Good Little Girls

by Rita Herron

  She pressed the palm of her hand to her eyes and struggled to remember more details about the place where he’d held her. But she’d been in the dark so long that she hadn’t seen anything.

  “Korine has been studying behavioral analysis the past few months,” Wyatt said. “I want her to come by and talk to you and work up a profile.”

  She nodded. “If you think it’ll help.”

  “It might. The profile is given out to law enforcement and the media,” he said.

  Joyce needed her to be strong now. “Tell her to stop by anytime.”

  Wyatt’s phone buzzed. “I have to get this.”

  He stepped onto the porch, and she glanced through the window to watch him. The dark clouds shrouded the moonlight, an ominous feeling permeating the air as if a storm was on its way.

  Wyatt came back in. His face looked grim.

  God . . . not Joyce . . . He hadn’t killed her already, had he?

  “That was the lab,” Wyatt said. “They have the results from your tea.”

  She took a breath. “And?”

  “It was drugged.”

  Tinsley took a minute to absorb that fact. “So he was here,” Tinsley said. “He wanted to subdue me. Why didn’t he take me then?”

  Wyatt’s brows furrowed. “I don’t know. Maybe he knew we were watching you, so he thought he’d scare you enough that you’d leave. Then he could make his move.”

  But she couldn’t leave. She’d tried that already.

  Wyatt moved up beside her. His gaze fell to where she rubbed the puckered, jagged lines on her wrists.

  A tense second passed. He knew what had happened. “When?” he asked. “After you were found?”

  No use denying it. He’d seen her file. She shook her head. “Day number thirty-nine.” She swallowed, determined not to fall apart. It had happened. She was wounded. Scarred.

  He knew that, too. He’d seen the horrid pictures, read the medical reports, her statement.

  “I fought him at first, but finally I broke. I gave up. I . . . wanted it to end.” Anger railed inside her. “But he wouldn’t let me die. He saved me and doctored my arms and cried over me.”

  “Jesus.” He lifted her hands one by one. Then he pressed a gentle kiss to each wrist, lingering as he gently ran his finger over the red, puckered flesh.

  His touch and kiss were so sweet and tender that she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  Her gaze met his. She expected pity. Disgust. Revulsion.

  Instead, there was understanding.

  “If he gets me again, I’ll kill myself before I let him touch me like he did before.”

  Wyatt silently cursed. Part of him understood what Tinsley was saying. Another part of him wanted her to fight like hell to survive, no matter what.

  “I’m not going to let him hurt you.” Wyatt swallowed against the thickness in his throat. “I promise you that, Tinsley.”

  A sad look passed through her eyes. “I know you mean that, Wyatt. You’re a good man. But you can’t be with me every minute of every day.”

  He wanted to pull her against him again, to wrap his arms around her and never let her go. But he had to respect the distance she needed.

  “If I can’t, someone else can,” Wyatt said.

  “Don’t you see?” Tinsley said in a pained whisper. “Being locked in here, having guards all the time, I’m still a hostage. He’s still controlling my life.”

  He gritted his teeth. “It won’t be forever,” he said. “We’ll find him and lock him up.” But would they do it before he killed Dr. Ferris?

  He stroked her arm. “Why don’t you try to get some rest.”

  Anguish darkened her eyes as she looked up at him. “How can I sleep, knowing what she’s going through?”

  He didn’t know how to answer that. Except to be honest.

  “Staying up all night won’t help her. If—no, when—we find her, she’ll need you. I’ll sack out on your porch and stand guard.”

  She ran her fingers through her hair, tousling the ends. “It’s raining. You can’t sleep out there.”

  He doubted he would sleep anyway. “I’m not leaving you alone.” Of course, he could call for another local officer. But . . . he wanted to be here, dammit.

  A wariness settled in her eyes, and then she gestured to the sofa. “You can stay on the couch.”

  His gaze met hers. “Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  Emotions flickered in her eyes. Then a fleeting second of awareness that made his body harden.

