All the Beautiful Brides

by Rita Herron

  But he made her wait while he laved her other breast, sucking her until she shoved at his boxers. He peeled her panties down at the same time, and finally they were naked and touching, bare skin to bare skin.

  Passion burned hot through him. His cock throbbed, aching to be inside her. But he wanted to pleasure her first, wanted her to remember what it was like to be loved by him.

  She stroked his calf with her foot again, and he hissed between his teeth, forcing himself to hold back as he slid down her body. He kissed her belly and her inner thighs, then gently parted her legs so he could reach her innermost secrets.

  He trailed his tongue up and down her delicate skin, teasing her feminine folds until she moaned again and undulated her hips. Raw need shot through him, and he worked her clit with his tongue, then plunged it inside her.

  She clawed at his hair, whispered his name on a throaty sigh of pleasure, and her body quivered as the first strains of her orgasm claimed her. The throbbing in his body intensified, and he grabbed his jeans from the floor, yanked a condom from the pocket, ripped it open with his teeth, and quickly rolled it over his length.

  He lowered his head and suckled her sweetness again, and she cried out and urged him to come inside her.

  Hot with hunger, he rose above her and replaced his tongue with his cock. One thrust and he closed his eyes and moaned. He’d never felt such intense passion before.

  Because this was Mona.

  The woman he’d denied himself from having. The woman he loved.

  Mona whispered Cal’s name on a breathy sigh of passion. Pure erotic sensations splintered through her body, a million butterflies fluttering in her belly as Cal thrust inside her. Brent had always held something back during their lovemaking, acted as if he was performing.

  But Cal felt real. Hungry for her. And so masculine that his hard muscles stoked her curves in all the right places. Her skin tingled, her mind blurred, and all she could think about were his fingers on her skin.

  His lips touching her intimately.

  Her soul finally connecting with his.

  He groaned her name, slowly pulled out, then thrust inside her again, intensifying the pleasure rippling through her.

  She undulated her hips, meeting him thrust for thrust, and they rocked back and forth, thrusting and stroking and loving each other, until she knew Cal had become part of her.

  Cal held Mona against him, torn between happiness and regret. They had made love over and over.

  He didn’t want to let her go.

  But she had belonged to Brent.

  Brent’s gone.

  Was he still in Mona’s heart? Would she ever love Cal the way she’d loved his friend?

  His phone buzzed, and he silently cursed. He didn’t want to spoil the mood. But he was working a case.

  The phone buzzed again, and he grabbed it before it woke Mona. She looked so peaceful now that he hated to disturb her rest.

  “Agent Coulter.”

  “It’s Peyton, Cal. Listen, there are two things. First, we didn’t find any calls or connection between Gwyneth Toyton and Constance Gilroy. No phone calls from Fulton to Gwyneth either.”

  Any shred of hope he may have been holding on to disintegrated. The man was looking less and less guilty.

  “Check out Doyle William Yonkers’s phone records and see if you find a connection. Also research his financials and see if he bought any wedding dresses.”

  “I’m on it.” Peyton tapped a few keys. “FYI, that Facebook page for Bill Williams has been taken down. And I ran the prints the team found at Mona Monroe’s house, and a name popped.”

  Cal sat up in bed. “Go on?”

  “They belong to a female. Her name is Sylvia Wales.”

  Damn. He’d assumed it was someone like Whit Combs. Or perhaps the Bride Killer.

  “She lives outside Graveyard Falls with her baby.”

  Why would a woman break into Mona’s?

  “Text me her address.”

  He hung up, then slipped from bed and dressed. Mona stirred, rolled over, and looked up at him. Her hair was tousled, her eyes hazy with sleep, her lips red and swollen from his kisses. She looked radiant and so damn gorgeous his body hardened with renewed hunger.

  But the text came through, reminding him he had a job to do. Protecting Mona meant tracking down the killer.

  Anna hadn’t slept all night.

  Nightmares of living in Graveyard Falls and the painful day Johnny had been arrested flashed back as Anna rose and dressed.

  She had defended Johnny to her father. And Johnny had claimed his innocence. Until that last day when he’d told her to leave . . .

  And now her father had been to the falls and found the second woman dead this week.

  A chill slithered up her spine. Something didn’t feel right. She’d checked on him during the night and he hadn’t been in his bed. Then later, he’d acted confused.

  Thirty years ago he’d been obsessed with crucifying Johnny because she’d slept with him. He’d called her ugly names when he’d found out.

  Questions nagged at her as she remembered the timing. Right after he’d discovered Johnny and her together, the girls had started dying.

  And her father had quickly stacked the evidence against Johnny.

  Johnny had begged her to believe that he was innocent, that he loved her and only her.

  But her father had shown her those pictures of the dead girls that he’d found under Johnny’s bed, and . . . her faith had waned.

  Could her father have planted that evidence?

  He had been obsessed with the murders . . . he still kept a copy of the case file in his home desk drawer.

  His mind was warped now, the past and present a fragmented jumble . . .

  She hated the dark road her thoughts were traveling down. If Johnny hadn’t killed those girls, someone else had.

  Someone her father had let go free . . .

