Girls In White Dresses: A Detective London McKenna Novel

by Alex Gates

  Why should my family lie in bed terrorized and confused while the Goodmans slept soundly next to their child wives? The wrong people had been punished today.

  And I’d make sure it never happened again.

  Clementine fell asleep in her mother’s arms. I didn’t bother sticking around. I said my goodbyes, fortunate that Vienna didn’t want to wake her daughter. She’d scream at me tomorrow. Blame me for it.

  I couldn’t argue. This was my fault. And I had to fix it.

  I only went home to change my clothes and scrub my niece’s blood from my hands. If I had no peace tonight, neither would the Goodmans. I’d go back to the farm and question every last man, woman, and child on the land until they kicked me out.

  And, if we were especially lucky, someone would raise another hand to me. Assaulting a police officer was a one-way ticket back to the station.

  I checked the time. Quarter after twelve. It’d be a long night, but who needed sleep? I parked my rental in the driveway and left my coat in the car. The cold air would perk me up. Keep me sharp. Help me to think about the best ways to drag a confession out of Jacob without cutting out his damn tongue.

  I climbed the steps to the porch, keys in hand, but I didn’t need them.

  My door was unlocked.

  A chill struck me in place, and every nerve ending fried with a sudden burst of adrenaline.

  I never left my door unlocked. Never. Not after I’d encountered the worst types of people in this world—the ones who’d creep inside a person’s life just for the joy of destroying everything inside. I’d never give them a chance to hurt me again. They didn’t deserve a second glance, a polite word…

  Or an unlocked door.

  My gun sat fifteen bullets heavy on my hip. Armed once more and ready for action I hoped I’d never have to take. I’d worked the police force for eight years, and despite the dangerous circumstances, no one had died in my custody.

  But luck wasn’t on my side tonight, and it sure as hell didn’t wait on the other side of my unlocked door.

  I held my weapon close and checked the surroundings. No lights on in the house, but that meant nothing. A streetlight shone through the kitchen. I’d have a clear view there, but I’d have to cross the hall first.

  The entry would offer some visibility, but was it better to flip on the light and come at the intruder head-on…or sneak in and gain the advantage?

  I needed the advantage.

  Whoever was inside must have heard the car approach and the door slam. They’d be waiting for me.

  I backed away from the front door. I’d go in through the back.

  But the porch stairs creaked as I pulled away from the door. The crackling pop practically echoed down the street.

  Damn it.

  I might as well have shouted to the intruder. He’d have heard it, especially if he listened as hard as I did, held his breath like me, waited with sweat prickling his neck.

  If he was trying to get the jump on me, he’d be listening, figuring out everything I was doing.

  Especially why I wasn’t coming inside yet.

  I needed a plan. A delay. The cold settled over my arms.

  Perfect.

  I darted to my car. My coat was a great decoy. If they were watching, it’d buy me time as I grabbed it from the backseat and wrapped it over my arm with my gun.

  My breath puffed hard as I hurried through my side yard towards my back door. The round, cement pavement stones didn’t muffle my steps, but the garden hid me well enough. The home’s previous owners had put a lot of love into the garden—flowers and bushes and even a tiny gazebo in the corner by the fence. A little bit of peace on a busy street. I usually forgot to water the garden in the spring and pull the dead bits out in the winter, so the overgrown foliage gave me cover.

  I edged to the backdoor, peeking inside the kitchen.

  Quiet and still. That was a good sign. If I were going to attack someone, it’d be by the front door, as soon as I walked in.

  Or the bedroom, but it was best not to think like that.

  My key slid into the lock one millimeter at a time. It scraped, but I moved it slow, pausing before daring to turn the tumblers.

  It didn’t click. That was lucky. But the door often stuck, and the rubber on the bottom always clung to the hardwood or the braided rug on the floor. I bit my lip and pushed. Slowly. Cautiously.

  Damn squealing.

  The door inched open, the whoosh of metal frame against the hardwood a literal dead giveaway to my location. The hinges popped. The knob clicked to its original position.

  But I had an inch. I waited, listening hard.

  The thunk came from upstairs.

  Son of a bitch. He was waiting for me in the bedroom.

  And here I thought I was too old for the Goodmans.

  I’d have considered their attentions flattery if the disgust hadn’t rotted into rage in my gut. I deliberated calling for backup.

  They might have helped.

  Or they’d get in my way.

  If one of the Goodmans broke into my home, the last thing I wanted was Detective Riley or Falconi impeding my own investigation. An interrogation room had rules. My house came with the protection of the Castle Doctrine. I had every right to use force against an intruder.

  The right…and the pleasure.

  That didn’t make the rush of blood in my ears any softer. Didn’t help the swirling pit of nausea that festered in my gut.

  I edged into the kitchen, opening the door only as wide as I needed to slip inside. I closed it immediately. Last thing I wanted was an untimely gust of wind ruining my hidden approach. The lights stayed off. Instead, I quickly flashed my cellphone over the hall.

  Empty.

  The wall provided enough cover. I scanned the living room on my way to the stairs. Clear. The powder room in the hall had a closed door. I yanked it open and checked. Nothing.

