by Rita Herron
“I’ll go with you to question them,” Mona offered.
“What about the show?”
“We’re done for the evening. I’m sorry that man didn’t call back. Maybe he’ll call tomorrow.” She just hoped that if he was the Bride Killer, he didn’t take another life tonight. The last few callers had been panic-stricken about the recent crime. Already word was spreading that there had been a second victim.
Cal walked her to the car. “No, I think it’s best I question this man alone.”
They climbed into his SUV and he pulled from the parking lot. Thankfully the snow had ceased, but the roads were still icy. Night was setting in, the stars minimal, the moon barely a sliver through the dark winter clouds, making the forests look eerie and thick with hidden dangers.
A patch of black ice could send them skidding off the mountain in seconds. And according to Cal, the man he needed to question lived in the hills.
“I might be able to help,” Mona said.
“You have been helpful, Mona, but it’s too dangerous. If this is our unsub, he may be armed. I don’t want you anywhere near him.” Cal’s beard stubble made a coarse sound as he ran his hand over it.
A tingle of awareness seeped through Mona, tempting her to lean into him.
“What about you?” she said, unable to hide the anxiety in her voice. “If he is armed, you could be hurt.” Or worse.
She could lose him just as she’d lost Brent.
“I can take care of myself,” Cal said, his voice deep.
“Brent thought that, too.” The words came out more harshly than Mona intended. But she couldn’t retract them.
“Brent died in an accident.”
“I know, ironic, isn’t it?” Fresh pain clawed at her chest. “We argued about the dangers of police work, but he died in his car.”
“I’m sorry, Mona, I know you miss him.”
Cal’s voice was flat, but his expression said so much more. He was in turmoil and missed his best friend, too. They should be bonding over their shared grief.
But that kiss between them teased her mind.
Instead of making the turn toward the hills, he veered onto the street leading to her house. “I don’t want to leave you alone, but Whit is in jail for the night and I have to go, Mona.”
She nodded, resigned, as he parked in her drive. In spite of her determination to be strong, and the fact that Cal was a seasoned, trained agent, she knew anything could happen on that mountain.
“Mona?”
A tear fought past her resolve and lingered on her eyelash, and she averted her eyes. “Be careful, Cal.”
Tension vibrated between them, thick with questions and the threat of him facing down a killer. He reached across her to open the door, and she braced herself to put on a brave face, but he touched her cheek with his thumb and tilted her face toward him.
His dark gaze met hers, and his jaw hardened. “Ah, God, Mona . . .”
“I’m sorry, Cal,” she whispered. “I lost Brent. I don’t think I could bear to lose you, too.”
A low moan that sounded like a mixture of pain and hunger rumbled from him. His gaze locked with hers, and emotions flooded his face. She told herself to get out of the car, to run to the house, that she couldn’t show Cal how much she cared for him.
But the thought of him leaving tonight and not coming back terrified her.
“Nothing is going to happen to me,” he said.
She squeezed her eyes shut, his husky assurance only making her ache to hold him.
Another sigh escaped him, then he pulled her into his arms and held her against him.
Cal silently cursed himself for giving in to his need to hold Mona, but he’d wanted her too damn long to walk away when she looked terrified and heartbroken.
She was missing Brent.
But she said she couldn’t stand to lose him.
He didn’t want to be second to Brent, but Brent was gone and he was here, and for the life of him, at the moment, he couldn’t think of one damn reason he shouldn’t touch her.
Kiss her.
Have her.
His lips closed over hers, hungrily, greedily, and she wrapped her arms around him and rubbed his back, parting her lips for his entry. He drove his tongue inside her, aching to be naked and hot in bed with her.
She slid one hand into his hair, tangling her fingers through it, her need just as evident.
Mona had wanted Cal for so long that she shoved thoughts of all else from her mind as he teased her mouth with his tongue. She threaded her hands deep in his hair, urging him closer, hoping the kiss would last forever.
Need and desire collided. Heaven help her, she wanted more.
She reached for the top button of his shirt, desperate to feel his bare skin, and twisted the top two buttons free. His breathy moan echoed between them as he gripped her hands to stop her from undressing him.
“Please,” she whispered.
His dark gaze met hers, hungry and passionate. “Not here in the car.”
She smiled, her body rippling with sensual sensations as she opened the car door. He was right behind her, his hand at the small of her back. By the time she unlocked the front door, their lips were locked again and he was tugging at her coat.
Her scarf hit the foyer floor, along with both their jackets, his body moving against hers as he claimed her mouth again. They kissed fervently, tongues dancing, bodies humming to life with need.
He carefully removed his gun and laid it on the side table. She tugged at his shirt, popping buttons in her haste to feel his chest, and he walked her backward toward the den. She kicked off her boots, frantically raking her hands over his muscled torso, and he trailed his fingers over her back, then slid fingers beneath the bottom of her sweater to slide it off.
But her hip bumped the back of the sofa, and suddenly she stumbled. Cal caught her before she fell, and she glanced down to see what she’d tripped over.