  Unless he . . . no, she couldn’t possibly think her father was capable of murder . . .

  Anxious and needing answers, she finally decided to go to the falls herself. She poured a cup of coffee into her to-go mug, then grabbed her father’s shotgun just in case she ran into trouble.

  A few minutes later, she parked and found herself hiking to the falls. Foolish, considering there was a killer in town, but she was armed.

  Besides, maybe she’d remember something that could help Johnny’s parole. Or something to reassure her that her father hadn’t done the inexcusable things she suspected.

  And maybe one day she could finally let go of the guilt she’d harbored for years over abandoning Johnny.

  Or for not seeing the truth and saving those girls.

  But she didn’t want to believe that Johnny was anything but the loving, sweet guy she’d fallen in love with.

  Because if Johnny was guilty, that meant her father had been right about him. And that her daughter’s father was a psychopath.

  Worse, she and Josie had had a big blowup about Josie reading her high school diary. Josie knew her grandfather and Anna had been estranged for years, but Anna had never explained the reason.

  If Josie nosed around too much, she’d discover the truth.

  Dark storm clouds made the sky look as if it were nighttime. The trees shook violently in the wind, their shrill echo boomeranging off the mountain walls.

  In spite of the freezing temperature, sweat beaded on her skin. Anna should have thrown the blasted diary away. She didn’t know why she’d held onto it.

  Yes, she did. The days and evenings she’d spent with Johnny had been the best of her life. The most romantic. The time when she’d been young and full of dreams and hopes for her future.

  Then everything had gone to hell.

  Her boots dug through the snow and brambles, but she pushed the branc
hes aside and followed the trail. She knew the exact spot where Tiffany, Candy, and Brittany had been pushed from, and the spot where they’d fallen to their deaths below.

  Yet she had happy memories of that place. She and Johnny had snuck to the falls so many times in the afternoon for a secret getaway. She’d lost her virginity at the base of the falls in a grassy area shrouded by pines and hemlocks.

  She’d conceived her baby—their child—by those falls.

  Icy snow stung her cheeks, her breath puffing out in a white cloud as she hiked through the thicket to the clearing.

  Horror seized her when she spotted something on the ground. For a moment, she thought she must have imagined it.

  It looked like . . . a body.

  Her lungs begged for air as she inched forward. Snow swirled around the woman’s face.

  God . . . It was Carol Little, the reporter. The one who’d come knocking on her door wanting to question her about the past.

  Tree limbs crackled and popped, twigs snapping off in the wind, and Anna jerked her head around, searching the shadows of the forest as she dragged her phone from her jacket.

  The hair at the nape of her neck bristled. Was the killer still here watching her?

  A falcon soared above, and two vultures circled the trees. The sound of brush and sticks breaking made her jerk her head to the right. Somewhere a mountain lion growled, then leaves parted as something darted through the trees.

  She shivered and glanced at her phone to call for help, but there was no service. Another sound. More footsteps. Leaves rustling. One of the vultures swooped down.

  Then a man appeared in the shadows. Deputy Kimball.

  She’d seen him arguing with Carol Little the other day on the street when he’d pushed her outside the sheriff’s office. And now Carol was dead . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Cal dropped Mona by her house so he could pay a visit to Sylvia Wales. He’d considered asking Mona if she knew the woman, but in light of the fact that Mona’s personal photos had been destroyed, he’d been worried that she might be someone from Brent’s past.

  He wanted to check her out first.

  Deputy Kimball called just as he was leaving Mona’s. “Yeah?”

  “Coulter, I’m at the falls. You won’t believe it, but there’s another body.”

  Shit. “Same place?”

  “A few feet down.”

  Made sense. They’d had a rotation of officers monitoring at night, in sync with the Bride Killer’s MO. They’d all mentioned difficulties with the darkness and density of the trees, animal sounds, and bitter-cold wind.

  “Sheriff Buckley’s daughter, Anna—she’s here, Coulter. She found the dead woman.”

  Cal’s mind raced. Why the hell would Anna Buckley go to the falls?

  Kimball made a sound in his throat. “The victim is Carol Little.”

  Shock slammed into him, and he turned the Jeep in the direction of the falls. Carol had written about the murders. She’d been asking questions.

  She had used Kimball to get the scoop.

  Had she been murdered because of the story? And if so, had she discovered something about the unsub that had gotten her killed?

  Gray clouds soaked up the early-morning light, making the woods look dark and ominous. He hiked to the bottom of the falls to view the body, shining a flashlight to guide his way. He kept his eyes trained for evidence of the killer—a piece of torn clothing, a hat, a button, anything the killer could have dropped or that had caught in the bushes along the way.

  He spotted Anna hovering by a cluster of rocks near the falls. She was shivering in her coat, her hood dotted with snowflakes, her face pale as she stared at the scene.

  Deputy Kimball stood by the body on the ground, his shoulders hunched. When he heard Cal approach, he swung his gaze up. His jaw was set hard, a dark expression on his face.

  “The MO is different,” Deputy Kimball said. “The rose stem is here, but she’s not wearing a wedding dress, there’s no garter, and the lipstick is missing.”

