CHAPTER TWENTY
Anxious to get off his wet jeans and rid himself of the river-water smell, Hatcher showered and yanked on sweats and a T-shirt. His stomach growled, and he heated a frozen pizza and reached for a beer, then decided to get a bottle of water instead. Too wired to sleep, though, he went to work.
He accessed records of the Davenport murder case and skimmed the file. The sheriff had identified no real suspects or leads. The fact that Dr. Davenport was a child psychologist was interesting, especially in light of the cases Hatcher and Korine had been working lately, but his murder had occurred twenty-five years ago. There was no connection.
The sheriff had questioned the families of Davenport’s clients, his secretary, and colleagues, but no one raised suspicions. He’d found no motive for murder and finally speculated that it was a robbery gone awry.
The problem with that theory was that even though it was Christmas Eve and mounds of presents were under the tree, and even though the Davenports had expensive silver and Mrs. Davenport’s jewelry box was full of gemstones, nothing had been stolen.
Of course, the intruder could have thought the family was out for the night, then panicked when he discovered they were home.
Still . . . if he’d seen lights on inside the house, why not come back a different night?
According to the sheriff, Korine’s mother loved her husband. He was a brilliant child psychologist, adored his kids, and provided for the family. He was faithful to her, and they had a good marriage. No complaints from patients or their families either.
Davenport had held seminars on children’s behavior and psychological issues, including schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. He’d also treated children who’d suffered trauma from loss of a parent or sibling and had earned awards for innovative therapy techniques in forensic interviewing.
Hatcher scratched his head. Now to the details of the night he was murdered.
The family had attended church, then had a celebratory dinner at the country club. When they returned, Mrs. Davenport went to bed with a migraine. Korine’s brother had been moody all night.
When they arrived home, Kenny retreated to his room.
Korine’s mother had left Korine and her father in his study. According to Mrs. Davenport, Korine’s father had let Korine stand on his feet while they danced.
“I Feel Pretty” had been playing the night of the murder. The same song had been playing when they’d stopped at the Davenports earlier.
Mrs. Davenport had just been drifting off to sleep when a noise jarred her. The gunshots. She raced down the steps and found her husband lying on the floor, soaked in blood.
Apparently, he’d collapsed with Korine in his arms. She was screaming and had blood on her pink satin dress and hands.
The porcelain doll her father had given her had fallen from the piano. Korine had cut her hand on a shard of the doll’s shattered face.
The photo of Dr. Davenport’s body lying on the floor in shock with blood pooling around him matched the description of the murder scene.
But it was the picture of Korine at age five, her eyes wide in horror, blood splattered on her dress and hands, that made his chest clench.
He’d seen death too many times to count. The most personal one: his wife’s.
But Korine had been five years old when she’d witnessed a bloody shooting. An innocent little girl, dancing with her father on Christmas Eve . . .
He forced himself to look at his wife’s picture on the desk. Their marriage had been a mess, but he shouldn’t have ignored her call.
He flexed his fingers and stared at his hand where his wedding ring had once been. That band had symbolized his love for his wife, his commitment and devotion.
But he never wore it on the job. In fact, he’d taken it off weeks before he’d asked Felicia for a divorce.
The memory of Korine in his arms taunted him, and he closed her file, then stood. When they finished their current assignment, he’d help her investigate her father’s murder.
Meanwhile, he’d keep his hands to himself.
Once Korine started reading, she couldn’t stop. The women’s stories made her skin crawl. But like a rubbernecker watching a car accident, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
He called me Sprite.
I hated it, but he said he only gave pet names to special little girls, and I was special. He chose Sprite for my name because I giggled when the bubbly drink tickled my nose.
I stopped giggling a long time ago.
At first I wanted to please him. He told Mommy I had nightmares because my daddy died, and he would help me.
He said he loved me like Daddy did. That he would teach me about love.
But I didn’t like his lessons.
They were icky.
When he took me on his lap and rubbed me all over, I closed my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else. Like in a magic castle. But I felt the wind blowing through the castle against my bare skin, and suddenly I was freezing. Then my dress was gone.
And he was heavy on top of me.
“This is our special time,” he whispered. “And you’re my girl.”
