Читать книгу: «A Breath Away»

A spine-tingling tale of love, betrayal and deadly small-town secrets….

VIOLET BAKER: beautiful, troubled…traumatized by her childhood friend’s murder

Haunted by ghosts from her past, Violet’s quest for answers, coupled with psychic visions of a serial killer and his victims, quickly puts her in danger.

Then the killer targets her as his next victim….

Although she is terrified of her growing desire for Grady Monroe, she is forced to turn to him for protection. But he is the one man who knows her terrible secret—that she is to blame for his sister’s death….

GRADY MONROE: sexy, vengeful, bitter…determined to solve his sister’s case

Plagued by guilt, this loner has never allowed a woman close. Then Violet Baker returns, stirring his passion with her sexy, vulnerable eyes, and heating his blood with lust. Her visions may lead him to the serial killer and his sister’s murderer, but he must guard his heart against falling in love….

THE BONE WHISTLER: twisted, ruthless…obsessive

This killer believes his ritualistic sacrifices are necessary for himself, the greater good…and for the glory of his Father.

Will his connection to Violet Baker lead her into his waiting hands, or will it lead to his own demise?

The answer is just A Breath Away….

Romantic Times raves about Rita Herron!

HER EYEWITNESS

“Rita Herron will grab your attention.”

SAVING HIS SON

“4 stars! Romance and suspense prove an awesome combination…Rita Herron produces a prime intrigue.”

SILENT SURRENDER

“The beauty of [this book] is the wonderful chemistry between [hero and heroine] and the emotional growth we see when they’re together.”

MEMORIES OF MEGAN

“[This] suspenseful tale will leave readers breathless with its unexpected twists and turns and characters caught up in a ruthless conspiracy.”

THE CRADLE MISSION

“An exciting and engaging read.”

MARRY ME, MADDIE

“An author to watch!”

A Breath Away
Rita Herron

MILLS & BOON

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To:

Karen Solem for believing in this story,

Tracy Farrell and Kim Nadelson for bringing it to print,

Carmen, Stephanie, Jennifer and Jenni

for your constant support,

and to my husband, Lee, for lending his expertise

in medical research to the sinister plot!

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

PROLOGUE

Crow’s Landing, Tennessee

“HELP ME….” Darlene’s whispery plea echoed inside eight-year-old Violet Baker’s head. “Please…s-somebody…help me.”

Violet wrapped her arms around her teddy bear, Bobo, rocking back and forth on her bed. Even though the thunderstorm raged outside, she’d heard Darlene’s terrified cries in her head all night. Poor Darlene hated storms.

A tree branch scraped the window, and lightning zigzagged across the black sky. Violet rubbed her fingers over her half of the Best Friends necklace Darlene had given her. Violet had a strange connection with Darlene. They’d had it since they were little. Probably because they were both motherless. Nobody in Crow’s Landing knew about their connection, though. It had been their little secret.

Until Violet had told her daddy.

He’d spanked her. Said if she claimed she heard things in her head, the whole dang town would think she was as mad as old Miss Laudy. Old Miss Laudy had ended up in a crazy house.

“Nobody needs to know what goes on behind closed doors,” her father had yelled. “And stay away from that family—them Monroes ain’t nothin’ but snobs.”

But Darlene Monroe wasn’t a snob. When kids at school teased Violet about wearing Goodwill clothes and standing in the free-lunch line, Darlene yelled at them to shut up. Darlene told Violet secrets and invited her to her playhouse, where they had tea parties. And they dressed up in Darlene’s mama’s old ball dresses and pretended they were princesses.

“Violet, p…lease. I’m…sca…” The whisper faded, as if Darlene was growing weaker. She was shivering and wet. Cold. All the way to her bones. The smell of a dead animal turned Violet’s stomach. There was muddy creek water. And blood.

She had to help Darlene!

She jumped off the bed and peered through the crack in the door. Grammy Baker sat in the old wooden chair in the den. Sheriff Tate stood beside her. His khaki uniform was splattered with mud. Darlene’s father, a big man with a woolly beard, paced back and forth, tugging at his chin. Darlene’s thirteen-year-old brother, Grady, stared at Violet’s door, his dark eyes hard and cold. Accusing. Violet lurched back as if he’d burned her. Did he know about the connection she and Darlene shared?

If he did, he knew she’d told her daddy where to hunt for Darlene. Violet was trying to help. She loved Darlene. Darlene was her best friend in the whole wide world.

Or maybe Grady knew it was her fault Darlene was missing. If she hadn’t begged Darlene to hurry over to see her new birthday bear, her friend wouldn’t have set off by herself. She’d have waited for Grady….

“You didn’t find her?” Violet’s father asked.

The sheriff shook his head. “We checked the old schoolhouse like you suggested, but weren’t nothing there.”

Oh, no. She’d made a mistake. She’d thought Darlene was at the schoolhouse because that’s where Darlene had wanted to be. Someplace safe.

But she wasn’t safe.

Images flashed like photographs in Violet’s mind. Dirty water gurgling. Copperheads and water moccasins slithering through the wet leaves. The smell of rotting wood. The well house out by Shanty Annie’s. Violet and Darlene had played around it before the scary old woman had run them off. What if Grammy was right about that old haint Soap Sally, who lived in the well? What if Soap Sally had dragged Darlene down inside?

Violet twisted the knob again, her nails biting into the cold metal. But the door didn’t budge.

Her daddy had locked her inside!

She swayed and clawed at the door until blood stained the wood. She felt Darlene’s pain. Darlene’s panic. Her lungs begging for air.

She was so cold and scared. She’d tried to be a big girl and not cry. But she couldn’t help it. He didn’t like her crying. He yelled at her to be quiet. Then he slapped her. She pressed a hand to her stinging cheek. He had big hands. And mean eyes. She wanted her mommy, but her mommy was dead….

Footsteps clattered as everyone went outside. Violet dragged herself to the window and tried to yell, but her throat closed. Someone was choking Darlene!

She had to stop him. Get the sheriff. But Grady, his father and the sheriff climbed into the police car and roared down the graveled drive.

“Stop!” Violet screamed.

