Friday
Crooked Creek
Ellie had stared at the ceiling for hours when she’d finally crawled into bed, every muscle in her body aching. Derrick had insisted on sleeping on her couch, and she was so shaken she couldn’t even bring herself to argue.
She tossed and turned all night, questions railing through her head.
Hiram says hi.
Something didn’t feel right. The way the bodies were posed, the elaborate details of the graves, the painstaking way he dressed them in Sunday dresses—it read nothing like the violent, erratic crime scene they’d witnessed at Mrs. Holcomb’s house.
Or the animal-like way Vinny had attacked her.
Around 4 a.m. she finally collapsed into a deep sleep, but by seven she lurched awake to the sound of footsteps in her den. For a brief moment, she thought there was an intruder, until she remembered Derrick had stayed over.
The scent of coffee drifted to her. Craving the rich pecan taste and desperate for a jolt of caffeine, she rose in her pjs and went to the kitchen. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she poured a cup into her favorite mug, savoring a long slow sip.
Derrick stood on her back deck, a mug in hand, staring into the expanse of woods behind her house. Morning sunlight struggled to peek through gray, unforgiving storm clouds overhead.
“Tornadoes are traveling across the southeast,” he murmured. “They might be headed this way.”
The past two weeks of sunny spring days had faded. She’d seen bad twisters in her day, entire neighborhoods flattened and wiped out. The mobile homes where Shondra lived didn’t stand a chance.
But a storm was the last of her worries at the moment.
Ellie rubbed her forehead, where a headache pulsed. Her cheek was throbbing.
The press hadn’t released the news that Holcomb was dead yet, that Ellie might have killed their last chance of finding Shondra. Guilt surfaced once more, that she had yet again failed her friend.
Derrick arched a brow. “Did you get any sleep?”
She shrugged. “A couple of hours. You?”
“The same.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Ellie said. “The crazed psychotic man I shot last night just doesn’t fit the profile of the killer. Like we said yesterday, if Vinny was part of this, he’s working with someone who is a planner, detail-oriented. Considering what you found last night at those chicken houses, we should search for priors involving men arrested for animal cruelty and dog fighting. This man may have transferred his behavior toward women.”
“My partner is already on it.”
Ellie nodded. Her boss had been right. As far as work went, she and Fox made decent partners.
“We should probably prepare for another press conference with Angelica,” Ellie said, dreading the onslaught she would get from the media. “I’ll grab a shower.”
Back inside, Ellie read a text Heath had just sent.
Have been digging into the mortuary angle. Did you know Ranger McClain grew up in the system? His foster father, Felix Finton, owned Finton’s Final Resting Home. His son Roy now runs the business. Two complaints filed against the father for desecrating female bodies but no convictions.
A chill splintered any semblance of calm Ellie felt. She knew more than anyone how much betrayal stung, and she didn’t want to hurt Cord any more than she already had. But she owed it to all the murdered women claimed by the Weekday Killer to chase it up––she had to.
And if nothing came of it, Cord wouldn’t have to know.
Her phone beeped with another text from Heath. The message took her breath away.
DNA results for the blood on the door at your house. Belonged to Deputy Eastwood.
Eighty-Six
Every time he thought he’d seen the worst of mankind, another sinister villain surfaced to show him an even sicker side. And this one had them chasing their tails.
Derrick couldn’t erase the images of those dogs from his mind. They had been brutally abused, but a call to the vet assured him that physically, at least, the dogs would survive.
A quick call to Dr. Whitefeather confirmed scarring on the victims’ necks was consistent with a dog collar used in training dogs to fight.
Ellie returned from the bedroom, freshly showered with her hair still damp. Compared to the stench of what he’d seen last night at that old farm, she smelled like sunshine and rosewater. The bruise on her face was stark, though, and the purple smudges beneath her eyes confirmed she had barely slept the last few days.
Neither one of them would until Shondra was found and the killer stopped.
“Heath texted with the DNA results from the blood on my door,” she said in a raw whisper. “It was Shondra’s.”
Derrick’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup. “I’m sorry, Ellie. But that doesn’t confirm that she’s dead.”
Her defeated, blank stare betrayed her disbelief.
A text from Bennett came through, and he skimmed it. “I just got the name of a possible person of interest—Karl Little, the brother of another Ghost victim. He was arrested for animal cruelty and dog fighting a couple of times but keeps cropping up in different locations and starting all over again.”
“Interesting,” Ellie said. “I’m going to call the hospital and check on my mother. Then I’ll talk to Cord about ideas where this maniac might leave Friday’s child.”
He nodded, although he didn’t like it. His jaw was tense. “Are you sure you should be talking to him?”
“He knows more about the places along the trail than anyone I know.” Ellie’s brows pinched together. “We have to use all our resources.”
She was right. Time was running out, and they had to divide up tasks. If Shondra was still alive, one thing was certain: she didn’t have long left.
Four women had died already. He wanted to find the killer today, not another helpless victim. But his gut was churning with the fear that they were already too late.
Eighty-Seven
River’s Edge
“Go ahead, touch her body. Feel how cold her skin is.”
Cord stared at the dead girl, his stomach knotted. She was pretty––or at least she had been before death claimed her. Long glossy black hair hung over her shoulders. She was tiny, with big dark eyes and a heart-shaped face. She must have been beautiful when she smiled.
Just a teenager, like him.
But her face had been cut badly when she’d been thrown through the windshield of her boyfriend’s car, her body crunched between it and the tree where the crash happened. The boyfriend had been drinking. She hadn’t worn a seat belt. Now the boy sat in a jail cell for manslaughter while she lay in the prep room, waiting to be dressed for her burial.
Worse, the old man had sat with the mother and held her while she cried. Assured her he’d take care of her daughter.
“She was so young and sweet,” the mother had cried. “Why did God have to take her now?”
“It’s so hard when we lose a loved one,” the old man had said. “But we must have faith.”
She’d nodded and cried some more and he’d patted her hand and brought her coffee and then promised he would treat the daughter with special care.