Good Little Girls Read online

  Tinsley snagged a business card from her desk and handed it to him. “Call Susan. I’ll let her know you’ll be in touch so she can pull together the lists.”

  He tapped the card between his fingers, as if he was stalling and wanted to ask her something else.

  She summoned her courage. “What is it?”

  His gaze slowly rose to hers, his expression troubled. “I need to know exactly what he said to you when he held you. He may have inadvertently given you a clue that you’re not aware of.”

  A shudder coursed up her spine. The things he’d said were ugly. Demeaning. Could she share them with Wyatt?

  She had to. Putting the Skull away was the only way to slay her demons.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dark storm clouds shrouded the morning sunlight from the solarium window in the sanitarium, mirroring Cat’s mood. Odd to have such a sunny, supposedly cheerful place in a nuthouse anyway.

  Cat detested the sunshine and the staff’s fake smiles and the lunatics here who looked at her like she was one of them.

  Maybe she had one foot on the crazy train, but she hadn’t completely climbed aboard.

  She was just pissed off at life and her mother and the court system, and at the man who’d taken advantage of her as a child.

  She’d hated for so long that she didn’t know how to feel anything else.

  Seth Samson, the psychiatric nurse who took care of her meds, smiled as he handed Cat her morning pill along with an envelope from her mother. “How are you doing today?”

  How was she doing? Her hand shook where she held the letter, so she quickly jammed the envelope in her pocket. She was fucking sick of this place and the staff’s condescending looks of pity and disgust. But admitting that would land her in restraints, and she could not bear that again.

  So she zipped the foul language inside.

  “I’ve been thinking about calling my mother and making amends.” Making them believe that would earn her points.

  “Good for you, Cat. That’s progress. I’ll let the counselor know.” He slipped from the room to refill her water.

  You do that, Seth. Tell them I’m getting all well now. That I’m not going to kill anyone else.

  She could play the game.

  Not that she had when she’d first come here. She’d been brutally honest and said whatever was on her mind. Told them all to go to hell.

  The staff had been tough on her, kept her restrained, in solitary confinement. The patients had been afraid.

  Their wide eyes and nervous glances dogged her wherever she went. Was she going to steal a plastic knife off a lunch tray and stab one of them in the jugular? Or maybe she’d strangle them with her bare hands . . .

  Laughter bubbled inside her. She didn’t kill good people. She’d tried to tell them that. But anyone who hurt or molested children or raped young girls was fair game.

  That bitch Marilyn had encouraged her to behave so she could get out of this crazy ward one day. Why Marilyn cared she didn’t know. Cat sensed the woman had her own agenda.

  One day Cat would find out what it was. It was the only reason she’d agreed to talk to her. That, and well, hell, she was bored out of her mind.

  The fuckers had cut her off from the world. No news. No communication.

  A travesty for an Internet queen like her.

  Marilyn told her what was going on. The reporter couldn’t seem to help herself. She puked up gossip and news and crime stories as if her head would explode if she didn’t pass on the gory details.

  Cat started smiling and pretending she was taking her meds. She was cordial to the staff. Cooperated in therapy and fed the counselors exactly what they wanted to hear.

  She lied like the big fat liar they wanted her to be.

  Just like her mama, Esme, had lied all these years and pretended nothing had happened to Cat as a child, that the psychiatrist who was supposed to help her hadn’t mauled her with his filthy upper-class hands. That Mrs. Davenport’s money had been worth sacrificing her daughter’s sanity.

  Even the people like Seth and Marilyn who understood why she’d taken the lives of those horrific people—and they had been bad—wanted her to get well. Wanted her to show remorse. Forgive her mother. Promise she’d never be a bad girl again.

  The only thing she regretted was getting caught.

  There were others who needed to be taught a lesson, too. Thanks to her newfound friends, she wasn’t as out of touch as the cops thought.

  “You won’t believe what’s happening,” Seth said in a low whisper as he hurried back into the room and refilled Cat’s water cup.

  “What?”

  “Yesterday, the police found a graveyard where someone stole the skulls of three people buried in the marsh.”

  An image of Tinsley Jensen locked in that little cottage at Sunset Cove taunted her. When she’d read Tinsley’s Heart & Soul website, she’d found a soul sister.

  The Keepers had a list of those who’d gotten away with their crimes. Ones who needed to pay with their lives.

  The man who’d abducted, raped, and tortured Tinsley was high on their list.

  Rage at Marilyn clawed at her. Why hadn’t Marilyn told her about the bones? “Do they have any idea who took them?” she asked.

  The nurse leaned closer, his gray eyes darting around the solarium. No doubt he’d get in trouble for sharing the news story.

  “Not yet,” Seth said. “Didn’t that man who abducted the Jensen woman hang his victims’ skulls from the ceiling?”

  Cat nodded. Although they hadn’t recovered those skulls, because they’d never located the place where the bastard held Tinsley.

  If the Skull was coming out of hiding, the Feds would jump on the case.

  The Keepers had to find the bastard first.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Wyatt grimaced as he watched Tinsley. The painful memories were taking a toll. Maybe he’d made a mistake by pushing her.