They couldn’t hear her. Mud and gravel spewed behind them. Violet collapsed on her knees on the wood floor, heaving for air. Her father wrenched open the door. She lunged forward, gasping. “Tell them, look at Shanty Annie’s. T-tell them, Daddy. Soap Sally got her!”

Violet’s father dragged her to her feet. “There ain’t no such thing as Soap Sally. That’s a stupid legend your grammy told you to keep you from the well. Now hush.” He shook her so hard her teeth rattled. Bobo skittered across the floor. “I told you not to go around talking crazy like this—it’s evil that’s got inside you. Pure evil.” He turned black eyes on her grammy. “Pack her things and get her out of here tonight. She can’t stay here no more.”

Grammy nodded. Her hands jerked as she yanked open the bureau drawer. Then she stuffed handfuls of Violet’s clothes in a duffel bag as if she feared the devil himself would swoop down and take Violet straight to hell.

Violet’s daddy hauled her to the rusty Ford station wagon. She begged him to stop, but he shoved her inside and slammed the door.

Violet beat on the glass. “Daddy, please tell them Shanty Annie’s. Save Darlene….”

But he walked away from her. Grammy climbed in, started the engine, then threw the car into gear and tore off. Violet pressed her face against the door, sobs racking her body. Rain pounded the hood and the wind howled, bowing trees and shrubs. The car bounced over a pothole, jarring her head against the window. The house disappeared from sight. Just as they rounded the corner near the sweet gum tree, the voices in Violet’s head suddenly quieted.

Another image flashed there.

Darlene. Lying still on the ground. Dead leaves, soggy red clay beneath her. Rain splattered her colorless face. Her eyes were wide open in terror.

Cold. She was so cold. As if ice had frozen her veins.

A screeching sound echoed behind her—the whine of a harmonica.

No, a horrible sound. The whistle of wind blowing through something else. Something Violet didn’t recognize. Maybe bone.

She doubled over and reached for Bobo. But she’d left him behind. She’d lost him, too. How could she go on?

Maybe her daddy was right. Maybe she was evil. Maybe that was the reason Darlene had been taken.

Tears gushed out and poured down Violet’s face. She would never forgive herself or her father.

It was too late for Darlene….

CHAPTER ONE

Twenty Years Later

HE HAD COME BACK to get her. She heard the sound, breath against bone….

Violet bolted upright from a dead sleep and searched the darkness. She’d known this day would come. That he’d find her and kill her just as he had Darlene.

Shadows from the room clawed at her. A reedy, whistling sound rippled in her ears. What was it? An animal crying? No, it was lower, softer but sharp.

Almost like…like the sound she’d heard the night Darlene died.

Had the sound been in her dreams or was someone really outside this time?

She flicked on the fringed lamp, searching the room, angry that she still hadn’t conquered her fear of the dark. Or storms. She had dreamed of Darlene’s death a thousand times over the years. And that noise—she’d heard it before, too.

But never like this.

Not like it was right outside, coming nearer.

And this dream was different. In her earlier nightmares, Darlene had remained the same sweet, red-haired child. This time the victim had been a woman. What did it mean? Was the evil back? Was it inside Violet?

Or was her subconscious aging Darlene so she could see what her friend might have looked like if she’d lived? Violet dropped her head into her hands. Or maybe her grief and guilt had finally robbed her senseless, and she’d lost her mind.

Outside, ocean waves crashed against the Savannah shore. The wind howled off the coast, rain splattering against the roof of the cottage she and her grandmother had rented a few months ago when they’d moved to Tybee Island.

The wind had seeped through the thin panes and weathered wood, causing the whistling sound. That was the logical explanation.

The only explanation.

Sweat-soaked and shaking, Violet tugged the quilt around her legs. The clock chimed midnight. The steady crashing of the waves faded into a hypnotic drone. But her heart pounded in her chest like ancient Indian war drums. The last time she’d had a psychic vision or heard voices in her head had been twenty years ago. The day her father had sent her away. The day her best friend had died.

It couldn’t be happening again.

Although a few times in a crowded room she’d experienced strange sensations—odd snippets of a stranger’s voice whispering in her head—she’d written them off as her overactive imagination. And on a date in Charleston, she’d sensed something dangerous about the man. It was almost as if she’d met him before. As if he’d known more about her than he was telling.

She tossed aside the covers and padded barefoot across the braided rug, then stared through the windowpane at the moonless night. Her fingers toyed with her half of the Best Friends necklace she had shared with Darlene. The rain and fog rolling off the shore obliterated the normally crystal images of the cove and the constellations. Ominous shadows tore at her self-control. It was almost as if someone was watching her.

As if the past had returned to haunt her.

No. Tomorrow marked the twentieth anniversary of Darlene’s death. Thoughts of Darlene always dominated Violet’s mind at this time of year. Like an obsession that grew stronger, the incessant guilt dogged her like a demon.

Yet as she looked into the inky sky, fear snaked through her and she sensed that it was only the beginning. That just as the tides changed in the ocean, they were about to change in her life.

Just like everything had changed that horrible day when she was eight years old, and she’d stood by and let her best friend die.

“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT this morning, dear?” With gnarled fingers Violet’s grandmother gripped the coffee cup painted with magnolia blossoms, and slid into a kitchen chair. “You look tired.”

Violet shrugged, pushing away her half-eaten piece of dried toast. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Having nightmares again?”

She nodded, her gaze straying to the rain still drizzling in soft sheets onto the beach sand outside. “It’s that time of year, I suppose.”

Sympathy lined her grandmother’s face. “I know it’s hard, Violet. Try not to dwell on the past, though.”

Violet nodded, resigned. She wouldn’t upset her grandmother by confessing about the voices. She was twenty-eight now, independent and strong. She’d even invested in a gift shop in downtown Savannah, Strictly Southern, determined to plant roots and build a life here. She’d save some money, buy this cabin and fix it up for herself and her grandmother. In fact, she’d already mapped out the first decorating plans: she’d paint the fading, chipped walls yellow; sew some frilly curtains; add a window seat by the bay window so she could bask in the sunlight there to read and draw.

And maybe she would finally escape the ghosts. “I’m going to the shop for a while. Do you need anything?”

