Good Little Girls (The Keepers Book 2) Page 9

  And whoever it was had been in her house.

  “Did you take the gun out?” he asked.

  Tinsley averted her gaze. “No. I passed out before I could reach it.”

  He let a heartbeat pass, hoping she’d say more.

  “And before you ask, I didn’t take any medication.”

  A case of the bottled tea sat on the floor near the door. “Did you have that same tea the other night when you lost consciousness?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes.”

  He examined the box. “Does a friend shop for you, or do you have groceries delivered?”

  “I don’t have friends here,” Tinsley said, a defensive note to her voice. “The only people who’ve been in here are you and the counselor I’m working with.”

  Liz was one of the four women they’d questioned in the vigilante killings.

  “Has she been here recently?”

  Tinsley frowned as if she suspected where his line of questioning was headed and didn’t like it. “She came by yesterday. But she didn’t bring the tea. She brought coffee and pastries like usual. And she certainly didn’t steal my gun.”

  He sensed she liked Liz and was getting close to the young woman. Tinsley could use a friend.

  But at this point, Wyatt didn’t trust anyone. Cat had been the lead FBI analyst during the vigilante killings and had intentionally manipulated the investigation.

  Disturbing posts on Tinsley’s website and in the private chat room where the Keepers met online contradicted Cat’s insistence that she’d acted alone.

  With the similarity of MO in Milburn’s murder, they had to consider the possibility of an accomplice or that another Keeper had emerged to replace Cat.

  “Who delivers the tea?”

  “A local grocery on the island. I have a standing order each week.”

  “Do you sign for it?”

  She nodded. “Usually. But come to think of it, I didn’t hear the delivery guy knock this time. I just found the box on the doorstep.”

  “Don’t drink any more of it until I have it tested.”

  Tinsley’s eyes widened. “You think someone drugged my tea?”

  Wyatt shrugged. “It would explain your dizzy spells.” Although dizziness was associated with panic attacks. But with everything else happening, he couldn’t discount the theory that she’d been drugged. Or that the Skull had found a way inside her cottage to taunt her.

  He pulled his phone from his belt. “I’m going to call a tech to process your house. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find some prints.”

  “If he was here,” Tinsley said, “he didn’t leave prints. He was obsessive about wearing gloves.”

  The certainty in her tone ate at him because she painted a picture of a cold-blooded sociopath who planned his crimes down to every detail. He didn’t want to get caught.

  But he’d taken a risk by coming to her house.

  That could mean he was losing his edge. That his obsession with Tinsley would cause him to make mistakes.

  Mistakes could be the key to catching him.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Carrie Ann Jensen sipped her Moscow mule from the patio of the Pirate’s Lair, a café built from an old pirate ship that drew tourists and locals in Savannah for its uniqueness and the ghost stories about the pirates from days gone by.

  Two hoity-toity, blue-blooded socialites, who looked as out of place in the dockside café as she did in an antique China shop, gave her a disapproving look as if to say she shouldn’t be drinking so early in the day. Diamonds and precious gems glittered from their hands and arms, while designer clothes showcased that they came from money. They sipped coffee and ate pastries and turned their noses up at everyone who was imbibing.

  She didn’t give a rat’s ass what they thought. She was tired of being a good girl. Good girls got pushed aside. Stepped on. Bullied. Treated like shit.

  They didn’t just finish last; sometimes they didn’t finish at all.

  Just look where being good had gotten her sister.

  She checked her phone, hoping Tinsley would return her call, but nothing so far. Not that she expected her to respond.

  Tinsley had shut her out of her life as soon as she’d left the hospital.

  It was her own damn fault, though. Carrie Ann hadn’t handled seeing her sister broken and beaten very well. She’d cried and been too emotional, had said all the wrong things, asked stupid questions. Had run from the room, blubbering like a baby.

  She couldn’t bear to see her sister in agony. Couldn’t look at the bruises on her body or the scars on her hands or the vacant, dead look in her eyes.

