by Herron, Rita
“Were there any rumors at school about them being pregnant?”
“No, I would have remembered that.” Pain wrenched Preston’s face. “You said Deborah and Candace were both murdered. What happened with the pregnancies? Was there a baby?”
Marilyn hated to lie to him. If her suspicions were correct, Preston was the father of the infant she’d seen kidnapped the night Deborah had been murdered.
“Was there a baby?” he demanded, his voice rising with anger.
“I don’t know.”
His jaw tightened. “God.” He paced to the bookcase and stared at something on the shelf. A sobriety chip. He traced his finger over the chip, released a deep sigh then turned to her. “I want to know if there was a child. If I had—have—a child. Or children.”
“I understand.” She joined him and glanced at the shelf. He’d obviously worked hard to earn that chip. “I’m sorry I had to tell you this. You showed courage in talking to me today.” She squeezed his arm. “If I get information regarding a baby, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.” He removed his phone from his pocket and shuffled it from hand to hand. “I think I’d better call my sponsor.”
Marilyn laid her card on the shelf, and said a prayer that he would be okay as she let herself out the door.
Ryker glanced at Caroline. “Can you find the manager for this rental property and ask him about Gayle?”
“On it.”
“I’ll search the house for evidence she was here.” He strode through the house again, then went to the kitchen and checked the kitchen drawers. A note, slip of paper with information on it . . . anything that might offer insight into the woman who’d taken care of Daryl Eaton.
He called the analyst at the precinct. “It’s Ryker. I need everything you can find on a woman named Gayle Burton. I’ll hold.”
He opened the pantry door and raked his hand along the shelves. Nothing.
He continued to search beneath the drawers for a false bottom, but the place was cleaned out.
The analyst returned a minute later. “This is strange. Gayle Burton shows up as a home caregiver, but she doesn’t work for any company that I’ve found. There’s one reference to her services from an online office supply company that designs and prints business cards for small businesses. I also located a bank account in her name. Funds from Daryl Eaton were automatically deposited in her account for services rendered the last year.”
“Can you trace the address associated with that business account?”
“It’s the address you were given,” the analyst answered.
“Driver’s license?”
“The only Gayle Burton in the DMV records is seventy-five years old. Her license expired two years ago, and she lives in New Hampshire.”
That couldn’t be her.
“Keep looking. Although Gayle Burton could be a phony name so check for similar names and job descriptions. Perhaps she was running a scam to get money from terminally ill patients.”
“Good point. I’ll let you know what I find.”
He hung up as Agent Manson returned. She flipped through her notepad. “Manager said the woman booked the place over the phone. He never met her. She paid cash through their drop box. I asked for the rental application, and he pulled it up, but it was pretty bare.”
They were getting nowhere.
“Did he stop by for repairs or see anyone here?”
She shook her head. “She’s looking more and more suspicious.”
“Like she rented it because she didn’t want anyone to find her.”
Which meant that she might have had reason to kill Eaton.
Marilyn dropped her head against the steering wheel and dragged in a breath. Preston’s brave confession had touched her deep inside.
He had been drugged, taken advantage of, traumatized, and suffered from depression from the attack, which had led to his alcohol and drug dependency.
But he’d received help and was paying it forward.
His mother should be proud of him. But according to Preston, they were estranged. She’d been ashamed of what had happened to him. Had wanted him to keep silent.
She wiped at the tears she hadn’t realized she’d been crying. Immeasurable guilt and shame built up when a person was victimized—Cat Landon, Carrie Ann Jensen, Tinsley Jensen, the victims of the River Street rapist—they had poured out their pain during her interviews.
Her own guilt was born from witnessing a crime and not speaking up.
Her mother should have called the authorities the night of the murder. If they had, Eaton would have been arrested, the Darling case solved, and that baby would have been found.
Preston had broken his silence by talking to her tonight. It was time she broke hers and told the truth. Admitted what she’d seen.
It might be the only way to uncover the truth.
She lifted her head, started the engine and drove toward the motel. She wanted to talk to Ryker. But she needed to tell him this secret in person, not over the phone.
Still, she’d promised to let him know about her interview with Preston, and she was going to keep that promise.
She’d call him as soon as she reached the motel.
Chapter Twenty-five
Ryker paced his apartment, his anxiety mounting. What if the person who’d tried to kill Marilyn had followed her to Delray Beach?
Dammit. She was alone.
He poured himself a scotch, swirled the dark liquid in his tumbler, then tossed it back.
She had done this before. Disappeared when she was investigating a story. But this time, he sensed the stakes were higher. More personal.
Marilyn was in danger. And he could not lose her.
The wind howled outside, beating against the windowpane. A storm was brewing. According to the meteorologist, it could be severe.
Marilyn hated storms.
He wanted her home before it hit. Home with him so he could hold her and ward off her demons.