  I was alone.

  The hard stomp of feet echoed from above.

  I reached the stairs, but my heart raced my steps. One stair for every hundred frantic beats. Christ, I’d pass out before I climbed to the top.

  But panic never helped.

  And I’d already survived so much worse.

  I held the gun steady, crouched and ready. My bedroom light flashed on, a stream of brightness under the door.

  Got him.

  A shadow moved inside. He wasn’t getting away this time.

  Three.

  Two…

  One—

  I burst inside with a shout.

  “Hands where I can see them! On your knees, now—”

  James shouted. His arms shot up, but he went down, twisting hard on his knee as a wet towel landed on the floor. He stopped himself before diving for his gun on the nightstand and instead gave me a shit-eating grin while crouching naked on the floor.

  “London, if this is your idea of foreplay…” His chuckle launched a brilliant smile. “I’m…okay with it.”

  The adrenaline crashed. I dropped the gun and rushed to the bathroom to throw up.

  Jesus.

  Sweat poured off me, just as gross as losing the contents of my stomach in a nervous, terrified frenzy.

  It’d been years since I’d felt that terror.

  I didn’t have my finger on the guard.

  I’d half-squeezed the trigger.

  I might have killed him. I almost killed him.

  I almost—

  The asshole walked into the bathroom, tugging on his jeans. “London?”

  I flung the first thing I could at him, cracking him across the knees with the rat-tail of a wet towel.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “I texted you.” James hissed and avoided the next whap of the towel. “I told you I was coming back. Thought you’d like the company.”

  I slammed the lid of the toilet down and flushed away that weakness. The stress and panic passed.

  I couldn’t let him see me like this.

&n
bsp; I never wanted him to see me like that again.

  “Jesus, James.” I brushed the hair from my face. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  “Yeah, likewise.” He rubbed my shoulder. I tried hard not to flinch away. I liked his touch, even if I hated to feel the warmth of a hand against me. “Since when do you patrol your own house?”

  I stood, nearly retching with the foulness in my mouth. The coffee hadn’t tasted good going down, but it felt like hell coming up. I pushed him out of the way and grabbed my toothbrush. If I loaded it with enough toothpaste, I wouldn’t have to answer the question.

  Unfortunately, James had an excess of patience and an indominable will. He waited while I brushed, spat, and even handed me a warmed washcloth.

  He never once broke his gaze. As much as I loved those golden eyes of his, I couldn’t have him looking at me now. Guessing at my thoughts.

  Understanding me.

  “I thought you were someone else,” I said.

  “Obviously. Who? Where have you been all night?”

  “The hospital.”

  I pushed past him. He let the comment slide without raising his voice, but he followed close.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not me. Clementine.”

  Now he worried. “Clem? Is she okay?”

  “The Goodmans sent my family a threatening note. They also included a present for Clem. A hand-stitched teddy bear stuffed with broken glass. She cut herself pretty bad.” I picked my gun off the floor with only a slight tremble in my hand. It’d pass. It had to. “And now I need some answers.”

  “From who?”

  “Jacob Goodman.”

  James took my arm before I changed clothes. “You aren’t going up there tonight.”

  “Like hell.”

  “London, it’s after midnight. You can’t go busting into their house on a hunch.”

  “It’s not a hunch.”

  “Did he sign the note Jacob?” James asked the frustrating questions. “Did you run the letter and teddy bear past forensics? Get their fingerprints? A stray hair?”

  “No.”

  “Then why jeopardize your case because you’re scared?”

  “I am not scared!” I twisted to face him, my voice venomous. “I am not afraid of them.”

  “Then what are you afraid of?”

  “Nothing.”

  James let me go, but his voice tangled me more than any hold on my arm. “That’s a lie. Go ahead and try to convince me, but I’d expect a bit of respect and courtesy from you—”

  I pointed at him. “Don’t you dare pull that shrink shit on me. Not tonight. Not ever again.”

  “This isn’t about me being a psychologist. This is me being your partner. We work together on these things. Did something change?”

  “Don’t start, James. How can you say that?”

  “You’re not talking to me. You’re not trusting me.”

  “I gave you a house key, didn’t I? That’s trust.”

  “Trust would be remembering that I might come home at night.” He crossed his arms. The bulging muscles shouldn’t have belonged to a PhD. “You never once thought it might have been me in your house, did you?”

  That wasn’t fair. “You didn’t tell me where you had gone or when you were coming home.”

  “Home here?” He threw my own line back in my face. “Or home Pittsburgh?”

  “What do you want from me?” I dropped the attitude. It wasn’t a surrender, but I didn’t have the energy to play mind games with an FBI trained profiler. “Just say it, James.”

  “I want the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “Why you are so scared? All the time, London. Everything you do is premeditated based on fear.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “No?” James picked up my slacks from the ground. “How long did it take you to pick out your outfit today?”

  I laughed. It was fake, and he knew it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “How long did you stare at your closet looking for the perfect blouse and slacks? The ones that made you look feminine, but not unprofessional? Young, but not inexperienced. Tough, but not unapproachable…”

  I ripped the clothes out of his hands. “Not too long.”