  But he had to focus. Earning Tinsley’s trust was more important than his own desires.

  Tinsley leaned against the door, her body trembling. Fear for her friend made it difficult to breathe.

  But something else was happening. Something between her and Wyatt.

  She released a pent-up breath. She’d been so distraught over Joyce’s abduction that she’d turned to him for comfort. He’d touched her, and she hadn’t balked or felt . . . ill.

  And when he’d kissed the scars on her wrists, she’d felt tenderness in him that she’d never expected from any man.

  Especially for her.

  No one will ever have you but me.

  The man in the Skull mask had told her that so many times that she believed him. She thought she’d die at his hands. Or that no other man would want her after seeing what the Skull had done to her.

  Outside, the rain intensified, pattering against the roof. For a brief time when Wyatt held her, she’d felt safe. And she’d warmed to him, had felt an awakening in her body, as if she’d been asleep for a long time.

  But he was only doing his job.

  She removed her robe and reached for a nightgown. The image that stared back at her in the mirror looked different than it had before. The scars had faded slightly but remained. Her skin was pale from lack of sunlight. Puckered flesh and jagged lines crisscrossed her belly.

  But her eyes flickered with something like . . . hope. Awareness. With the possibility that maybe she wasn’t as dead on the inside as she’d believed.

  Guilt quickly squashed that hope, and she dragged on her nightgown, crawled into bed, and pulled up the covers. Normally she left her door open so she could hear any noise from the front of the house.

  It seemed odd tonight that she’d closed it, and that the man who’d stayed to protect her was on the other side.

  Wyatt had nearly died saving her once. If she couldn’t trust him, who could she trust?

  She inhaled a deep breath, slid from bed, and unlocked the door. She eased it open just a fraction, then tiptoed back to her bed. But as she curled beneath the covers, images of what the Skull was doing to Joyce flashed behind her eyes, and tears blurred her vision.

  She rolled to the other side, pressed her hand to her mouth, and released a silent scream, forcing herself to lie perfectly still the way she’d done when she’d known the Skull was watching.

  Wyatt tensed at the sound of the door opening.

  He held his breath, expecting her to come into the kitchen. Maybe she wanted water or to check her computer again.

  Or she might want to talk.

  He waited, then heard the bed creak as she returned to it.

  He breathed out, grateful she hadn’t come back into the room. He wanted her to sleep. To rest.

  He needed the distance from her.

  Maybe the unlocked door was another step in winning her trust.

  Or hell, maybe she was claustrophobic and needed the open door to breathe.

  You’re overthinking it, man. Focus on the case.

  Needing air, he stepped onto the porch, senses honed for detecting trouble. Raindrops splattered the sand, the tides pummeling the beach and washing driftwood and shells onto the shore.

  His mind turned to those skulls that had been left on Tinsley’s porch and to the bones in the cemetery. If those girls had been murdered, another killer had gotten away. How had the Skull known they were there?

 
Everything seemed connected, yet . . . it wasn’t. Or was it?

  He watched the tides for a while, contemplating those questions. No answers came.

  But he would find them.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Skull ran his fingers over the doctor’s skin. Smooth and silky, just like a woman’s should be.

  Her hair was shorter than he liked. But her body reminded him of Janine’s. Full and voluptuous. Big breasts. Nice hips. Curvy waist.

  He trickled oil over her arms and smoothed it in with his hands, then dribbled some on her belly and down her legs. Inch by inch he rubbed the oil into her skin, appreciating her beauty.

  She suddenly opened her eyes and yanked at the chains securing her wrists and ankles to the wall. The bed where he’d laid her was centered in the room so he could watch her from all angles. But he’d moved her to the tub for the cleansing.

  Fear flashed in her eyes, and she screamed, frantically trying to free herself.

  “Fight all you want,” he said as he removed the gag. “No one will hear you.” He gestured toward the skeletal heads hanging from the ceiling. “Except for them.”

  Her eyes followed to the dangling skulls, and then she began to plead and beg.