He called her number and prayed she’d answer.
Marilyn collapsed on the motel bed and snatched her phone from her purse. God help her, the storm was really picking up.
She punched Connect, desperate to hear the sound of Ryker’s voice.
He was always calming. Understanding without demanding she convey what had happened to send her into panic mode at the sound of thunder and rain and wind thrashing.
“Marilyn, are you all right?” Ryker asked.
She checked the lock on the motel room door, wishing she had her pistol with her. But she’d had to leave it inside her car at the airport. “Yes, I just got to my room, and it’s storming.”
“I know, baby, I wish I was there with you.”
She choked back a sob. “So do I.”
Silence stood between them for a moment, then Ryker spoke in a low voice.
“I’ve got you. Close your eyes and pretend my arms are around you.”
She did as he said, emotions welling in her throat. Ryker was her rock. She didn’t want to disappoint him.
“I’ll always be there for you if you’ll let me, Marilyn.”
She was too overwhelmed to speak. What had she done to deserve a good man like him?
“I wish I could give you what you want,” she said in a low whisper.
“All I want is you, sweetheart, and for you to trust me,” Ryker murmured.
“I do trust you,” she said. “More than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“But you’re still holding back.”
A heartbeat passed. Did she have the courage to really confide in him? If she didn’t, she might lose him. But if she told him the truth, she might lose him anyway.
“Marilyn?” he said in husky tone.
She inhaled a deep breath. “Not over the phone. In person when I get bac
k.”
“I’m going to hold you to that.”
And he would. Ryker was a man of his word.
“I saw Preston Richway,” she murmured.
A moment of silence, then his deep sigh as if he wished she’d said something more personal.
“What happened?” he finally asked.
She relayed the details of their conversation. “He’s using the trauma he experienced as inspiration to help others.”
“Good for him,” Ryker said. “Do you think he’s lying about knowing about the pregnancy pact?”
Marilyn raked hair from her forehead. “I don’t think so. He seemed genuinely shocked.” The image of that man ripping the baby from Deborah’s arms haunted her. “He asked about the baby, said he wanted to know if there was one.” She startled as thunder clapped outside. “I think he was sincere, Ryker.”
“I suppose it’s possible he was in the dark.”
“It’s sad, isn’t it? That he might have stepped up and been a father to that baby.” Tears burned her eyes. She had a feeling Ryker would make a good father.
“Marilyn . . . are you all right, baby?”
“Yes. I just . . . miss you.”
The sound of his breath rushing out echoed over the line. She pictured his rugged face smiling, and her heart melted again. “I miss you, too,” he said softly. “When will you be back?”
“In the morning,” she replied.
“Call me when you land.” His voice dropped another decibel. “Until then, remember to imagine my arms around you tonight, my voice drowning out the storm.”
She closed her eyes again, and could almost feel his breath against her neck. His lips on hers. His husky voice soothing her until she fell asleep.
“Good-night, sweetheart.”
“Night, Ryker.”
As the phone clicked silent, she rose, slipped off her clothes and changed into pjs. If Ryker was here, she wouldn’t bother. She liked sleeping next to him, skin to skin.
But the chill from the storm had invaded her, and she needed the warmth.
She brushed her teeth and slid beneath the covers, mentally replaying the facts of the investigation in her head, hoping the answer would click into place. Preston was shocked the Darling girls were pregnant. He and his mother were estranged. She’d forced him to keep silent.
She suddenly sat up, her mind ticking.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned—or a mother whose child had been harmed.
She’d tried to connect the Darlings to Eaton, but what if Mr. Darling was telling the truth? What if he and his wife hadn’t known about the Punisher?
What if Preston’s mother had hired the Punisher to make the girls pay for what they’d done to her son?
Chapter Twenty-six
That fucking reporter was in Delray Beach. She’d found Preston Richway.
If he spilled everything, it wouldn’t take any time for Marilyn Ellis to put two and two together. If she didn’t hate the woman and fear she’d expose her, she might actually like Marilyn.
But she was too smart for her own good.
She should have given up a long time ago. But she’d kept nosing around.
Now Marilyn had to pay for all her questions.
She checked the returning flights from Delray for the morning. An early one then one after lunch. There was no way for her to find out which one the bitch would be on.
Marilyn drove a little red sporty car.
It wouldn’t be too difficult to locate the car. She’d stake it out. And when Marilyn landed, she’d kill her.
Then the secrets of Seahawk Island would be safe and the Keepers could continue.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Ryker’s phone jarred him awake from a troubled sleep. Panic struck him. Marilyn?
He snatched his phone and checked the number. The ME.
He quickly connected. “Detective Brockett.”
“I have an ID on the third body from Seaside Cemetery,” Dr. Patton said. “You were right. I compared medical and dental records, and the bones belong to Mellie Thacker.”
Ryker swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Cause of death?”
