CHAPTER NINETEEN
Korine thanked the doctor for sedating her mother, then kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’ll take care of Kenny. Don’t worry.”
Her mother might not be happy with how she intended to handle the situation, but Kenny needed tough love, not coddling. She wasn’t his parent, but she was the only one left to fill that role.
Hatcher had faded into the woodwork, but he’d witnessed enough to understand the gist of their dysfunctional family.
And the fact that she had no control over the situation.
The CD was still playing “I Feel Pretty” as she descended the steps, as if her mother had put it on auto repeat.
Esme looked shaken but was cleaning the kitchen and greeted her with a tentative smile. “Do you want dinner? I made shrimp and grits for your mother, but the doctor said she’ll probably sleep all night.”
“I couldn’t eat right now.” Korine’s stomach was churning. “Put it in the fridge for later. Maybe Mom will wake up and feel better tomorrow.”
Esme covered the casserole dish with foil. “I’m sorry I had to call, but when Kenny phoned, she became hysterical.”
Korine gave the little woman a hug. “You don’t have to apologize for calling me, Esme. She’s my mother. I appreciate everything you do for her. You’re a godsend.”
Esme wiped at her eyes. “I wish I could do more.”
Korine’s chest clenched. “You’re there for her and me. I can’t thank you enough for that.”
Esme nodded, and Korine clicked off the CD. “She seems to be playing that a lot.”
“I know.” Esme frowned. “It’s like she’s obsessed with it. It must bring back good memories for her.”
And sad ones for Korine. Every time she heard the music, she had a flashback of that horrible night, of the door squeaking open and the glint of metal. Then the sound of the gunshots and blood splattering across her father’s shirt as he began to stagger . . .
“Korine?” Hatcher’s gruff voice jerked her from the troubling thoughts. “Do you need to stay here tonight?”
Korine shook her head. Her mother found the house comforting, but it was the opposite for Korine. She hadn’t slept here in years.
Esme squeezed her hand. “Go home and get some rest. I’ll call you if we need anything.”
Relief filled Korine. As much as she hated leaving Esme, she needed to escape. Being in the house, listening to that song, and hearing her mother’s screams resurrected her childhood trauma.
Guilt followed the relief, but she shoved it aside. She had to stay strong. Survive. So she could take care of everyone else.
“Thanks, Esme.” She turned to Hatcher. “You can drive me home if you don’t mind.”
Like a seasoned agent, he was watching her, dissecting her. She felt vulnerable. And she didn’t like it.
She averted her gaze as they walked to his SUV.
The few minutes alone with Esme while Korine sat by her mother’s side with the doctor offered Hatcher insight into Korine’s family situation.
Esme had filled him in on the brother. He was nine when their father was murdered. Korine had been five.
After that, Kenny had become sullen, angry, and developed emotional problems that led to drinking and drug use.
Sympathy for Korine filled him. She’d acted tough, but he’d seen the pain in her eyes.
Although Esme hadn’t worked for the family at the time of Mr. Davenport’s murder, she claimed that Mrs. Davenport had always raved about how close Korine and her father had been.
His stomach growled, a reminder that they’d worked nonstop all day and hadn’t eaten. “Let’s grab dinner.”
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“You have to eat, Korine,” he said as he maneuvered through Savannah.
“I just want to go home,” she said, her tone short. “I’ll look over the case notes and figure out our next move.”
For some reason, he didn’t want to leave her alone.
A dangerous thought, but he could no more help it than he could have resisted sleeping with her that night after training.
“We can pick up takeout, carry it to your place, and hash over the case together.” Work would deter any sexual activity.
She glanced at him, then out the window. “Let’s go our own way tonight, then meet up tomorrow and compare notes.”
He gripped the steering wheel with clammy hands. She was right not to invite him inside, but he still wanted to be near her. Make sure she really was okay. Hold her and comfort her and take away her pain . . .
Hell, he could not do that. One touch and he’d kiss her senseless and beg her to let him stay.
Not a good idea.
Storm clouds hovered in the sky, casting a gray blanket over the dark night. He pulled in front of her house and parked, then let the engine idle, hoping she’d change her mind.
Instead, she climbed from the SUV.
He couldn’t help himself. He followed her to the door.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said as she fumbled with her keys.
She really wanted to get away from him. Which, dammit, made his urge to stay even stronger.
She dropped the keys, and he stooped and snatched them, then jammed them in the lock.
“I can do it myself,” she snapped as she shoved his hand away.
He held up his hands in submission, then saw tears blurring her eyes, and emotions sucker punched him.
He didn’t want to get involved. Didn’t want to care.
But he couldn’t stop himself. He gently touched her arm.
“You don’t have to be so tough,” he murmured.
Her body quivered. “People depend on me.”
“Your mother’s depression sucks, but she has no right to expect you to save your brother.”
“They’re my family, Hatcher,” she said in a strained voice. “I owe them.”
He wrapped his arms around her and drew her to him. Anxiety tightened every cell in her body. He rubbed her back to relax her. “I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. “I could stay or . . . you could call a friend.”
She released a cynical laugh. “I’ve been too busy training and with Mother to have a social life.”
That sounded like his story. “Well, we’re partners now. I’ll do whatever you want to help.”
She leaned her head against him for a fraction of a second. Her body felt hot, shaky, needy. Or maybe that was his imagination.
His own responded anyway, aching to be closer to her. He closed his eyes, and images of her naked and panting below him teased his mind, her luscious red hair spilled across the pillow.
He lifted a strand of hair and swept it from her face, then she looked into his eyes. A blush stained her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with tears and something else . . . need? Desire?
His body hardened, his cock twitching.
Shit. He could not go there again.
He was just about to push away, but she did it first. “We’ll talk about the case tomorrow.”