  “Her hair hasn’t been chopped off either.” Cal narrowed his eyes as he approached, his pulse pounding. The deputy was right. Carol Little lay at the base of the falls, her black slacks soaked, her coat half-unbuttoned, her hair tangled around her ghostly white face.

  He glanced at the woman who’d found the body and introduced himself. She looked to be mid- to late forties. Dark hair. Green eyes. Attractive but her expression was haunted.

  This was the sheriff’s daughter. Odd that he’d found a body just yesterday and now she’d come to the falls and found another dead woman.

  “My name is Anna DuKane,” she said in a shaky voice.

  “I know, you’re the sheriff’s daughter.”

  “Yes,” she said tightly.

  “What were you doing up here alone?” Cal asked.

  She leaned against a tree. “I . . . it’s a long story. I just had to come here and see this place.”

  “You knew two murdered women were left here and you came by yourself?”

  She nodded, looking chastised. “I know it was stupid, but I had my father’s shotgun.”

  “The killer could have turned it around and used it on you,” Cal pointed out. He gestured at Carol. “Did you know this woman?”

  A wariness crept into Anna’s face. “No. Although . . . she stopped by my house wanting an interview. I told her to leave.” Anna raised her chin. “That was a bad time, Agent Coulter. I didn’t want to revisit the past.”

  Because she’d been involved with Johnny Pike. He remembered the details now. “Did you know Gwyneth Toyton or Constance Gilroy?”

  “No,” she said. “I haven’t lived here for years. I just came back to Graveyard Falls to see my father. He’s . . . ill.”

  Although he had insinuated himself in the case yesterday.

  That was something an unsub might do.

  “I still don’t understand. You had to know it was dangerous. That the killer might come back.”

  “Actually, I was thinking about Johnny’s parole. I thought maybe if I revisited this place I’d remember something from back then that might help him.”

  “You think he was innocent?”

  She studied her jagged fingernails. “I did. But my father didn’t agree.” She looked back up at him. “But I’m sure you know all of this.”

  “Do you think the recent murders are related to those teenagers’ deaths?”

  She picked at one of her nails. “No . . . I mean, how they could be?”

  She was right. Unless they had the wrong man . . . or someone wanted to glorify Johnny or help by killing Gwyneth and Constance to bring Pike’s guilt into question.

  Although if the sheriff had made a mistake and the killer had gone free, he’d be in his midforties now.

  Most serial killers were twenty-five to forty-five. And if it was the same killer, where had he been for the last three decades?

  Again, the sheriff’s timing at the falls struck him. What if the Thorn Ripper had been living here in Graveyard Falls all along? What if Buckley had some kind of obsession with young girls and had killed them, then framed Johnny to get him out of his daughter’s life?

  Buckley might not be the Bride Killer, but he could have committed the Thorn Ripper murders. And what if someone knew the truth and they were killing women now to stir it all up?

  “Did Ms. Little question your father?” Cal asked.

  Anna shrugged. “I don’t know. He doesn’t share much with me. But I doubt he would have let her. He doesn’t like the press. And his illness has affected his memory, so he avoids people. He doesn’t want everyone to know.”

  What if this brain tumor had affected his behavior? Maybe triggered him to relive the past and kill again?

  More voices sounded, then the crime team and medical examiner
arrived.

  Cal motioned to Anna. “Stay here. I’ll need you to come to the station and make a statement.”

  She nodded and huddled in her coat while the other investigators approached.

  Cal walked over to study Carol’s body. “She was strangled?”

  “Looks like it,” Deputy Kimball said.

  “Her death looks more violent.” He had a feeling they wouldn’t find DNA from a kiss on her cheek either. “Could be another killer. Someone who had a beef against Carol Little because of her job.”

  And that could be a boatload of suspects. Someone who’d made it look like she died at the hand of the Bride Killer by placing her at the base of the falls.

  He gave the deputy a pointed look, the silent accusation settling between them.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Deputy Kimball snapped. “I was angry with her but not enough to kill her. Hell, I figured when the case was over, we might hook up again.”

  “Then maybe she stumbled onto something that could help us find the unsub.”

  If she had, he would find it. And if the Thorn Ripper was Buckley, he’d find that out, too.

  Mona missed Cal already. But it was time she faced the mess in her house. Vandalism was one thing, but she didn’t understand why anyone would want to tear her photographs into pieces.

  That act seemed personal.

  Was it a disgruntled patient or a patient’s spouse or significant other? Someone angry because she’d helped give her patient enough strength and courage to leave a toxic relationship?

  If so, why not just destroy the house? Why the pictures of her and Brent . . . ?

  It almost seemed as if the person was angry with her for having a good marriage. Or was trying to tell her she was a hypocrite, that she shouldn’t be dispensing advice when her marriage wasn’t perfect.

  Although another memory tickled her consciousness as she began to clean up, one so faint that it had seemed insignificant at the time, and she hadn’t thought anything of it.

  Brent had worked undercover at times, worked odd hours, been gone overnight. One night when he was on a case, the phone had rung and when she’d answered, someone was breathing on the other side.