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The Lover
BEVERLY BARTON
He's their secret admirer, wooing them with phone calls, love letters and special gifts.From a distance, he admires them. Desires them. Despises them. And when he gets close enough, he kills them all…Adams County, Alabama is the kind of town where everyone knows each other's business, the kind of place where doors stay unlocked. Until a psychopath comes calling.Dubbed 'The Secret Admirer', he woos his victims with phone calls, love letters and gifts, before stalking, kidnapping and then brutally murdering them.A terrifying game is underway. Sheriff Bernie Granger – in her first big case – is desperate to stop a twisted serial killer before another woman is slaughtered. But is she getting closer to catching him – or being drawn even deeper into his deadly web?




The Lover
BEVERLY BARTON



Copyright (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain as Close Enough to Kill by HarperCollins 2007
This eBook edition published 2018
Copyright © Beverly Barton 2006
Cover design © Diane Meacham Design 2018
Cover photograph © Shutterstock
Beverly Barton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9781847560001
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780007278909
Version: 2018-06-04

Dedication (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
To my husband, Billy …for the love, patience and TLCI’ve always been able to count onthrough our many years together

Contents

Cover (#ufc7b371f-1FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Title Page (#ufc7b371f-2FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474) Copyright Dedication Chapter One (#ufc7b371f-6FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Two (#ufc7b371f-7FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Three (#ufc7b371f-8FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Four (#ufc7b371f-9FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Five (#ufc7b371f-10FF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Six (#ufc7b371f-11FF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Seven (#ufc7b371f-12FF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo) Also by Beverly Barton About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Please, dear God, let him kill me.
Stephanie Preston lay on the narrow cot, listening to the rapid beat of her heart. Staring up at the ceiling in the small, dark room, she tried to pretend she was somewhere else. At home, with Kyle. Or at work, surrounded by people she knew and trusted. Perhaps at church, where she sang in the choir. Anywhere but here. With anyone but him.
As hard as she tried to mentally remove herself from the reality of this moment, from where she was and what was happening to her, she could not fully escape into her mind.
Try harder. Think about last Christmas. About how surprised you were when Kyle proposed, on bended knee, right there in front of your parents and your sisters.
Just as the image of her smiling parents flashed through her mind, the man on top of her rammed into her again, harder this time. With more fury. And his fingers dug into her hips as he forced her body upward to meet his savage thrust. As he accelerated the harshness and speed of his deep lunges, he voiced his need, as he did every time he raped her.

“Tell me.” He growled the words. “Say it. You know what I want to hear.”
No, I won’t. Not this time. I can’t. I can’t.
She lay beneath him, silent and unmoving, longing for death, knowing what was going to happen next.
He slowed, then stopped and lifted himself enough to gaze down into her face. She closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to see the face of terror.
He grabbed her, clutching her chin between his index finger and thumb, pressing painfully into her cheeks. “Open your eyes, bitch. Open your eyes and look at me.”
Her eyelids flickered. Don’t obey him. Not this time. Bestrong.
“Why are you being so stubborn?” he asked, a tone of genuine puzzlement in his voice. “You know that I can force you to do whatever I want. Why make it so hard on yourself? You know that, in the end, you’ll obey me.”
“Please …” She opened her eyes and looked at him through a mist of tears.
“Please, what?”
Tears pooled in her eyes despite her determination not to cry. He liked it when she cried. “Just finish it.”
“If you want me to finish with you, then tell me what I want to hear. Otherwise, I’ll punish you. I’ll make it last a long time.” Lowering his head to her breast, he opened his mouth and bared his teeth. Before she could respond, he clamped down on her nipple and bit.
She cried out in pain. He thrust into her several times. Harder each time.
When he moved his mouth to the other breast, she gasped, then cried out hurriedly, “I love you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. Please, darling, make love to me.”
He smiled. God, how she hated his smile.

“That’s a good girl. Since you asked so nicely, I’ll give you what you want.”
She lay there beneath him and endured the rape, hating every moment, despising him and loathing herself for having given in to him yet again.
This can’t go on forever. Sooner or later, he’ll kill me.
I hope it’s soon. I hope it’s very soon.

He stood across the street, on the corner, and watched her get out of her car and walk up the sidewalk to her front porch. She was lovely. He would enjoy sketching her, but before he could begin, he would need to see her up close. When he created the pictures of her, he wanted to get every detail correct. The slant of her eyes. The curve of her nose. The fullness of her lips. Her neck was long and slender; her body nicely rounded, neither skinny nor fat. Just right.
The first thing he would do was call her. Just to say hello. To make contact. He would be able to tell by the sound of her voice if she would be receptive to his overtures. He wouldn’t listen to what she said. Women so often lied—unless you forced them to tell the truth. But he could always tell when a woman was interested just by the way she spoke to him.
“Thomasina, Thomasina. Such a lovely name for a lovely lady.”
The thought of their courtship excited him. He reveled in the days leading up to the moment before a woman became his completely. It was the prelude to the mating dance that intensified the pleasure, those incredibly delicious events that prepared them for the inevitable.
However, he couldn’t begin pursuing Thomasina in earnest until he ended his current relationship. He’d been keeping tabs on her, learning everything he could about her—but from afar. He wasn’t the kind of man who would betray one woman with another. It wasn’t his style. It wouldn’t be easy ending things with his current lover. She was very much in love with him. He had been wild about her in the beginning, when she had posed a challenge to him, when she had led him on a merry chase. And the first time they’d made love had been good, although not all he had hoped it would be. He was certain that she knew their relationship was coming to an end, that they both needed to be free. And soon.
Perhaps tonight he’d tell her.
She would cry, of course. She cried a great deal. And she would beg him, plead with him, offer to do anything he wanted her to do.
Poor darling. It was simply going to kill her when he told her that their love affair was over.

Sheriff Bernie Granger removed her jacket, hung it on the hall tree in the mud room, then took off her holstered gun and hung the strap over her coat. Every muscle in her body ached. She hadn’t slept in nearly thirty-six hours, hadn’t eaten in twelve, and needed more than the whore’s baths she’d taken in the restroom sink yesterday and today. This had been the third search she’d headed up during the past two weeks, each time following a lead that ended nowhere. Trying to stay optimistic and give hope to a family who had all but given up wasn’t easy. But damn it all, she wasn’t willing to throw in the towel and admit defeat. During the two and a half years she had been the sheriff of Adams County, Alabama, she’d been lucky. Only one murder had occurred in her county while she was in office, and the killer was now serving a life sentence in Donaldson. She’d had to handle four missing persons’ cases. The first had ended within twenty-four hours, when they’d found the elderly Alzheimer’s patient who’d walked away from home and gotten lost in the woods. The second case had been rough on everyone involved. A missing three-year-old. When they’d found the little boy two days later in a deep ravine, his tiny body bloody and bruised from the fall, she had walked away, found a solitary spot, and cried. In private. Where none of her deputies could see her. She was one of only a handful of women in local law enforcement, so she had to be tough as nails in order to survive. Thankfully, the third missing person’s case had turned out to be nothing more than a woman leaving her husband for another man.
And now Bernie was dealing with the fourth missing person’s case. Stephanie Preston, a young bride of five months, had been missing for two weeks after last being seen leaving Adams County Junior College, where she attended night classes two evenings a week. Technically, this was an Adams County case, since the woman was last seen in this county and the college campus was not within the city limits of Adams Landing. But the Jackson County Sheriff’s Department was also involved since Stephanie lived in Scottsboro, and Sheriff Mays over there was Stephanie’s uncle.
“You look like hell,” Robyn said when Bernie entered the kitchen.
She glanced at her younger sister and grinned. “I feel like hell.”
She and Robyn were as different as night and day. Robyn was tall, model-thin, and possessed a mane of curly black hair. At twenty-eight, she was still single and liked it that way. She had left college without graduating and had flitted from one job to another, one boyfriend to another, for the past eight years. She had finally come home to Adams Landing a year ago and, with some financial help from their parents, opened up a small fitness center that was, surprisingly, doing quite well.
Bernie, on the other hand, was tall, large boned, and sturdily built. She wore her plain brown hair in an easy-to-care-for ponytail most of the time, or she occasionally pulled it into a neat bun. She’d gotten married straight out of high school to her childhood sweetheart and they’d gone off to college together. After four years of marriage, two miscarriages for Bernie, and at least three affairs for Ryan, they had parted ways. Bernie had come home to Adams Landing, gotten a job as a deputy, and then almost three years ago was elected sheriff when her dad retired from the job, which he’d held for nearly thirty years.
Robyn lived at home with their mom and dad, but occasionally she’d spend a few days at Bernie’s. This time, when she’d shown up on the doorstep, suitcase in hand, she’d told Bernie that she had to find a place of her own and soon. Being an old-fashioned, church-going Southern lady, Brenda Granger didn’t approve of Robyn sleeping around, and when she’d caught Robyn’s latest lover sneaking out of the house at five in the morning, Brenda had exploded in motherly outrage.
“Mom has called me every couple of hours to check on you,” Robyn said. “She’s worried about you.”
“That’s old news. Mom’s always worried about me and about you. We’re both single and childless.”
Robyn grinned. “Yeah, you’d think the only reason she had us was so we could give her grandchildren.”
Bernie trekked across the kitchen, opened a cupboard, and removed a bag of preground coffee. “Have you and Mom talked about things? Have you settled your differences?” Bernie removed the glass pot from the coffeemaker, walked over to the sink, and filled it with cool water.
“You know how it is with Mom—she doesn’t talk with you, just to you. And no, we have not settled our differences and we probably never will. Good God, she was living in the fifties when she was a kid, not in the twenty-first century. Do you know what she said to me about having sex outside marriage?”

Bernie clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Hmm … let me guess. Could it have been the old tried and true adage about a man not buying a cow if the milk is free?”
Robyn chuckled. “You’d think she’d at least come up with some new material, wouldn’t you?”
Bernie emptied the water into the coffeemaker, turned it on, and removed a cup from the cupboard. “Want some?”
“Huh?”
“Coffee. It’s decaf. Want some?”
“No, thanks. I’m heading out any minute now. Paul Landon is taking me to Huntsville for dinner.”
Paul Landon? Lord help us! Robyn could do a lot better than Paul. Good looks was about all the guy had going for him. That and a rich daddy. The man had been married and divorced twice, was rumored to have a drinking problem, and the general consensus was that he wasn’t worth shooting.
But she supposed it wouldn’t hurt for Robyn to date the guy, as long as she didn’t get serious about him, and that wasn’t likely to happen. After all, it wasn’t as if Adams County was running over with eligible bachelors. Bernie’s last date had been four months ago with Steve Banyan, a widower with three kids, a receding hairline, and the beginnings of a beer belly. They’d had a total of four dates over a period of a month. She liked the guy well enough, but they had little in common. He was a pharmacist, fifteen years Bernie’s senior, and considering how much he talked about his deceased wife, Carol Anne, was probably still in love with her.
“Look, if you two wind up spending the night here, then either the two of you be very, very quiet or just go rent a motel room,” Bernie said. “I’m dead on my feet and I’ve got to have a decent night’s sleep.”
“This is our first date,” Robyn said. “It’s highly unlikely I’ll let him get in my pants so soon. Despite what Mom thinks, I do have my standards.”

Bernie’s lips curved into a weak grin. God, she was tired. All she wanted was a cup of coffee and a sandwich, followed by a long, hot bath. Then about ten hours of sleep. She’d be lucky if she got six. She’d have to be at the office early tomorrow morning, ready to meet her new employee. Bill Palmer retired several months ago, after a heart attack and bypass surgery, leaving her without a chief deputy, someone qualified to head up the criminal investigative division. Originally, she’d thought about promoting from within the ranks, but that would have been a difficult call since she had two equally qualified deputies in that division, each with approximately the same seniority. She’d gone to her dad for advice, as she often did, and he had suggested looking outside the local force.
“You never know when a highly qualified person might be looking for a change,” R.B. Granger had said. In her opinion, Robert Bernard Granger was the best darn law enforcement officer who’d ever lived. “I’ve still got contacts in Alabama, Tennessee and Georgia. Why don’t I make a few phone calls and see what I come up with? In the meantime, you do the same. Check around. Could be you can bring somebody in from Huntsville or even Chattanooga. One of those big-city guys might want to move to a place where the pace is a little slower.”
“Or a gal.”
“Huh?”
“A guy or a gal, Dad. Or have you forgotten that the sheriff of Adams County is female?” she’d asked, only halfway joking. Since her little brother, Bobby, had drowned in the river on a Boy Scout picnic when he was twelve, Bernie had been the closest thing her dad had to a son. She’d been the one who had played high school basketball, soccer, and softball. And she’d played sports more for her dad’s sake than because she loved the games herself. She was the one who sat around and watched football games on TV with him, went fishing with him, and even went hunting with him once each year.
Bob Granger had put his arm around Bernie’s shoulders and said, “You know how proud I am of you, don’t you? You’re carrying on a family tradition. You’re the third generation of Granger to be Sheriff of Adams County.”
A car horn honked, bringing Bernie out of her thoughts and back to the present moment, here in her kitchen.
“That’ll be Paul,” Robyn said.
“Quite the gentleman, isn’t he, honking for you instead of coming to the front door.”
Robyn groaned. “Now you sound like Mom.” She rushed over, gave Bernie a quick kiss on the cheek and flew out of the kitchen, calling loudly as she left, “I love you, sis. Don’t wait up for me.”
Bernie heard her sister giggling just before she slammed the front door. The moment Bernie was alone, she sighed, leaned her head back and stretched her aching muscles. Just as she eyed the coffeepot, intending to pour herself a cup before she prepared a sandwich, the telephone rang. Her heart leaped into her throat. She had left several of her deputies, along with Adams Landing police officers and several volunteers from Jackson County, still scouring Craggy Point, the area where an eyewitness swore he saw a woman fitting Stephanie’s description arguing with a burly black man at the roadside park.
“Sheriff Granger.” Her hand clutched the phone with white-knuckled pressure; then she glanced down at the caller ID and groaned.
“Good, you’re home,” Brenda Granger said. “Have you eaten supper? Taken a bath? Do you need me to come over and fix you something to eat? Or I could bring some leftovers. Dad and I had pot roast for supper and—”

“I’m fine, Mom. I was just fixing to make a sandwich.”
“A sandwich? What kind?”
“Peanut butter and jelly.” Bernie said the first thing that popped into her head.
“You don’t eat right,” Brenda said. “That’s the reason you can’t ever get rid of those ten extra pounds around your hips.”
“Mom, I’m really tired. Could we discuss my eating habits and my weight problems another time?”
“Of course.” Brenda paused for half a minute. “I’d like for you and Robyn to come to dinner on Sunday.”
“All right. I’ll be there, if I can. And I’ll mention it to Robyn when—”
“Isn’t she there?”
Thinking fast on her feet and telling a white lie to avoid further explanations, Bernie said, “She’s in the shower. I’ll tell her when she gets out, and I’m sure she’ll be able to make it for Sunday dinner.”
“Good. I’ve invited the new preacher. He’s not married. And I’ve also invited Helen and her son Raymond. Raymond’s divorce is final, you know. Helen and I agree that it’s high time he started dating again.”
“Good night, Mom. See you Sunday.”
“Yes, dear, good night.”
Bernie hung up the phone. When she told Robyn that their mother expected them for Sunday dinner, and that she was providing each of them with a potential husband, Robyn would throw a hissy fit. But in the end, she, like Bernie, would go to dinner and endure yet another matchmaking scheme concocted by a desperate grandmother wannabe.