  He simply smiled and let her get it out of her system. Soon she would be too tired to fight. She’d realize it was futile.

  Then he could do whatever he wanted.

  Just like he had with the others. Like he’d wanted to do with Janine.

  Except his father had stopped him.

  His father had only teased him for wanting her. Then he’d cut him off. That had been cruel. Worse, then his father had dropped him off at that farm.

  If you have dark needs, fuck one of the animals.

  Bitterness welled inside him. He hadn’t wanted to fuck a damn farm animal. He’d wanted her.

  He’d been so enraged that first night he’d snatched one of the chickens from the pen and snapped its neck. The popping sound had given him such relief that he’d chosen another and killed it, too.

  One, two, three . . . he snapped their necks, then slashed the heads off and stowed them on a shelf in his room.

  The next day, he put the bodies in a box and sent them to his father and mother.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A rumbling sound jerked Tinsley from sleep. She bolted upright, disoriented. She’d been dreaming she was back in that room with him.

  Except this time Joyce was in a cage beside her. He forced her to watch as he dragged Joyce from the cage and raped her. Joyce’s screams bounced off the cold walls and made her feel sick inside.

  She twisted the sheets between her fingers, her breathing erratic. Slowly, reality returned. She wasn’t in that room—she was at the cottage, her home for the last eleven months.

  But Joyce was with him.

  Fear and sorrow clawed at her, nearly immobilizing her.

  The rumbling noise echoed again.

  She slipped from bed, grabbed her robe, and pulled it on. Shivering, she slipped her feet into her bedroom shoes and padded into the living area.

  No intruder. Just Wyatt stretched out on her sofa, deep in sleep.

  She paused in the doorway, mesmerized by the sight of his big body. One muscular arm dangled from the side of the sofa while the other was thrown across his stomach, where he clutched a throw pillow. His legs were too long for the couch; one foot was braced on the floor, while the other was propped on the armrest.

  He looked out of place against the cottagey blue and white, yet . . . somehow, he also looked at home. As if he belonged.

  She hadn’t shared her place with an overnight guest since she’d come home from the hospital. Carrie Ann had invited her to stay with her, but her sister was fragile herself. Tinsley’s nightmares had been too much for Carrie Ann to handle.

  She hadn’t wanted to burden Carrie Ann.

  Wyatt’s wide mouth was open, his normally tense jaw slack, his eyelids fluttering as if he was dreaming.

  She eased closer, her pulse racing as she moved to stand alongside him. For a long heartbeat, she studied his handsome face. Not perfect features. His nose had been broken at least once. His jaw was wide, with thick beard stubble. A cleft deepened his chin.

  He was big and strong and . . . almost scary-looking in his masculinity.

  She stepped toward him anyway. He was all those things, but he was also brave. Protective. Kind.

  Her gut told her he was a man of his word.

  Slowly, she reached one hand out and let it hover near his cheek. His breathing steadied, and he moaned softly, then licked his lips. That mouth was so sensuous.

  She couldn’t resist. She gently laid the palm of her hand against his cheek. His skin felt warm, rough with morning stubble. But a tenderness lay beneath that strong face.

  Perspiration beaded on the back of her neck. Her body felt strange, hot and needy.

  He opened his eyes and blinked, and then his gaze lifted to hers. His breathing rattled out as he watched her, but he didn’t make a move to touch her.

  Her heart stuttered at the intensity in those deep-brown eyes.

  Sensual eyes that made her want to kiss him.

  Wyatt forced himself to lie perfectly still. Any sudden movement would spook Tinsley.

  His lungs strained for air, though.

  He didn’t know what had prompted Tinsley to touch him, but her sweet, tentative touch stirred emotions—and an arousal—he had no business feeling for her.

  He needed to remain objective for both their sakes. She was scared and vulnerable. He could not take advantage of that.

  Her chest rose and fell with her sharp intake of breath. Their gazes remained locked, a sea of emotion in her eyes. Her long blonde hair lay in a tangled mess over her shoulders. Her cheeks looked pink from sleep. Her rose-colored lips were parted slightly.