Only I didn’t feel special. I felt cold and dirty, and I hurt all over.
He wiped my tears with his fingers and told me not to cry. That he’d never leave me like Daddy.
That we had to keep our special time a secret.
Korine pinched the bridge of her nose. God. The poor little girl. How long had she suffered before an adult discovered what was going on? Or had an adult found out? Had she kept the man’s dirty little secret?
Was that man still free to hurt more children?
Shivering from revulsion, she moved to the next entry.
It was a Friday night. The night my little sister died.
She was a virgin. Only fourteen years old.
But that monster changed everything.
She liked basketball and pizza and country music. She had a crush on a guitar player who played in a country band named Boot Stompers. She snuck out to see him play that night, but some creep jumped her in the parking lot of the teen center before she went in.
He dragged her into an alley, tore off her clothes, raped her, then beat her until she was unconscious.
Now she’s in a coma, where she lies in silence.
She’s not technically dead, but the girl who looked at life with rose-colored glasses is dead. Gone forever.
The bruises on her face and body are healing. The bones were put back together.
But she won’t open her eyes. I don’t know if she hears me when I sit by her side and talk to her.
I want her to wake up and tell us who did this to her.
I want him to pay.
I want to make him suffer for hurting her. Because when she opens her eyes, I know she’ll have to relive the horror of his attack again.
Maybe she’ll play basketball once more. Maybe she’ll still like pizza.
But she’ll never smile that innocent virgin smile again.
The monster who did that to her needs to die.
Hatcher couldn’t sleep. That image of Korine at age five in her pink satin dress covered in blood kept flashing behind his eyes.
Frustrated, he finally tossed the covers aside, threw on sweats, and went for an early-morning run. The fresh air, woods, and a trip along the river helped to clear his head. Unfortunately, even jogging couldn’t completely stamp out his lust for his new partner.
He phoned Korine as he returned to the house and left a voice mail relaying that he’d set up a briefing with everyone involved in the case. Next, he texted all the parties involved with the time and location.
He showered and dressed quickly, anxious to steer his mind back to the job. Last night he’d dreamed about Felicia. As usual, she’d screamed his name and begged him to save her.
But instead of going to her, he’d pulled Korine into his arms. Driven by passion, he’d stripped her clothes and touched every inch of her.
Then Korine was panting below him. Her lips parted in a moan of pleasure. She cried out his name and begged him to take her again . . .
He’d woken up shaking and craving Korine so badly he’d reached for Jack Daniels.
He’d gone as far as to pour himself a shot. But when he’d lifted it to his lips and sniffed, he’d seen Wyatt’s face. Wyatt, who’d been severely injured but was fighting back.
He’d tossed the bottle aside and gone for a run.
Eager to get to work, he brewed a pot of coffee. Then he polished off a piece of toast and poured to-go mugs, one for himself and one for Korine. He had to get out of the house. Away from the photo of Felicia staring at him, blaming him for her death. Calling him a cheater for thinking about how good Korine felt, naked and writhing in his arms, when his wife lay in the cold ground.
Rain clouds hovered outside, obliterating the sun and casting a dismal gray over the river and marsh. For a brief second, a hazy figure floated above the water. A woman. Her hair swirled around the slender heart-shaped face.
Felicia. She was reaching toward him. Her mouth open in a plea. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
She was in pain, in limbo, and she couldn’t move on. He didn’t know how to help her . . .
Anger mounted inside Korine as morning dawned. She needed to stop reading and get some sleep. But she’d been too intrigued by the heart-wrenching posts to close her eyes.
I didn’t mean to kill him . . . it just happened.
I lifted my hands and stared at the blood dripping down my fingers. It splattered the floor and my feet with its vibrant color.
Panic seized me. I had to wash it off. Clean up. Call the police.
Instead, I stared at my bloody fingers in awe. That blood had come from a monster.
He was gone because of me. I could finally sleep without the terror clawing at me every night.
Although even with my eyes open, those creepy doll eyes stared back at me. Glowing in the dark like they were possessed by the devil.
Except this time they were staring at his dead body. And they were smiling as he lay limp and helpless.
Korine rubbed her eyes.
The stories could have been written by the victims from the cases she was investigating.
Could one of them be connected?