Jim Norton unlocked the front door of his rental duplex on Washington Street. While driving through town, he’d noticed that a great many of the streets in Adams Landing were named for presidents. Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe. Before entering the house, he reached inside and felt for a light switch, which he quickly found. He had rented this place, sight unseen, fully furnished and move-in ready. He stepped inside, dropped his suitcase to the carpeted floor, then closed and locked the door behind himself.
Scanning the living room, he noted the place looked like most furnished rentals. Clean and neat. Furniture, drapes, and carpets slightly worn. Not a home, just a place for a guy to hang his hat. He hadn’t had a real home in a long time. Not since he and Mary Lee divorced. He could have bought a house or even rented a nicer place and furnished it himself, but what was the point? While working as a lieutenant on the Memphis police force, he hadn’t spent much time at home. Slept and bathed there. And occasionally ate there. If he’d been given joint custody of Kevin, he probably would have bought a house, but Mary Lee had been given full custody and he’d gotten squat. Just visitation rights—and those visits were under Mary Lee’s supervision.
He’d driven straight from Memphis this evening, across northern Mississippi and northern Alabama, taking Highway 72 all the way. Adams County was a small county nestled in the northeastern corner of Alabama, a stone’s throw from both the Tennessee and Georgia state lines, and the Tennessee River divided the county seat, Adams Landing, from its nearest neighbor, Pine Bluff.
Jim’s neck was stiff and his bad knees hurt like hell. He’d made only one pit stop on his journey from his past to his future. His bleak future. Not that his future on the Memphis force had looked all that bright—not since he’d fallen from grace and an air of suspicion had surrounded him ever since.
Jim left his suitcase there by the front door as he walked through the duplex, turning lights on and off as he went from the living room into the small efficiency kitchen. Then he backtracked and went into first one bedroom and then another. The bath was small, but clean, with a shower/tub combination. He’d rented a two-bedroom place despite the added expense because he wanted Kevin to have his own room when he came to visit.
Leaving the bathroom light on, Jim went over to the bed and sat down. He should at least brush his teeth before turning in, but he thought maybe, just this once, he’d forgo his usual routine. After removing his shoes and socks and stripping down to his briefs, Jim flipped back the covers and crawled into bed.
He lay there for several minutes, thinking he’d go right to sleep. But the longer he lay there, the more he realized that until he took something for the pain in his knees, he’d never go to sleep. He had two choices. Both were in his suitcase: either whiskey or the pain-killers the doctor had given him. He chose the prescription medicine. After bringing his suitcase into the bedroom and digging through his shave kit for the plastic bottle, he took one pill and went back to bed. He gazed up at the shadows flickering across the white popcorn ceiling. He had left the bathroom light on and closed the door almost shut. He hated the darkness, especially when he was in a strange place.
He wished the pill would take effect soon. Not just to relieve the pain, but to knock him out. Otherwise, he’d think too much. Thinking about Mary Lee and Kevin and why he was here in this one-horse town was a useless exercise in torment.
He’d met and fallen madly in love with Mary Lee at the University of Tennessee; then they’d married right after he graduated. There had been some good years. They’d been happy. For a while. Kevin’s birth had been the greatest day of Jim’s life. He’d never known you could love someone the way he loved his son. Back then, Jim had thought he had the world by the tail. Despite knee injuries destroying his dream of playing pro football, he had found a new and satisfying career as a Memphis police officer. He’d made detective fairly young and life had been good. Until his cockiness and stupid arrogance had cost his partner his life. After that, everything fell apart, including his marriage. When he’d found Mary Lee in bed with another man, he had wanted to kill them both. And he almost had. Almost.
He had walked out of his house that day and filed for a divorce two weeks later. Forgiveness wasn’t a word in his vocabulary, because as far as he was concerned, some sins were unforgivable.
For the past seven years, Mary Lee had made his life as miserable as possible, at first trying to turn Kevin against him, then later jerking him around about his visitation rights. So it hadn’t actually come as a great surprise to him when, after remarrying six months ago, she’d told him that she was moving with her new husband to Huntsville. Kevin’s stepdad had recently been transferred to the Rocket City.
“You can drive to Huntsville a couple of times a year to see Kevin,” Mary Lee had said. “And he can come stay with you a week every summer.”
“No way in hell!”
He had known that going back to court wouldn’t do any good. Despite being a whore, Mary Lee wasn’t a bad mother. And Jim had proved by his actions years ago that he wasn’t such a good father. So he’d realized he had only one choice if he wanted to see his son on a regular basis. He had to move closer to Huntsville. It had taken him six months to find a job—the right job. One that paid him enough to live on and stay current with his child support payments. Being a chief deputy in Podunk was a demotion from being a lieutenant on the Memphis police force, and his yearly salary dropped by over twenty thousand. But he figured he’d do okay since the cost of living here was slightly less than in the big city.
The only thing that mattered to Jim was that he’d now be living less than an hour away from his son.

Stephanie wondered when he would return. Without a calendar or a clock, she had no way of knowing what day it was or what time. It could be twelve noon or twelve midnight. There were no windows in this room and the only light was a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, too high for her to reach without a ladder. Those first few days after he had abducted her, she had tried everything to escape, but soon realized that there was no way out except the way she’d come in, the single door at the top of the stairs through which he had dragged her. A week ago? Two weeks ago? To her, it seemed a lifetime ago.
He didn’t keep her shackled any longer. She was free to roam about in the twelve-by-twelve room, which she felt certain was a partial basement, either under a house or a building of some kind. In the corner, surrounded by a four-foot cinder block stall, was a shower, commode, and sink, as if someone had once planned to turn this area into a spare bedroom and bath. The block walls had been painted yellow, which over time had faded to a dirty cream.
The smell of mildew and mustiness permeated the entire room and everything in it, which wasn’t much. A metal bed, a chair, and a desk. He made her sit at the desk to eat when he brought her food, which he did almost every day. At first she had refused to eat; but then he had punished her, telling her that he would not allow her to starve herself to death.
The first time he raped her, she’d fought him; but she soon learned that the harder she fought, the more severe the punishment. He never tortured her to the point where she passed out. At least not yet. Just enough to derive pleasure from her screams. Sometimes he would rape her with a bottle or a wooden phallus before climbing on top of her. And he liked to bite her. She had his teeth prints all over her body, as well as dozens of small burns from where he’d pressed lighted cigarettes on her skin. Most of the burns were on her buttocks and breasts.
He had raped her so many times, tortured her so often, that there was nothing else in her mind, no room to remember her life before this madman had kidnapped her. It wasn’t that she had given up easily or that she hadn’t hoped and prayed to escape. She had climbed those stairs leading to the outside world numerous times, beaten on the door and cried for help. But there was no help for her. No hope of being rescued. There was nothing ahead for her except more of the same.
She wanted to die. Longed to die. It was the only way she would ever be free of him. But there was nothing in this room she could use to aid herself in committing suicide, so all she could do was hope that he would tire of her soon and kill her.
The lock on the door clicked. Stephanie’s body tensed and her mind screamed silently as she stood there, frozen to the spot, knowing the monster would open the door and come down the steps.
Listening, her eyes focused on the bottom of the wooden staircase, she heard his footsteps. Slow and steady. Not rushing. Taking his time.
“Good evening, Stephanie,” he said, a self-satisfied smile on his face.
“Is it evening?”
“Yes, it’s nearly eleven o’clock.”
He gazed at her, studying her from the top of her disheveled hair to the tips of her bare toes. Without being told, she knew what he expected, what he demanded of her. She was allowed to wear nothing except a black silk robe, and only when he wasn’t there. With numb, trembling fingers, she undid the tie belt and peeled the robe from her shoulders. It fell to her feet, puddling on the floor like a soft, black cloud.
“My lovely Stephanie.”
He came to her, took her by the hand and led her to the bed. Without being told, she lay down, parted her thighs and held her arms open to him.
“Always so willing to please,” he said. “I love that about you.”
“I love you.” She told him what she knew he wanted to hear. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. Please, darling, make love to me.”
He quickly shed his clothing, as always very eager. What would he do to her first? He had to inflict some type of pain before he could become aroused enough to rape her.
But apparently not this time. When he stood over her, his eyes wild and his breathing hard, she saw that his penis was already erect.
“Turn over,” he told her.
Knowing what he intended and that it was useless to protest, she turned over onto her stomach. She waited for the first blow, but there was none. Instead, his hand caressed her buttocks. Tenderly. And then she felt him as he crawled on top of her. She held her breath. He rammed into her. She whimpered in pain. He rode her with a fury, coming within minutes. Still embedded inside her, he kissed her shoulder, then grasped her hair and jerked her head up off the pillow.
He’d never done this before so she didn’t know what to expect next. Suddenly, she felt something pressing against her neck, just below her chin.
“Do you want me to set you free, my darling?” he asked.
And then she realized that he held a knife to her throat.
No, please don’t kill me, a part of her begged silently. That tiny part of her consciousness that longed to live, longed to believe that there was still hope. But the terrified, tormented part of her who couldn’t bear to suffer any longer said aloud, “Yes, please. Please set me free.”
And with one quick, deep slice of the sharp blade, he ended their relationship.
Chapter 2 (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Despite living in a new place, sleeping in a different bed, Jim had rested soundly. Thanks to prescription pain medication. It would have been easy to get addicted to the stuff years ago, and God knew he’d come shamefully close a couple of times. But if he’d fallen prey to drug addiction, he might as well have kissed his life good-bye. He was forty, with a couple of bad knees, unmarried, unattached, could barely make ends meet and had to struggle to sustain his father/son relationship with his only child. And here he was on this sunny, clear-blue-sky Thursday morning dreading starting a new job, one that anybody would see as a demotion for a guy who’d been a detective on the Memphis police force.
He parked his seen-better-days Chevy pickup truck in the area of the courthouse parking lot designated for the Adams County Sheriff’s Department. After getting out and locking the doors, he glanced around at the other vehicles and grunted. Then he chuckled to himself. Figures, he thought. There wasn’t another vehicle as old and dilapidated as his. One particular car caught his eye as did one SUV. The car was a late-model white Mustang convertible with the top down. Whoever owned the sporty little ride must have felt confident that it wasn’t going to rain today and that nobody would dare mess with his car. He figured the owner to be young—possibly thirty or less—and single. A guy who liked the way he felt when he was behind the wheel of a car other men envied. His guess was that a guy like that usually had a pretty, bosomy gal with him, a looker he could show off the way he did his car.
When Jim passed by the SUV, he’d noticed it because it was clean as a whistle, as if it had just been washed. He knew for a fact that it had rained in Adams Landing very recently, because of the mud puddles he’d seen driving in yesterday. Pausing for a couple of seconds, he looked inside the neat-as-a-pin black Jeep Cherokee. The carpet was clean; the seats and floorboards were void of any clutter, except for a closed black umbrella. Whoever owned this SUV was probably a neat freak, somebody who needed to control every aspect of his life, saw things in a linear way, needed his ducks in a row.
Admitting to himself that he was stalling, Jim ended his vehicle inspections and headed toward the side entrance that led into the north wing of the two-story building. Like so many other towns across America, especially in the South, the Adams County courthouse stood in the middle of town, like the center of a box, with streets crisscrossing in the four corners. The white columned entrance faced Main Street. Two large, age-worn statues of Alabama Civil War generals presided over the green lawn on either side of the brick walkway leading from the city sidewalk to the front veranda. The back of the courthouse faced Adams Street, directly across from the post office, which was flanked by Long’s Hardware and Adams Landing Dry Cleaners. The side-porch entrance to the sheriff’s department faced Washington, a tree-lined street boasting the local library on the corner of Main and Washington and the county jail on the corner of Washington and Adams. An antique shop and a radio station, both housed in old Victorian painted ladies, sat side by side between the library and the jail.
Taking a deep breath of fresh morning air, Jim squared his shoulders, opened the door and walked into a long, wood-floored hallway. The minute he entered the building, he saw the sign protruding sideways from atop the door frame of the first door on the right: SHERIFF. As he approached the office, he noted that the door stood open, as if inviting people to come inside and make themselves at home. He had no more than stepped over the threshold than an attractive young woman, in the typical brown and tan Alabama deputy uniform, walked toward him, a smile on her face and a cup of coffee in her hand. Slender and blonde. Not pretty, but cute. With short, bright pink fingernails.
“Hi, I’m Deputy Holly Burcham.” She transferred her coffee cup from her right to her left hand and held out her right hand to Jim.
He took her hand, shook it, and replied, “I’m Jim Norton.”
She smiled warmly. “Thought you were.” She glanced at the wall clock. Seven-forty-two. “You’re early.”
“I wanted to make a good impression,” he said, only halfway joking. “First day on the job and all.” He offered her a closed-mouth smile.
“Well, come on in and get a cup of coffee and meet a few people.”
Holly issued him not only a verbal invitation, but a physical one as well. She took his arm, smiled at him flirtatiously and hauled him over to the coffeemaker placed in a corner across from a large desk Jim assumed belonged to the sheriff’s secretary.
After Jim untangled himself from Holly, he removed a Styrofoam cup from a stack on the table, poured the coffee almost to the rim and took a sip. The brew was amazingly good.
“Lisa makes great coffee,” Holly said.
Jim’s gaze followed Holly’s as she looked directly at the small, attractive black woman who had just sat down behind the desk. She glanced up at Jim and smiled.
“Lisa, meet Jim Norton, our new chief deputy for the criminal investigative division,” Holly said. “Jim, this is Lisa Wiley, Bernie’s administrative assistant.”
When Lisa smiled, Jim noted how pretty she was. Probably close to forty. Ultrashort bronze red hair. Slender, small boned, with large black eyes and flawless tan skin.
“Welcome to Adams County,” Lisa said. “I hope you’ll like it here. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working with Bernie. She’s the best.”
“Thanks.” Jim took another sip of coffee. “Has the sheriff come in yet?” He glanced around at the workstation where the “road deputies” did their paperwork for their shifts. There were four deputies already here, and to a man they were sizing him up. He didn’t get any specific type of vibes from the officers, neither negative nor positive. He figured most of them would wait and see if the hotshot from Memphis turned out to be a regular guy or a smart-ass.
“Of course she’s here,” Lisa replied. “Bernie’s usually the first one in and the last one to leave. Let me tell her you’re here.”
Lisa rose from her desk, walked to the closed half-frosted glass door and knocked, then opened the door and announced, “Sheriff Granger, Captain Norton is here.”
Jim waited to be invited in, wanting to make sure he started this job off on the right foot. Working for a woman was a first for him, and since he wasn’t the most politically correct guy around, he wasn’t sure what would or wouldn’t offend a lady sheriff.
“Please send him in,” a feminine voice replied. He liked the sound of her voice. It wasn’t a little girl coo or a nasal whine or a deep, throaty warble. It was strong and commanding, yet Southern soft.
“Go right on in, Captain Norton.” Still smiling, Lisa stepped out of the doorway to allow him entrance.
The rank of captain wasn’t necessarily the norm for the position he’d taken here in Adams County, but for a lawman with fifteen years’ experience, it wasn’t unheard of by any means. Getting the rank and the pay that came with it had been one of Jim’s stipulations for taking this job. What no one knew was that he’d have taken the job regardless.
“Call me Jim,” he told the secretary as he headed for the open door of the sheriff’s office.
“Call me Lisa,” she said quietly as he passed by her.
When he entered the room, the woman behind the massive old wooden desk stood tall and straight, her gaze directed toward him.
“Please close the door and come on in,” she said.
He followed her instructions, then stood about four feet away from her, catercorner to her desk, and waited for her to proceed. They stared at each other for at least a minute.
So this was Sheriff Bernadette Granger. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. Maybe someone older and tougher looking. Of course, he hadn’t expected a gorgeous babe, which Sheriff Granger definitely wasn’t. The lady was tall—he’d guess around five-nine or -ten—big boned and sturdy. His mama would have called her rawboned. She wore brown lace-up leather flats; brown, department-issue slacks; and a white button-down shirt. An acrylic ID badge was clipped to her shirt pocket. She wore her medium brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, the tip even with her shoulders, which meant she had really long hair. A pair of small gold hoops dangled from her ears, and her only makeup consisted of a peachy lipstick and blush. Not exactly pretty, but the features were good, the face appealing. And the lady was above all else as neat as a pin.
The black Jeep Cherokee is hers.
“Have a seat.” She motioned to one of the two chairs flanking the front of her desk.
Jim took the one on the right. After he sat, she sat.
“First, let me tell you how pleased I am to have you as part of our team. You come highly recommended, and we feel fortunate that you’ve chosen to join the Adams County Sheriff’s Department.” She paused, as if waiting for a response, and when he remained silent, she continued, “Our criminal investigative division is staffed with five investigators. A couple of the men on the team applied for the chief deputy position, but I can assure you that neither man will be a problem for you. Both Ron Hensley and John Downs are true professionals.”
Jim knew that most sheriffs were equal parts politician and lawman, some more politician than anything else. Sheriff Granger certainly knew how to be diplomatic, a chief tool in any politician’s arsenal of weapons. But he would reserve judgment until he got to know the lady better. As for Deputies Hensley and Downs, Jim’s guess was that one or both of them would hate his guts on sight. Nobody liked to be passed over for a promotion.
“I’m sure I’ll have no problem with any of the deputies,” Jim said. It was a bold-faced lie and they both knew it.
Sheriff Granger smiled. He liked her smile. It was genuine. His gut instincts told him that the lady was the same—a no-nonsense, no-frills, what-you-see-is-what-you-get woman. “After you take care of the necessary paperwork and we issue you all the usual paraphernalia, I’ll go with you over to the jail and show you your office and introduce you to the others in your department.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“After that, I’ll show you around Adams Landing, and then take you to lunch. Our District Attorney, Jerry Dale Simms, will be joining us. He’s looking forward to meeting you. You’ll like Jerry Dale. Everyone does.”
“It’s very nice of you, Sheriff Granger, to take the time to escort me around personally. I appreciate it.” Okay, why were the sheriff and DA taking him to lunch? Not that he minded, but it puzzled him.
As if reading his mind, she said, “You’re wondering why the sheriff and DA would take a new chief deputy to lunch, aren’t you?” She laughed. “To be honest, Jerry Dale is eager to meet former UT running back Jimmy Norton.”
Jim grunted, then chuckled. “Hmm …”
She stood and held out her hand across the desk. “Welcome to Adams Landing.”
He reached out and took her hand in his and exchanged a cordial shake. Her handshake was strong and self-confident, and the entire time she looked him right in the eyes. Man-to-man, so to speak. Yet there was nothing masculine about Bernadette Granger.
“Holly will show you around the office, introduce you to others and once you’re squared away, we’ll head over to your office.”
Understanding that he had been dismissed, Jim nodded, got up and headed for the door. Just before grasping the doorknob, he paused, glanced over his shoulder and said, “I’m a pretty straight shooter. I’m not a game player and I’ve made my share of mistakes. I’m not always the most diplomatic guy or the most politically correct. So if I ever say or do anything you consider out of line, just let me know.”
Her expression changed. The smile vanished. “You can be sure that I will. I tend to be straightforward and somewhat outspoken, so you’ll never wonder where you stand with me.”
He nodded again, then opened the door and left her office. He had no more than closed the door behind himself than Deputy Holly Burcham sashayed over to him, all smiles and fluttering eyelashes.
“Come on, handsome. I’ve been designated as your tour guide.”
Any man would find Holly attractive. And he was, after all, a man. But the last thing he wanted was to get involved with a fellow officer, especially right off the bat. He needed time to feel his way around, to get the lay of the land, before even thinking about a personal relationship of any kind. All he wanted was to make a success of this job and strengthen the ties to his son. Only two goals. And he suspected neither would be easy to accomplish.