Her grandmother pointed to the list on the butcher block counter. “Thanks, dear. I hate that I can’t get about like I used to.”

“You’re doing fine, Grammy.” Violet patted her hand, then scraped the dry toast into the trash, a twinge of anxiety pulling at her. The doctor had cautioned Violet about her grandmother’s high blood pressure and irregular heartbeat. Occasionally she suffered memory lapses, and her arthritis was becoming more of a problem.

At one time, Violet had told her grandmother everything. Had shared her fears, all her nightmares, the bitter sense of loss that had eaten at her over the years when her father had never called or visited.

“Maybe you’ll find a nice young man here in Savannah,” Grammy said with a teasing smile. “Get married, make me some great-grandbabies.”

“Maybe.” Violet feigned a smile for her grandmother’s benefit, although she didn’t foresee marriage or a man in her near future. If her own father hadn’t loved her, how could someone else? Besides, her failures with men were too many to count. The psychologist she’d finally spoken with about her phobia of the dark had suggested she was punishing herself for Darlene’s death by denying her own happiness. So she had forced herself to accept a few dates.

But Donald Irving, the man in Charleston, had given her the creeps. When she’d refused to see him again, he started showing up at odd times, calling at all hours of the night. Then the hangup calls…

Her grandmother had become so distraught, Violet had finally agreed to move.

Violet had no plans for marriage or men. She had been a loner most of her life.

And she probably always would be.

“Oh, my goodness.” Her grandmother paled. “Did you see this, Violet?”

Violet leaned over her shoulder and stared at the newspaper, her stomach knotting at the headlines.

Twenty-five-year-old Woman from Savannah College of Art & Design Reported Missing. Police Suspect Foul Play.

GRADY MONROE STACKED the files on his desk, wishing he could rearrange his attitude and life as easily. He traced a finger over the edge of Darlene’s photo. She’d been so damn young and innocent, just a freckled-faced kid with a heart-shaped face, who’d liked everyone. And trusted them.

But she’d died a violent death.

He pressed the pencil down to scribble the date on the file, his gaze shooting to the desk calendar. The pencil point broke. The date stared back at him, daring him to forget it, the red circle around the fifteenth a staunch reminder of the reason he couldn’t.

The single reason he’d studied law himself. Only so far he had no clue as to who had committed the vile crime or how the killer had eluded the police for two decades. The police referred to it as a cold case—a dead file.

The file would never be shut until he found his half sister’s killer.

Jamming the pencil in the electric sharpener, he mentally sorted through the recent cases on his desk. Crow’s Landing had the usual small-town upheavals. Traffic citations. Domestic crimes. A complaint against a stray dog that might be rabid. Not like crime in the big cities. A man murdered in Nashville two days ago. A drive-by shooting in an apartment complex in Atlanta. And this morning, reports of a woman missing in Savannah.

As if to mock him, the phone trilled. “Sheriff Monroe here.”

“Sheriff, this is Beula Simms.”

Oh, Lord. What now?

“Get out to Jed Baker’s house right away. Your daddy and Jed’s at it again.”

She didn’t have to say at what; Jed and Grady’s father had hated each other for years. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up and snagged the keys to his patrol car. A headache pounded at his skull, the painkillers he’d managed to swallow barely touching the incessant throbbing. He should have left off the tequila the night before, but the approaching anniversary of his half sister’s death always brought out his dark side, the destructive one.

And now this call.

Five minutes later, he screeched up the graveled drive to Baker’s clapboard house. His father and Baker were yelling at each other on the sagging front porch. Grady opened the squad car door and climbed out, although both men seemed oblivious that he’d arrived.

“You should have left town a long time ago.” His father waved a fist at Jed.

“I did what I had to do and so did you,” Jed yelled.

Grady’s father raised a Scotch bottle and downed another swallow, staggering backward and nearly falling off the porch. “But if we’d done things differently, my little girl might be alive. And so would my Teresa.”

“I know the guilt’s eatin’ at you, Walt.” Jed ran his hand through his sweaty, thinning hair. “We’ll both be burning in hell for keeping quiet.”

“Hell, I’ve been living there for years.”

“But you don’t get it—someone’s been asking around.” Jed’s voice sounded raw with panic. “Claims he’s a reporter.”

His father coughed. “You didn’t tell him anything, did you?”

“Hell, no, but I don’t like him asking questions. What are we gonna do?”

“Keep your goddamn mouth shut, that’s what.”

“I ain’t the one who wanted to blab years ago. And what if he gets to Violet?”

“It’s always about her. What about what I lost?” Walt lunged at Jed, ripping his plaid shirt and dragging them both to the floor. Jed fought back, and they tumbled down the stairs, wood splintering beneath them, before they crashed to the dirt.

The late evening heat blistered his back as Grady strode over to them. “Get up, Dad.” He yanked his father off Jed, and the other man rolled away, spitting out dry dirt and brittle grass.

Walt swung a fist at his son. “Leave us alone!”

Grady grabbed him by both arms and tried to shake some sense into him. “For God’s sake, Dad, do you want me to haul your ass to jail for the night?”

Jed swiped a handkerchief across his bloody nose and climbed onto the lowest step. Grady’s father wobbled backward, a trickle of blood seeping from his dust-coated lower lip.

Grady jerked a finger toward his vehicle. “Get in the damn car before I handcuff you.”

His father muttered an obscenity as Grady shoved him into the back seat. He slammed the door and glared at Baker. “Are you all right?

Jed merely grunted.

“You want to press charges?”

“No.”

Grady narrowed his eyes, wondering why Baker would allow his dad to assault him and get away with it. But as usual when the two men fought, neither Jed nor his father offered an explanation. Although this time the conversation had triggered more questions than usual.

It was senseless to ask, though. Something had happened years ago that had caused a permanent rift between the men. Something they refused to talk about.

Judging from their conversation, it had to do with Darlene.

And sooner or later, Grady was going to find out exactly what it was. Then maybe he’d figure out who had killed his sister.

