CHAPTER TEN
Gray clouds shrouded the morning sun, adding a dismal feel to the small garden area behind Korine’s house as she jogged up the steps and let herself inside. Her five-mile morning run usually relieved stress and helped her focus for the day.
She needed a shower but poured herself a cup of coffee first, then took it to the garden, a peaceful, quiet reprieve from the city.
Except yesterday she had seen someone in the bushes.
Senses on alert, she scanned the area but saw nothing except the shimmering mist rising above the treetops. Morning shadows almost made them appear as spirits lingering and lost.
Like some homes in the area, the owner claimed this one was haunted. A house with a history always drew interest, although those afraid of ghosts tended to shy away from buying. Others bought for the history that was part of Savannah’s charm.
She didn’t mind the ghost stories. The legends of Savannah added character. Star-crossed lovers had allegedly been murdered in the garden, their killer never caught. Sometimes she thought she saw them lying, entwined, bloody, and weak, their eyes begging her for help, their hearts linked as one for eternity.
She couldn’t imagine loving a man with such devotion.
Or a man loving her that way.
Her job and her office with her wall of wanted criminals and articles and pictures of crime scenes usually sent the normal ones running.
Hatcher’s strong, square jaw and deep-set dark eyes teased her with longing, though. That night with him had been filled with animalistic passion.
Passion, not love.
He’d lied to her, had said he was single when he was still married.
Because he’d wanted in her pants.
Not going to happen again.
She rolled her aching shoulders and tilted her head from side to side to crack her neck. She had no time for lingering and dwelling on her mistakes.
The first soothing taste of caffeine sent a much-needed jolt through her system. She liked her coffee strong and black.
The nightmare had invaded her sleep again last night. The music playing, her father’s loving voice singing, “You’re so pretty, oh, so pretty . . .” as he danced her around his office.
Then the gunshot. The blood. He was falling. A crash followed.
Her beautiful new doll, her porcelain face shattered . . .
She screamed and slipped in the blood . . . reached out to catch herself and sliced her hand on one of the shards of broken porcelain.
She flexed her left hand and stared at the scar. It had faded somewhat but was still visible. It was the ones on the inside, though, that never faded.
She’d woken from that nightmare, then finally fallen back asleep, but this time she’d dreamed about Tinsley Jensen being locked in her house. A shadow was lurking outside, watching Tinsley. The Skull. He enjoyed tormenting her, thrived on her fear, lived for the game.
A second later, Tinsley screamed . . .
That nightmare bled into another.
The faces of the rape victims pressed against the window, terrified, their tear-filled eyes, their throaty whispers begging her to save them . . .
She stood and paced the garden. She didn’t want to interview those victims today. But she had to do it.
Sweaty from her run and determined not to be late and give Hatcher any excuse to get her reassigned, she quickly showered and dressed. She strapped on her holster and weapon, clipped her phone to her belt, and poured another strong coffee to go.
While she waited on Hatcher, she booted up her computer and flipped on the television. Photographs of women’s marches across the state and protests against the judge’s ruling, as well as marches to raise awareness of spousal abuse, flashed on the screen, then the story about the judge’s murder. The lead investigative anchor, Marilyn Ellis, was aggressive and a pain in the Feds’ ass.
“Special Agents Hatcher McGee and Korine Davenport are investigating the case,” Ellis said. “Speculation has surfaced that the judge’s decision to release the alleged River Street Rapist could have been motive for the judge’s murder.”
Photographs of Wadsworth and his family flashed on the screen, along with images of the judge in court looking very much the staunch authoritative figure he’d been.
The fact that his body had been left on the dock facing Tinsley’s bothered Korine. She texted Cat to see whether she had any information on the case yet and immediately received a reply.
Ten years ago, Judge Wadsworth owned the cottage next to Tinsley Jensen’s rental. No reports of a crime or disturbance at the house when the judge and his family owned it.
Also, no police reports filed regarding spousal abuse involving the judge.
Wadsworth probably paid the doctor off so he wouldn’t report it.
She accessed Tinsley’s blog, Heart & Soul, and skimmed an entry Tinsley had written the night before, then another posted this morning.
I am alone again this morning, trapped in this world of darkness. Held hostage by my fears. In a prison I made for myself to protect me from the monster who nearly stole my life.
He’s still out there. Perhaps he’s a million miles away. Hiding out in another country.
Perhaps he’s right next door.
Watching me. Waiting to trap me again. Waiting to take my life.
The pain and fear are like living, breathing beasts inside me. Sometimes I think death is the only answer, the only thing that will make them go away.
But I did survive and I escaped. And I didn’t live through his evilness to die at my own hand.
I will fight for myself and for you, and for all the other women in my shoes.
We can’t let the monsters win.
Tinsley signed the post—Taking Control.
A shudder rippled through Korine. She felt the same way about her father’s killer. As if one day he’d come back for her.