  The nurses, doctors, and police had insisted Tinsley give them details that were so gory and private and painful that Carrie Ann had had to leave the room.

  Naively, she’d wanted Tinsley to snap out of the shock and be her old self as if nothing had happened.

  But it had happened.

  Tinsley was traumatized. She’d needed Carrie Ann to be strong, to hold her hand while she cried, to listen when she talked.

  But she’d failed.

  After all Tinsley had done for her, she’d let her down. She hated herself for it.

  When they were young, they’d been two peas in a pod. Gone everywhere together. Shared a room. Toys. Secrets.

  She’d idolized Tinsley. Had tried to braid her hair like Tinsley’s. Sometimes she’d snuck into Tinsley’s closet and dressed in her clothes. She’d worn her headbands and bracelets and had even practiced walking like her big sister.

  Then their parents had died in that stupid car accident, and her world had shattered. Carrie Ann had heard Gram talking about how bad it had been. How her mama’s chest had been crushed and her daddy’s arms and legs broken. How it had taken the mortician hours and hours and lots of heavy makeup and glue to make them presentable to the family. How the drunk driver who’d hit them had escaped without a scratch and fled from the police. Cocksucker had left the country the next day to avoid jail.

  She’d wanted to hunt him down and kill him herself.

  But Gram had sent her to counseling. Made her talk about her feelings.

  Talking about her damn feelings hadn’t brought her parents back.

  Tinsley had always been the strong one. At night when she cried, she’d crawled into bed with Tinsley. Tinsley had soothed her and promised her that she’d never leave her.

  Then she was kidnapped.

  Selfish of Carrie Ann to fall apart afterward. She knew it was. But Tinsley was her anchor, and when her anchor was gone, she’d drowned.

  She’d fallen apart at college. Had dropped out. Had started smoking weed to soothe her nerves. Until she’d been caught and threatened with jail time.

  So back to counseling she’d gone. Another shrink. This one had been understanding at first, assured her that her feelings were valid, that violence against a family member had far-reaching tentacles. More months of counseling, and she’d realized that it was time for her to be the strong one. That Tinsley deserved an anchor of her own.

  But all the backpedaling in the world hadn’t earned Tinsley’s forgiveness.

  Why should Tinsley forgive her?

  It was Carrie Ann’s fault that her sister had been abducted.

  She was supposed to help with the pet rescue event at the park that day. She should have been with Tinsley when she walked to her car.

  But she’d had other plans. She’d ditched her sister with no excuse except she’d had better things to do.

  Better than keeping Tinsley safe. If Tinsley hadn’t been alone, that monster wouldn’t have gotten his filthy hands on her.

  She picked up her drink and chugged half of it, guilt gnawing at her.

  Tinsley had no idea how close Carrie Ann was.

  She would know, though. Soon. When the time was right.

  Carrie Ann would make everything good again.

  She had to.

  It was the only way to free her sister.

  CHAPTER TWENT
Y

  Outside Tinsley’s cottage, storm clouds moved in, stealing the blessed sunlight she craved. The Skull was gone now.

  But Wyatt was still here. He’d come the moment she called.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist in an effort to hold herself together. She had seen him earlier, hadn’t she? Or was she hallucinating?

  No, this time he’d left something on her porch.

  Odd, too, that he’d been here and she’d received a picture of Milburn.

  What was going on? Had another Keeper surfaced?

  “Do you think that dead man’s body is outside like the judge’s was?”

  Wyatt shrugged. “From that photo, it looks like he’s in an alley.” He gestured toward the dock. “But I’ll have the team search your property as well as the surrounding area. They need to look for forensics on the person who left the skulls anyway.”

  “You don’t think he did it?”

  “I don’t know,” Wyatt said. “None of this makes sense. It’s hard for me to believe he was actually in your house and didn’t try to take you.”

  She shivered.

  Wyatt cleared his throat. “It’ll be all right. I won’t let him hurt you.”