A FEW MINUTES LATER, he pulled up to his dad’s house. The Georgian style two-story had once been impressive, almost stately with its front columns, but had deteriorated in the past twenty years from lack of upkeep. Paint peeled from the weathered boards, shingles had blown off the roof in the recent storm, and the columns needing painting. A sad testament to his father’s life. “You’d better stay put tonight, Dad,” Grady ordered.

His father staggered toward the den, his face ruddy with rage. “You should have left us alone.”

“Sleep it off, Dad.” Grady slammed the door and jogged to his car. Dammit, just as he’d expected, his father had clammed up, refusing to talk about his fight with Baker or offer an explanation.

His nerves shot, Grady reached for a cigarette, then remembered he’d quit smoking for the dozenth time this year. Rummaging through the papers littering the console, he grabbed a piece of Juicy Fruit gum and shoved it in his mouth instead. The shortest span without his Marlboros had been six days. The longest, six months.

He automatically veered toward the graveyard beside Crow’s Landing Church, the daisies he’d bought for his little sister’s grave a reminder of the reason he’d started smoking in the first place.

Darlene’s death.

Everything in his life could somehow be related to that one crucial event. And the fact that her killer had never been caught.

Twenty years ago today she had been kidnapped. Twenty years ago tomorrow, they had found her dead. He knew his father was in pain. Hell, so was he. Grady had lost his entire family that day.

He’d never forgive himself for it, either.

If only he hadn’t stopped to hang out with the boys…If he’d come straight home to watch Darlene, she wouldn’t have set off across the hollow by herself to see that little friend of hers, Violet. And she wouldn’t be dead.

The small graveyard loomed ahead, shadows of tombstones darkening with age. Some graves were littered with debris, others better tended, a few decorated with artificial flowers. The dank air and smell of freshly turned dirt from a new grave enveloped Grady as he forced his rubbery legs to carry him through the aisles of cement landmarks. It was almost midnight, the day of mourning upon him.

Night sounds surrounded him, plus the crunch of his boots, the snapping of twigs and leaves. He knelt and traced his finger over the curved lines of Darlene’s name carved in slick marble, then laid the flowers across the headstone, his gaze straying to her mother’s grave beside her. At least the two of them were together; he tried to take solace in that fact. God only knew where his own mother was. She might be dead for all he knew. His father refused to talk about her.

Grady reached into his pocket and removed the bag of marbles he’d purchased earlier at the Dollar General, fingering each colorful ball as he arranged them in a heart shape on top of the grassy mound. A streetlight in the distance illuminated the colors. A green one with swirls of gold flecks looked almost iridescent, like mother-of-pearl, the cascade of bright reds, oranges, purples and yellows a kaleidoscope of colors against the earth.

“Come on, Grady, play Barbie dolls with me.” Darlene’s childlike voice echoed in his mind. He automatically pressed a hand over his shirt pocket, where he always carried a green marble. He’d refused to play Barbie with her, though—he’d been too cool. So he’d tried to convince her to play marbles instead. She’d never taken to the game, but she had been enchanted with all the colors, and had started collecting marbles, calling them her jewels.

Damn, if he had it to do over again, he would suck it up and play dolls with her.

He could still picture her angelic little face as she lined her jewels up on the shelf above her bed, those lopsided red pigtails bobbing, the freckles dancing on her pug nose. “Look, Grady, I’m making a rainbow. The green one looks like my eyes. And this chocolate-brown one looks like yours, and this pretty blue one is like Violet’s. And look at this sparkly clear one! I can see through it, just like I can see right through Violet’s eyes sometimes.

Although he didn’t understand their friendship, Darlene had loved the homely Baker girl. He’d been shocked when Violet hadn’t attended the funeral. But Baker had claimed his daughter had had a breakdown, that he’d had to send her away. And as far as Grady knew, she’d never returned to Crow’s Landing. Maybe she’d totally forgotten Darlene.

His life might be different if he moved away, too. He might escape the constant reminders of his past. His father. And his guilt. But he didn’t want to escape.

He wanted revenge.

HE PACED AROUND AND around in a wide circle. The moonlight was bright, bright, bright. The light hurt his eyes. Hurt his eyes. Hurt his eyes. But the circle had to be complete.

He raised his arm and tore at the hairs. One, two, three.

No, stop it! he silently cried. He gripped the rocks, inhaling pungent, salty air and the delicious scent of death as he frenziedly twisted his hands over the jagged surface. Then he ground his palms so hard the pointed rocks tore at his skin. The first trickles of blood seeped from the cuts and dripped down his arms. He raised a fist to study the crisscrossed patterns where the streams of blood met, the angle they flowed across, and the thickening at the base of his hand. Snippets of the Cherokee language rolled through his head.

Gi’ga—blood, the force of life. The scarlet color stirred his loins. Excitement sang through his veins. I am the gi’ga-tsuha’li. One cut, two cuts, three—

No! He no longer thought in threes. One was his number.

Three was the first pattern. One for his mommy, one for his daddy and one for him.

Then he’d learned about another.

But that one had to die.

He imagined her sweet, baby lamb’s face with those big trusting eyes. That day he’d heard another voice in his head, ordering him to stop. He’d known there were more. Too many more. He had to make them all die.

Let them know he was the chosen one.

But his mommy and daddy found out what he’d done. He hadn’t been careful. No, he’d been stupid, so stupid, and they’d gotten angry. Finally they’d admitted it wasn’t his fault, then they’d called him their little angel. But after that, they’d kept him locked up at night. He despised being shut up. Hated the bare white walls. Had clawed them until blood streaked down, giving them color. Pretty crimson color.

His mommy needed him now, though. Oh, yes, yes, yes. He couldn’t let her down.

Laughter bubbled up inside him, erupting like blood bursting from an open vein. Like the dark red substance he drew from the sacrificial lambs before they died. Yes, he was the blood taker, the gi’ga-tsuha’li.

He was the good son. The only one who could save the father. And he wouldn’t stop until he did.

His favorite childhood song chimed in his head: “There was one, there were two, there were three little angels….”

Smiling to himself, he reversed the words. “There were ten, there were nine, there were eight little angels, there were seven, there were six, there were five little angels, there were four, there were three, there were two little angels, one little angel in the band.”

Yes, when it was over, there would be only one little angel left.