Bernie sat quietly behind her desk, mulling over her brief conversation with her new chief deputy. Twenty years ago, when Jimmy Norton and Griff Powell had been the golden boys of UT football, she’d been just a kid, but being a tomboy and doing anything to gain her father’s attention, she’d watched all the college and pro games with her dad. She remembered Jimmy Norton more than any other player, probably because she’d had a silly schoolgirl crush on him. Yeah, she and how many hundreds of other pubescent and teenage girls in the South? She’d kept a picture of him on her bulletin board alongside one of Tom Selleck as Magnum PI, a TV show she and her dad had never missed. So, truth be told, she was almost as starstruck as Jerry Dale was over Jimmy Norton.
But she had to remind herself that she was no longer a kid with a crush on a guy she’d never met in person, and Jim Norton hadn’t been a superstar athlete in nearly two decades. Okay, so the guy was still panty-creaming good looking; actually, maturity sat well on his broad shoulders. He was still tall and lean, and she suspected that his body was muscular and toned beneath his clothes. She had to admit that for a couple of minutes while she’d been looking him over, she had pictured him stark naked.
From what she’d learned about him, she hadn’t been surprised that he had that rode-hard-and-put-away-wet appearance, but somehow that roughness only made him all the more appealing.
Good grief, girl, get over it, will you? You’re thirty-two,not twelve. You’ve been married, divorced, had your heartbroken, and learned the hard way that few men are what theyseem. Besides that, you’re Jim Norton’s superior.
And if those facts weren’t enough to throw cold water on her fantasies, the fact that she hadn’t felt any reciprocal I’m-attracted-to-you vibes from him should be. Odd that she could so easily admit to herself that she found Jim Norton attractive—very attractive—when she couldn’t remember the last time a guy turned her on. It had been such a long time since she’d had sex that she was practically a born-again virgin.
Lost in her thoughts, she barely heard when Lisa buzzed her. “Sheriff Mays on line one.”
Dragging herself out of her teenage-crush memories, Bernie punched line one as she picked up the phone. “Hello, Ed.”
“Bernie, I don’t suppose you have anything new to report on Stephanie, do you?”
“I’m sorry, but no, I don’t.”
“God, things are bad at my house. My wife’s doing what she can to keep her sister calm. Judy keeps telling Emmy not to give up hope, but we’re all half out of our minds worrying about Stephanie. She’s been missing for two weeks, and between your people and mine, we’ve scoured most of Jackson and Adams counties.”
“Ed, are you sure there’s no possibility that her husband killed her?” Bernie wasn’t usually so blunt with a family member, but Ed wasn’t just Stephanie Preston’s uncle-by-marriage, he was the sheriff of nearby Jackson County. He knew how often in a missing person’s case it turned out that the spouse had murdered their unaccounted-for mate.
“God, no. Kyle’s a basket case. The doctor has put him on medication and we’re making sure someone is with him twenty-four/seven. If Stephanie is dead, that boy’s liable to kill himself.” Ed paused for a minute. Checking his emotions, Bernie thought. “You know they’ve only been married for five months. He proposed this past Christmas and they had a Valentine’s Day wedding.”
“I wish I could do more. Just tell me if there’s anything, absolutely anything, you want me to do.”
“I don’t understand how she could have disappeared the way she did, without a trace. The last anybody saw of her, she was heading toward her car after her class that night. But y’all found her car, stilled locked, parked at Adams County Junior College.”
“We’ve gone over the car with a fine-tooth comb,” Bernie said. “There was no evidence of foul play. No blood. No semen. Nothing to indicate a struggle. It’s as if she headed toward her car and never made it there. Either she decided to go back inside the building or somebody came along and nabbed her. Or she got in her car and back out again for some reason.”
“If she got in the car with somebody, then why didn’t a single solitary soul see it happen? There were other students going to their cars that night. Why didn’t any of them see something?”
“Stephanie’s car was not near one of the security lights and it was going on ten when she was last seen. In the darkness—”
“Has that new hotshot detective from Memphis shown up?” Ed asked abruptly.
“He’s here now.”
“Are you turning Stephanie’s case over to him?”
“He’s my new chief investigator, so technically that puts him in charge, but I plan to stay involved, to keep close tabs on the case.”
“We aren’t going to find her alive,” Ed said. “And you and I both know it.”
“I’m afraid you’re probably right,” Bernie agreed. But what if they never found Stephanie—dead or alive? Her family would continue to suffer for weeks, months, even years, always hoping beyond hope that out there somewhere she might still be alive. The odds of that were slim to none.
“I don’t suppose there’s much point in manning another search, is there?”
“I don’t think so. If I thought it would do any good, we’d do it, but …”
“If anything turns up, you’ll let me know immediately.”
“Yeah, if it does, you’ll be the first person I contact.”
“Thanks, Bernie. And say hello to your dad.”
“Sure will.”
The dial tone hummed in her ear. Bernie placed the receiver down on the telephone base and stared off into space for several minutes. The most difficult part of her job was dealing with her very feminine emotions. Just because she’d been elected sheriff didn’t mean she could simply turn off her nurturing, maternal, caretaker-to-the-world instincts. Yes, she was as smart as any man, as good a shot as any deputy on the force, knew the law better than most, and worked diligently to be half as good a sheriff as her dad had been. And although she’d been accepted by the male deputies from day one and she thought she had earned their respect, she knew that because she was a woman, her every action was scrutinized.
A knock on the door gained her attention. “Yes?”
The door opened a fraction and Jim Norton peered into her office.
She motioned for him to come in, but he simply shoved the door open wider to show her that he had his arms filled with the items he’d been issued. Uniforms, “campaign” hat, a Glock 22, Sam Browne belt, holster and cuff case, a retractable baton, radio, pepper spray, badge, and ID card.
“I’m taking these out to my truck,” he told her. “After that, I’m ready whenever you are.”
As he stood there, she surveyed him quickly from head to toe. He stood six-three. Weighed two-twenty-five. Was forty years old. All info she’d read about him in his file. But nothing in his file described the man’s rugged good looks. He wore his dark brown hair cut short and neat. His attire was casual—old jeans, a plaid shirt, and boots. But the one aspect of his physical appearance that Bernie found the most interesting was his eyes. Blue blue. Sky blue. And quite a contrast to his dark hair and tanned skin. “Where are you parked?”
“My truck’s in the designated parking lot.”
“Okay, you go on ahead. I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes. The jail is across the street, at the end of the block. We’ll walk.”

Upon arrival at the Adams County jail, an updated building that Sheriff Granger told Jim had housed the jail for the past half century, she introduced him to forty-something Lieutenant Hoyt Moses, a burly six-foot redhead with a boisterous laugh and seemingly good-natured disposition.
“Hoyt’s in charge here,” Bernie said. “He has three sergeants and eighteen deputies working under him.”
When they reached the area that housed the investigators’ offices, both the criminal and narcotics divisions, she paused in the hallway. “Look, these guys have worked together for years and some of them even went to high school together. They’re good men, all of them. They might have some preconceived ideas about you because of who you are. You know, the Jimmy Norton. Plus, you were a Memphis detective. But they won’t give you any trouble. You treat them fairly and they’ll do the same.”
“So who’s the one the most pissed about being passed over for the promotion?” Jim didn’t see any point in pussyfooting around, trying to be diplomatic. Diplomacy was part of the sheriff’s job, not his.
The lady frowned. “Brutal honesty isn’t always the best course of action.”
He shrugged. “It’s how I work. It’s who I am. Is that going to be a problem?”
She huffed. “I don’t know. Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
“So, who is he? The guy who already hates my guts for getting the job he wanted.”
“Nobody here hates your guts,” she said. “The front-runner for the chief deputy position was Ron Hensley, and yes, he was disappointed when I looked outside the department to fill the position. But Ron’s a professional and he understands my reasons for hiring you. He’s not going to give you any trouble.”
Yeah, sure. “That’s good to know.”
Jim knew that he would have to prove himself to the other deputies, especially to Lieutenant Hensley. He was willing to do his part to get along with the guy, as long as Hensley didn’t give him any shit. From the get-go, he needed to make it clear that he was the chief deputy, the man in charge. And he needed to do this in a way that didn’t alienate any of his deputies.
“Ron and John are both here this morning, at my request. I wanted you to meet both of your lieutenants.”
Sheriff Granger opened the door and breezed into the central office. A couple of uniformed deputies stood talking, each holding a cup of coffee. Jim sized up the two quickly and decided that the short, stocky, slightly balding guy was probably John Downs. He had that easygoing, old-shoes-comfortable look about him. Jim guessed the guy was married, with a couple of kids, went to church every Sunday and liked his life the way it was. The energy he emitted was calm and low-key. The other guy was a different matter. A tad under six feet, slim and fit, with military, short black hair and pensive brown eyes. He presented a flawless appearance—from his handsome, clean-shaven face to his spit-polished shoes. This was, without a doubt, Ron Hensley.
“Morning,” the sheriff said. “Ron. John.”
Both men turned and greeted her.
“Jim, I’d like to introduce you to Lieutenants Ron Hensley and John Downs.” With their gazes fixed on Jim, they both nodded. Downs smiled. Hensley did not. “Gentlemen, this is Captain James Norton.”
Downs came forward, shook Jim’s hand, and welcomed him cordially. Then reluctantly, after glancing at the sheriff as if to tell her he would do what he had to do, Hensley held out his hand to Jim, but he didn’t say anything.
Hensley had a strong, firm grip, but he didn’t use the handshake as a pissing contest to prove he was as strong or stronger than Jim. And Jim respected that type of reserve and control in any man. His estimation of Hensley improved because of that one simple gesture.
“Y’all will get a chance to become better acquainted later,” Sheriff Granger told the deputies. “I’m taking the morning to show Jim the layout of the department and to give him a tour of the town. Then we’re meeting Jerry Dale for lunch. If either of you would care to join us—”
“I’d love to,” John Downs said, “but this is Friday, and Cathy, my wife, and I have a standing lunch date every Friday.”
“Oh, that’s right,” the sheriff said. “I’d forgotten.” She looked at Hensley. “What about you, Ron?”
“Sure, I’ll tag along. Are you taking him to Methel’s?”
“Where else?” She turned to Jim. “Methel’s is practically an institution in Adams Landing. The current owner is the great-granddaughter of the lady, Methel, who opened the restaurant in the late thirties. It’s the best food in town. Down home country cooking like your grandma used to fix.”
“You make me wish it was lunchtime already.” Jim grinned.
“If you ever want great barbeque, the only place to go is The Pig Pen over on Second Street,” Downs told him.
“And if you’re ever in the mood for a stiff drink and some loud music, check out the Firecracker on Carney Road,” Hensley said.
Jim and Hensley shared a hard look. Not a hostile look, just an understanding that each would reserve judgment of the other until they were better acquainted. Fair enough. Jim’s gut told him that he and Hensley might have a few things in common.
“Meet us at Methel’s around twelve-thirty.” The sheriff headed toward the door, but paused halfway there and said, “Ed Mays called me a little while ago.”
Downs shook his head sadly.
Hensley glanced at Jim. “We’ve been working a missing person’s case for the past couple of weeks. The missing woman’s uncle is Ed Mays, the Sheriff of Jackson County.”
“Do y’all suspect foul play?” Jim asked.
“Possibly,” Hensley replied. “The problem is, we really don’t have a clue as to what happened to her. It’s as if she just disappeared off the face of the earth.”
“What about the husband?” Jim looked directly at Hensley.
Hensley shrugged. “Doubtful he had anything to do with it.”
“No clues, huh? I’d like to take a look at your files on that case this afternoon.”
The edges of Hensley’s mouth curved into a tentative smile. “I’ll be glad to show them to you. Maybe you can catch something we’ve missed.”
“Maybe.”
Sheriff Granger cleared her throat. “Captain Norton, are you ready to go?”
“Ready whenever you are, Sheriff.”
Chapter 3 (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Ron closed himself off in the chief deputy’s office, the one he’d thought for sure would be his. Yeah, and that’s what he got for thinking. He should have known that Bernie wouldn’t choose him over John Downs, even if he was better suited for the job. John had seniority over him by only four years, but everybody liked John. Everybody didn’t like Ron, which really didn’t bother him in the least. He’d take respect and even a little intimidation over being liked any day of the week. But Bernie wasn’t about to upset the apple cart in any way, shape, form or fashion. She had her own issues, things she needed to prove. Hell, he didn’t envy her the position she was in, although he’d love to be sheriff. Only thing was, here in Adams County, if you ran for the office against anyone with the last name of Granger, you were bound to lose. Bernie’s old man, R.B., had held the position for almost thirty years, retiring only after a bout with cancer a few years ago. And from the early forties until his death nearly thirty years later, Bernard Granger Sr., Bernie’s grandfather, had been sheriff.
For the time being, Ron had no choice but to grin and bear it, to accept the Memphis detective who’d gotten the job that should have been his. But if Norton screwed up, just once, he’d be the first to shout it to the world. It wasn’t that he had anything personal against Norton. He might be a hell of a guy. And if it turned out that he was a great chief deputy, Ron might have to look elsewhere if he ever wanted to be more than a deputy.
Ron removed his cell phone from the belt clip, then eased down into the big, comfy swivel chair and propped his number tens up on Captain Norton’s desk. He went to his address book and hit the often-dialed number of his current girlfriend. Although he had dated several different women lately, he was sleeping with only one now. Abby Miller. However, since Abby was married, they had to keep their relationship a secret from the general public.
He didn’t make a habit of dating married women, but Abby was different. She had come after him, not the other way around. Usually, he did the pursuing and liked it that way, but with a gal like Abby, he’d made an exception for several reasons. First, the woman was a looker. Built like a brick shit-house, bosomy, vivacious, and flirty. And second, she was horny as hell since her husband’s National Guard unit had been sent to the Middle East. The lady was mighty talented in the sack and knew how to keep a man coming back for more.
“Kut and Kurl,” Abby said as she answered the phone at her beauty shop, located on West Jackson, two blocks from the courthouse.
“Hi, sugar.”
“Hi, yourself.”
“I’ve got to cancel our midday date,” he told her.
She whined.
“The new chief deputy’s in town, and Bernie invited me to join them and Jerry Dale for lunch today. I could hardly tell her that I couldn’t because I was meeting Abby Miller for a quickie in the backroom of her beauty shop.”