“Strangulation. I don’t have a definitive time of death, but the best I can say, she died around the same time as the Darling girls.”
So somehow the girls had wound up together. And were killed by the same person.
“Can you determine if she was pregnant or delivered a baby?”
A pause. “Dr. Lofton is working on that. I’ll keep you posted.”
Ryker thanked him, then hung up. If Mellie had been pregnant, then they might be looking for her baby as well as the Darling sisters’.
Marilyn overslept and had to rush to the airport to make her morning flight. She checked her messages before she boarded.
Two from Ryker telling her he couldn’t wait to see her and to have a safe flight. Then one saying the ME identified Mellie Thacker as the third skeleton.
She texted Ryker. “Can’t wait to see you, too. Back soon.”
Another message was from her boss wanting her big story.
Her promise to Preston echoed in her mind. Some people thought she was cut throat, but she wouldn’t expose a story at the detriment of a victim.
Once she boarded the flight and got a cup of coffee, she made notes on the investigation. With the Keepers, she’d focused on the victims’ and their families’ need for justice. She could continue this theme—that is, if justice was what had driven the killer to take Daryl Eaton’s life.
But was there justice in murdering teenage girls?
The four teens who’d drugged and raped Preston and caused Jeremy’s accident had committed serious crimes. How could she condone the Keepers killing a serial predator like the River Street rapist or a serial killer like the Skull and not feel these teens had deserved to be punished, too?
Except the lines were blurring. These teenagers had been young and troubled, not serial predators who committed heinous crimes of torture . . .
She accessed the internet and researched Preston Richway’s mother. Ironically her name was Joy. But she sensed the woman hadn’t experienced much joy since her son was attacked.
Wind thrashed at the plane and lightning streaked the sky, unsettling her nerves. Twice the pilot announced they were going through turbulence sparked by the tropical storm. At one point, they took a nosedive that made her stomach lurch. Finally the treacherous hour passed.
As soon as she deplaned, she rushed to her car. Rain splattered the ground and slashed her windows as she started the engine and pulled from the parking lot. A heavy gray fog shrouded the sky, the palm trees swaying violently with the force of the wind gusts.
Her phone buzzed as she veered onto the main road leading back to Seahawk Island. She didn’t recognize the number, but connected.
The pounding rain drowned out the voice. She strained and pressed the handset to her ear. “Hello?”
“I warned you.”
Sweat broke out on Marilyn’s forehead. “Who is this?”
The phone went dead.
Her pulse hammered. Another threat.
She jerked her gaze toward the rearview mirror and spotted a pair of bright headlights behind her. Water gushed from the tires and collected in deep puddles on the edge of the road, forcing her to slow. She plowed along, blinking hard to see, but the thick sheets of rain and those bright headlights clouded her vision. Her tires churned water, sending it in a wide spray, and she tightened her hands around the steering wheel. The car moved closer, riding her tail.
She braked, hoping the driver would go around her, but instead the car sped up, riding her bumper.
The message on the phone taunted her. You’ll be sorry.
A woman’s voice.
Dear God, was the caller following he
r?
She took a short cut from the main road, hoping to lose the vehicle. Instead it sped up, its lights coming closer, blinding her as she hit a rut in the road.
Terrified, she punched Ryker’s number. If she was going to die, she had to tell him how she felt. That he was the only man she’d ever loved.
That she wanted to spend the rest of her life making up for how distant she’d been.
She pressed his number, desperate to hear his voice.
Static crackled over the line as Ryker answered. “Marilyn, where . . . are you? Are you o . . . kay?”
The wind and rain intensified, and she gripped the steering wheel tighter, fighting to remain on the road.
“Marilyn?”
“Yes, at least for now.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Just listen. I’m on my way back to see you, but if I don’t make it—”
“What do you mean, if you don’t make it?”
“Someone is following me. But I have information.” The connection cut out for a minute and she cursed. It took all her strength to keep the car from blowing off the road. “Ryker?”
“I’m here, baby.”
“The source, you asked me who my source was, why I thought Eaton was involved in the Darling case. I . . . should have told you—” The line cut out again, and she sped up slightly and veered onto a side street. The car swerved behind her. “Ryker, I was the source. When I was a little girl, I saw the lighthouse keeper strangle Deborah Darling.”
“Jesus, Marilyn,” Ryker growled. “Tell me where you are. I’m coming after you.”
“I’m near the lighthouse where it all started. There’s more. There was a baby with Deborah. Eaton stole the baby. You have to find out what happened to it.”
“I will,” he said. “We will, Marilyn, when you get back here. We’ll do it together.”
Marilyn choked back a sob. What if she never saw Ryker again? Never got to hold him again?
She wanted that almost as much as she wanted to find that baby. The car inched up though, and she had to swerve to avoid hitting the guardrail. “I’ve been thinking about Preston Richway,” she continued.