And it would be him.

CHAPTER TWO

“THERE WERE TEN, there were nine, there were eight little angels….”

The childish version of the old rhyme played in Violet’s head as she hurried to her shop the next day. It had been playing all night. Except, oddly, the song was playing backward.

Goose bumps skated up her arms, but she didn’t understand why. Probably because of the story about the missing woman, Amber Collins.

The story plagued her. Not that the reporter had mentioned angels or the song, but the girl’s disappearance had triggered paranoias Violet had struggled to overcome her entire life. One of them, that she would meet Darlene’s killer in a crowd and not recognize him. The other, that he knew she and Darlene had shared a connection, and that he would come hunting for her.

She searched the crowd. Was he here somewhere? Watching her? Had someone in town kidnapped the woman? Was one of them a rapist? A murderer?

Amber’s picture flashed through her head again. Light blond hair, green eyes. She was only twenty-five. Although Violet didn’t remember all her customers, she’d noticed this girl in the shop the day before. Amber had been especially friendly. Once she’d sampled the pecan pralines, she’d bought five tins, claiming she had a bad habit of eating late at night when she was studying. Violet had laughed because she used to do the same thing, her affinity for café mochas and Snickers bars costing her five pounds every exam week.

Shaking off the unsettling feeling that she and Amber would have become friends, Violet crossed the street, frowning at the driver of a black sedan who nearly skimmed her knees with his bumper as he raced through the stop sign. The scents of crawfish étouffée, shrimp and beer oozing from Tubby’s Tank House, and the rich aroma of chocolate from Carlotta’s Candy Shop, wafted around her. Unfortunately, the stale smell of too much partying and sweaty bodies lingered from the night before, as well, reminding Violet of the seedy side of Savannah nightlife. The side she avoided.

The clatter of glasses and the murmur of voices drifted through the balmy summer air, the sidewalk choked with early morning browsers. A couple of homeless men lay sleeping off their liquor in the trash-filled alley. Pigeons pecked along the Savannah River shoreline, searching for crumbs, the occasional blast of a ship’s horn startling them into a skitter. In contrast, the horse-drawn tourist carriages clip-clopped along, adding to the genteel historic atmosphere.

Her grandmother’s parting words rang in her ears: “Please be careful, Violet. Make sure no one is following you.” She’d shrugged off the warning, knowing her grandmother had been spooked by the report on the missing woman. But she couldn’t dismiss the reality that a madman might be stalking innocent women in Savannah.

GRADY DROVE THROUGH the town square, making his usual noon rounds, still contemplating the argument he’d heard between his father and Baker. Why was someone asking questions about a twenty-year-old murder? And why did his dad and Baker want to keep quiet? His father had claimed he wanted Darlene’s killer caught….

In fact, her unsolved murder had been an obsession with both Monroe males. The absence of Darlene at the dinner table had not only ended the family Sunday night dinner tradition, it had torn them apart completely. His dad had begun substituting liquor-for-one for the family meal. Booze and anger, a deadly combination that had grown worse over the years.

Grady had borne the brunt of his temper.

Because he was responsible.

The fact that he and Darlene hadn’t shared the same mother hadn’t made a difference to Grady; the guilt had been the same. And his father had never let him forget that he should have been home watching her the day she’d been kidnapped.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Grady scanned the streets, passing the hardware store, the small bookstore Serena James had opened last year, and the barbershop the Chutney couple manned together. He parked in front of the Redbud Café, cut the engine and headed inside.

The homey scents of fried chicken, meat loaf, green beans and apple pie floated through the ancient establishment. Adobe-colored tablecloths and curtains in turquoise matched the clay-colored laminate tops of the booths and tables. The pale yellow walls held a wide assortment of framed Indian arrowheads, spears and pipes, showcasing the owner, Laney Longhorse’s, penchant for preserving the history of the area. She loved reciting tales of the ancient customs, especially the religious tribal dances and traditions. Some of them were pretty damn eerie. As were those bone artifacts displayed on the wall. Her son, Joseph, collected them. Grady wondered if he’d found them or killed the animals first, then hung them to show off his hunting skills.

Kerry Cantrell, an attractive blonde a few years younger than him, offered a flirty smile and sauntered toward him. She’d been throwing out vibes for months. Maybe one day he’d ask her out. Then again, that would piss off Joseph Longhorse, who worked at the diner. The Native American had been chasing Kerry ever since she’d moved to Crow’s Landing. He already hated Grady, had since he was a child, although Grady didn’t know why. He’d actually tried to stand up for the kid one time, but Joseph had snarled that he didn’t want or need Grady’s help.

“Hey, Grady. Want some sweet potato pie with that coffee?” Or a piece of me, her eyes suggested.

“Pie sounds good.” He contemplated her silent offer. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman. They always wanted more than he could give.

She handed him the dessert, letting her fingers brush his knuckles. “Anything else you want, you just holler, sweetie.”

Joseph suddenly appeared through the back door, his shoulder-length black hair tied into a ponytail with a leather thong, his black eyes blazing fire at Grady. Shit, let the man have her. He sure as hell wasn’t getting into a fight over a woman. That close call with Luanne years ago had taught him better sense. No woman could understood his obsession with solving Darlene’s murder.

Besides, Kerry had that look about her that said she wanted the whole package.

“Kerry, can we get some service over here?” Bart Stancil, a crotchety old man who practically lived on the vinyl bar stool, flicked a wrinkled hand.

Kerry winked at Grady, then pranced toward Bart, coffeepot in hand.

Grady ate his pie in silence, studying the other regulars. Agnes Potts and Blanche Haney, two widow women who organized the Meals on Wheels program at the church, waved at him from their biscuits and hash browns, while a teenage couple cuddled in the corner, feeding each other ice cream sundaes.

Tate, the incompetent sheriff Grady had replaced a few months ago, folded his beefy body over a stool, glaring at him. Tate had bungled Darlene’s murder investigation years ago. Unfortunately, the man owned half the town and was now mayor, which meant Grady still had to work with him.