Abby giggled. “Yeah, that would have gone over like a fart in church. Bernie’s all right, but she’s a little uptight about her deputies’ moral values, if you ask me.”
“What Bernie doesn’t know about my personal life won’t hurt either me or her—or you, for that matter. You don’t want your mother-in-law finding out about us, do you? You know that old battle-ax would write Ricky Wayne and tell him you were cheating on him.”
Abby sighed loudly. “I don’t want that happening.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “If Ricky Wayne found out, he might kill us both when he comes home. You know what a temper he has.”
“No point in causing such a fuss over us just having a little fun. It’s not like we’re actually hurting anybody, right? After all, it’s not as if we love each other. And you’re sure not making any plans to divorce Ricky Wayne.”
“You’ve got that right. I’m crazy about my husband. I love him to pieces.”
“Of course you do. But why should you stay celibate just to prove it, right?”
Abby laughed.
“How about our getting away to Huntsville this weekend?” Ron asked.
“Sounds wonderful, but I can’t leave until after twelve tomorrow. I’m booked solid with appointments until eleven-thirty.”
“I’ll make reservations later today, then get back in touch to tell you where to meet me in Huntsville. I’ll try the Marriott near the Space and Rocket Center. You liked that hotel last time, didn’t you?”
“Sure did. Sounds great. Look, I’ve got to go now.”
“Too many curious customers wondering who you’re talking to?”
“That’s right, Martha Dean. Call me later.’ Bye now.”
The dial tone droned in Ron’s ear. Martha Dean was Abby’s out-of-town cousin, so she felt safe in using her name to cover Ron’s identity whenever their phone conversations might be overheard on her end. Since he’d never been involved with a married woman before Abby, this business of keeping their affair a secret was new stuff for him. But if he was totally honest with himself, he had to admit he kind of got a kick out of having a backstreet romance. Besides, Abby was worth a little sneaking around. She was the best damn lay he’d ever had.
Tap, tap, tap. Ron glanced up, searching for the sound, and realized someone was pecking on the door. “Yeah?”
John cracked the door a couple of feet and peered into the office. “I’ve made some fresh coffee and opened up a pack of bear claws. You interested?”
“Coffee sounds good.” Ron slid his feet off the desk, shoved back the chair, and stood. “I’d better stay away from the bear claws.” He patted his flat belly. “A single guy like me has to stay in shape.”
John chuckled. “I guess it’s lucky I’m married to a plump, understanding wife who loves me just the way I am. Otherwise, I wouldn’t get to indulge in my favorite pastries so often.”
When Ron joined John in the outer office, John poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him, then helped himself to an almond and sugar glazed confection.
“What do you think of Captain Norton?” John asked.
Ron shrugged.
“I know you were expecting Bernie to—”
“I wasn’t expecting anything,” Ron said. “I’d hoped she would think I deserved the job. Or if not me, then you.”
“Nah, not me. I didn’t expect it.”
“But you wouldn’t have turned it down.”
“No, I wouldn’t have, but … well, I guess, in a way, it’s my fault you didn’t get the promotion.”
“How do you figure that?”

“Ah, Ron, come on. You know the answer to that as well as I do. Hell, everybody knows Bernie didn’t want to choose between the two of us, and that’s why she brought in a ‘hired gun’ from Memphis. Norton made a name for himself with those murders back last year when some nut job killed that Vanderley woman and that high-priced lawyer Quinn Cortez was involved.”
“Okay, sure, I figure Bernie made it easy on herself by looking outside, and I can see why she picked a guy like Norton. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why he’d take this job. Who’d trade being a Memphis police detective for being a chief deputy in Adams County?”
“I guess we could just ask him.”
Ron guffawed. “Yeah, you do that, John.”
“Nah, not me. I thought you could ask.” John grinned at Ron, then took a huge bite out of the bear claw.

He parked on the side of the paved county road, a road he knew well. At this time of day, the odds of any traffic coming along to interrupt him were low. But just in case, he removed the jack and the tire iron and placed them by the back wheel. Then he scanned the road and the area on both sides, soybean fields that had once been cotton fields as far as the eye could see. He pulled the plastic tarp from the back of his vehicle, lifted it gently in his arms, and headed down the old dirt road that led out into the fields. When he reached midway, far enough off the main road not to be seen, yet close enough for his delivery to be easily discovered tomorrow or the next day or next week, he rolled the contents out of the tarp and into the middle of the rut-scarred lane. She spread out on the ground in a most unladylike manner, her lifeless body pale, her dark eyes wide open and staring up at him. After tossing the tarp aside, he knelt down and arranged Stephanie’s body so that one hand covered her pussy and the other arm rested across her breasts.
There, she was decently covered and yet the beauty of her luscious body was not hidden. He lifted her long dark hair and spread it out across both shoulders, the feel of it like silk against his fingers.
“You wanted to be free, didn’t you, my beauty? You told me so yourself.”
He rose to his feet, then took one final look at his old lover. The only thing that marred her sultry, dark beauty was the slash across her throat, highlighted by dried blood against her flesh.
You’re free now. And so am I. Free to love again.
He wished his relationship with Stephanie had worked out, for his sake and hers. He had thought surely she was the one, that he could love her as much as she loved him. But in the end, he had realized that he had no choice but to end things and continue his search. Out there somewhere was the one and only woman for him, someone who would erase all the painful memories, someone who wouldn’t disappoint him, someone worthy of his love.
Picking up the tarp and folding it into a twenty-by-twenty-inch square, he headed back to his parked vehicle. Off in the distance, he heard the rumble of thunder. Glancing at the horizon to the west, he noted the dark sky and figured it was raining over in Scottsboro. Back on the paved road, he scanned the four directions hurriedly; seeing and hearing no sign of anyone approaching, he opened the back of his vehicle, tossed the tarp inside, then retrieved the jack and tire iron. After putting everything back in order, he opened the passenger door, slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
He reached out and fingered the note lying on the passenger seat. A love note for his new love. Sighing, he closed his eyes and pictured her. Young and beautiful. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Maybe she was the one. Maybe this time he wouldn’t be disappointed. Maybe this time she wouldn’t hurt him.
“Ah, my beautiful, sweet Thomasina.”
He loved the pursuit, those heady days of getting to know each other, those romantic moments when anything and everything was possible. He would leave the note for her today. And then he would wait. But not for long. He was eager to begin their love affair.

Sheriff Granger stayed in step with Jim as they headed up Main Street, away from the courthouse and toward the restaurant in the heart of downtown Adams Landing. Her long-legged stride easily matched his pace, an advantage of her being a tall woman.
“I did warn you that Jerry Dale was a huge Jimmy Norton fan,” she said. “So be prepared. He’ll probably gush all over you.”
Jim groaned inwardly, but managed not to cringe. It wasn’t that he had any hang-ups about his glorious past as a star running back for UT, but God almighty, that had ended nearly twenty years ago.
“I suppose you run into fans all the time, huh?” she asked.
“Occasionally,” he replied. “But when it comes to people I have to work with, I don’t want them to think of me as Jimmy Norton. To be honest with you, Sheriff Granger, I prefer people get to know the man I am now, just plain old Jim Norton.”
She looked at him, a peculiar expression in her brown eyes. “I was a fan, too. My dad and I. Of course, my dad is a big Alabama fan, and the truth is, he really doesn’t like UT, but he used to watch every game back when you and Griffin Powell played. Heck, I guess just about every college football fan in the South did.”

“You watched college football with your dad? How old were you—ten?”
“Actually, I was twelve your freshman year and turned fifteen your senior year.” And I fell madly in love with youwhen I was fourteen and spent the rest of my teen years comparingevery guy I met to the great Jimmy Norton, a man I’dseen only on TV, in newspapers and in magazines. Looking back, she supposed one of the reasons she’d started dating Ryan Fowler in high school was because he’d been the team’s number one running back, and in her fantasies, Bernie had put him on a level with her idol. Her big mistake hadn’t been dating Ryan; it had been falling in love with him and marrying him.
“You’re what now—?” He mentally counted the years. “Thirty-two?”
She nodded.
“Was it unmannerly for me to ask your age?” he asked.
“Not as far as I’m concerned.”
He liked her attitude. “You’re young to be sheriff.”
“The youngest Adams County sheriff ever,” she told him. “And the first female. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my father and grandfather both held the office before me.”
“A family tradition, huh?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Tell me, Sheriff Granger—”
“Bernie.”
“Huh?”
“Call me Bernie,” she said. “Everyone does.”
“Okay. Bernie.” Somehow the name suited her. She didn’t look like a Bernadette. That name belonged to some petite bit of fluff, not a substantial woman who looked like she could take care of herself in just about any situation. She was no helpless, clinging female. No I-need-a-big-strong-man female. He’d bet when she was a kid, she could beat the living daylights out of all the little boys and had probably put the fear of God into more than one. And he’d lay odds that in a fair fight, she’d hold her own even now.
“I prefer to be called Jim,” he said. “Not Jimmy. And James was my dad.”
“Jim it is.” She paused. “We’re here. This is Methel’s.”
He stopped at her side and inspected the building. His guess was the two-story structure dated back to the late eighteen hundreds and the outside facade hadn’t been updated in a good thirty or forty years.
“Local lawyers and courthouse personnel, along with city policemen and our department, keep Methel’s in business,” Bernie told him. “There’s always a huge lunch crowd during the week. If you like down-home cooking, you’ll love the food here.”
He reached around her, grasped the door handle and opened the door. She jerked back, glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him, then walked into the restaurant. Apparently she wasn’t accustomed to men opening doors for her. She had seemed taken slightly off guard by his gentlemanly action.
“We just find the first available table,” Bernie said. “There is no hostess.” She surveyed the room, which had the look of an old diner, with one row of booths against the left side wall, a counter with six bar stools along the right wall and a dozen small tables situated in between. The waitresses wore jeans, white shirts and tennis shoes, and the best he could tell, they ranged in age from eighteen to sixty.
Just making conversation, Jim said, “Something sure smells good.”
“It’s the Friday special. Beef roast.” Bernie lifted her hand and waved. “There they are, in the very back booth. Come on. If we don’t put in our order before one, we won’t get any peach cobbler. It goes fast.”
Jim followed her. In his peripheral vision he caught the inquisitive stares of the other patrons. He figured everybody knew who he was and they were wondering how he would measure up. When they approached the back booth, two men slid off the red vinyl seats and stood. He recognized Ron Hensley, and by process of elimination assumed the other man was the DA, Jerry Dale Simms. Auburn-haired and freckled, Simms grinned and held out his hand. He was taller than Hensley, about six-one, broad shouldered, hefty, with a wrestler’s bulky build.
After Bernie made introductions, Jerry Dale grabbed Jim’s hand and pumped it as he grinned and talked and slapped Jim on the back. Jim usually hated it when people fawned over him—over who he used to be—but he got nothing but good vibes from Jerry Dale and decided then and there that he liked the friendly good old boy.
“Sit down. Sit down,” Jerry Dale said as he slid back into the booth. “We’ve done ordered peach cobbler for four. Didn’t want to wait and risk not getting any.”
Ron slid in beside Jerry Dale as Bernie sat and scooted in across from the two men. By the time Jim sat down beside Bernie, their blond, mid-twenties waitress appeared, a cheerful smile on her face, and handed each the one-page, vinyl-laminated menu. Jim had barely glanced at the items listed before the waitress asked, “What’ll it be, folks?”
“Today’s special,” Jerry Dale replied.
“Same for me,” Ron said.
“Make that three,” Bernie told her.
Jim glanced up at the waitress, caught a glimpse of her name tag—Renee—and said, “I’ll go along with everyone else.”
“Four specials. And four peach cobblers. Everybody want sweet tea?” Renee looked right at Jim. He nodded. “You the new chief deputy?”
“Yeah,” Jim said. “I’m Jim Norton.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Renee Michaels.” She glanced over at Ron and grinned, then turned and sashayed off toward the kitchen, swaying her cute little tush.
Jim wondered what the momentary exchange between Renee and Ron was about, but he pretended not to have noticed. He could tell by the expression on the lieutenant’s face that the waitress had struck a nerve. His guess would be that at some time in the not-too-distant past the two had been lovers.
“Have you gotten moved in and settled into your new place?” Jerry Dale asked.
“Pretty much,” Jim said. “Not a lot to do in a furnished rental.”
“I guess not. Later on you might want to buy a house. If you do, just let me know. My Amy is a realtor and she’ll be up to date on all the best bargains.”
“Thanks, but I figure I’ll be renting for a good while. I don’t really need much more than a roof over my head.”
“No wife? No kids?” Ron Hensley asked, and Jim wondered if the guy really didn’t know any of the personal details of his life.
“An ex-wife who lives in Huntsville with my son. Kevin’s twelve, and to be perfectly honest, he’s the reason I’m here in Adams Landing. He’s why I took this job.”
“And a good reason it is, too,” Jerry Dale said. “I’d move to the moon if Amy ever left me and took our kids up there. How long you been divorced? Did she up and remarry and take your kid away?”
Jim shifted uncomfortably, not wanting to be rude, but at the same time preferring not to go too deeply into personal matters with people he’d just met.
“So how are J.D. and Anna Leigh?” Bernie Granger asked Jerry Dale. “I hear Anna Leigh made the junior high cheerleader squad. I’ll bet she’s one happy little girl.”
“Lord, yes.” Jerry Dale went off on a proud papa tangent, giving blow-by-blow details of how his thirteen-year-old daughter beat out six rivals to win a spot on the squad.
Jim figured Bernie had sensed his discomfort at discussing his ex-wife and son and had diplomatically steered the conversation away from the topic. He’d been in town less than twenty-four hours and he already owed his new boss. Gut instinct told him he was going to get along just fine with the sheriff, that in time they would probably become friends. And that would certainly be a first for him. He’d never been good friends with a woman unless he was screwing her. But there was always a first time for everything.

After lunch with fellow teacher and friend Shannon Tolliver, Thomasina Hardy returned to her classroom at the Adams County Junior College. She’d been teaching here since her graduation from Auburn University five years ago, having taken the job so she could move back home to Verona, a rural community about twenty-five minutes from downtown Adams Landing. She’d never had dreams of living in a big city, away from her family and childhood friends. Some people couldn’t understand why, at twenty-seven, she enjoyed living at home with her widowed mother and younger brother, with her two older siblings’ homes within earshot of the home place. The Hardy clan was close-knit—mother, four siblings, two in-laws, and three grandchildren. Thomasina hoped that someday she would marry a fine man and bring her own children into the clan. But for now, she liked her life just as it was.
But she didn’t love her life and hadn’t ever since she and Ron Hensley had broken up about six months ago. She’d gotten a little more involved in their relationship than he had and when she’d made the mistake of becoming possessive, he’d backed off so quickly it had made her head spin. Her heart had been broken and she’d gone into a mild depression for about two months; then she had looked around and realized there were a lot of other men out there—better men than Ron. One man in particular had caught her eye—Brandon Kelley, the art director here at the junior college. He wasn’t an Adams County native, wasn’t even an Alabama native, and had come to work at the junior college only last year. She didn’t know a great deal about him, only the basic facts. He was thirty-eight, divorced, no children, and had come to Alabama from North Carolina.
Once he started teaching at the junior college, enrollment in art classes doubled, and seventy-five percent of his students were female. But who could blame the students for drooling over the guy. He was simply to die for. Chocolate brown eyes, curly brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples and worn just a tad too long. He was handsome in a Greek god sort of way. Thomasina had to admit that she was as infatuated with Dr. Kelley as any of his young students.
After sitting down at her desk, Thomasina pulled out the right-side bottom drawer and placed her handbag inside, then leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She had less than fifteen minutes to relax before the start of her first afternoon class and she had found that a quick, ten-minute power nap usually refreshed her and gave her the energy boost she needed to keep her going until the end of the day. But today, for some reason, she couldn’t seem to drift off into that semi-asleep state. Her mind kept whirling with thoughts—thoughts about Dr. Brandon Kelley. Her older sister, Amanda, had told her to ask the guy for a date, and she’d been trying to build up her courage to do just that. After all, what was the worst that could happen? He’d say no. And if he did? No big deal. She’d at least know where she stood with him and could move on to someone who was actually interested in her.
Thomasina opened her eyes, grumbled to herself and gave up on getting her daily afternoon power nap. As her gaze traveled over her desktop, she noticed a square white envelope lying in the middle of a textbook she’d put there before leaving for lunch. She stared at the envelope for half a minute, then picked it up and turned it over to the front. Her name—Thomasina—had been printed in bold letters in black ink. Her heart did a nervous rat-a-tat-tat.
The envelope had not been sealed, but the flap had been tucked neatly beneath the V-shaped back opening. She slid the flap up, and with forefinger and thumb eased the one-page note out of the envelope.
Thomasina took a deep breath, then unfolded the paper, which had been pressed in half, and read the brief message.
I worship you from afar, my beautiful Thomasina.
With her heart fluttering and her pulse racing, she gasped. It was a love letter, of sorts. A succinct message from an admirer. But who? One of her students? Possibly. After all, she was rather attractive and had dealt with male students making passes at her on several occasions.
She read the note again; the words were written in bold print and with black ink. But what student could have written something so utterly romantic? None she knew of. It was something a man would have written, not a boy. A worldly man, with the heart of a poet. Or an artist?
What if Brandon Kelley had written it? What if this was his way of wooing her?
Thomasina held the note to her breast and smiled.

