CHAPTER ONE
Twenty-five years later
Korine Davenport would never stop looking for her father’s killer.
She traced her fingers over her FBI badge as she glanced around the office of her Savannah row house. It was a fixer-upper in a transitional neighborhood, but she’d gotten a good deal on rent. She didn’t care about fancy furniture or expensive things.
This house was just a place to hang her hat—no, her gun—at night, not a home. And she was determined to live on her salary, not her inheritance.
Money left for her in a trust fund from her father’s will. Money she didn’t want to touch because it would mean she’d profited from his death.
His unsolved case was one reason she’d gone into law enforcement.
Night was falling, gray clouds adding a creepiness to the property. The real estate agent had hinted that the place was haunted.
Ghost stories didn’t frighten her. Not when there were real live monsters out there, predators who hunted both day and night.
Notes on unsolved cases were stacked on her desk, a testament to the fact that she was obsessed with cold cases and kept up with the ones she’d worked at the police departments in Atlanta and then Savannah before she’d applied to the FBI. A whiteboard on the wall held names of murder victims that needed attention.
The need for answers kept her awake at night. And when she finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep, nightmares of victims’ faces haunted her.
Criminology books, forensics materials, and research on serial killers dominated her sideboard, while photos from articles on crimes covered another wall, at odds with the porcelain doll on the mantel. Esther Ray—the first one her father had given her.
She’d left the others in the curio at her mother’s house.
She’d stopped playing with dolls a long time ago.
She gritted her teeth, battling the bittersweet memories. Christmas had just passed, a reminder of the day she’d lost her father. She’d never been able to decorate a tree, listen to Christmas carols, or enjoy the festivities, not when Christmas Eve had been the worst day of her life. She ran a finger over the rosewood music box her father had given her, but she couldn’t bring herself to open it.
Still, the chorus to “I Feel Pretty” played softly in her head, mingling with the sound of the gunshots.
Her throat tightened, panic rising in her chest.
She took several deep breaths. For God’s sake, she wasn’t a five-year-old traumatized child anymore.
She couldn’t allow emotions into her work.
She checked her phone—no text about an assignment yet. The director would probably assign her some menial tasks, although Blaine Hamilton, her father’s lawyer and her mentor, had connections and had called in favors to get her assigned to Savannah. Hopefully, his pull and the reputation she’d earned in Atlanta and Savannah would help land her an active investigation.
She’d hoped to get a call today. Now, night loomed, dark and lonely.
She might as well visit her mother. Get it over with.
Dread knotted her stomach as she stepped onto the front stoop of her house. The wind howled, shrill and harsh, the dark clouds overhead casting an ominous gray over the brittle grass.
A movement caught her eye. She froze, pivoting to search the bushes to the right. Just as it had a dozen times this week, the hair on the back of her neck prickled.
Someone had been watching her.
One hand on her weapon, she eased down the steps and inched toward the red-tipped shrubs. The bushes rustled; then she heard another movement. Someone running into the woods behind her property.
All her life she’d been paranoid that her father’s killer would come back for her.
Maybe this time he had . . .
Special Agent Hatcher McGee climbed in his SUV, flexed his fingers, and stared at them, disgusted at himself. His hands were shaking like a willow tree in the wind.
Even though it had been six months since he’d killed the monster who’d murdered his wife, he could still feel the man’s blood on his hands. See the blood staining his fingernails.
He wanted a drink, bad.
His mama and daddy’s voices echoed in his head. They were good people. Honest. Hardworking. They’d raised him on family values and love. They’d died and left him alone, on his own, at seventeen. Still, their teachings had stuck.
Except for the night Felicia had died.
He’d crossed the line.
Although technically he’d rammed the knife in the bastard’s belly in self-defense, his actions had come under scrutiny, and he’d almost lost his FBI badge.
If he had to do it over, he’d still kill him. His wife hadn’t deserved to die so young. Especially not in such a violent way.
Worse, she’d died because of him.
Because of his job. Because he tangled with evil every day. Because he’d been screwing another woman.
That guilt and evil had touched him inside and out. Putting the maniac who’d taken her life in the ground had felt damn good.
Too good, maybe.
His parents were probably rolling over in their graves.
His choice had nearly cost his partner, Wyatt, his life, too.
It had also allowed another sadistic man, the second Skull, to escape.
Felicia’s ghost hovered in front of the window, mocking him.
She couldn’t rest. Couldn’t move on or find peace.
She blamed him. She had every right to.
Only working could dull the pain, make him forget for a little while.
He started the engine, then sped down the graveled road leading from his cabin on the marsh to the Coastal Highway. Palm trees and sea oats dotted the islands here in South Georgia, where the summer heat could be oppressive and mosquitos and gnats fed on locals and tourists like kids devouring ice cream at Seahawk Island Sweet Shop.
Although he’d hidden out in his cabin with a bottle most of summer and fall, away from the tourists—and work.
The downside to going back today: he was being assigned a new partner. A rookie female agent.
Korine Davenport.
The very woman he’d spent the night with when he should have been home, protecting his wife. Granted, he’d been on the verge of divorce, but . . . still . . . Damn.