Mavis Dobbins and her son, Dwayne, claimed their usual corner booth. Dwayne was in his thirties now, but he’d had some sort of accident at age fourteen that had triggered a psychotic break. If Grady remembered correctly, the doctors diagnosed him as bipolar. He still lived with his mama. Dwayne laid out three sugar packets for his coffee, then ordered his usual—three eggs, three biscuits, three slices of bacon.

Grady pushed away the remaining pie, his stomach churning. Years ago, when Dwayne was sixteen, Grady’s dad had paid him to do yardwork. When Grady had noticed him watching Darlene, he’d threatened to beat him up if he touched her. He’d always wondered if Dwayne had something to do with Darlene’s disappearance.

The lunch crowd drifted in slowly, and Grady caught a sharp look from Ross Wheeler. The minister’s son, Wheeler was a former teacher who’d lost his job because of complaints of sexual misconduct from female students at the high school. Wheeler had denied the charges, and they’d finally been dropped, but his reputation as an educator had been ruined. Grady had been shocked when Wheeler stayed in Crow’s Landing. He still hadn’t decided whether the man had been guilty or victimized.

Grady tossed a few bills on the counter, nodding goodbye to Kerry as he walked to the door. Maybe he’d ride up and check out that rabid dog report. Not much else to do today.

Tonight he’d look over the files on Darlene’s case. One more time.

Outside, he noticed Laney Longhorse talking to his father. She turned in a huff, then gathered a group of Cherokee children into a circle. Her long gray braid swung around her shoulders as she spoke. “The power of the circle,” she said, crooked teeth shining. “Just as the sky is round, and the stars and the moon. The sun comes forth and goes down again in a circle. The seasons form a circle in their changing, always come back to where they were. The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves.”

Grady nodded, accustomed to her aphorisms, but Tate and a few of the other locals protested her storytelling, especially when she shared Native American folklore with the Caucasian kids. His father was watching her, too, a frown on his face. Odd how some of the town and the natives mixed, while others let prejudices fester like old sores. As did his dad and Baker.

Just as Grady reached his police car, the radio crackled. He pushed the respond button, but static rippled over the connection. He tapped the speaker, frustrated with the inadequate equipment. “Sheriff Monroe. Over.”

“Monroe…” More static. “Jim Logan here.” His deputy’s voice sounded raspy, as if he’d been running.

What’s up?”

“I’m out at Briar Ridge. You’d better get over here.”

“Trouble?”

“Definitely.” Logan paused. “We found a dead body over the cliff.”

AS VIOLET ENTERED Strictly Southern, she steered her mind toward business. Thankfully, tourists already crowded the gift shop. Children shrieked over the cheap souvenirs, women were gushing over the Savannah cookies and pecans, and teenagers were choosing colorful T-shirts of River Street and scenes from the movie Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.

“Am I glad to see you, dear,” Mrs. Guthrie chirped. “We’ve been busy as bees this morning. Just sold the last of those lovely notecards of yours.”

“Good.” Violet removed more notecards of Savannah sights from her bag and arranged them on the display. That steady work, plus her commissioned sketches of the town and historical buildings, had earned her a decent income in Charleston, where she’d lived before. When she’d moved to Savannah, she’d supplied the store with the same type of merchandise, and two weeks ago had bought the gift shop herself.

“These are wonderful,” Mrs. Guthrie exclaimed. “Would you paint a portrait of my granddaughter one day?”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t paint people,” Violet said softly. Especially children. To draw faces right she had to delve inside people’s heads. It was too personal. Too painful. Especially when Darlene’s face flashed into her mind.

“That’s too bad. I’m sure you’d do a beautiful job.” The woman fluttered a hand. “Damon sold the sketches you put in the art gallery. He said one customer wanted to talk to you about showing some of your pieces in Atlanta.”

Nerves sputtered in Violet’s stomach. “What did you tell him?”

“Don’t worry, hon. I know you like your privacy so I didn’t give him your address.” She removed a business card from her apron pocket. “He left this, though, and asked if you’d call him.”

“Sure.” Stuffing it in her pocket, she headed to her office, where she spent the afternoon ordering new stock. Around five, she picked up a pack of her grandmother’s favorite hickory coffee and shortbread cookies, then walked to the market.

A navy ship had docked on shore and dozens of tourists were lining up to take pictures of the seamen exiting. Violet breathed in the fresh, salty air, focusing on the children’s laughter from the park and the sounds of jazz music drifting from the riverbank.

Someone had tacked flyers on lampposts and bulletin boards with the missing girl’s picture and a full description. Violet studied one. Amber Collins was twenty-five, originally from Memphis, Tennessee. She had light blond hair, green eyes, was five feet nine inches tall and weighed approximately one hundred thirty pounds. She’d been last seen leaving her dorm room at the college, heading toward the library. She’d been wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt.

Violet hoped they found her alive. The coed was too young to die.

Taking a flyer for her store, she cut across the square, keeping her distance as she passed the graveyard near the parking lot where she’d parked her Civic. She hated cemeteries, had ever since her father had taken her to visit her mother’s grave when she was three. It had been a cold winter day in the mountains, and a bristly wind had rustled the bare branches of the trees, heavy with ice from a recent hailstorm. She’d dropped rose petals on the slab of marble, not knowing how to feel as she tried to picture the faceless woman who had died giving birth to her.

Although giant azaleas, neatly trimmed hedges and jonquils flanked the iron gates of this cemetery in Savannah, disguising the morbid interior, the hair on the back of Violet’s neck stood on end. Suddenly a whisper broke through the haze. “Help me.”

Violet hesitated, wheeled around to stare at the tombstones. She could almost see the ghosts of the dead in the sea of monuments. And she could have sworn someone had just called to her. A woman’s voice…

A storyteller from one of the walking ghost tours was spinning a tale for a group of tourists. Slowly, the faces and storyteller’s voice faded.

Dizzy, Violet stumbled toward a park bench and dropped onto it. She yanked at the neckline of her shirt as the voice whispered to her again. Images played in her head like an old movie trailer….

HE WAS WATCHING HER, playing out his sick twisted game, dancing around the fact that he was going to kill her with platitudes in that singsongy voice that had grated on her nerves for hours. He enjoyed seeing the terror in her eyes.