Shock made her go very still.
“What the hell?” Cal muttered.
He gripped her arms, both of them looking around the room in shock.
Someone had been inside her house and trashed it. The frames holding photographs of her and Brent were shattered, the pictures torn to shreds and scattered across the floor and sofa.
Even more disturbing, the words LEAVE TOWN had been spray-painted on the wall.
Carol slipped into the Boar’s Head, anxious to talk to Sara Levinson, mother to one of the Thorn Ripper’s victims.
The vacant eyes of a bobcat stared at her from the counter that ran along the wall. In fact, dead animals were everywhere she looked in the bar/restaurant.
Even though her father had been a hunter and had the same fascination with preserving the animals he’d caught, they gave her the creeps.
She’d had nightmares about the gators attacking her during the night and ripping her apart. Sometimes when she’d tried to sleep, she could hear their teeth gnashing as their hunger for human flesh intensified with the smell of blood.
Shaking off her sudden nerves, she chose a corner booth. The place was half-full with men chowing down on burgers and steaks. Country music boomed from an old-fashioned jukebox while three men played pool in the back corner.
She’d talked to the nail tech earlier, and she’d been a wealth of information about the town’s history and told her that Tiffany Levinson’s mother waitressed here.
She recognized Sara from the memorial, her frizzy reddish-brown hair piled on top of her head, a pencil stuck in the teased, lacquered strands. “What can I do you for?” she asked in a smoker’s voice.
Carol ordered a draft beer and the venison stew. She waited until the woman placed the order, then when she returned to bring her drink, Carol introduced herself.
“I heard you might be willing to talk with me about y
our daughter’s murder.”
“I don’t know who told you that.” The waitress’s eyes glazed over with anger. “Why are you dragging the families through the past?”
“I’m a reporter covering the recent murder in town.”
“I know who you are,” Sara hissed.
“People are wondering if there is a connection between the Thorn Ripper and the Bride Killer,” Carol continued, ignoring Sara’s obvious disdain for her.
Sara’s face paled. “How should I know? The man who killed my baby is in prison. Has been for nearly thirty years.”
Carol had done her research. “But his parole hearing is in less than a week. Don’t you think it’s odd that a similar murder has occurred?”
“I don’t want to think about it,” Sara said, her lips stretching thin. “Sheriff Buckley locked up the man responsible for my daughter’s death. I owe him for that.”
Carol didn’t quite know where to go with this, but she wanted emotion in her story. Emotion sold copies.
“Are you sure Pike was guilty?”
Anger slashed the woman’s face. “What are you saying?”
“I looked at the files for the original investigation, and he never confessed. In fact, over all these years, Johnny Pike has maintained his innocence. He said he was framed.”
“He wouldn’t have taken a plea bargain if he was innocent.”
“I’m not so sure of that. He was young and scared, and was facing the death penalty.”
Sara leaned over, her nostrils flaring. “Listen here, you nosy bitch, those of us who lost kids back then have suffered enough. Leave it alone and let Johnny Pike rot in jail.”
She stomped away, leaving Carol irritated and with nothing to report. But a man with short brown hair seated across from her was watching her with interest. He looked to be in his late twenties and was slightly nervous.
If he was a local and had grown up in Graveyard Falls, he might be useful. He raised a brow, a shy smile curving his mouth, and she smiled back, then motioned for him to join her.
His blood heated with excitement. The blonde woman had just invited him to join her.
When he’d heard her order venison stew, he’d decided she might be his soul mate. Venison stew was his favorite. Well, next to rabbit stew.
He wondered if she knew how to make them.
Fancy meeting her here at his favorite spot, surrounded by the animals he’d preserved with his own hands. A hobby he’d turned into a side business.
Beer in hand to give him a little liquid courage, he walked over and claimed the chair beside her.
Her hazel eyes were almost a muddy color, but as she looked up at him, he envisioned her in the wedding gown his mama had made.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said, remembering what Mama had told him. Don’t talk about yourself all the time. Ask about her.
“My name is Carol Little,” the woman began. “I’m a reporter. You might have seen the front-page story I wrote about the Bride Killer in Graveyard Falls. And you are?”
“Will.” He slipped the pin from his pocket and stabbed his palm with it in an effort to stifle a reaction.
He didn’t know whether to be thrilled that she thought writing about him was newsworthy.
Or nervous she might know who he was.
Either way, she wasn’t wife material.
She would have to die.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mona trembled at the sight of the message.
LEAVE TOWN.
The torn pictures and shattered glass strewn across her living room made her feel violated. “Why would someone do this?”
Cal retrieved his gun. “Stay here. Let me check the house.”
She nodded, fear clogging her throat as she strained to listen for signs the intruder might still be inside.
Cal held his gun at the ready, glanced in the kitchen, and murmured that it was clear, then eased his way to the bedrooms.
For a moment, she couldn’t move. The fact that someone had been inside her house made her feel sick inside. What else had the intruder touched?