After just one bite of the peach cobbler, Jim understood why Bernie and the others had raved about it. Without a doubt, it was the best he’d ever eaten—even better than his mother’s, and she’d been a great cook. If he ate many lunches like the one he’d eaten today, he’d either have to work out more or he’d wind up putting on ten pounds his first month in Adams County.
“Amy’s going to want to have you over for dinner one night,” Jerry Dale said. “She’ll be calling you. She’s a wonderful little cook.”
How did he get out of such a gracious invitation? “That’s awfully nice of—”
Jerry Dale laughed. “Nothing nice about it. That wife of mine is a matchmaker. She’ll probably invite one of her unmarried friends to dinner the same night. Just warning you ahead of time. And she won’t take no for an answer.”
Jim swallowed. “I don’t suppose there’s some courteous way to say no thanks, is there?”
“Not with my Amy. She’s a little velvet steamroller.”
“When Amy calls you, why don’t you suggest that you come for dinner one evening when your son is visiting,” Bernie said. “Tell Amy you’d like Kevin to meet some of the kids here in Adams Landing and he could start with Anna Leigh and J.D.”
Jim released a silent sigh. Once again, his boss had come to his rescue. Was that just her nature? he wondered. Was she the caretaker type who was always looking out for others?
Suddenly Ron Hensley’s cell phone rang—a distinct, loud ring, no catchy tune. He eased the phone from the belt clip, hit the ON button and said, “Lieutenant Hensley.”
Jim studied the deputy’s facial expressions and figured something was wrong, bad wrong, before Hensley said, “Goddamn it. Who found her? I see. Yeah, we’ll be out there as soon as we can. Just don’t let anybody touch anything and keep them as far away from the crime scene as possible.”
The minute Hensley finished his conversation, Bernie asked, “What was that about?”
“Earl Wheeler found a woman’s body lying in the middle of a dirt road leading into one of his soybean fields,” Hensley said. “That was John. He’s on his way to the scene now.”
“Any idea who—” Bernie didn’t get her sentence finished.
“Earl told John that he’s pretty sure the woman is Stephanie Preston. Said she looked like the woman in the newspaper and on TV who’s been missing for a couple of weeks.”
Chapter 4 (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
When they arrived at the crime scene, a small crowd had already formed along the roadside and the rutted lane leading into farmer Earl Wheeler’s soybean fields. Jim had seen this happen all too often, thanks to citizens in possession of police scanners. Although several deputies had beaten them there and were doing their best to keep the spectators at bay, Lieutenant Downs was sweating profusely, apparently concerned about keeping the scene secured.
“Look at them,” Hensley said. “Swarming like maggots. Why is it that people are so damn fascinated by murder and mayhem?”
Neither Jim nor Bernie replied since the deputy’s question was obviously rhetorical.
Bernie parked her Jeep just short of the yellow tape marking the scene, opened the driver’s door and hopped out, with Hensley on her heels. She gave the bystanders a hard glare and ordered everyone to keep their distance, then met Downs as he came toward her. Jim, who’d been sitting in the backseat, didn’t rush, allowing the sheriff to take the lead. After all, when it came time to speak to the press, she’d be the one to take the heat. And when the case was solved, it was her right to take most, if not all, the glory. As the new chief investigator, this should be his case, but he wasn’t about to inform either the sheriff or Hensley of that fact.
After he got out of the Jeep, he stood back, surveying the scene. Bernie paused after speaking to Downs and looked at Jim. She motioned to him with a wave of her hand. He nodded, and then joined the others at the edge of the yellow tape.
“It’s Stephanie Preston,” Bernie said. “John called Morris Claunch, our county coroner, and he should be here any minute now. He’ll be able to give us some basic info, but it seems fairly obvious that Stephanie’s throat has been slashed.”
Jim stepped over the tape and moved closer to the body, stopping a good five feet away. Stephanie was young, pretty, dark haired, full breasted and slender. With no apparent signs of a struggle and no blood anywhere on the ground near the victim, Jim surmised that she had been killed elsewhere and brought to this spot. And it was apparent, even to an untrained eye, that she had been posed in a somewhat seductive manner. One arm was draped across her breasts and one hand covered her mound, as if although the killer had wanted to expose her lush body, he’d also wanted to present her corpse with a small degree of modesty. The way he had arranged her limbs and long dark hair said that, in his own sick, perverted way, the killer had cared about his victim. Jim had seen this before, usually in cases where a member of the family turned out to be the murderer and in one case where the perpetrator had been a serial killer and posing his victims had been part of his MO.
Just as Jim noticed several marks on Stephanie’s otherwise flawless skin, Bernie walked up beside him.
“I have to call Sheriff Mays over in Jackson County,” she said. When Jim looked at her questioningly, she added, “Ed Mays is Stephanie’s uncle.”

Jim nodded. “Take a look at those marks on her.” He pointed them out, one by one. “What do they look like to you?”
“I’m not sure. Some look like small burns, as if—” Bernie swallowed hard. “They look like cigarette burns. And the others look almost like bite marks.”
“I’d say the body was placed here recently, within the past few hours, so it’s hardly likely that any wild animals would have caused those bite marks. If they had, there would be deeper wounds, some tearing, some flesh torn away.”
“They’re human bite marks, aren’t they?”
“That would be my educated guess,” Jim told her.
“Someone tortured Stephanie.” Bernie closed her eyes for a couple of seconds, then reopened them and cleared her throat.
“It’s okay to be upset,” Jim said. “You don’t have to pretend that it doesn’t bother you to know that not only was this young woman killed, but she was probably tortured for a couple of weeks before he slit her throat.” He glanced at Bernie and noted how pale her face was. “It bothers me a hell of a lot, too. I’m just better at hiding my feelings.”
“I don’t have the luxury of crying or screaming. I’m the sheriff. How would it look to my deputies—to anyone for that matter—if every time I’m exposed to something terrible, I break down and boohoo like a … a …”
“Like a woman?”
Bernie blew out a disgruntled moan. “Since she’s naked, do you think that means he raped her?”
“Probably, but it’s possible he didn’t. An autopsy should tell us everything we need to know about what she endured in the what, two weeks since she came up missing.”
“Our coroner, Morris Claunch, is the local undertaker,” Bernie said. “He’s not trained to do the kind of autopsy we need.”
“I figured that. So you’ll recommend that Claunch contact Department of Forensic Sciences, right? Or am I being presumptuous in assuming the sheriff’s department usually calls in the state boys when there’s a murder?”
“You’re my chief deputy, the lead investigator for my department,” she told him. “Is it your recommendation that the DFS and the Alabama Bureau of Investigation be brought in on this case?”
He looked her square in the eyes. Was she testing him by asking what he thought should be done? “Yeah, it’s my recommendation, but you’re the sheriff. It’s your call.”
“Look, I’m more aware than most that law enforcement in many Alabama counties still suffers from a prevailing ‘turf’ mentality, and some sheriffs and police chiefs are reluctant to call in the ABI. I’m not one of those sheriffs.”
“I had a feeling you weren’t.” The corners of his mouth lifted, hinting at an approving smile.
“Adams County simply doesn’t have the resources we’d need to do justice to this type of crime investigation,” Bernie told him. “My only other murder case was simple. Cut and dried. The killer confessed. So I haven’t worked with the ABI, but my dad knows the ABI area commander in Huntsville, and I’ve heard him say that he’s never had a problem working with the Bureau.”
Jim glanced at the cell phone clipped to Bernie’s belt, then said, “The sooner the better.”
“Right.” She removed her phone and scanned through the programmed numbers, then walked away from Jim and farther away from the crowd before placing her call.
Hensley came over to Jim and nodded toward Bernie. “Is she calling in the ABI?”
“Yeah.”
“Morris Claunch just drove up,” Hensley said. “What should I tell him?”
Day one as Hensley’s supervisor and Jim noticed that the guy was already playing by the rules. That was a good sign. “Tell him the sheriff is calling in the ABI and she’ll want DFS involved.” Jim looked directly at his deputy. “How long’s it going to take to get an autopsy report from DFS?”
“Average time? A week to a month. And for DNA evidence, that could be up to six months or longer. Worst case scenario—up to a year.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“The DFS guys are overworked and underpaid, and there aren’t enough of them to go around,” Hensley said. “In the past, we’ve worked with a preliminary draft right up to the trial.”
“Unless the coroner can tell us otherwise, I’m going to work under the assumption that Stephanie Preston was repeatedly raped and tortured before being killed.”
A tall, gangly man with thinning brown hair and a decided slump to his shoulders plodded casually over to them; he spoke to Hensley and glanced at Jim. “You the new chief deputy?”
“Yeah, I’m Jim Norton.”
The man held out his hand. “I’m Morris Claunch, the coroner.”
Bernie replaced her cell phone on the belt clip as she approached them. “A response unit is on its way from Huntsville, along with an agent, a guy named Charlie Patterson.” She looked right at Claunch. “I called Dad and he said you and he had worked with Patterson several years back.”
“Hmm … yeah, we did. Patterson’s okay. As I recall, he’s a team player. He’ll work with you”—Claunch glanced at Jim—“with your chief investigator and his team.”
“Once you take a look at the body, I’d like to know what you think,” Jim said.
Claunch raised one eyebrow, then nodded before making his way toward the beautiful young woman lying naked on a dirt lane in the middle of a soybean field.
* * *

Thomasina Hardy loaded the dishwasher and cleaned up her mother’s kitchen, then washed her hands and applied scented lotion. Her brother had a Friday night date and her mother had just left to go to her older sister Amanda’s to babysit the children so Amanda and her husband could go bowling over in Adams Landing. So here she was all alone on a Friday night. She and Ron broke up six months ago, so she should be back in circulation by now, shouldn’t she? She’d had a total of five dates in the past few months and not once had she accepted a second date with any one of the guys. Yes, she was picky. She might give just about any guy a chance with one date, but if he didn’t measure up, she didn’t waste her time or his.
Paul Landon, the richest bachelor in Adams County, had thought buying her dinner meant he got to screw her on a first date. The guy was a jerk. Neither his good looks nor his sizable bank account impressed her enough to give him a second chance.
Her mom had fixed her up with widower Steve Banyan, an Adams Landing pharmacist, but an hour into their date, she’d been bored to tears. All the man talked about was his kids and his deceased wife.
Her sister had fixed her up with two different duds—one worked at the phone company with Amanda’s husband and the other was a guy on their bowling team.
The only contender in the bunch had been Raymond Long, a recently divorced nice guy. But he’d never called her for a second date. Maybe she simply wasn’t his type.
Thomasina picked up the TV Guide and the remote control as she sat down on the sofa in the den and contemplated another Friday night alone. As she curled up on the sofa, she turned on the television and laid the remote at her side, then flipped through the guide. She had her choice of cop shows, reality shows and sitcoms, but she decided on a cable channel that showed an attractive young woman undergoing breast enlargement surgery. Although she filled out a C cup, Thomasina had often wondered how she’d look with a set of D or double-D boobs.
Ten minutes into the show, the telephone rang. Thomasina groaned. It was probably one of those annoying telephone solicitors. She hit the MUTE button on the remote, then got up and walked across the room to where her mom had left the cordless phone earlier this evening when she’d made a call to Amanda. Thomasina checked the caller ID. pay phone. A pay telephone? How odd. She knew there were several of those old pay phone booths still around in various areas in Adams County, but she wasn’t personally acquainted with anyone who used them. Debating whether to answer or allow the answering machine to pick up, she let the phone ring four times, then quickly hit the ON button and said, “Hello.”
“Thomasina?” the unfamiliar voice said.
“Yes.”
“Did you get my note?”
It was then that Thomasina realized his voice sounded odd. A deep, throaty baritone.
“Who is this?” she asked.
“I’m your secret admirer.”
A cold chill raced up Thomasina’s spine. Don’t overreact.Don’t assume this guy is some nut job. It could be BrandonKelley simply being romantic, choosing to woo you as a secretadmirer first, before revealing his true identity.
“Why keep your identity a secret?”
“I will reveal my identity when the time is right,” he told her. “But for now… sleep well tonight, my beautiful Thomasina, and dream of your secret lover who longs to touch you, to whisper love sonnets in your ear, to fulfill your every fantasy.”
Thomasina gasped softly, undeniably aroused by the man’s words, by the image his comments painted in her mind. Images of Brandon and her together.

“Please, tell me—”
The dial tone alerted her to the fact that he had ended their conversation.
Thomasina closed her eyes and sighed. Her Friday night wasn’t turning out to be so dull and uneventful after all. Will he call back tonight? No, probably not. But maybe tomorrow or tomorrow night. In a way, she wished Brandon would just come right out and ask her for a date, but in another way, she thought it was romantic and rather sweet that he had thought of a unique way to begin an old-fashioned courtship.
But what if it’s not Brandon? Of course, it was Brandon.Who else could it be?
She carried the phone with her when she returned to the sofa. After sitting down, she laid the phone beside the remote. For several minutes she stared at the silent television screen and considered the possibilities. If her secret admirer wasn’t Brandon Kelley, then who could it be? She couldn’t think of another man she knew who would do something so unconventional and romantic.
It has to be Brandon.
She hit the mute button again to resume the sound on the TV and tried to renew her interest in the show she’d been watching. But her mind kept wandering, alternating between fantasizing about Brandon and wondering whether she should be flattered or concerned about this little game he was playing with her.