Thankfully, his superior didn’t know he had a personal history with Korine Davenport, only that he’d helped train her.
If Bellows knew the truth, he’d never pair them together. In fact, he’d probably send Hatcher back to the shrink.
An image of Korine’s fiery red hair and sexy blue eyes taunted him.
She was another line he’d crossed. He and Felicia had been separated when he’d agreed to teach a class at Quantico. The first time he’d laid eyes on the young trainee, he’d nearly choked on lust.
Her pale skin framed with that dark-red hair had been his undoing. Her strength, sass, and vulnerability were a potent combination that he hadn’t been able to resist.
One night after a heated training session, they’d had drinks and . . . the best damn sex he’d ever had in his life.
It had been so hot and steamy that he’d ignored his phone ringing. Ignored the fact that his wife had called, terrified she was being stalked. Even if he had answered, he probably would have blown her off.
Felicia had always had a dramatic flair and had liked attention. He’d thought she’d made up the stalker. She’d fabricated lies before to seduce him, then more to make sure he came whenever she called. She’d cried wolf so many times he’d finally gotten fed up with her and told her he was done.
Unfortunately, that last time he’d been wrong.
She’d died because of it.
A part of him had died that day, too. He’d climbed from the bowels of hell into the bottle.
And now he was making a comeback. By God, no one would stop him.
Not even Korine Davenport.
Adrenaline kicked in at the thought of finally being in the field again, and he gripped the steering wheel of his SUV tighter as he veered onto the causeway leading to Seahawk Island. Located about forty miles from Savannah, the island drew vacationers from across the South, especially Atlanta and Athens, Georgia.
He drove past the village, the heart of the island with its pier, shops, restaurants, and bars. During the summer, fall, and spring, tourists congregated on the island, crowding the establishments. Walkers, joggers, bikers, and sightseers filled the sidewalks and streets. Fishermen and crabbers gravitated to the pier for the day. The park, with its massive, ancient oak trees and picnic tables, was packed with families and couples enjoying the sunshine and fresh air. Squeals and laughter echoed from the playground and putt-putt golf course. In summer, the pool would be packed but was closed for the winter.
Although some visitors came for recreation, others wanted to climb the lighthouse that was supposedly haunted or tour the fort where numerous soldiers had died in the Civil War.
The kids flocked to the pirate ship to explore the nooks and crannies and history of the pirates who’d shipwrecked here during a storm over a hundred years ago.
Now everything appeared deserted.
January had rolled in with a bang. Winter robbed the warmth of the sun and cast a grayness over the marshes and sandy shores. The festive Christmas lights that had sparkled and adorned the town during the holiday were gone, and a few windows remained boarded from the recent hurricane damage. Sea oats and palm trees swayed in the gusty breeze, and rental places sat vacant, giving it a ghost-town feel.
He wiped sweat from his forehead. He’d never believed in ghosts until he’d lost his wife. Now he saw her spirit everywhere he went. In the bedroom at night. In the graveyard where he’d buried her. In the streets of Savannah, and hovering over the sea and marshland.
Even now in the seat beside him.
Hatcher blinked to clear his vision, and she was gone. He wished he could go back and change things.
His mouth watered for a drink as he passed The Buoy, a local bar. He tossed a stick of gum in his mouth and chewed vigorously in an attempt to stifle his craving.
Today was a new start. Drinking wasn’t on the agenda. If he wanted to work again, and he desperately needed to work to keep his sanity, he had to stay sober and keep his temper under control.
He slowed as he passed the ancient church on the edge of the marsh at the corner of the turnoff for Sunset Cove. In the waning light of day, the gravestones in the cemetery stood like shadowy, spiked monuments in a sea of ghosts. Locals claimed the cemetery screamed with the tortured spirits of those who’d died in battles fought in the Civil War. The Confederate soldiers had burned down the first lighthouse on the island because they didn’t want the Union to use it to guide them.
Hatcher’s heart pounded with anticipation, the old familiar adrenaline surge at the beginning of a case heating his blood as he veered down a side street.
His phone buzzed just as he parked. His director, Roman Bellows. He punched “Connect.” “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Listen, Hatcher, we need to regroup. I think I should assign someone else to this case.”
“No.” Hell no. He couldn’t yank him away without giving him a chance. “I can handle it.”
“You don’t understand. I just talked with the local police chief on the island, who called us for help, and the woman who reported the murder—it was Tinsley Jensen.”
Hatcher’s pulse jumped. “Tinsley Jensen?”
“Apparently she rents a cottage in the cove.” Director Bellows’s breath puffed out, ragged and riddled with anxiety. “She has serious emotional issues,” he continued. “She never leaves that cottage. Never.”
Good God, who could blame her? She’d been held hostage and tortured by a maniac.
Still, he’d had no idea she was agoraphobic.
Hatcher broke out in a sweat triggered by another heaping mound of guilt. It was his fault the woman had gone off the grid. His fault because he and Wyatt had been tracking down the maniac who’d kidnapped Tinsley when Hatcher got a lead on the man who’d abducted Felicia.
His fault for leaving Wyatt alone to face the sadistic man—his fault the Skull had escaped and Tinsley was still in danger.