And she was helpless to stop from showing it.

She did not want to die.

His olive skin looked pale beneath the harsh fluorescent light. Bluish veins bulged in his arms as he stalked around her. She struggled against the bindings holding her down, but the drugs he’d given her were slowly paralyzing her limbs.

“Your blood is rich and thick, and in some ways perfect,” he murmured. “But you aren’t the one.”

His face loomed like some kind of distorted monster. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said in a soothing voice. “I wanted you to be it. I really did.”

She moaned and tried to scream, fighting to escape. But a gag captured the sound, and her movements were stilted and slow, only token gestures of the will to survive.

He brushed a tendril of her wiry, tear-soaked hair from her face. “You let me down.”

She shook her head violently, silently pleading for him to spare her. But anger darkened his already poisonous-looking eyes.

“It’s not my fault. Father needs you. But you can’t help us. Don’t you see that?” His voice grew edgier, his eyes like marbles cut from ice. “I’m doing it all for him. I shall pray for your soul, and the angels will carry you to heaven. We are all children under one blessed father.”

He ran a steady finger over the sharp end of a piece of bone he’d carved earlier. Then he slid the blade of a pocketknife along the jagged edge, scraping and shaving off more brittle bone. The rhythmic sound crawled over her skin. He scraped and whittled, painstaking in his task. Perspiration rolled down her breastbone as he held the bone up to the light and tested its smoothness. Then he raised it to his lips and began to blow.

“The tune of the bone whistle,” he said softly. “The song that tells the story of sacrifice. Pin peyeh obe, my sweetness. Then you must die.”

CHAPTER THREE

A MAN WAS DEAD. Was he a local or a tourist?

Grady flipped on the siren, tore from the Redbud Café and headed toward the ridge. Cutting across town, he took all the side streets because he didn’t want any of the nosy townsfolk following. They might interfere with an investigation. If one was required.

He doubted it. The victim was probably some unlucky vacationer who’d wandered too close to the edge and lost his balance.

The Great Smoky Mountains rose in front of him as he veered from town onto Route 5. He sped past run-down chicken houses and deserted farmland, through the valley, then steered onto Three Forks Road to wind up the mountain. Sweat beaded his forehead and he cranked down the window of the squad car, cursing the stifling summer heat and his broken air conditioner. Thick pines and hardwoods dotted the horizon; blinding sunlight reflected off the steaming asphalt. The smell of manure and wet grass filled the air. He shoved his hand through his hair, his throat tightening as it always did when he passed Flatbelly Hollow, where his little sister’s body had been found.

The Deer Crossing sign had been vandalized, he noticed, the stop sign from the side road leading to the fishing camp turned the wrong way. The latest graduating class’s graffiti defiled the rocky wall of the rising cliff. Moss flanked the embankment, icy water trickling down the rocks like a small waterfall. The air cooled as he navigated up the mountain, the curves so routine he could have driven them in his sleep. Shadows from the yellow pines cast a murky haze over the ground as he parked at Briar Ridge next to Logan’s squad car. Paramedics stood on the ledge, organizing the lift procedure.

Logan stalked toward Grady, his sunglasses shading his eyes. “I’ve already photographed the body and surrounding area.”

“Good.” Although Grady would take more photos as backup. He peered over the jagged ridge to assess the situation. The man’s body sprawled facedown on the ledge a few hundred feet below, his arms and legs twisted at awkward angles. Blood splattered the rocks around his head. He wore plain jeans and a ragged T-shirt, nothing outstanding to distinguish him from any other tourist or a local.

“How did you find him?”

“Hiker called in. He was taking pictures of the mountains and spotted him.”

“He still around?”

“Waiting in the car.” Logan cleared his throat. “Young kid. Poor guy’s pretty shook up.”

“Did you question him already?”

“Yeah, said he didn’t see any other cars around, hadn’t spotted a soul until he came to the ledge and found the body.”

Grady nodded and gestured toward the dead man. “You recognized him?”

“No.” Logan shoved an evidence bag holding a piece of paper toward Grady. “But I found this thumbtacked to that pine tree.”

Grady pulled on gloves, then removed the note and unfolded it. The handwriting was scrawled, almost illegible, but he slowly managed to decipher the words.

“Sorry. Killed her. Couldn’t live with the guilt anymore.”

Killed who? Grady read further, his heart thundering in his chest at the name.

Darlene.

Unbelievable. His hands shook as he lowered the note to his side. His hopes for ending the mystery surrounding Darlene’s death had finally come true. Full circle, as Laney Longhorse would say.

The dead man had confessed to killing his baby sister.

THE SPANISH MOSS of a giant live oak shrouded Violet in its haven, painting fingery shadows that resembled bones along the sidewalk. Disoriented, she clutched the wrought-iron rail surrounding the tombstones. Her imagination must be overactive. Savannah thrived on ghost stories about soldiers who’d died and hadn’t yet found peace. Ones who lingered between realms, tortured and lost, forever searching.

But she had never heard voices from the grave before.

Although this voice hadn’t called to her from the grave, she realized. The woman had still been alive. Had the voice belonged to Amber Collins, the missing coed? Had Violet heard her cry for help just before she was murdered?

Had the evil gotten inside her again? Or had she envisioned the images and voice because of the flyer? Because Darlene’s murder was on her mind?

Violet glanced at the crumpled paper in her hands and felt paralyzed. People had been reported missing, even murdered in Charleston where she and her grandmother had lived before, but she’d never experienced visions of them.

Pin peyeh obe—what did the expression mean? It sounded like a Native American phrase. But she didn’t know any native words, so why would one come to her in her thoughts? And what kind of bone had the man held to his lips?

Her mind spinning, she staggered to her car. Darkness descended as more storm clouds rolled in from the east. According to the weatherman, Hurricane Helena might hit tomorrow. Violet felt as if it had hit today.

Hands trembling, she started the engine and turned onto the island road, wincing as she bounced over the old bridge. A pair of headlights appeared in her rearview mirror, steady but not too close. The car coasted nearer as she crossed the narrow bay bridge and veered onto the side street that led to her cottage.

She clenched the steering wheel tighter, certain he was following her.