  But the only way to find the Skull was to learn everything about him. Understand what made him tick. Understand his victimology.

  “Do you want to go on, or do you want me to leave?”

  Tinsley swallowed hard, then folded her arms and went to look out the window. A distant look glazed her eyes as if she were miles away. The tide was in, waves crashing against the shore. A lone jogger in a gray hoodie paused with his dog, then threw a tennis ball, and the dog chased after it.

  “He’s out there somewhere,” she said in a low voice. “He’s free, while I’ve locked myself in here.” When she pivoted to face him, determination darkened her eyes. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” he said quietly.

  Her face paled, and she rubbed her arms, drawing his gaze to the scars on her fingers and her wrists.

  “All right.”

  As a cop, he had to ask tough questions. As a man who found her attractive and despised what the Skull had done to her, hearing the details would be difficult.

  But he wanted to find this bastard and lock him up so he couldn’t hurt her again.

  “Tell me about that night after the rescue event.”

  She squared her shoulders. “After we finished with the applications and packed up, a couple of the volunteers had said they were going to the pub nearby for drinks. But I was exhausted and rushed to my car. I’d parked a block away in an alley behind an abandoned warehouse. I was putting a box in the trunk of my SUV when I heard footsteps behind me.” She went still, her breath catching. “Before I could turn around, he grabbed me from behind. I tried to fight . . . but then I felt dizzy and . . . he must have injected me with some kind of drug, because I passed out.”

  Wyatt tensed. “They tested you for drugs when you were admitted to the hospital. I’ll check and see what they found.”

  “He gave me injections at other times,” she said with a shiver.

  “Heroine? Meth?” Wyatt asked.

  She shook her head. “I think it was pain medication,” she murmured. “
When he drugged me, he said, ‘I can give you pain; I can take it away.’”

  Interesting. Could mean that the unsub worked in the medical field where he had easy access to meds. An avenue to explore.

  “Did he talk as if he was a doctor? Or a nurse, maybe?” Hell, he could be a first responder, PA, nurse assistant, even a medical student or pharmacist.

  Tinsley rubbed her forehead. “Not that I recall. I do remember that he seemed ritualistic.”

  Wyatt raised a brow. “How so?”

  “He talked about death, about reflecting on lost loved ones. He created a shrine with flowers and candles and those sugar skulls.”

  He’d read that in the file. “The Day of the Dead seemed significant to him. Did he explain why?”

  Tinsley shrugged. “He talked about honoring our mothers and fathers when they passed. He also mentioned his abuela.”

  Wyatt tightened his fingers around his coffee mug. “He used the word abuela?”

  Tinsley nodded. “Yes, when he told me about the Day of the Dead celebration. And I heard him tell the man who took Felicia that his abuela had taught him about the rituals.”

  Wyatt studied her. Norton had been there. “Did you see this man?”

  She shook her head no. “They were talking outside the door where he held me.” Her gaze met his. “That man took Felicia because of me.”

  “We don’t know that,” Wyatt said, hating the guilt in her voice. “He could have kidnapped her to get to Hatcher. Our names were in the news as the agents working the case. Norton and the Skull may have cooked up a plan to divert our attention.”

  “When he carried me to that old shanty in the swamp, I thought he was going to kill me. I wanted it to be over. But then I realized Felicia was there.” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want her to die.”

  “I know that. So does Hatcher.” The anguish in her voice nagged at Wyatt. He knelt in front of her and placed his hands over hers. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you survived.”

  He expected her to pull away from him, but she didn’t. Instead, she gave a self-deprecating laugh. “But I didn’t survive, did I?”

  Wyatt cleared his throat. “Yes, you did. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. And you’re going to help me find that bastard and make him pay.”

  Tinsley stiffened as she stared at Wyatt’s hands on top of hers. Her breath quickened, and the familiar stirrings of panic tightened her chest.

  She jerked her hands away and curled them in her lap.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” Wyatt said gruffly.

  The sincere regret on his face made her angry at the man who’d ruined her for another man’s touch. And angry at herself for letting him. “I’m sorry I’m not normal,” she said, anger sharpening her voice.

  “You are normal,” Wyatt said. “Any woman who suffered through what you did would feel the same way. I promise not to touch you again unless you ask.”

  She would never ask.

  That realization made her even more furious.

  “You did good today,” Wyatt said. “You gave me two things to look into. He may have some kind of medical training or have grown up around someone who did. That’s a broad field, but he could be a CNA or a nurse, a paramedic, an orderly, a med tech, or . . . even a doctor.”

  She had wondered that at the time. He’d seemed knowledgeable about treating her injuries when he’d lost his temper and beaten her. But how could a doctor or nurse or anyone in the medical field torture a woman?

  “He also used the Spanish term for grandmother,” Wyatt said. “That means he may have some Hispanic or Latin background.” He paused. “Did he mention any other family? A sibling maybe? His mother or father?”

  Tinsley bit down on her bottom lip as a memory teased her mind.

  She’d passed out on the floor, still disoriented from the night before. The day before, he’d dragged her from the metal cage that had become her home.