Jim wolfed down a bologna sandwich and swigged on a Dr. Pepper as he tried to decide whether he should shave before heading over to the Adams Landing Hotel to pick up Agent Patterson for a late-evening session with the sheriff. The ABI agent had shown up less than an hour after Bernie had placed her phone call. He came with the crime scene guys, although he’d driven his own vehicle since he’d be staying in town for several days. If they didn’t break the case within a few days, Patterson would probably drive back and forth from Huntsville after that, since it was only a forty-five-minute drive. Jim’s guess was that this case wouldn’t be solved easily, maybe not for weeks or months. Maybe never. He had his own theories, but before mouthing off his opinion, he’d decided to wait until this evening and hear what Patterson had to say and get Bernie’s input after she spoke to her father. He wondered how many on-the-job years it would take before she felt confident enough not to run things by her dad. It couldn’t be easy for her trying to live up to the old man, living and working in his shadow.
Stephanie Preston’s body was on its way to Huntsville. Her family had been notified. Jim suspected that Bernie’s call to Sheriff Ed Mays probably had been the most difficult call she’d ever made. Both the ABI and the DFS were now involved due to the type of crime that had been committed, with the two agencies working with the county sheriff’s department. Bernie had called a press conference and had faced not only local reporters, but Huntsville newspaper reporters and television crews. She had kept her comments brief and refused to take questions, which was standard procedure this early in the game. Although the statement to the press had been succinct—Stephanie Preston’s body had been discovered, the cause of death to be determined by an autopsy, and yes, the death was being handled as a murder—rumors no doubt already abounded. Any of the locals who’d been at the scene could spread the word that Stephanie’s throat had been slashed and that she was naked.
After finishing off the Dr. Pepper, Jim wiped his mouth, walked over to the garbage can in the kitchen and dumped the empty cola bottle and the paper towel he’d used as a napkin. He glanced at his watch and saw that he had just enough time to shave, if he hurried. He was supposed to pick up Patterson at six-thirty; then the two of them would go to his office at the county jail, where Bernie, Ron Hensley and John Downs would meet them.
Jim made it halfway to the bathroom before his cell phone rang. Answering the call as he opened the bathroom door, he said, “Yeah?”
“Jim Norton?” He didn’t recognize the man’s voice.
“Yeah, this is Norton.”
“Mr. Norton … Jim … this is Allen Clark.” He paused, apparently waiting for a reaction from Jim. “You know, Mary Lee’s husband.”
“Yeah, I know who you are. What do you want? Is it something about Kevin? I’m supposed to get him next weekend. Mary Lee hasn’t changed her mind, has she?”
“No, no, nothing like that.”
“Then what?” Jim flipped on the light and looked at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror.
“I was wondering… that is, we were wondering if you could take Kevin earlier than we’d planned, say next Thursday?”
“Yeah, sure, but I don’t understand what’s going on. Why would Mary Lee give me a couple of extra days with Kevin?” Since their divorce nearly seven years ago, his ex-wife had done everything she could to undermine his relationship with his son and never, ever allowed them extra time together.
“Actually, we need you to keep Kevin for several weeks, possibly until school starts in August.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Look, Mr. Norton … Jim … I don’t know any other way to explain than to just come right out and tell you. Mary Lee has been diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s having a mastectomy next Friday, here in Huntsville. Her treatment will probably include radiation and chemo. She needs complete rest.”
Mary Lee had breast cancer? The news hit him hard. But not because he still had any deep feelings for his ex. Nope, that wasn’t it. As much as he sometimes hated Mary Lee and had on more than one occasion damned her to hell, she was his son’s mother. Kevin loved her. Needed her.
“What’s the prognosis?” Jim asked, a tight knot in his throat. Okay, so maybe he did still care about Mary Lee. Maybe he always would. But he wasn’t in love with her. She’d killed that years ago.
“The doctor is optimistic. Of course, we won’t know for sure until they run tests on the lymph nodes after surgery. But we’re hoping and praying for the best.”
“Yeah, of course you are. How’s Mary Lee?” His ex-wife had always considered herself a sexy woman and had used her body as both a weapon and a reward for the men in her life.
“She’s okay. Scared. Upset. Worrying about Kevin.”
“Was my taking Kevin for the next few weeks her idea or yours?” Jim asked.
Allen Clark cleared his throat. “Mine, actually. She’s concerned that with you starting a new job, Kevin might be alone too much.”
“I’ll see to it that he’s not.”
“Then you’re okay with my bringing him to Adams Landing next Thursday?”
“Yeah. Sure. But what about Kevin? Have y’all told him—”
“Not yet, but we will. This weekend. And … uh … I’ll call you Monday and set up a time and … Thanks, Mr.—”
“Jim.”
“Thanks, Jim.”
For several seconds after their conversation ended, Jim stood in the small bathroom, his gaze fixed on the mirror in front of him. He no longer saw his reflection, no longer thought about shaving. His emotions were torn between genuine concern about his ex-wife’s health and absolute joy over the fact that he was being given the gift of spending so much time with his son.
Jim snorted. Wasn’t life always this way? He had a chance for his son to live with him for several weeks, maybe more than a month, and this opportunity came at the worst possible time for him. Just as he was starting a new job that had become exceedingly complicated on his very first day. How was he going to balance giving Kevin the quality time he needed and deserved and giving his all to the investigation into Stephanie Preston’s brutal murder?
Chapter 5 (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Jim had listened, commented when asked a point-blank question and otherwise let the others carry the conversation. He was the new man on the job and despite the fact that he was in charge of this case for the sheriff’s department, it was officially now an ABI case. He had sized up Agent Patterson within twenty minutes of meeting him—laid-back and easy to get along with, intelligent without being the least bit cocky. Bernie had informed Jim that Patterson held a B.S. degree in Criminal Justice, as did she, which didn’t surprise him in the least. He figured Bernie probably also had, as he had, gone through the ten-week program at the FBI National Academy in Quantico. Besides taking forensic classes, he’d learned something about management techniques during the course.
The four of them—Patterson, Hensley, Bernie and Jim—sat around in Jim’s office, everybody on their third cup of coffee and rehashed the situation.
“I think we can eliminate Kyle Preston,” Patterson said. “The guy’s a basket case. He’s been under a doctor’s care for over a week now, sedated a great deal of that time, and if I ever saw a grieving widower—”
“I agree,” Ron Hensley said. “But without the husband as a suspect, who does that leave us with?”
“It leaves us with nobody,” Patterson replied. “At least for tonight. But somebody knows something, even if they think they don’t. It’s our job to dig deep until we come up with a workable scenario. Some nut job kidnapped Stephanie Preston, raped and tortured her for two weeks, and then killed her. Was he some guy just passing through Adams County or has he lived here all his life? Did he have something personal against Stephanie? Or maybe against her husband or another family member? Or did she just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“And how was he able to kidnap her from the college campus without anyone noticing?” Bernie grimaced. “Where had he kept her for the past thirteen days? If he’s done this once, will he do it again?”
“Yes,” Jim said.
All eyes turned to him.
“Are you saying that, yes, he’ll do it again?” Bernie asked.
Jim nodded. “Is this the first case of its kind in the area that you know of?”
“What are you implying?” Hensley asked.
“You’re not thinking we’ve got the makings of a serial killer on our hands, are you, Captain?” Patterson asked.
“Oh, God.” Bernie cringed. “Whatever y’all do, don’t repeat that outside these four walls. If the phrase serial killer gets bandied about, we’ll have all-out panic on our hands.”
Even though Jim’s gut instincts told him that there was a possibility that the man who killed Stephanie would do it again and she might not have been his first victim, he wasn’t about to go out on a limb on his first day on the job. Not when he’d been wrong in the past and been slapped down for it. Not if the opinion of a seasoned ABI agent differed from his. He could always do some snooping around on his own, if he felt strongly enough about it once they had a few more facts.
“Aren’t you jumping to conclusions?” Hensley glowered at Jim. “Shouldn’t we wait on the official autopsy report and other forensic findings before we automatically assume anything about this case?”
“Nobody’s jumping to conclusions,” Patterson said. “And we’re not assuming anything. But every opinion counts. We can’t rule out anything at this point.” He turned to Jim. “It won’t hurt to check with neighboring counties to see if there’s been any similar murders. But if our killer is nomadic, it’ll make solving this case more difficult.”
Jim nodded. “I hate to bother her husband and her parents, but I think we should talk to them again and also take a look at her home.” Jim glanced at Bernie. “Maybe Sheriff Mays can help us with that.”
“You still think the husband might have done it?” Hensley asked.
“No, not really,” Jim said. “But it’s possible there’s something he or her parents haven’t told us.”
“Why would they have kept anything from us?” Hensley’s harsh gaze narrowed until his eyes were mere slits. “They were desperate to find Stephanie. They’d have done anything to—”
“I didn’t say they deliberately kept anything from us,” Jim said. “But the husband and the parents were under unbearable emotional stress and could have easily forgotten something or dismissed something they thought insignificant. Didn’t y’all mention that the husband’s been sedated for a good part of the past seven or eight days?”
“I see what you’re getting at,” Bernie said. “And you’re right. I’ll contact Ed first thing in the morning and arrange for us to talk to Stephanie’s husband and her parents and get Kyle Preston’s permission to search the house.”
“He’ll think he’s under suspicion,” Hensley said. “Even if he’s innocent, he’s liable to clam up and hire a lawyer.”
“Not if we handle things right.” Agent Patterson glanced at Jim. “We have no reason to suspect the husband and he needs to know that up front. But if he refuses to allow us to search his house, well …”
Bernie glanced at her watch. Twenty till eleven. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we call it a night, get some sleep and start fresh first thing in the morning?”
“Sounds good to me.” Patterson rose from his chair.
Hensley got up and stretched. “Agent Patterson, do you need a ride to the hotel or do you have your car with you?”
“I think I’ll walk back to the hotel. It’s not that far and it’s a nice night. Besides, I do my best thinking when I take leisurely walks.”
Hensley nodded, shook Patterson’s hand and said good night to Bernie and then to Jim before heading for the door.
Patterson shook hands with Jim and Bernie. “Is seven in the morning too early for you two?”
“Seven’s fine,” Jim and Bernie replied in unison, then looked at each other and grinned.
A silly little phrase popped into Jim’s mind. Two foolshere and two more coming. How many times had he heard his father use that expression whenever two people said the same thing at exactly the same time?
As soon as Patterson left, Bernie picked up the empty Styrofoam coffee cups scattered about the room and threw them into the garbage. Jim turned off the coffeemaker, picked up the glass pot and took it into the adjoining bathroom. He emptied the remainder of the coffee into the sink, rinsed out the pot and brought it back into his office.
“You didn’t have much to say about this case,” Bernie said.
“There’s not much to say at this point. We don’t have the official autopsy or—”
“What’s the official autopsy from DFS going to tell us that we don’t already know? Morris examined the body at the scene and told us she’d apparently been raped and tortured, and the cause of death was obvious—somebody slit her throat.”
“There’s more to it than the autopsy. Patterson hasn’t heard back from his crime scene unit yet.”
“He should have a preliminary report from them by morning, but you’re an experienced investigator. You looked over the scene before Patterson’s team arrived. You must have a gut feeling about this case.”
“My gut feelings aren’t a hundred percent accurate. I’ve been known to be wrong.”
“Haven’t we all?”
They stood there and stared at each other for at least a minute. Jim wondered what this in-control, got-it-all-together woman had been wrong about in the past?
“Look, there’s something you should know,” he said, the comment coming from out of nowhere. He hadn’t meant to unburden himself on his boss, at least not yet. But before Kevin arrived on Thursday, he’d have to tell her about the changes in his personal life that might conflict with his duties as her chief deputy.
“Something about this case?”
He shook his head. “No, about me. About something going on in my personal life right now. I hadn’t meant to bring it up tonight, but you need to know.”
“Is it something that will interfere with your doing your job?”
“I don’t think so.” He huffed out a disgruntled breath. “No, it shouldn’t. Not if I can figure out how to handle being a full-time single father and do justice to my job at the same time.”
Bernie lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. “Your son is coming to live with you?”
“Temporarily. My ex-wife… Kevin’s mother has been diagnosed with breast cancer. Her surgery is scheduled for next week. I know the timing is lousy, what with me just starting this job and our facing this major murder case, but—”
“How old is Kevin?”
“Twelve.”
“He won’t need a babysitter, just someone to keep an eye on him when you’re not at home.”
“Yeah, and with this case coming up the way it did, I can’t predict what my hours are going to be during the next month or so while Kevin’s living with me.”
“I see why you’re concerned, but I think I have a solution for you.”
“You have a solution? What kind of solution?”
“My parents are retired. They both want grandchildren and unfortunately neither I nor my sister, Robyn, has given them any … yet. Why not let Kevin spend time with my folks when you’re at work? My mother will spoil him rotten. And Dad will take him fishing and play ball with him and—”
“Whoa, hon—slow down.” He’d stopped himself just short of calling his boss honey. “You haven’t even checked with your parents. You can’t make that kind of offer without asking them about it first. I can’t imagine they’d want the responsibility of looking after my kid. They don’t even know me.”
“I’ll tell you what, come to Sunday dinner. Meet my folks. I’ll tell Mom about your dilemma and I’ll bet you twenty bucks she’ll volunteer for the job of playing surrogate grandmother to Kevin.”
Jim felt overwhelmed by this generous offer. Stunned might be a better word. He was unaccustomed to people going out of their way for somebody who was little more than a stranger to them. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll come for Sunday dinner. My dad’s dying to meet you anyway.”
“He’s dying to meet Jimmy Norton and I haven’t been that guy in a long time.”
Bernie stared at him, her gaze pensive and penetrating, as if she were trying to delve deep inside him, to figure out what made him tick. “I believe that the child we were, even the teenager and young adult we were, always remains a part of us. Something of who Jimmy Norton was is still a part of you, whether you like it or not.”
“You’re awfully philosophical for so late at night, or do you always play amateur psychiatrist?”
“Guilty as charged,” she told him. “I minored in psychology at Alabama.”
“If I agree to come to Sunday dinner and join your dad in regaling my glorious past, will you promise not to try to figure out what makes me tick?” Jim turned off the lights in his office, opened the door and held it for her.
Taking her cue from him, she walked out into the hallway. “Why does it bother you that I want to get to know you better? I’ve known most of my deputies for years. I went to high school with some of them; some have married friends of mine. You’re an unknown, Jim Norton, a bit of a puzzle. And puzzles intrigue me. Besides, I like to really get to know my friends.”
“Are we going to be friends?” He kept pace with her as they walked down the hall.
“I’d like to think so.”
They exited the jail together, and then paused outside on the sidewalk.
“Don’t you want to be friends?” she asked. “Or do you have trouble being just friends with a woman?”
Jim chuckled. “The truth is I’ve never been just friends with a woman.”
“There’s always a first time for everything.”
“So there is.”
She headed toward her Jeep, leaving him standing in the middle of the sidewalk. After unlocking the driver’s door, she glanced back at him and smiled. “See you at seven in the morning. You make the coffee. I’ll bring sausage biscuits.”
“Make mine ham and cheese.”
“How many, one or two?”
“Two.”
She slid behind the wheel, closed the door and started the engine. Jim stood and watched her until all he could see was the Jeep’s red taillights off in the distance. He decided right then and there that he’d definitely like to be friends with Bernie Granger

He stroked the pearls, loving the feel of their cool, slick surface. These were not real pearls, of course. He couldn’t afford real ones like the necklace she had worn. But his lovers didn’t seem to mind that the necklace he sent was faux pearls. After all, it’s the thought that counts, right? Smiling, his mind filled with memories of her, he closed his eyes and the images grew brighter and sharper. He could see her clearly, almost as clearly as the night he had made love to her. She had been so surprised to see him.
He had foolishly thought she would welcome him with open arms, but she hadn’t. And in the long run, it really hadn’t mattered. He had gotten what he wanted—actually, more than he’d ever dreamed possible. Satisfaction. Revenge. Empowerment.
Afterward, he had believed her death had evened the score, that killing her had appeased the rage and anger inside him. But he’d been wrong. It had only fueled his need for revenge. That’s why he had sought out the other three, prolonging his time a little more with each of them, making them suffer as he had suffered. And when all four of them had been punished, he had thought that would be the end of it. Once again, he’d been wrong.
Just because someone hurts you, disappoints you, breaks your heart, doesn’t mean you should stop looking for love, stop searching for the one woman to fulfill your fantasies.
He hummed quietly to himself as he opened his eyes, laid the pearls down inside the white gift box and closed the lid. He would deliver these tomorrow, along with the note.
After pulling out the desk chair, he sat, picked up the black ink pen and stared down at the white note paper. Hmm … what to say … what words would seduce Thomasina? She was a romantic at heart, so she wouldn’t respond well to anything crude and earthy. Not yet.
Please accept this small token of my affection. Pearls for a lovely lady.
There, that should do it. All he wanted to do was whet her appetite for more.
He put the note inside the envelope and wrote her name across the front, then laid the message aside. The note and the pearls were always the next step in his courtship, then the sketch came later. But he was so eager to move things along, not to take weeks to court her, that he felt he should go ahead and send the sketch along with the note and pearls.
He opened the middle desk drawer and brought out his sketch pad and pencil, then closed his eyes for just a moment—long enough to picture her in his mind. His eagerness transferred to his drawing as he quickly sketched Thomasina’s face, her flowing dark hair, her sweet smile, her long, slender neck, the curve of her naked shoulder.
There, that’s enough. Stop.
He laid the charcoal pencil aside and took a deep breath. Thinking of her naked, of her lush breasts, the nipples peaked, her flat belly, her nicely rounded hips, and that thatch of dark hair between her thighs aroused him unbearably. But he couldn’t draw her that way. Not yet. It wasn’t time.
Accept the pain. Make it your friend. Remember thatwaiting for her makes the moment you first come together allthe sweeter.
Tomorrow, he’d find a way to deliver his note and little gifts. It shouldn’t be a problem. She drove into Adams Landing every Saturday morning and went to Robyn Granger’s gym.

