as tracking down murderers and rapists was hers.

  Guilt gnawed at her. How could she help her brother when she was partly the source of his rage?

  There had to be something deeper bothering him, something besides sibling rivalry or the fact that he’d thought their father favored her.

  He’d had a bike wreck when he was ten; maybe the concussion had caused damage. Or he might have some kind of psychological disorder that triggered his need to self-medicate.

  The counselors would figure that out.

  Her phone buzzed. Hatcher.

  A longing stirred inside her, one that made her ache for him.

  She rolled her eyes. Lord help her, she was weak. Kenny craved the bottle. She craved Hatcher’s physical touch.