Maybe he’d even killed again . . .
Several responses to Tinsley’s post followed.
Free124
Hostage No More
I understand how you feel. I was held prisoner by my own husband. I feared him for years.
But finally he’s gone.
Some may wonder why I’m not sad. Why I don’t grieve for him. Why there are no tears for the man I vowed to love, honor, and cherish.
Why instead of poring over romantic pictures of us and sobbing at the sight of the empty space beside me in bed, I’m rejoicing in being alone.
He can no longer hurt me.
There is peace in that. And peace in knowing that he suffered in the end.
That I finally got justice.
Korine inhaled sharply. She understood how traumatic memories could hold you prisoner. Could keep you from living and being happy. She’d let her father’s death do that to her.
Just as Tinsley couldn’t move on or be whole again until her abductor was caught and punished, Korine couldn’t imagine a future until her past was resolved and she found the person who’d shot her father in cold blood.
A knock sounded at the door, startling her. Hatcher.
Time to get to work. Find the judge’s killer.
Talk to Andi and the other girls the River Street Rapist had victimized.
She just prayed one of them hadn’t killed the judge. Not that they didn’t have motive.
But locking up a victim wasn’t justice.
That last entry on Tinsley’s blog disturbed her. The woman had been abused by her husband. Now the husband was dead.
Had the woman killed him?
Hatcher kept his eyes trained on the road as he drove to Andi Rosten’s parents’ house. Cat had emailed him information on all three victims along with their backgrounds and locations.
All three women were in their twenties, attractive, single, and lived alone. At least they had until the attack. Andi currently lived with her mother and father.
He had to force himself not to look at Korine. She looked too damn sexy this morning, with those doelike eyes and ivory skin and pale-pink lips.
His cock twitched. Those lips had teased and tormented his body in ways he’d never forget.
Dammit, he had to stop thinking about her lips.
“I’ve been looking at Tinsley’s Heart & Soul blog,” Korine said. “One entry I read this morning could have been written by Judge Wadsworth’s wife. The woman describes being abused, feeling like a hostage, then being relieved that her husband had died.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“The screen name is anonymous.”
Hatcher made a clicking sound with his teeth. “Mrs. Wadsworth isn’t the only woman who’s fallen victim to domestic abuse. And she’s certainly smart enough not to put a confession on the Internet.”
“I realize that,” Korine said. “But since the body was left on the dock outside Tinsley’s residence, the killer may feel a connection with Tinsley.”
Good point. “If she posts something more concrete, we’ll have Cat try to figure out who she is.”
He veered onto the street leading to the Rostens’. They lived in Pooler, a small town near Savannah, in a wooded area that backed up to a creek.
The SUV bounced over a rut in the road, and he barreled down the drive, which ended at an outdated brick ranch. Winter had robbed the leaves off the trees, and the grass looked brittle and dry. Swampland backed up to the property. A rusted van sat in the drive, along with a small gray sedan.
“Tell me about Andi Rosten,” Hatcher said.
Korine wet her lips with her tongue. “Before the rape, she was a barista at a coffee shop and studying fashion design at SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design. Milburn came in for a latte every morning. She thought he was nice. Safe. He flirted with her. She . . . flirted back. She blamed herself for being a victim. Thought she’d invited his attention.”
Hatcher cursed. “A facade for the sick fuck inside.”
“Exactly.”
“Did she finish her degree?”
Korine shook her head. “After the attack, she was so traumatized she moved back with her parents.” Korine paused. “Maybe if her rapist was in prison, she’d finally be able to sleep at night. And maybe she could move past the attack and get her life back.”
He understood that need. He felt it about his wife’s killer.
He could use that to make a connection with Andi and hopefully convince her to talk.
Nerves gathered in Korine’s stomach as the door opened. Andi’s father, a thin, wiry man, answered the door.
“Hello, Mr. Rosten, my name is Special Agent Davenport.”
He snapped his fingers. “I know you. You worked Andi’s case.”
Korine nodded. “I did when I was with the police department.” She gestured toward Hatcher. “This is Special Agent McGee.”
His brows furrowed. “Are you going to put that son of a bitch who hurt my daughter in jail?”
“I wish I could, but we don’t have any new evidence at this point,” Korine said. “If you see him, call the police. He’s not allowed to come near Andi.”
“Fat lot of good a restraining order does,” the man grumbled. “I feel like Andi’s the one in jail.”
“I’m sorry.” Korine took a deep breath. “Is Andi here?”
The man pulled at his chin, a wary look in his eyes. “In the kitchen, having coffee with my wife.”
He motioned for them to follow him, and they walked through a modest family room to a kitchen that smelled of coffee and cinnamon. Korine bit back a gasp as she spotted Andi.