  She was the most erotic woman he’d ever seen.

  God . . . he hadn’t been this attracted to anyone in ages. Maybe never.

  But he’d felt a connection to her the moment they’d met. No, even before, when he’d studied her pictures.

  Now he felt her need as if it were his own.

  He couldn’t help himself. He slowly lifted his hand to cover hers. She went still. Tense. Her eyes wide as if caught doing something naughty.

  Then she jerked her hand away. “I . . . I’m sorry,” she said brokenly.

  She raked her fingers through her hair in an attempt to smooth the unruly strands. Her shy movement made her even sexier.

  “You were snoring,” she said softly.

  Embarrassed, he pushed to a sitting position and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He probably looked like a big damn bear on her couch.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I know it took a long time for you to fall asleep.” He stood, needing some cold water on his face. And to tamp down his burgeoning hard-on.

  A blush stained her cheeks. “Nights are not always good for me.”

  He wanted to change that.

  “I’ve had a few nightmares of my own.” Ones of her and the night he’d found her. The night he’d almost lost his leg.

  The night the Skull had escaped.

  A loud knock at the door made him jerk his head to the side. Tinsley startled and hugged her arms around her waist.

  “I’ll see who it is.” The intimate connection he’d felt with her a few moments earlier dissipated as fear haunted her eyes.

  He strode to the door, then cursed.

  “Who is it?” Tinsley asked.

  He slanted her a worried look. “Marilyn Ellis.”

  Tinsley sighed wearily. “I should have known she’d come here.”

  She was a vulture. He looked at his rumpled shirt, then at her robe. “Put on some clothes. I’ll get rid of her.”

  Tinsley’s face heated as if she’d forgotten she wasn’t wearing clothes. Then she fled into her bedroom and closed the door.

  He eased the door open and stepped onto th
e porch. Last night’s rain shimmered off the trees and sand, although more dark storm clouds were rolling in.

  “Special Agent Camden?” Marilyn’s tone reeked of surprise . . . and blatant suspicion. She stretched on her toes to see inside the house. “I came to talk to Ms. Jensen.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” he said bluntly.

  She gave a pointed look to his rumpled shirt. “Then maybe you can. Has the man you call the Skull made contact with Ms. Jensen again? Is that the reason you’re here? You believe that he kidnapped Joyce Ferris and that he’s coming back for Ms. Jensen?”

  He thought exactly that. But he motioned for the cameraman to turn the camera off. “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation. Besides, you already told the public that anyway.”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t have to fill in the blanks if you’d give me the story.”

  He glared at her. “You want the truth?” His voice turned sharp. “Then tell the public that you’re a person of interest. That you have connections to Cat Landon, and that you have a way of showing up at crime scenes as if you know the crime occurred before we announce it. That could mean that you’re responsible.”

  She gaped at him angrily. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Do you have an alibi for the time Milt Milburn was murdered?”

  Her breath heaved out. “I was with a source.”

  “Right. And you can’t reveal that source because of your job.” He huffed in disgust. He wasn’t going to cross her off his suspect list, though. “Now leave Ms. Jensen alone, or I’ll arrest you for harassment and obstruction of justice.”

  He stepped back inside, then slammed the door in the woman’s face.

  A quick shower woke Tinsley’s sleep-ridden brain, although as she ran the loofa over her body, an awareness of the man in the next room surged to life. His handsome face. His strong muscles. His sensuous mouth.

  Surprisingly, the fear that normally paralyzed her at the thought of a man’s touch waned when Wyatt was near.

  Don’t be foolish. He’s just working a case. How can you think of anything right now except what Joyce is going through?

  Her friend’s face jolted her back to reality. She hurriedly dressed in jeans and a pale-blue blouse, then dried her hair and braided it. She fastened her sea turtle necklace around her neck, a reminder of her sister. Of all she’d once had and lost.