  Admiration for Wyatt blossomed inside her. He was honorable and brave and would sacrifice his life to save hers. Not that she was special. He was simply doing his job like he’d do for anyone else.

  Tinsley offered him a smile of gratitude. “I just want it to finally be over.”

  If that meant facing the Skull and her worst fears, she’d do it. She had to fight back, or she’d never leave this house.

  Wyatt met the evidence tech and explained that they needed to search within a two-mile radius of Tinsley’s, then process the exterior of the house, specifically the doorframe, windows, and doorknob.

  Tammy Drummond, one of the crime scene investigators, frowned at the skulls. “Damn, that’s creepy.”

  He nodded. “I want Lofton to examine them. If they match the bones we recovered from that graveyard, maybe we can identify them.” And then investigate those three murders.

  Inside, he wanted them to focus on the door again, then the kitchen, Tinsley’s desk, the bottles of green tea.

  “We need samples of the tea analyzed,” he said. “I think someone drugged Tinsley.” He pointed to the paper skulls, then the human ones in disgust. “Take these to the lab. Look for prints, and let’s see if we can find where the paper ones were bought.”

  Special Supervisory Agent Roger Cummings, head of the ERT, nodded. “We’re on it.”

  Wyatt explained about the photograph of the River Street Rapist sent to Tinsley and the rape victims and the justice symbol on Milburn’s forehead.

  Cummings made a sound of disgust. “Shit, that crazy Cat lady may have connections on the outside.”

  Wyatt stiffened. He didn’t approve of the way Cat had handled things, but she’d had her reasons. She was FIH, his term for “fucked in the head,” but she had suffered as a child. Her own sexual abuse drove her to seek justice for others.

  His phone buzzed. Hatcher.

  He quickly connected. “Yeah?”

  “Bernie thinks Milburn’s body may be somewhere on River Street, behind a bar or in an alley.” Bernie was the analyst who had replaced Cat.

  “Makes sense.”

  “I’m texting you an address,” Hatcher said. “Meet me there. Korine is going to question the rape victims so we can clear them and their families.”

  “I’ll get an officer to guard Tinsley’s, then I’m on my way.”

  Tinsley hated the sight of crime scene workers crawling all over her property and inside her house.

  Would she ever be rid of them?

  Not as long as he was alive and hunting . . .

  Wyatt approached her with a grim expression. “Other than your gun, is anything missing?”

  She shook her head, surprised the Skull hadn’t been in her bedroom. He’d cursed her slinky underwear, told her she was dressing like a whore to entice him. He’d ripped it off and left her naked while he shamed her.

  Another inconsistency in his behavior.

  One moment he acted as if he wanted a good, wholesome girl, and then the next he was angry that she hadn’t told him that she liked it when he fucked her.

  “If you think of something else or discover anything he touched or took, let the ERT know.” He jangled his keys in his left hand.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Our analyst has a general location for us to search for Milburn’s body.” He lifted a hand to touch her arm, then seemed to think better of it and dropped it to his side. “I’ll be back. But meanwhile, I’m posting an officer outside.”

  Tinsley nodded. She should be glad for the protection.

  But the men outside were strangers.

  She only felt safe with Wyatt.

  But she bit her tongue to keep from telling him that. This wasn’t personal to him, just a case. The Skull was the one who’d gotten away. The one who had nearly killed Wyatt.

  He stepped to the door, then paused. “Call me if you need me.”

  She did need him. But she couldn’t afford to admit that.

  So she nodded, nerves bunching in her stomach as he left.

  When had she started viewing Wyatt as her safety net? As her place of comfort?

  As much as she fought it, she knew the answer. The night he’d stayed on her porch to guard her during the investigation into the vigilante killings.

  He hadn’t pushed her. Hadn’t insisted on coming in. Hadn’t asked questions or tried to touch her or encroach on her personal space in any way.

  He’d simply been there. Strong. Silent. Steady. Understanding. Nonjudgmental.