  He tied a rope around her neck like a leash, then attached it to the cement wall, leaving a short length for her to move around. If she tried to get too far away, the rope would tighten and choke her.

  Footsteps pounded from another room. He was coming closer. Coming back for more.

  Tears clogged her throat, and she fought a scream. No use, though. No one would hear her.

  The door to the room squeaked open, and a sliver of light snaked into the darkness. The mask he wore was in place. He shuffled toward her, tossing the whip in his gloved hands.

  She knew what was coming. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  He wanted her to beg. She refused to do it.

  He yanked her head back, then forced her onto all fours. She waited for the sound of his zipper, but this time she didn’t hear it. Instead, something large and long slapped her rear, and he shoved her thighs apart.

  A second later he shoved it inside her. She choked on a sob as he used it like his cock, ramming it inside her and out again.

  Then his zipper, and she felt him against her legs.

  She clawed at the floor, praying it would be over soon. But it seemed to go on for hours. When he finally finished, he tossed the object in the corner. Blood trickled down her thighs and splattered the floor.

  Then he started to cry.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” he choked out. “But she makes me do it.”

  He shoved her away. She collapsed on the floor, aching and throbbing.

  He raged on and on for what seemed like forever. She lay limp, praying he’d leave her alone.

  But he crawled toward her and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry, I know it’s wrong.” His sobs intensified, and he pressed his body against her back, curling up behind her and clinging to her as if she should console him.

  “Tinsley, it’s all right. I’m here.”

  Tinsley startled, jerking back to the present.

  “He kept me in a cage like an animal.” Humiliation heated her face. “Sometimes he dragged me out and tied me to the wall. Once he was done . . . he cried like a baby.”

  “He cried?” Wyatt asked.

  She nodded. “He sobbed and kept saying he was sorry to his mama. He said he knew it was wrong, but I made him do it.”

  Wyatt’s deep breath punctuated the air. “You did not make him do anything. He’s a sick man.”

  “He was so angry with me afterward,” she said, the memories flooding her. “As if he knew he’d done wrong but couldn’t help himself.”

  “Abusers often do that,” Wyatt said in a deep voice. “They beat their child or spouse or girlfriend, then apologize and sometimes shower them with gifts later. Most victims say they did something wrong, something that antagonized their abuser.”

  “That’s exactly what he did,” she whispered.

  “The fact that he apologized to his mother means she may be the source of his rage,” Wyatt said. “Unfortunately, his victims, and you, may have reminded him of her. That’s the reason he chose you.”

  Tinsley twisted her hands together. “That makes sense.”

  “The timing of your abduction and his first kills are important. Since his fixation seemed to be on his mother, it’s possible he’d just lost her before he began abducting and killing.”

  A pained silence stretched between them for a minute. Tinsley looked down at the scars on her hands as another memory tickled her consciousness. The skulls . . .

  “He didn’t talk about the skulls,” she said. “But he did talk to them.”

  Wyatt arched a brow. “What did he say?”

  She released a shaky breath. “He said, ‘Watch me. See what you make me do.’”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Wyatt balled his hands into fists. Listening to Tinsley talk about the brutal way she’d been treated made him want to pound the monster’s head in.

  “Will you tell me the truth if I ask you something?” Tinsley said.

  He slowly breathed in. As much as he tried to hide his disgust at the Skull, he was afr
aid Tinsley might misread his reaction as disgust for her.

  And disgust was not how he felt about her.

  “I promise that I’ll always tell you the truth.” He owed her that much.

  “You believe Norton Smith, the man who killed Felicia, was connected to the Skull?”

  “We think so.”

  His gut twisted as he gazed into her eyes. Beautiful, heartsick, lonely, pained eyes.

  Eyes that made him want to slay dragons and whisk her off to a fantasy world where men didn’t hurt women.

  Fuck. He was breaking his own rules by caring about her. Not good.

  “Have you found their connection?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What do you know about Smith?”

  Wyatt cleared his throat. “His nickname was Nortie. He grew up in an orphanage in the North Georgia mountains. His parents died in a car crash when Smith was four. Smith was in the car when it happened. He suffered a head injury and was trapped in the car with his dead parents for hours until he was rescued.”

  “That would have been rough for a kid.”

  Wyatt made a noncommittal sound. “The social worker who handled Smith’s case thought he had brain damage. She suspected he was bipolar, that he might have had a psychotic break. But she hadn’t seen him in years. As soon as he aged out of the system, he hit the streets. She had no idea where he’d been living or what he’d been doing since.”

  Tinsley massaged her temple as if thinking. “I should have asked him about his family. And other things. Then I might be able to help now.”

  Wyatt gentled his tone. “You did what you had to do to survive. Probing him about his family, or lack of, could have triggered more violence.

  “Besides, there’s also the possibility that the hype about your abduction triggered Smith’s need for attention. He wanted the spotlight, to be famous like the Skull, so he discovered that Felicia was your friend and kidnapped her.”

  “You mean a copycat?” Tinsley asked.

  Wyatt nodded. “Smith made a call to Hatcher,” he said. “That deviated from the Skull’s MO. He never phoned. He just sent a sugar skull to the police to let them know he had another victim.”