Ron went around to the back door and pecked on the glass. When he’d called Abby to cancel their weekend plans, she’d been disappointed, but she’d understood. After all, he was a deputy, and the Stephanie Preston murder case was the biggest thing to happen in Adams County in a good ten years or longer.
He waited for Abby to come to the door; then when she didn’t, he pecked again and called her name softly. He had parked down the street and come down the alley, taking every precaution not to be seen. But hell, it was eleventhirty— who’d be up at this hour staring out their windows?
“Abby, honey …”
He heard footsteps inside the dark kitchen, then the distinctive click of the deadbolt being unlocked. The minute she opened the door, he rushed inside, kicked the door shut behind himself, and grabbed her.
“Slow down,” she told him, then giggled when he grabbed her ass with both hands and yanked her up against his hard-as- a-rock penis.
“I can’t slow down, baby. I want you too much.”
He kissed her neck as he rubbed her mound against his arousal.
“You can at least wait till we get to the bedroom,” she said. “I’ve had a long, rough day and I don’t want to wind up with my butt on the floor or slammed up against the wall.”
“Ah, baby, you like it any way you can get it.”
When he lifted her up off the floor, she wrapped her legs around his hips and tossed back her head when he opened his mouth and covered one breast through the thin material of her shorty pajama top.
Clinging to him, whimpering and talking dirty, Abby encouraged him to hurry as he carried her out of the kitchen, up the hall and into her bedroom. After tossing her onto the bed, he stripped off his clothes, and by the time he came down over her, she was naked and ready. Without saying a word, she reached out, encircled his dick and slid a condom over it. No matter how turned on Abby got, she never forgot to make sure she was protected. He liked that about her, that she took care of herself instead of expecting him to do it.
He thrust into her with one powerful lunge and nearly came right off the bat. She was hot and wet and tight. When she bucked up, he clutched her buttocks and held her for half a second before retreating and plunging again.
“I’m not going to be able to hold it much longer, baby,” he told her.
She slid her hand between her legs and stroked herself. “I’ll just help things along.”
He paused, allowing her to go at it, all the while whispering in her ear, talking the talk, exciting her. In only a matter of minutes, she came in a frenzy, crying, shivering. He jack- hammered into her for a couple of seconds, then came, the top of his head exploding as he jetted into the condom.
Once he was spent, he rolled off her and onto the bed beside her. She cuddled up against him and said, “Get some rest. Next time I’m not going to let you off the hook so easily.”
Ron reached over and stroked her belly, then delved his hand between her thighs. She was damp and sticky. When he fingered her clitoris, she whimpered.
“Set the alarm, will you, babe? I need to leave here before sunrise. We don’t want to run the risk of somebody seeing me sneak out your back door.”
“I’ll set it for four,” she told him. “That’ll give us time for a good morning fuck.”
Chuckling, Ron closed his eyes and hugged up to Abby, spoon-fashion.
Chapter 6 (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Ever since her younger daughter had returned to Adams Landing and opened her own business—Robyn’s Fitness Center—Brenda Granger had made a point of taking an active part in several classes Robyn offered. Brenda’s favorite was the Saturday morning session where a group of women went from doing stretches together to alternating on all the various equipment—everything from the treadmills to the stationary bicycles. After the first hour, they took a water break, then after the second hour, many of them stayed on and had lunch together. Robyn provided fresh salads with low-fat dressing and yogurt for dessert.
Since Brenda had kept herself in shape all her life and had been blessed with a great metabolism, she hadn’t needed to worry about her weight until she went through menopause; then ten extra pounds had crept up around her hips and abdomen before she knew it. It had taken her two months of diet and exercise to get back down to what her husband laughingly referred to as her fighting weight.
As she stood back and watched Robyn, in her much-too-skimpy exercise costume, Brenda sighed, then took a hefty sip of bottled spring water. Her younger daughter resembled her a great deal, with a slender figure, full breasts and curly, jet-black hair. Thankfully, Robyn had also inherited her great metabolism, as well as her love for physical exercise to keep her fabulous body toned. She had gotten her height from her six-four father, just as her sister, Bernie, had. Robyn was five-eight, and Bernie was just a tad over five-nine.
Poor Bernie had not inherited her mother’s slender build or her great metabolism. Ever since childhood, Brenda’s elder daughter had been large boned and tended to gain weight easily, as R.B. did. Bernie was as much her father’s daughter as Robyn was her mother’s, in looks and temperament.
But both girls were equally disappointing to a mother who longed to see her daughters happily married and producing some grandchildren for her. After all, neither she nor R.B. was getting any younger. A woman of fifty-eight should already have several grandchildren.
At least Robyn was dating regularly, although Brenda didn’t always approve of the choices she made. Bernie, on the other hand, dated infrequently and seemed to let every good prospect slip through her fingers.
Brenda felt it her motherly duty to do what she could to help both girls find the proper mate. That’s why she had invited two very suitable young men to Sunday dinner tomorrow. Raymond Long was a fine man and not bad looking, despite being a bit of a nerd. He owned the local hardware store and could provide handsomely for a wife. Luckily, he had divorced that hussy wife of his before they’d had children. And it didn’t hurt that Raymond’s mother, Helen, had been one of Brenda’s best friends for ages. The other Sunday guests would include the new minister, Matthew Donaldson. Matthew was young, handsome, charismatic, and best of all, he was single.

“Are you staying for lunch, Brenda?” Abby Miller asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it.” Brenda smiled warmly at Abby, although she didn’t especially like the woman. Abby wore too much makeup, dyed her hair that phony blue-black and wore clothes that screamed trailer trash. And there was a rumor going around town that Abby was secretly seeing another man while her poor husband was off in the Middle East serving his country.
The others staying for lunch began making a circle in the middle of the exercise room floor. Brenda glanced around to ascertain just who was still here so she could decide who she wanted to sit by. One by one, she ruled out the women she did not want to talk to for the half-hour lunch session. Definitely not Abby Miller. She crossed Renee Michaels off her list immediately. That woman didn’t have a brain in her silly head. Besides, it was a known fact Renee was a slut. Deputy Holly Burcham was another no-no, but only because she was sitting beside Renee, as was Amber Claunch, whom Brenda liked.
“Hmm …” Brenda spotted Bernie’s secretary, Lisa Wiley, and started in her direction, but stopped the minute she saw Cathy Downs sit beside Lisa. Cathy was a sweet person, but she would bore you to tears with her incessant chatter. The woman never stopped talking—about her children, her husband Lieutenant John Downs and her latest diet. The plump chatterbox tried every new diet craze that came along and did her best to convince everyone else that this one was the miracle cure for overweight women.
As her gaze traveled the completely formed circle, she suddenly saw her perfect spot, right between Amy Simms and Thomasina Hardy. Brenda hurried across the room, then paused and looked from Amy to Thomasina.
“Would y’all mind making room for me?” Before either could reply, Brenda squeezed in between them, forcing them to separate enough to make room for her.
Amy smiled pleasantly at Brenda. “Yes, please, join us.”

“We were just talking about what happened to that poor girl, Stephanie Preston, from over in Scottsboro,” Thomasina said.
“It’s the world we live in.” Brenda shook her head sadly. “When I was a girl, you never heard of anything like that happening around here. Northeast Alabama was one of the safest places on earth to live. Why, my folks never locked the doors and we slept with the windows open and never worried about somebody breaking into the house.”
“All the article in this morning’s Daily Reporter said was that she’d been murdered.” Amy looked right at Brenda. “You don’t know anything else, do you? Something you could share with us?”
Brenda smiled, hoping her expression conveyed to these ladies that she did, indeed, know something very important about the murder case. Although she knew no more than they did, being the sheriff’s mother, as she had once been the sheriff’s wife, afforded her the privilege of pretending to be in possession of top-secret information.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I’m at liberty to share with y’all,” Brenda said. “There are many things that can’t be shared with the public or it might jeopardize the case. I learned years ago, as R.B.’s wife, to keep my mouth shut.”
“Oh, Brenda, come on,” Amy cajoled. “Isn’t there some little something? You know we’d never tell a soul.”
Brenda shook her head, then leaned over and whispered to Amy, “Well … No, no, I can’t. Sorry.”
“We understand,” Thomasina said. “Besides, I’m not sure I want to know the details. Rumors are that she was naked when they found her, and you know what that usually means—it means she was probably raped. Poor girl.”
“Wonder if they think her husband killed her?” Amy said. “I tried to pry something out of Jerry Dale last night, but he wasn’t talking. I told him, what good is it for me to be the DA’s wife if the DA never tells me anything.”

All three women laughed.
“Did somebody tell a good joke?” Robyn asked as she pulled the serving cart behind herself.
“Not really,” Brenda replied. “It was just nervous laughter.”
“We were talking about that poor Stephanie Preston,” Thomasina said.
Robyn retrieved two salads in plastic containers from the serving cart, then handed one to Thomasina and the other to her mother. “You know, when she came up missing and all those searches didn’t turn up anything, I had a feeling she was dead. It gives me cold chills to think about what happened to her.” Robyn handed Amy a salad.
“We were trying to dig information out of your mother, but she won’t tell us anything,” Amy said.
Robyn eyed her mother speculatively, the corners of her wide, full mouth turning up ever so slightly. Brenda knew that expression only too well. It was Robyn’s shame-on-you-Mama look.
“Being members of the sheriff’s family doesn’t necessarily mean we’re in possession of any more information than the average citizen,” Robyn said, then winked at her mother.
Brenda let out a mental sigh of relief that her daughter hadn’t given her away. But then Robyn had been Brenda’s coconspirator all her life, backing her up, keeping her secrets, sharing in her love for gossip. Bernie had been the tattletale, always telling R.B. everything. Her elder daughter had never learned the art of telling socially acceptable little white lies. Like R.B., she could be too in-your-face blunt and brutally honest. That detrimental trait wasn’t very appealing to most men and was probably one of the reasons Bernie couldn’t find a husband. That and the fact that Bernie needed to lose twenty pounds.
* * *

Since the Preston home was in Jackson County, Sheriff Mays accompanied Bernie, Jim and Charlie Patterson when they met Kyle Preston and Stephanie’s parents at the white vinyl-sided house the newlywed couple had rented near Hollywood. Bernie asked the parents and husband to come outside with her and sit on the porch to talk to her and Ed Mays while Charlie Patterson and Jim Norton searched the house.
The parents sat side by side in the porch swing. The husband sat in one of the two white rocking chairs, while Ed Mays took the other. Bernie remained standing.
“I can only imagine how difficult this is for y’all.” Bernie looked at each of them individually. “And I’m truly sorry that we have to question y’all again.”
“Ed explained,” Jay Floyd, Stephanie’s father, said. “We want to do whatever we can to help y’all catch whoever killed our little girl.” Tears welled up in the middle-aged man’s faded brown eyes.
“We appreciate your cooperation.” Bernie glanced at Emmy Floyd, Stephanie’s mother, who sat quietly, tears streaming down her cheeks and a glazed expression on her face. She held her hands in her lap and kept twisting her gold wedding band around and around. Dear God, how horrible this must be for her. To lose a child would be bad enough, but to know that child had suffered repeated brutality for nearly two weeks would be something no mother could ever come to terms with.
Bernie turned to Kyle Preston, and she could tell by the glassy look in his eyes that he was still medicated. “Mr. Preston … Kyle … thank you for allowing us to search your house. I promise that Agent Patterson and Captain Norton will not tear things apart in the search.”
“I don’t know what they think they’ll find,” Kyle said. “If I’m not a suspect …” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard.

“You’re not a suspect, Kyle. Your in-laws verify the fact that you were at their house the evening Stephanie came up missing, that you two had eaten supper there before her night class and that you’d stayed on to help Mr. Floyd work on his tractor.”
“That’s right,” Jay Floyd said. “We expected Stephie to come back by and pick up Kyle, and when she didn’t show up by eleven, we called Ed.”
Bernie nodded. “I realize y’all have answered a lot of questions since that night, that y’all did everything you could to help us in our investigation then and again yesterday after we verified that Stephanie was dead.”
Emmy Floyd keened softly. Her lips puckered; her chin quivered. Jay scooted closer to his wife where they sat in the porch swing and put his arm around her shoulders.
“I hate to go over this again, but it’s possible something one of you thinks is totally insignificant might help us in the investigation.” Bernie eased backward and braced her hips against the porch banisters. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Stephanie? Someone who was upset with her or had a grudge against one of you?”
“Our girl didn’t have an enemy in this world,” Jay said. “She was as good as gold.”
“Jay and Emmy don’t have any enemies,” Ed Mays told Bernie. “I don’t know a soul who doesn’t think the world of them and of all three of their kids, too.”
Bernie nodded again. “What about you, Kyle?”
“I don’t know of anybody, except maybe all of Stephie’s old boyfriends,” Kyle replied. “They gotta be jealous because I got Stephie.”
“She was a prize,” Jay said. “Pretty. Smart as a whip. A good girl.”
Old boyfriends. Hmm … Was it possible that an oldboyfriend hated Stephanie for dumping him in favor of Kyle?Hated her enough to kidnap her, rape and torture her, thenkill her?
“Was Stephanie dating someone she broke up with before the two of you got serious?” Bernie asked.
“I—I wasn’t serious about the old boyfriends,” Kyle said nervously. “The only boyfriend she ever had before me was Richie Lowery.”
“Richie was a good boy,” Jay said. “Besides, he’s the one who broke up with Stephie.”
“He might have been the one who ended things, but I think he wished he hadn’t,” Kyle said.
“What makes you say that?” Bernie asked.
Kyle glanced at his wife’s parents, then at Ed Mays. “Stephie got some notes and some little presents from him last month. She showed them to me and I told her that if he called her or bothered her, she was to tell me and I’d go have a talk with Richie. You know, beat the shit out of him if he messed with her.”
“Are you saying Richie was harassing Stephanie?” Bernie looked point-blank at Kyle.
“Nah, nothing like that. After a couple of notes and presents, nothing else happened. I guess when Stephie didn’t respond, he got the message that she was happily married.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this before now?” Ed asked.
“I didn’t think about it,” Kyle admitted. “It wasn’t anything important. Like I said, nothing more ever came of it.”
“Where does Richie Lowery live?” Bernie posed this question to Stephanie’s parents.
“As far as I know, he still lives in Hollywood,” Jay said. “You don’t think Richie…” He cleared his throat. “The boy was all right. There’s no way he would have hurt Stephie. He wasn’t the type.”
“I understand,” Bernie said. “But it won’t hurt to question him.”

As she continued speaking with the family, periodically checking her watch and wondering just how long it would take Jim and Charlie to do a thorough inspection of the house, she became more and more certain that Stephanie’s parents and husband didn’t know anything that could shed new light on the case. That is, other than the information about Richie Lowery, which Bernie’s instincts told her probably wouldn’t amount to anything. Not unless Kyle wasn’t telling her everything. But the guy seemed to be an open book.
After running out of questions, Bernie let Ed take over and she sat back and listened. He talked to the family, reminisced about Stephanie and gave them the opportunity to relive happier days.
The front door opened and Jim peered out onto the porch. His gaze connected with Bernie’s. He nodded for her to come to him. She eased up from her perch on the banisters and headed toward the door.
“I believe Captain Norton and Agent Patterson are just about finished,” she said. “If y’all will excuse me, I’ll check with them and be right back.”
When she walked into the living room, Jim closed the door behind her and said, “We found something interesting.”
Bernie’s heart sank. Oh, please, God, don’t let there be any evidence against Kyle Preston. He seemed like such a good guy, a guy in love with his wife.
“Charlie found the items in a box in a cedar chest in the second bedroom,” Jim said. “The box was tied with string and had been placed under several quilts.”
“What was in the box?”
“Come see for yourself. Charlie’s been really careful handling it.” Jim held out a pair of gloves to Bernie. She took them, slipped them on and then followed Jim down the hall and into the bedroom.
“Did you tell her?” Charlie asked.

Jim shook his head. “I thought she’d want to see them for herself.”

Thomasina got another bottle of water out of the machine at Robyn’s Fitness Center before she left. She was warm and sweaty and thirsty, and all she wanted to do was cool off before driving over to the Pig, which was what everyone called their local Piggly Wiggly supermarket, to pick up the items on the grocery list her mother gave her before she left Verona this morning. On the off chance that Brandon Kelley might be doing his shopping this afternoon, Thomasina had reapplied her makeup before leaving Robyn’s. She knew she was acting like a silly teenager with a crush, but she couldn’t help it. She had even dreamed about Brandon last night. Sigh, sigh. Be still my heart.
Hitting the automatic unlock on her keyless entry pad, Thomasina headed straight for her car parked in the back lot behind the fitness center. As she approached, she noticed something hanging on the handle of the driver’s door. An advertisement of some sort? Probably. But it was rather large for a flyer.
Stopping and staring when she reached her car, she realized that someone had tied a white plastic bag to the door handle. Her heartbeat accelerated. Thomasina set her unopened bottle of water on the hood of her car, then hesitantly yet expectantly reached out, untied the knot holding the bag in place and grasped it. Standing there in the parking lot, in the noonday July sun, she peeked inside, but all she could make out was a white box and a manila envelope.
She opened the car door, got in and after closing the door and starting the engine to get the air-conditioning running, reached inside the bag and pulled out the note. With trembling fingers, she removed the message from the envelope and unfolded the note.

Please accept this small token of my affection. Pearls fora lovely lady.
Thomasina gasped silently. Pearls?
She reached into the bag again and withdrew the small, white rectangular box. She felt like a kid on Christmas morning. After removing the lid, she stared at the eighteen-inch string of pearls nestled on a bed of white cotton. Round and creamy white, with a small gold catch, the pearls weren’t real. They couldn’t be. But they were beautiful all the same. And such a sweet gift. A gift from a very romantic man.
A gift from Brandon?
She laid the box and the note on the passenger seat, then retrieved the manila envelope and tossed the bag alongside the box.
What could this be?
After opening the sealed envelope, she removed the contents. A single page from an artist’s sketch pad. Her heart skipped a beat. Brandon was the art director at the junior college. She turned the paper over and gasped aloud. It was a charcoal sketch of her face. This was the work of a true artist.
Brandon Kelley was that true artist. He was her secret admirer. But why was he courting her in such an old-fashioned, secretive manner? Why didn’t he just come right out and ask her for a date?
Because Brandon isn’t like other men, she told herself. He’s older, more experienced, worldly wise and undoubtedlyone of the last of a dying breed—a romantic gentleman.
She reached over, lifted the pearls from the box and fingered them lovingly. She would wear them to school on Monday to show him that she liked his gift.
Bubbling with excitement and giddy with expectations, Thomasina attached her seatbelt, shifted into reverse and began humming to herself as she backed up and headed out to the street.

