CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Fear wound Korine’s stomach into a knot as she raced toward her mother’s house. Hatcher insisted on going with her, and she didn’t argue.
She might need his help.
Esme had known about her daughter’s abuse when she’d come to work for the family. She’d accepted money from Korine’s mother to pay for counseling for Cat—Belinda.
Had her mother known who Esme was when they’d hired her?
Had Esme come to work for them to seek revenge against Korine’s mother?
Hatcher slipped his hand over her shoulder and squeezed it gently. “It’s going to be okay.”
She slanted him a dark look. “Not if Esme hurts my mother or Wyatt. I can’t believe she’s been living in my mother’s house all these years and I didn’t know her history.”
“Did you know she had a daughter?”
A memory surfaced. One Christmas when Korine balked at the Christmas tree and Esme had helped her mother decorate, Esme had talked about how much her daughter had once loved the sparkly ornaments. “Esme said she’d lost her daughter, so I assumed she’d died.”
There were so many secrets and lies in her family. Her heart ached. Esme’s relationship with them was all born from deceit.
Her stomach churned as she roared down the drive to her mother’s house. Hatcher called Wyatt again, but he didn’t answer, raising her anxiety.
What if they were too late?
Hatcher didn’t like the fact that Wyatt wasn’t answering. His former partner was a trained, seasoned agent. He knew how to handle himself.
But he’d been injured and was healing, and he could have walked into a damn trap orchestrated by Cat and her mother.
There was nothing a mother wouldn’t do for her child. Korine’s mother had killed her husband to keep Korine from being molested. Esme may have blamed herself for her daughter’s abuse, may have been guilt ridden when the counseling didn’t repair the damage.
May have hated the Davenports, who’d paid her to keep quiet.
She might have even blamed Korine because she escaped without being harmed while her own daughter suffered.
Korine barreled down the drive, trees and bushes flying by. Hatcher checked his weapon and scanned the property, looking for trouble. Wyatt’s SUV was parked in front of the house. Empty. He had to be inside.
Korine threw the car into park, then jumped out, her hand sliding over her weapon as if to make sure it was still there. Hatcher followed, the two of them pausing on the front stoop to listen.
Voices echoed from inside. A cry.
Korine eased the door open and peered in to the entryway. Another cry. Upstairs.
She inched inside. He stayed close on her heels, gun at the ready.
Korine held her breath as she started up the stairs. A sob wrenched the air. Her mother.
Then Wyatt’s voice. “Put down the gun, please.”
Korine slowly removed her weapon from her holster, then motioned to Hatcher that she was going up. Yet her mind kept going back to Cat.
Cat’s law-enforcement training taught her not to leave evidence behind. She could have interfered with forensic evidence by hacking into the lab and altering results. She could have rerouted the posts on the blog to cover for herself. And that Facebook Live post she’d claimed came from her mother’s house—Cat had lied about that, too. She had set up the post.
She’d also pointed them in the direction of the four other women to take focus off herself. And she’d probably slipped into Bellamy’s room and drugged him. But why go after Bellamy? Had he somehow caught on to who she was and what she was doing?
Hatcher eased up the stairs behind her.
“Just set the gun on the floor.” Wyatt’s voice echoed from inside the bedroom.
Voices, her mother’s and Esme’s, then scuffling.
A shot blasted the air.
Fear gripped Korine, and she hastily climbed the remaining steps and rushed to her mother’s bedroom doorway.
She swung her gun up, ready to fire, but instead of Esme holding the gun on her mother, her mother had the gun. Korine froze, assessing the situation.
Esme was perched in the wing chair, crying, while Wyatt was trying to convince her mother to relinquish the weapon. “She’s okay,” Esme said. “She had a nightmare and found that gun again. She wanted me to get rid of it, but it went off.”
“Mother, let him have the gun,” Korine said firmly.
“I had to stop him from touching those sweet little girls.”
“Your husband can’t hurt anyone else,” Esme said through her tears. “You took care of that a long time ago.”
Wyatt eased the gun out of her mother’s hand. Her mother cried out and began to wail.
Korine’s heart ached. Her mother was going to need therapy now.
Slowly she inched toward Esme. She couldn’t let down her guard yet. “Esme, your daughter . . .”
More tears flooded Esme’s eyes. “I know, I’m sorry . . . so sorry, all my fault.”
Korine did a quick visual check. Esme had no gun, so Korine knelt in front of her and tucked her own weapon in her holster. “It wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t my mother’s. She didn’t know what my father was doing until that night. I’m just sorry that he hurt your daughter.”
“She never could move past it,” Esme said. “I did everything I could to help her, but she hated me.”
“She needs intensive therapy,” Korine said. “We’re going to get her help, I promise.”
Esme nodded miserably. “She did something tonight, didn’t she? She tried to hurt you?”
Korine murmured yes. “I’m so sorry, Esme.”
“Where is she?” Esme asked. “Is she . . .”
“She isn’t hurt,” Korine said quickly. “But we had to arrest her. One of our detectives drove her to the police station.”
Esme’s face wilted even more. “She was the vigilante killer, wasn’t she?”
Korine nodded.
“I was afraid it was her, but I didn’t want to believe it,” Esme said, her voice filled with tears.
“Why did you come to stay here with Mother?” Korine asked.
Esme clasped her hands together. “At first I hated your mama and your father, but when Belinda was little, your mother came to see me. She told me she shot him so he wouldn’t hurt anyone else.” Esme shrugged. “How could I hate her then? She killed her own husband to protect you and because she was sick about what he’d done to my little girl.”