When Korine had first met the young woman, Andi was slightly plump. Now she looked like an empty shell. Her clothes hung on her skin-and-bones frame, her face was milky white with dark shadows beneath her eyes, and her hand trembled as she self-consciously smoothed tangled hair from her forehead.
Her mother, a chubby woman with short, curly brown hair, sat with her at the oak table. Mr. Rosten introduced his wife to Korine and Hatcher, then offered them coffee, but they both declined.
Korine crossed the room to Andi, leaned over, and greeted her with a warm smile.
Andi’s eyes widened. “What are you doing here? Do you have news? Did you catch him?”
The hope in her voice tore at Korine. She wanted to tell her that her rapist was locked up so Andi could feel safe again, but she couldn’t. “I’m afraid not.”
Hatcher cleared his throat. “Have you seen the morning news?”
The parents exchanged questioning looks, and Andi shook her head.
“There are too many gruesome stories,” Mr. Rosten said. “It upsets her.”
Korine’s throat thickened. “Judge Wadsworth was murdered Monday night.”
Andi’s eyes darted sideways, then back to Korine. “What happened?”
“We believe he was bludgeoned to death,” Hatcher said, intentionally omitting the details.
Mr. Rosten laid a protective hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “That’s unfortunate,” he said, although his voice lacked sincerity. “But what does it have to do with us?”
“We’re investigating his murder,” Hatcher said. “His ruling on the River Street Rapist case garnered media attention and controversy. We’re talking to everyone who knew the judge or had connections to his cases.”
Korine slipped into the chair beside Andi. “I understand this is difficult. You were brave to testify against your attacker.”
“Yes, she was,” Mr. Rosten said. “So were those other women. That damned prosecutor promised it would be worth it, but my daughter suffered through all that for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing,” Mrs. Rosten cut in. “The counselor insisted that standing up to her attacker was cathartic.”
“If you want me to say I’m sorry the judge is dead, I can’t,” Andi said. “Because of him, that sadistic monster who raped me is free to do it to someone else.”
Korine gave her a concerned look. “Has Milburn contacted you?”
Andi shook her head. “Not yet, but he will.” She shivered. “He always keeps his promises. I learned that the hard way.”
“I understand your bitterness toward the judge,” Hatcher said. “Last year my wife was murdered by a suspect I was hunting down. I wanted that bastard to pay with his life. I’m sure you felt that way about Milburn. And maybe even Judge Wadsworth.”
Andi’s eyes flickered with emotions. Then anger and hurt at the implication of Hatcher’s statement registered. “My God, you think I had something to do with his death?”
“I can’t believe you’re treating my daughter like a criminal,” Mr. Rosten snapped.
Andi started to speak, but her father squeezed her shoulder to quiet her. “We’d like to see Milburn dead,” Mr. Rosten said. “But we didn’t murder the judge or anyone else.”
“You said it happened Monday night,” Mrs. Rosten cut in. “We were all here. I made lasagna, and we watched a movie together.”
Mr. Rosten’s face hardened. “I think you should leave now. My daughter has suffered enough.”
“I’m sorry, Andi,” Korine said. “We didn’t mean to imply that you did this. But we have to talk to everyone associated with the judge.”
Mrs. Rosten stood, hands clasped. “Well, you have. Now leave us alone.”
Korine gave Andi a compassionate look, but Andi averted her gaze as if Korine had crossed a line and she’d lost the woman’s trust.
Korine couldn’t leave things like that. She pressed her hand over her heart. “I wasn’t judging you. I told you about my father being murdered when I was a little girl. Not a day has passed that I haven’t thought about finding his killer and making him pay.” Her pulse hammered. “If you had wanted revenge, I’d understand.”
“I told you that we were all here together Monday night,” Mrs. Rosten said sharply. “In fact, Andi hasn’t been outside this house by herself since the trial. So take your suspicions somewhere else.”
Korine bit back a response. She couldn’t blame the woman for being upset. Watching her daughter suffer must be excruciating.
“One more question,” Hatcher asked. “Do you know Tinsley Jensen?”
A puzzled expression stretched across the parents’ faces.
“No,” Andi said quickly.
“She was a victim—abducted by the Skull. You may have seen the story on the news,” Hatcher said.
“I told you we don’t let her watch the news,” Mr. Rosten said.
Korine ignored him. “Tinsley started a blog—Heart & Soul—where she talks about how she felt during her abduction. She encourages other victims of violence to share their stories. It’s as much a support group as anything.”
Andi knotted her hands.
A tense second passed.
Korine gave her an imploring look. “You might benefit from reading Ms. Jensen’s posts and communicating with some of the other victims.”
Mrs. Rosten glared at Korine. “The last thing my daughter needs is to hear more gory stories about women who’ve been violated. Now please leave. Our family needs time alone.”
Korine bit the inside of her cheek as Mr. Rosten escorted them to the door and yelled at them not to come back.