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.
But as soon as he made it to the basement, his kindness and promises faded. Special care meant something different––something awful.
The old man grabbed Cord’s hand and pushed it toward the steel table where she lay. He’d already forced Cord to watch as he drained her blood and pumped her full of embalming fluid.
“Go ahead, touch her,” the old man said. “She doesn’t know what’s happening now and can’t fight you.”
The hair on the nape of Cord’s neck prickled as his fingers brushed the girl’s cheek.
The old man set out his tools and supplies. First the pancake makeup he would use to cover the scarring on her face. Then a bright red lipstick to match the color of nail polish he’d chosen. The blusher to bring some life to her cheeks. Then she’d be dressed––her mother had sent a soft red dress for her to wear and little black sandals.
“The mother wants an open casket,” he told Cord. “When we’re finished playing with her, we’ll make her pretty for her mama.”
Eighty-Eight
Before heading to Cord’s, Ellie called about her mother, hearing that her condition was the same.
Next, she phoned the captain and filled him in on everything that had happened. According to him, Angelica had already phoned wanting a statement, and he agreed to update Bryce and let him handle her.
Kennedy Sledge had also left another message, asking if she wanted to talk. But her emotions were too raw at the moment. She felt like she was unraveling, like the yarn in one of her old sweaters.
Pounding on the door to Cord’s house, Ellie noted it was dark inside. But it was always dark at his place. She had no idea why he refused to turn lights on, but the one time she’d spent the night with him, when she’d flipped them on, he had immediately turned them off. Only when she explained her phobia of the dark, and where it stemmed from, did he finally relent.
For a moment, she considered that he might not be home, but his truck was in the driveway. If he’d had a late call that kept him up all night, he could still be asleep.
She’d just turned to go when he opened the door, his shaggy mahogany hair and stubble adding a hint of danger to his rugged appearance. He was the most alpha male she’d ever met. Muscles strained the confines of his black t-shirt and the sweatpants that hung low on his lean hips.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, and she realized she’d woken him. “Ellie, what are you doing here?”
“Can we talk?”
His dark eyes contracted, then he stepped sideways for her to come in. “Holy crap, have you seen your face?”
Ellie traced a finger over the knot on her head. “Seen it and felt it.”
“What the hell happened?” He crossed to the kitchen, then started a pot of coffee brewing while Ellie quickly explained about Vinny Holcomb’s attack and Shondra’s blood being left on her door.
Cord’s fingers clenched the counter for a moment in a white-knuckled grip, drawing her attention to the scrapes and scratches on his hands, and his thumbs, which always seemed to be bruised. “Do