Korine glanced at her mother, who was perched on the side of the bed now, looking miserable but calmer than she had in a long time. Wyatt stood beside Korine’s mother, his expression neutral, while Hatcher watched quietly, his big body poised to protect her if necessary.
Esme didn’t appear to be dangerous, though. She was heartsick but not a threat.
“She gave you money?” Korine asked, a trace of bitterness in her tone.
Esme nodded. “Not to buy my silence like Belinda thought. To help me pay for counseling for Belinda. She needed it. She had nightmares and . . . she hated people. Hated to be touched. Hated to have me hug her. Hated everyone.”
Korine snagged a tissue from the box on the side table and slipped it into Esme’s hand.
“The counselor said she had a psychotic break,” Esme said on a whimper. “The doctor gave her medication, but the pills either knocked her out or made her sick. Last year, I thought they’d finally gotten her stabilized. She told me she had a good job, and I thought she was happy.”
“Then what happened?” Korine asked.
“When those inmates were released, she became paranoid again. She stopped taking her medication. She was following the news, upset about the River Street Rapist trial and that other woman.”
“Tinsley Jensen,” Korine said.
Esme nodded. “She saw the story about her, and she found her blog and read all those women’s stories, and she became obsessive. All she talked about was getting justice.”
“I can imagine how much the victims’ stories upset her,” Korine said softly.
“She came here one night to confront your mama, but your mama was having a bad day and it didn’t go well. Belinda laughed and said your mother got what she deserved, but I told her your mama tried to make up for what her husband did, and it was time to forgive.”
“She couldn’t forgive, could she?” Korine asked.
Esme shook her head, more tears filling her eyes. “She had so much hate inside her. It was eating her up.”
Compassion for Belinda/Cat overcame Korine. Yet an image of Hatcher tied to that chair surfaced, a reminder the woman was dangerous and needed to be locked up. At least for now.
“I’m so sorry, Esme. That had to have torn you up. Did you . . . want revenge, too?”
Esme dabbed her eyes with the soggy tissue. “At first, I thought about getting back at your mother. But then I saw the pain she was in, and I heard her crying at night and saw how lost your brother was, and I realized your mama was a victim, too. So were you and Kenny.” She drew in a deep breath. “It was odd, but . . . that awful tragedy brought us together.” She fidgeted. “Your mama and I were the same—two mamas wanting to protect our babies. I thought I was doing right by Belinda by keeping quiet. I figured your father was dead and telling the world would only bring attention to Belinda. I didn’t want her growing up in the public eye, with people and teachers and other kids gossiping.”
Korine gave Esme a sympathetic look. No child deserved that kind of life.
Yet keeping quiet had driven Belinda’s shame deeper.
The depth of Esme’s compassion made Korine’s heart well with love and admiration for her.
Korine pulled her into a hug. Esme hugged her back, and Korine soothed her while she cried.
Hatcher wanted to take Korine home, but she insisted on staying with Esme and her mother for a while.
The officer guarding Bellamy called with news that Bellamy had regained consciousness.
Hatcher and Wyatt rushed to the hospital, then to Bellamy’s room. The young man was awake, propped up with two pillows. He still looked pale, but he was sipping water.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Hatcher asked.
Bellamy pushed the cup of broth they’d brought him away, uneaten. “The past few weeks I sensed something was off with Cat. We went out a couple of times, but she didn’t want me to touch her. When those prisoners were released, she was irate. She was always ranting about justice and how often it failed.”
Wyatt leaned on his cane. “Go on.”
Bellamy rubbed a hand over his face. “The night the judge was murdered, we were supposed to have dinner. But she stood me up. I went by her place, and she acted strange. She seemed agitated and didn’t want to talk, so I left her alone.” He hesitated. “The night Hortman was killed, she showed up with a pizza. She looked kind of wild-eyed, like she was high. I noticed blood on her shirt, but she said she’d cut her finger.” Bellamy fidgeted with the sheet. “Later I realized that the lab result on the blood I collected from Hortman’s car wasn’t right.”
“What do you mean?” Wyatt asked.
“There were two samples,” Bellamy said. “I logged them in myself. But the report showed only one. I saw Cat leaving the lab, and I asked her about it. She got really pissed off. Then I started thinking about the things she’d said, the way she tracked down those blog comments so quickly. I know she’s a computer whiz, but that’s not easy to do. I wanted to ask her how she did it, so I went by her place again, but she wasn’t home.” Bellamy pressed a hand over his chest as if it hurt. “A window was open, so I went in.”
“What did you find?” Hatcher asked.
“Broken doll faces in the living room,” Bellamy said. “I didn’t know what that was about but remembered those at Korine’s, and I realized something was way off.” He leaned his head back against the pillow. “Then I found files on Cat’s desk. There were pictures of all three murders, the judge, that child molester, the driver’s ed teacher.”
Hatcher folded his arms. “She took crime photos from the scene?”
Bellamy shook his head. “These shots were taken before the police arrived. The men were still alive, but they were tied up, pleading for their lives.”
Hatcher shook his head in disgust. “Trophies. She wanted to relive the crimes.”
Bellamy’s face went ashen. “Then I opened the drawer, and there they were.”
“What?” Wyatt asked.
“The murder weapons. The gavel she used on the judge. The bloody knife she used on Whiting.” He scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “The hatchet she used on Hortman.”