Deadly Fear (Deadly #1)(33)

He stared down at her.

Those damn crickets seemed way too loud right then.

“My mistake.” Wooden. “How about this… Monica, what the hell are you doing?”

She managed not to wince. Barely. It was just being here in the woods, with those insects driving her crazy and with death hanging around her.

Why couldn’t memories just stay dead?

Breathing slowly, evenly, Monica fought to hold onto her calm. “Sorry.” The apology came out quietly. “I just… don’t call me that, okay?”

He strode toward her, blocking the rays of the sun as they filtered through the tree branches. “Keeping it only business?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just—” How’s my sweetheart? Pretty little sweetheart, I’m gonna break you.… She licked her lips. “I don’t like it. Sweetheart. Not for me, okay?” Where was her control? It was because of that guy, Martin. He’d thrown her off. Made her start to remember.

“Um, okay, but the question remains… what the hell are you doing?”

She tipped her head back. Let her gaze sweep around them. “Could you step over? A little to the left?”

He moved.

“Thanks.” She noted the trees, the thick grass, and the bushes. Jumping up, she brushed off her hands and hurried away from the tree.

Saundra died there. Probably screaming for help.

And the bastard with her had probably laughed.

Why did the perp love the pain so much?

“There’s a reason he picked this spot.” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “There’s always a reason.”

“Uh, yeah, because this place is freaking deserted and no one could hear her scream.”

Monica swallowed then started walking. There. Toward the two twisted pines that grew about ten feet away. They looked like lovers embracing. “The car accident back in Jasper—Sally Jenkins died at the exact same spot her husband did. And that abandoned house? I got Sam to run a check for me. Turns out Patricia Moffett lived there when she was a kid.”

A low whistle. “What was the connection for Laura? Why dump her at—”

“Don’t know.” She stopped in front of the embracing pines. “This place though, it’s important.” She could feel it. “The killer picked the spot. He tied her there, pointed her to the east, because I think he wanted her to see something.”

What was the last thing Saundra had seen before she died?

These trees. Why these?

She walked around the trees, her gaze scanning the ground.

A stump. Looked like maybe another pine. The tree must have fallen years ago.

Her eyes narrowed as she crouched down. Her fingers lifted, hovering over the wood. “Lovers,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he said. Monica turned toward Luke. His eyes were on the trees as he said, “I guess those pines do kinda look like—”

“Here.” She tapped the side of the stump. “Initials. See them?” Her fingers traced the letters. S.S. + K.W.

Lovers no more. Not once death came calling.

The initials were barely noticeable from this angle. Time had faded them, making them blend with the ripples on the top of the stump. A deputy doing a run-through of the scene probably wouldn’t have even noticed them.

But the killer had known they were there.

And Saundra had known.

“We’ve got to find K.W.” Excitement had her blood pumping fast and hard through her veins. This crime had been intimate, far more personal than she’d expected. “We find him—”

A fast grin split Luke’s face. “We might just find our killer.”

Yes, they just might.

We’re coming, *. Time for me to find out… what scares you?





CHAPTER Eight


With a name like Gatorbait, Luke really hadn’t expected much from the bar in Gatlin. So he wasn’t disappointed.

They waited for the night crowd to roll in, the better to find folks who might be willing to talk. Or just drunk enough to run their mouths to FBI agents.

He and Monica took a booth in the back—a booth with a table that liked to tilt, cushions that were split open, and the smell of sweat, cigarettes, and fried catfish hanging around it.

Luke didn’t really get the catfish part. As far as he could tell, the place didn’t serve food. Just really bad beer.

A waitress came over to them. Short white shorts, long, tan legs, low-cut black tank top. Big boobs. Boobs strategically placed very close to his eyes.

Nice. He’d bet they were real, too. Oh, yeah, those…

Monica’s brow rose.

He pressed his lips together. The better to hold back the No way are they as good as yours comment that wanted to burst free. Like she’d appreciate that. Even if it was the truth.

“Another round?” The waitress—she’d said her name was Donna—asked with a big grin. A grin she shot his way. Flirting for tips. He’d watched her and the other waitress. They leaned in close to the men, smiled a lot, and flaunted cleavage.

Smart women.

But that could be a dangerous game if they tried to play with the wrong men.

“Donna?” Monica called, cutting through the rumble of voices in the bar. “We need to ask you a few questions.” She pulled out her ID, flashing it nice and fast.