GRADY KNOTTED HIS HANDS. Everything had come full circle. Back to the beginning, back to the people in town, the ones they’d trusted. Memories of that grueling search crashed back. The long, endless night before they’d found Darlene. This man consoling Grady’s father when they’d finally discovered her small limp body.

Grady turned to the paramedics. “Make sure the autopsy is thorough—tox screens, hair and fiber samples, the works.” He gathered the crime scene kit from the car, then snapped more pictures of the area and body, and videotaped the scene. The rescue team lowered a paramedic to the ledge to secure the corpse on a stretcher, prior to transporting him to the coroner’s office.

“Why all the fuss over a suicide?” Logan’s voice was gravelly as he ran a hand over his sweat-streaked brow.

Grady frowned as he knelt to study the landing. “The first rule of being a good cop—everything is suspicious.”

“Right. Sounds like the bastard deserved it. He killed a defenseless child.”

Grady cut his eyes toward his deputy, but he couldn’t read the man’s expression, not with those damn sunglasses he always wore. “What do you know about my sister’s death?”

“Not much,” Logan said. “Just heard about it in town. I’d think you’d be glad he’s dead.”

Grady glared at him. They had never talked about personal things before. In fact, once he’d asked Logan about his family, but the man had clammed up and stormed outside. And Grady had certainly never shared anything about his own life.

But Logan was right. He should be happy. Ecstatic. Ready to celebrate.

Yet a nagging feeling plucked at the back of his mind, warning him things weren’t quite right. Was it something about the case file? The suicide note? The confession?

Darlene’s innocent young face flashed in Grady’s head. Her knobby knees, missing front teeth, the strawberry curls he used to tease her about. He pictured her and that homely friend of hers tagging along behind him. Playing dress-up and skipping rope out by that old sweet gum tree. Darlene had always protected her friend. But who had protected her? No one.

Had he really found her killer? It almost seemed too easy….

Deep down he wanted it to be over. Closure meant he could move on with his life. Maybe his father could find his way out of the bottle, too.

Grady fisted and unfisted his hands, blood pounding in his veins. He’d wanted to find Darlene’s killer alive so he could exact his own revenge. He hadn’t realized how much he’d craved that confrontation, how the urge to make her murderer suffer the way his little sister had suffered had driven him through the years. How much the idea of that revenge had thrilled him.

Fighting for control, Grady scrutinized the ground for foot patterns.

The deputy squatted, then leaned his elbows on his knees. “Find anything?”

“Hard to tell,” Grady muttered. “Looks like someone might have moved the straw to cover a footprint or scuffle. Then again, the wind and rain last night could have readjusted the soil.” He shifted on the balls of his feet. “I want every inch combed. We’ll send the note and any other evidence to the crime lab in Nashville to be analyzed. Did you find his car?”

“Yeah, run into the ditch over there.” Logan pointed to a thicket of trees. “Reeks of whiskey.”

Grady nodded, then gestured toward the surrounding bushes. “Look for loose or torn bits of clothing. Footprints. Anything to indicate the man might not have been alone. And I want the car impounded and processed.” He stood. “I don’t want this confession leaked in town, either, not until I have a chance to investigate the case thoroughly.” Grady sighed. “For now, this is a suicide, but I’m leaving the case open.”

Logan nodded, then began combing the bushes while Grady headed toward the paramedics carrying the body to the ambulance. The man’s face was bloody, his clothes smeared with dirt, his broken femur jutting through his ragged pants; it had been severed in two places. His jeans were still damp, indicating he’d probably been there since the night before, but the EMT would give them a better idea of the exact time of death. The fetid odor of lost body fluids hung in the air as Grady checked the corpse for indications of a struggle. A small contusion lacerated the back of his head. If the man had fallen face-first, how had he hit the back of his head? Unless he’d been struck before falling.

Grady frowned, disturbed by his own train of thought. Maybe he’d fallen, then rolled over.

The paramedics loaded the stretcher and the ambulance roared off. Grady had to call his father, tell him they’d found Darlene’s killer.

No, he couldn’t yet. Not until he was sure. Not until he’d checked out the man’s death. Not until he’d notified the next of kin.

He stalked to the woods to search the area. As soon as he finished, he’d visit the coroner’s office for a full report, then make that call. Even worse, he had to tell the surviving family that their loved one had taken his own life.

And that he had confessed to a murder.

VIOLET CHECKED HER rearview mirror. Yes, someone was following her. Was on her tail. She wound through the side streets, reminding herself that she shouldn’t lead a stranger to her house, then turned right on another side street. Nervous now, she wove through a nearby neighborhood, turned and headed back in the opposite direction. The sedan slowed, then swung into a drive. She sighed in relief. If whoever it was had been following her, he’d realized she was onto him.

Relaxing slightly, she headed back toward her cottage, then veered onto Palm Walkway. The inside of the cottage seemed dark as she parked and exited her car. Crickets chirped in the background. A bird cawed above.

Weary now, she climbed the small steps to the stoop, grateful to be home. When she stepped inside, the house was too quiet. “Grammy?”

Her grandmother was sitting in the wooden chair, pale and listless, the phone clutched in one hand.

“Grammy, what is it?”

Her grandmother’s blank gaze showed no sign of response.

“Mrs. Baker…” A man’s voice called over the line. “Mrs. Baker…are you still there?”

Violet pried the receiver from her grandmother’s fingers and laid it on the counter. “Grammy.” Violet gently shook her. “What’s wrong? Please talk to me.”

“No,” her grandmother rasped, in a voice so low Violet could barely discern it. “No, it’s not true.”

“Mrs. Baker,” the man shouted from the phone, “are you all right?”

Her grandmother’s face went ashen, and she was trembling. No, she wasn’t all right.

Violet grabbed the handset. “This is Mrs. Baker’s granddaughter, Violet. Who is this and what did you say to upset her?”

“Violet?” Shock tinged the man’s deep voice.

“Yes, who is this?”

“Sheriff Monroe.” He hesitated, his voice husky. “Grady.”

“Grady?” Darlene’s brother?

“I’m sorry…I had to give your grandmother some bad news.” His breath whistled out. “Violet, your father is dead.”