A second later, she slammed the door, shutting him out.
He stood on the front stoop for a moment, drinking in the night air, wallowing in the lavender scent of her hair and the strength and vulnerability in her voice and body.
Korine Davenport was an interesting woman. Hardheaded and tough. A woman with problems. Baggage.
He had his own.
But the memory of her body against his taunted him as he drove home. He wanted her. Again. And again . . .
Korine locked the door, desperate to escape Hatcher.
The sound of music wafted to her, and she froze. Her music box . . . I feel pretty, oh, so pretty, so pretty and witty and bright . . .
Senses alert, she went very still. She’d left her music box on the mantel, but the music was coming from the back of the house . . .
Fear whispered against her neck, and she reached for her gun. Was someone inside?
She scanned the living room and kitchen, then eased into the hallway. The wood floor creaked as she walked, and she paused every few inches, listening for sounds of an intruder.
Nothing except the music.
She peered inside her bedroom first, then her bath. Nothing.
Breathing a little steadier, she stepped into her office. The music box sat on her desk, the ballerina twirling, the melody drowning out her own breathing.
She hadn’t left the music box in her office. And she certainly hadn’t left it open and playing.
Someone had been there.
She made a quick visual sweep but didn’t see anything else that was disturbed.
What the hell was going on? Why would someone come in and play the music box? And why leave it in her office?
Had someone been interested in her files?
She crossed the room and studied the wall. Snippets of cold cases covered a section, while another featured her father’s case.
She focused on the notes from the sheriff who’d investigated her father’s murder. Her mother’s statement. Kenny’s. Hers, although at five and having fallen in her father’s blood after watching him get shot, she’d been too traumatized to talk.
All the notes and pictures and files appeared to be intact.
For a brief second she considered filing a report about a break-in, but there was no threat here. No damage.
She’d look like a fool if she claimed someone had come in and messed with her childhood music box.
She rubbed her temple, then went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine, and sipped it while she fixed a grilled cheese sandwich and carried it to her desk.
But she couldn’t shake the sadness from being with her mother. It was almost as if she’d lost both of her parents the day her father died.
A memory floated into her consciousness: a summer day—hot, humid, the sun relentless. Fourth of July.
Her mother had packed a picnic lunch with fried chicken, homemade buttermilk biscuits, fried peach pies, and fruit cups. Kenny had been so excited he’d grabbed his fishing rod and hat, eager to spend the day fishing off the pontoon boat their father had rented.
They swam in the river, floated on inner tubes, and picnicked beneath a giant oak tree. Her mother had fallen asleep on the picnic blanket, reading a book.
The wind stirred again, launching her back to that scene.
Kenny baited his hook. “I’m gonna catch our dinner.”
She laughed. “Mama brought chicken just in case.”
Kenny stuck his tongue out at her, then cast the line.
“Look, Daddy!” Kenny yelled.
Her daddy patted Kenny’s shoulder. “Do you want to fish, princess?”
She shivered. She didn’t like the squiggly worms. “No, I wanna swim.”
Her father laughed, then scooped her up and tossed her in the river. She squealed, and he dove under the water. She climbed on his shoulder. Time after time, he tossed her in the water. She made big splashes, then went under. Each time he ducked below to catch her.
They laughed and played, and she squealed and pumped her arms and legs, determined to learn to swim.
Finally, her arms and legs grew tired. They climbed out, and he carried her to the blanket, and she snuggled beside her mother.
Then he turned to look for Kenny.
But Kenny was gone. His fishing rod lay on the riverbank.
“Kenny!” Her father’s shout scared her. She sat up and scanned the area. No Kenny.
“Kenny, come here!” her daddy yelled.
Tears blurred her eyes. What if something had happened to Kenny? He was a good swimmer, but he could have fallen in, gotten swept up by the current, and dragged downstream.
If he’d hit his head, he could be dead.
Korine blinked, focusing again and trying to blot out the fear she’d felt that day. After an hour of searching, her father had found Kenny by the bait shop at the pier. He was furious with Kenny and grounded him for a week.
Kenny had been sullen and moody for weeks afterward.
Looking back, she realized Kenny had been jealous because he’d wanted his father to fish with him. Instead, he’d ignored Kenny and spent the day with her.
Kenny’s resentment of her grew from that day on. Whenever her father spent time with her, Kenny had done something to get his attention. He’d acted out. He’d snuck away from the house. He’d turned to friends who rebelled against their parents and upbringing.
Her father had become increasingly impatient with Kenny, while her mother defended and coddled him.
He was adult now, though—she couldn’t coddle him.
“I’m bailing you out one last time, Kenny,” she whispered. “But tomorrow you’re going to rehab.”
Decision made, she turned back to the two murder cases she and Hatcher were working. Tinsley Jensen had called in the first crime.
Whoever had left the judge near her cottage was making a point—that finally, justice was served. Not to the man who’d hurt Tinsley, but to the judge’s victims because he’d released a rapist.
Tinsley’s blog had drawn hundreds of comments. Maybe the killer had left her a message hidden among the posts.
Adrenaline surging through her, she Googled the blog and began to read. The first entry made the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
I clawed the wall to mark the days I had been held hostage here.
Seven so far.
At first I was strong and I fought him. I even challenged and goaded him. Called him less than a man.
He punished me for that. My skin was still raw from the cleansing. My body hurt from the beatings. My back burned from the whip.
I finally learned to keep my mouth shut.
Except for when I screamed.
He liked that sound. He laughed and taunted me. I tried to hold it in.
But as he drove whatever object he’d chosen to shove inside me to my core, I felt like I was splitting in two.
And the sobs and screams came. But even they could not drown out his breathing and his laughter . . .