  Her stomach fluttered, an awareness of him as a man seeping through her. She wanted him to touch her. Hold her.

  Wanted to be a normal woman again, not broken like the seashells on the shore ravaged by the storms.

  Wyatt met Hatcher on River Street.

  Hatcher removed a copy of Milburn’s death photo and flattened it on top of the low brick wall bordering the riverfront. “Bernie studied the shadows and lighting, then the surrounding buildings.” Hatcher pointed to the map. “She thinks we’ll find him somewhere along here. Maybe in back of one of the bars.”

  “Makes sense. He was probably out hunting.”

  “Except this time he became the hunted,” Hatcher said with a sideways grin.

  Both of them had been sick when Judge Wadsworth released the rapist on a technicality. The victims had been devastated and terrified he’d come back for them to get revenge.

  “The Savannah PD did a preliminary search along the river, and they’ve checked the docks.”

  “Killer could have dumped him in the river after he or she took the picture and sent it. Without the body, it’s harder to find evidence.”

  “And go to trial,” Wyatt added. “Defense attorney could argue that the picture was staged.”

  “It’s him and he’s dead,” Hatcher said matter-of-factly. “I have a feeling about this.”

  “Cat?”

  “Possibly. She’s smart and cunning,” Hatcher said. “I spoke with the director of the hospital, and she said that Cat receives fan mail all the time.”

  Cat had followers. Supporters. Not a surprise.

  Notorious criminals had always drawn admirers, copycats, women who wanted to marry them. Women who did marry them.

  Cray-cray in his book.

  They decided to divide up to search. Hatcher went left, and Wyatt went the opposite direction to comb the alleys behind the restaurants and bars.

  For the next half hour, he scanned his flashlight into every crevice and corner along the river walk, into alleys, behind doors and trash cans.

  The stale scent of booze, urine, and puke permeated the air, stifling, and a reminder of the nightlife in Savannah.

  Nightlife the River Street Rapist had thrived on.

  Poetic justice that it got him killed. A piec
e of fabric poked from beneath a bunch of boxes labeled with the name of a liquor distributor.

  Wyatt pulled on latex gloves, then knelt and shined his light on it. In the picture, Milburn’s clothes were so drenched in blood he hadn’t noticed the color.

  He eased aside the edge of the box. A cockroach raced out, the fabric a ratty bandana that was mired in dirt and mud.

  A bandana wasn’t Milburn’s style. Italian loafers, polo shirts, and a Rolex watch fit the rich bastard.

  He moved on to the next alley and found a homeless man snoring so loudly that his cardboard home shook.

  Judging from the empty tequila bottle he clutched like a blanket, the old man would have been too drunk to remember anything, even if he’d witnessed a crime.

  A strong stench wafted toward him as he passed another alley, the odor of vomit nearly overpowering.

  He shined his light along the back wall. More boxes and garbage bags were jammed next to an overflowing dumpster.

  Coughing at the stench, he tied a handkerchief around his nose and mouth, then shoved the garbage bags away and lifted the box edge.

  Another bag—rotting food, drink containers, and disposable food cartons spilled out, flies and gnats buzzing.

  A body was lying in the sludge. Garbage had spilled onto him, obscuring part of his face, and one of his hands was buried in something that looked like black beans and salsa. A rat was nibbling at his bloody chest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Wyatt and Hatcher snapped pictures of Milburn’s body and of the surrounding ground and alley and wall beside the dumpster.

  Then they gladly turned the processing over to the ERT. Detective Brockett from the Savannah PD, who’d been leading his officers in the search of the dock and river walk, ordered his men to canvass the neighboring bars and restaurants for witnesses.

  An officer roped off the crime scene, then stood guard to keep curious onlookers out of the area. Another officer roused the homeless man and asked him whether he’d seen anything.

  The old man looked glassy-eyed and shook his head wildly. He grabbed his bundle of belongings and staggered away as soon as the officer allowed.