She stooped down to pick up the photograph she and Brent had taken on their honeymoon in the mountains, but Cal’s voice stopped her.
“The house is clear. Don’t touch anything, Mona.”
She curled her fingers into her palms and straightened. God . . . now her house was a crime scene.
Cal held his phone to his ear and was already calling for a crime team. When he hung up, his expression was grim. “The bedroom is a mess, too, Mona.”
She exhaled a shaky breath and rushed toward her room. Cal caught her at the door, and she gasped at the sight. Her underwear and nightgowns had been shredded and scattered across the bed like confetti, the mirror above her dresser marked with another message—LIARS MUST DIE.
Cal fisted his hands to keep from pulling Mona back up against him. Dammit, he hated the fear in her eyes. He moved closer and examined the message.
“It’s lipstick.” Maybe the same kind the Bride Killer had used. He’d have the lab check.
“Who hates me enough to do this?” Mona whispered.
“That’s a good question,” Cal said. “And one only you can answer.” Unless the intrusion had something to do with her dead husband and his secret.
“The only person I can think of is Whit Combs, and he’s still locked up.”
“Let me make a call and verify that,” Cal said. “Meanwhile, think about your other clients. Is there someone else you’re seeing who recently split? Maybe a couple who divorced after undergoing therapy with you?”
Mona’s face paled. “Even if they did, I can’t name names, Cal.”
“You can’t protect someone if they’re dangerous.”
“But—”
“Just make the list, Mona,” Cal said. “We can keep it quiet until we know more.”
She still looked hesitant, but walked back to the kitchen, grabbed a notepad from a drawer, and sat down at the table. She was still sitting there lost in thought fifteen minutes later when the CSI team arrived.
“I want this place processed,” Cal said. “And be sure and compare the lipstick on the mirror to the one the Bride Killer used.”
Mona wrapped her arms around her waist, her face stricken at the thought. “You think he did this?”
Cal squeezed her hand. “I don’t know, but we’ll find out.”
Unable to sleep or leave Mona alone tonight, he finally agreed to let her ride with him to check out the names Peyton had given him while the crime team processed her house.
They talked about her patients as they drove. “A couple of my clients are filing for divorce,” Mona said. “But I don’t think their spouses are dangerous or angry enough to break into my house.”
“How about a stalker? Maybe a man you’ve dated since Brent died?”
“It’s only been three months, Cal. I haven’t seen anyone else,” she said in a strained tone. She fiddled with her purse strap. “Although I’ve been asking questions about my birth mother. But I haven’t gotten very far. No one seems to want to talk to me about it.”
“Jesus, Mona, you may have opened up a can of worms.”
“I realize that, but I have to know the truth.”
He laid his hand over hers. “Listen, drop the search for now, and when this case is over, I’ll help you. Right now, I have to focus on finding the Bride Killer. Another woman’s life might be in danger.” And that woman might be you.
His phone buzzed. The medical examiner. “Yeah?”
“Coulter, we have an ID on the second victim. Her name is Constance Gilroy. Twenty-three years old. Cause of death is the same as the first victim, asphyxiation due to strangulation. The lipstick on her lips is not only the same brand, but it’s from the same tube.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes. Traces of Gwyneth’s DNA were found in the lipstick on this girl’s mouth.”
Jesus. “What else?”
“We found traces of saliva on her cheek as well.”
“So he kissed her good-bye just as he did the first victim.”
“It looks that way. There was also a burn mark from a stun gun, just like with Gwyneth.”
“How about the dress?”
“Peyton said she sent photos of it to local tailors, but they didn’t recognize it. She’s still searching the Internet, but so far no hits.”
If the person who’d made the dresses had sold them online, they would probably find one similar. But the seamstress could have sold them in some little mom-and-pop boutique across the country, which would be more difficult to track down.
Unless the dresses were hand-made for the victims . . .
“Anything more on forensics?”
“Yes. We found a strand of hair in the lace of the dress. Must have caught it when he leaned over to kiss her.”
“Then if we find the guy we can nail him.”
“Yes. I just wish I could tell you how to find him.”
“I’m working on it,” Cal said, determination kicking in. “Right now I’m on my way to check out a possible lead.”
He maneuvered the switchbacks, slowing as they passed a white van going too fast. The damn thing suddenly sped up and careened toward them.
Mona gasped as he cut the wheel to the right to avoid hitting it, and they slammed into the mountain wall. His front end crunched, air bags exploded, and rocks tumbled down.
Cal looked up, saw the car spin around and head toward them. He braced himself as the front end of the van rammed his side.
Fuck. The driver had intentionally hit them.
Dr. Wheeland was yelling his name over the phone, asking what was happening, but Cal had dropped his phone. He ripped the air bag with his pocketknife, determined to get a look at the driver or get the license plate.
But his eyes were blurry from the impact.
The van backed up, then accelerated and slammed into his side once more. Metal crunched and glass shattered.