  If only because I had the outfits organized and planned ahead of time.

  “You’re so afraid of what people think of you,” he said.

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “It is when you let it ruin your life.”

  That was cute. “My life was ruined long ago.”

  He didn’t share my amusement. He’d never laugh about it. Never stop thinking about it. Never stop blaming himself for it. “And you’re still letting him do this to you.”

  “I don’t want to carry that with me. It’s not a choice.” I gritted my teeth. “I spend every waking moment trying to forget what’s happened to me. I live my life now to help others, to prevent them from getting hurt!”

  “Because you’re afraid.”

  I pitched the clothes into the laundry. Missed. They collided with a lamp, knocking it over.

  The crash jolted me. My heart fluttered too quick.

  He saw me jump.

  Was that what he wanted? What good would the truth do?

  And why the hell was I hiding it?

  “You’re goddamned right I’m afraid,” I whispered.

  “Of what?”

  I lowered the gun onto the nightstand, never far from my hand. “I’m afraid of being a victim forever.”

  James went quiet, straightening the lamp I’d knocked over and tossing the rest of the laundry into the hamper. Like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged here.

  He turned, the thick muscles of his back just as tense as every inch of me.

  “No,” he said. “That’s not it, London.”

  What more did he want from me? “I told you the truth!”

  “No, you didn’t.” He dropped the soothing, gentle tone. “You’re still afraid of him.”

  How dare he.

  “I’m not.”

  “You see him everywhere. In your victims. In your perps. In your nightmares.”

  “You said it was good to be vigilant. I learned how to cope by protecting others.”

  James faced me, his eyes golden, warm, and absolutely heartbreaking.

  “You see him in me.”

  I wasn’t ready for this conversation.

  I couldn’t handle that mental exhaustion. It was worse than three weeks hidden away in a dirty, blood-stained basement. Worse than the ripping of skin from my stomach, arms, legs. Worse than a bite to my calf, ravenous and enraged, tearing the flesh like a damned animal.

  They thought the only scars I bore were from my captor.

  They were wrong.

  I’d been interrogated harder than any perp that ever crossed our station.

  And it had all began with James’s simple question ten years ago.

  What do you remember?

  “You were in his head.” I kept my voice low. “But I was in his basement. Believe me, James. I’ll never fear you.”

  James paused. “But it bothers you—my profiling.”

  “Of course, it bothers me! You know him better than anyone.”

  “Not you.”

  “I didn’t want to understand him. You do.” I looked down, almost chuckling at my skinny frame, messy ponytail, and trembling hands. “God. What would he see if he looked at me now?”

  “Don’t do this.”

  “You brought him up.” I shrugged. “Tell me. Would he look at me and see another potential victim? Someone weak and timid? Or would he see someone trained in self-defense, able to defend herself, ready to protect others?”

  James was silent for a long time.

  And I hated the heartbeats that passed. Like I asked for his approval.

  His judgement.

  “I think you’re his prime target, London.”

  The floor wou
ld fall out beneath me and I’d still beat it down to hell.

  I stayed standing, but I didn’t understand.

  Would never understand.

  “But I’ve done everything,” I whispered. “I’ve changed. I’m not as weak as I was.”

  “But you’re his. His favorite. His failure. It doesn’t matter what you do, where you go, or what you make of yourself. You will always be his target.” He approached, a hand to my cheek. “But you don’t have to be his victim. Not anymore.”

  His touch became a kiss, and his kiss something better. I clung to him, kissing and breathing and aching. James stared at me, his face so gentle and so patient.

  “Don’t go to the farm,” he said. “Stay with me tonight.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then you can go back to your job. Back to saving lives and stopping the bastards who would hurt those little girls.” His kiss warmed me. Always did, even when I thought I’d forever be trapped in that cold nothingness. “Tonight, stay with me.”

  And like always, I agreed.

  And like always, I never regretted a moment.

  And like always, I never told him how much it meant to me.

  How much he meant to me.

  And in the morning, before the alarms chimed or dawn got too bright, my phone rang.

  I groggily answered, batting at the cell, too exhausted to clearly read the name.

  “Get up, McKenna.” Falconi never once charmed a girl with that sing-song tone. Hell, it was still surprising that he ever woke up with a woman. “Rise and shine, Detective. You ain’t gonna believe this shit.”

  I groaned, untangling my arms from James. He always was a cuddler.

  Could someone learn to cuddle?

  Maybe one day.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Forensics reported on a couple backlogged pieces of evidence for us. A murder weapon. Thought you’d be interested in it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the gun that killed Jonah Goodman, Cora Abbot, and Nina Martin?” Falconi laughed. “That gun is registered to Louisa Prescott.”

  21

  You underestimated me.

  Will you make that same mistake twice?

  -Him

  I did my best work in the interrogation room, but I never thought I’d be interrogating the sole witness to a reprehensible kidnapping.

  Falconi and Riley kept Louisa waiting—a kindness and a curse.