* * *
Bernie handled the items very carefully, taking her time to study the details as Charlie Patterson gave the pieces to her, one at a time. First were notes written in heavy black ink on white note cards, the kind you could buy just about any place that sold stationery. Each note was succinct, flattering to the receiver and eerily romantic.
“Kyle Preston told me that one of Stephanie’s old boyfriends sent her some notes and gifts. These must be the notes.” But something wasn’t quite right about these things. The notes were unsigned, and the wording didn’t seem to be something a former lover would write. No, her guess would be the messages were sent from a would-be lover.
“Why didn’t he mention these notes before?” Jim asked.
“He’d forgotten about them, didn’t think they were important.”
“I can’t believe a husband could have forgotten about these things,” Charlie said. “Especially not the sketches.”
“What sketches?” Bernie asked. “Kyle didn’t say anything about sketches.”
“Then either he’s lying or Stephanie didn’t share all her little gifts with her husband.” Jim pointed to the thin stack of papers Charlie held in his glove-covered hand.
“Let me see those.” Bernie held out her hand and accepted the items Charlie gave her.
The first item was a sketch of Stephanie, done in charcoal. Just her face, with a hint of naked shoulder. It was a remarkably accurate sketch; the artist clearly was talented. Bernie shuffled through several photographs of Stephanie, obviously taken at a distance, and it was apparent that she had not been aware she was being caught on film. One photo was of her on her front porch. Another was of her coming out of the grocery store wheeling a cart filled with sacks. There were six photos in all, each taken at a different location and apparently on different days.

“He was stalking her,” Bernie said.
“Yeah,” Jim replied. “Keep going. It gets worse.”
She handed the first sketch and the photos back to Charlie and took a look at the remaining sketches, probably a dozen or so. Bernie did a double take after looking at the first rendering. This was an ink sketch of Stephanie, partially undressed, with one naked breast showing, the nipple tightly puckered. She had one hand slipped suggestively between her upper thighs and her right index finger was stuck in her mouth, pressing her lips apart.
Dear God, had Stephanie posed for this or had the artist drawn it from memory? “We definitely need to question the old boyfriend.”
Bernie flipped that sketch and went on to the next. In this one, Stephanie was completely nude, except for a strand of pearls around her neck, and the expression on her face was downright unnerving. She looked like a woman in the throes of an orgasm.
“Lord.”
“Amen,” Charlie said.
Until Charlie spoke, she hadn’t realized she’d uttered the word aloud.
Each successive sketch was more graphic than the one before, and the final four depicted Stephanie in S&M poses. Bound. Gagged. Chained. Her body marred with small, round marks and teeth prints.
Sour bile rose from Bernie’s stomach and burned her esophagus on its ascent to her throat. She gagged, then swallowed. Don’t you dare vomit. Neither one of these big strongmen is sick to his stomach.
“Pretty rough stuff,” Jim said.
“Disgusting.” Bernie managed to get the one word out before she had to clear her throat several times.
“The question is, did the artist use his imagination to draw these, or at some time either in the past or recently, did Stephanie Preston pose for them?” Charlie looked from Bernie to Jim.
“If you’re asking for my opinion, I’d say he used his sick imagination,” Jim said.
Bernie nodded. “Unless there was a side to Stephanie that no one knew about, I agree with Jim.”
“There are a few other things.” Charlie pointed to the open box atop the closed cedar chest. “Little gifts. A string of pearls. A bottle of perfume. A gold ankle bracelet. A tube of pink lipstick and matching nail polish.”
“Gifts a guy would give his girlfriend?” Bernie thought about the presents, two pieces of jewelry and three toiletry items. “Why these things?”
“Good question.” Jim’s gaze met hers. “Were they things he knew she liked? Or were they items he wanted to see her use?”
“Look, you two, I’ll get these items to our Crime Scene Unit today,” Charlie told them. “While I’m taking care of that, why don’t y’all follow up on the old boyfriend? And while you’re at it, get a list from her family of every man in Stephanie’s life, other than her father and husband.”
“That could be a long list,” Bernie said. “She worked at McDonald’s during the day and went to school at night. Plus, she attended church regularly. The list of men in her life could add up to a hundred or more.”
“We’ll start with the old boyfriend and then go on to any guy who’s shown a particular interest in Stephanie recently,” Jim said.
Charlie nodded. “I’ll try to get a preliminary report for us and we can go over it tonight. Unless tonight’s out for some reason.”
“Tonight’s fine,” Jim said.
Bernie nodded. “Good thing I don’t have an active social life.”

“Hey, you’ll get to spend the evening with two good-looking guys.” Charlie chuckled.
“What more could a girl ask for on a Saturday night—two handsome lawmen, takeout from the King Kone and a stack of crime scene photographs?” Bernie rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed dramatically.
Chapter 7 (#ufc7b371f-5FFF-11e9-9e03-0cc47a520474)
Thomasina had skipped Sunday school this morning, so she’d driven her own car to eleven o’clock church services. When she’d dragged in five minutes late, her mother had given her one of those disapproving glares that only parents can give. She had sat through the sermon, doing her best to relate to what Reverend Donaldson had to say, but the honest truth of the matter was that she’d spent those forty minutes looking at the new minister, actually drooling over him the way every other woman in the congregation was. The man was gorgeous. Black hair, blue-gray eyes that were such a contrast to his darkly tanned face, and a body that would put sinful thoughts into a woman’s mind.
Her sister Amanda, who’d been sitting on her right, had nudged her in the ribs and whispered, “He’s single, you know.”
Thomasina hadn’t reacted in any way except to smile. Matthew Donaldson was drop-dead gorgeous and single, facts that under different circumstances would have interested her greatly. But not now. Not when Brandon Kelley was on a mission to woo and win her with a very old-fashioned and utterly romantic courtship. She had hoped to catch a glimpse of her secret admirer this morning, but Brandon wasn’t overly religious and came to church on average once a month. Not seeing him had been disappointing, but she consoled herself with the thought that she could make a point of running into him at school tomorrow. She would be friendly, maybe even a little flirtatious, but in a very ladylike way. If she came on too strong, too female-in-charge, she might turn him off and put an end to their romance before it actually began. Taking her cues from him was the wisest course of action. Apparently he wanted their relationship to begin by being sweetly romantic, with an air of mystery.
Thomasina made a point of speaking to Reverend Donaldson and welcoming him to Adams Landing. She figured if Amanda had picked the man out as a potential brother-in-law, her mother had zeroed in on him as son-in-law material. And as every girl knows, it’s always best if you can keep your mama happy. Of course, every mother in town with a single daughter over the age of twenty was probably making mental wedding plans for her daughter and the reverend. Young, handsome, successful single men in Adams County were few and far between.
Amanda grasped Thomasina’s arm just as she started walking toward the parking lot. “Hold up.”
Thomasina paused. “I spoke to him, smiled at him and made friendly. That should satisfy Mama.”
“Hmm … What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, I know you. You’ve got a new boyfriend, haven’t you? And it’s about time. You should have stopped pining over Ron Hensley two seconds after the bum dropped you like a hot potato.”
“He didn’t drop me like a hot potato. We just wanted different things from a relationship.”
Amanda lowered her voice. “Yeah, all he wanted was sex.” She looked directly into Thomasina’s eyes, as if daring her to lie to her. “Come on. Who is this new guy?”
“Swear you won’t tell a soul.”
Amanda giggled. “I swear.”
“It’s Brandon Kelley, the art director at the college.”
“And when did this start? When was your first date? Details, girl. I want details.”
“Look, I’ll fill you in on everything after dinner today, when Mama takes her nap and the guys and kids are outside playing ball. But I can tell you this—he is so romantic.”
Amanda let Thomasina leave without further questioning, probably realizing that they could easily be overheard by any number of people. The church grounds were covered with three fourths of the congregation who lingered to chit chat and gossip before going home.
Despite the clouds blocking the sun, the July heat seeped through and the high humidity created a damp heaviness in the air. On her way to her car, she spoke to half a dozen people and threw up her hand and waved at Robyn and Bernie Granger, who were with their parents. She’d bet Brenda Granger had her eye on the reverend as a potential mate for one of her daughters.
When Thomasina reached her car, she realized that in her haste to make it inside the church on time, she had forgotten to lock the doors. No big deal. She didn’t have anything worth stealing inside the vehicle, and who’d want to take her older model Grand Am? She opened the door and started to slide inside, wanting to get the air-conditioning going as quickly as possible. But she stopped dead still when she saw the large manila envelope lying on the driver’s seat. Her heart lurched. Was this another gift from Brandon? After picking up the envelope, she got in, closed the door, started the engine and turned up the air-conditioning. Glancing around to see if anyone was watching her, she tried to decide whether to open the envelope now or wait until she got home.
No one was paying any attention to her, so why wait? She opened the envelope eagerly, barely able to contain the fluttering excitement in her belly. Peering inside, she saw a note and what looked like four-by-six-inch snapshots. She removed the note from its envelope.
I love looking at you. You’re so beautiful.
Thomasina sighed. Her whole body quivered with pleasure.
Her hands trembled as she reached inside the manila envelope and removed the photographs. Three pictures of her. One taken at the college, one coming out of Robyn’s Fitness Center, and one going into the Piggly Wiggly yesterday.
An odd feeling rippled up Thomasina’s spine as she realized that he’d been following her yesterday, that he’d been close and yet hadn’t made his presence known. It was almost as if he was stalking her. A hint of uneasiness crept into her romantic fantasy of Brandon Kelley courting her with notes and gifts.
You’re being silly. There’s a difference in a man like Brandon being secretively seductive and some guy she wasn’t interested in stalking her. After all, she wanted Brandon to notice her, to take an interest in her, to pursue her.
Taking a deep, calming breath, Thomasina banished every negative thought from her mind. Perhaps tomorrow, at school, Brandon would make his next move and ask her for a date. After all, how long could he continue admiring her from afar when it was obvious what he wanted was to admire her up close and personal.

Jim felt downright awkward coming for Sunday dinner at the Granger house when it was apparent that everyone else here had come straight from church services. Everyone was still dressed in their Sunday best. Reverend Matthew Donaldson still wore his suit and tie. Raymond Long had removed his jacket, but wore a white button-down and blue-and-gray striped tie. Only R.B. Granger looked halfway comfortable, having taken off his jacket and his tie, leaving him in a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My kind of man, Jim thought. Jim wore khaki dress slacks and a navy blue, short-sleeve, cotton pullover. In comparison with everyone else, he was definitely underdressed. But he usually didn’t put on a suit and tie, except for funerals.
“Come on in, Captain Norton.” R.B. invited Jim in with a wave of his hand. “Bernie’s introduced you to everybody except her mother and sister. They’re out in the kitchen getting dinner ready to put on the table.”
Jim entered the large den where the others had congregated. This room, like the living room and dining room he had glimpsed when he’d entered the foyer, possessed a sense of hominess. The furniture was a mixture of styles, mostly dark woods and earthy colors, antiques blending with sturdily built, more modern pieces. In many ways, it reminded him of the home he’d grown up in, the place where he’d been happy and at the time hadn’t realized what a lucky kid he was. As a boy, he’d had everything he now wanted for Kevin. A happily married mother and father, a kid sister, and a house filled with love.
“Smile, Jim,” Bernie whispered to him. “This is Sunday dinner, not a walk to the electric chair.”
He forced a closed-mouth smile and entered the den. Bernie had introduced him to everyone, including Raymond Long’s mother, Helen, who was at this very minute studying him intently. He couldn’t figure out why she was so interested. It was as if she’d taken an instant dislike to him and was searching for a reason to justify her decision.
“Dad, you’ll have to keep the conversation going,” Bernie told her father. “I need to help Mama and Robyn. Dinner should be on the table in just a few minutes.”
Jim glanced at Bernie as she walked away hurriedly. She wore a two-piece tan suit, with a skirt that hit her mid-calf, but she didn’t look all that different today than she had the past two days. Everything about her—from her simple style in clothes to her minimum of makeup and long hair pulled away from her face and secured in a ponytail—was neat, orderly and… well, to be honest, plain. Not that Bernie wasn’t pretty. She was, but in a plain sort of way. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium complexion, simple clothes, simple hairstyle. Bernie’s only outstanding feature was her five-nine height, making her as tall as a lot of men.
R.B. pulled Jim aside and said, “Bernie tells us that you’re going to be keeping your son for a few weeks while your ex-wife undergoes surgery and then chemo.”
“That’s right.”
“I sort of know what your ex-wife is facing. I was diagnosed with prostate cancer a few years ago.” R.B. grunted. “Cancer. That’s a word no one wants to hear in reference to their own health.”
“No, sir.”
“Look, son …” R.B. clamped his big hand down on Jim’s shoulder, the two men standing eye to eye, R.B. not quite an inch taller. “Brenda and I talked things over after Bernie explained your predicament, and we’re both ready, willing and able to act as surrogate grandparents for your boy.”
Jim released an emotional breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “That’s mighty kind of you and your wife, but—”
R.B. squeezed Jim’s shoulder, then lowered his voice and said quietly, for Jim’s ears only, “The way I see it, one good turn deserves another.” R.B. scanned the room so quickly that Jim doubted anyone else even noticed. “You look out for my kid and I’ll look out for yours.”
“Do you mean Bernie?”
R.B. nodded. “It’s not that I don’t think she’s doing a bang-up job as sheriff. She’s smart and good as any man on the force. But she’s young, and well, son, she is a woman. And we both know that a woman thinks with her heart and not her head. Of course, my girl is better than most about using her common sense and seeing things the way we men do.”
“Are you concerned about something in particular?” Jim asked.
“Yeah, I’m concerned about this murder case,” R.B. told him. “This is a bad one, and we both know it. Unless y’all just get lucky, it may become an unsolved murder. Bernie’s not going to accept that easily. She’s got a lot to learn, and that’s where you come in. You have the experience she lacks. I want you to help her … guide her along through this case.”
Jim blew out a deeply inhaled breath. No beating around the bush for R.B. Granger. Bernie’s father said exactly what he thought. The only problem was that Jim wasn’t sure he could make that kind of a deal. “Bernie’s my boss. She’s the sheriff, I’m just the chief—”
“Dinner is served,” a feminine voice called from the doorway.
Taking this as an opportunity not to finish his conversation with R.B., Jim turned his attention to the owner of that syrupy sweet voice. The woman standing in the doorway, smiling, her long, curly black hair framing her beautiful face, all but took Jim’s breath away. Tall and willowy, with slender curves in all the right places, the lady was a real knockout.
“Y’all heard my little girl,” R.B. announced. “If I know my Brenda, we’ve got a feast waiting for us in the dining room.”
Jim allowed the others to go first, taking his time, bringing up the rear, so he was surprised that when he entered the hallway, R.B.’s “little girl” was still there. When he passed by, he glanced her way. She smiled at him, then reached out and slipped her arm through his.
“I’m Robyn,” she told him. “Bernie’s sister.”
“I’m—”
“Jimmy Norton. I know. I’ve heard all about you from Daddy and Bernie. I’ve been dying to meet you.”
“Have you?”
When she flashed that thousand-watt smile at him, his stomach muscles tightened. “I hear Mom and Dad are going to be looking after your son. I love kids and I’m a great babysitter. I’ll be happy to help out the folks with—What’s your son’s name?”
“Kevin.”
“And how old is Kevin?”
“Twelve.”
As they entered the dining room, Robyn whispered to him. “I’m supposed to sit next to Raymond and across from the new minister, but that’s Mama’s plan, not mine. She’s always matchmaking.”
Jim noted that the table sat eight, with R.B. and his wife—who was an older, shorter version of her beautiful younger daughter—residing at each end, Raymond and Helen on the left, and Matthew on the right.
Bernie placed a bread basket on the end of the table by her mother, then headed toward the other end with another basket. Just as she started to sit down beside the handsome, young minister, Robyn rushed forward, all but dragging Jim.
“Come on, Jimmy, you sit between me and Reverend Donaldson.” She looked at her sister and said, “You sit over there next to Raymond.”
Jim glanced at Bernie, whose facial expression didn’t alter in the slightest, but he noted something in her eyes. Just a hint of displeasure, so subtle that he felt certain no one else caught it. For a split second she looked right at him, then averted her gaze quickly and took her place at the table beside Raymond Long. Then Jim sat exactly where Robyn had told him to sit, between her and Matthew Donaldson.
During the course of the meal, Robyn didn’t pay much attention to the minister or anyone else; instead, she concentrated on Jim. The more she talked, the more he realized she wasn’t really saying anything. Her main topic of conversation was herself. Jim offered her an agreeable smile now and then and answered when she asked a question, nodding fairly often and replying yes or no. By the time Mrs. Granger served Mississippi mud pie for dessert, Jim realized that Robyn reminded him of someone. She reminded him of Mary Lee. It wasn’t that they resembled each other, except they were both very pretty and had great figures. No, it was more a personality thing. Robyn seemed to be as self-centered and egotistical as his ex-wife. She wanted, probably needed, to be the center of attention. She knew she was pretty, that men found her attractive, and that fact fed her sizable ego.
It wasn’t that Jim didn’t like Robyn. He did. But he’d been badly burned by one extremely high-maintenance woman and tended to steer clear of others like her. Then again, he might make an exception where Robyn Granger was concerned.
Just as Jim took his first bite of scrumptious pie, Bernie’s cell phone rang.
“Oh dear, I wish you could turn that thing off at the dinner table.” Brenda sighed. “But I know you can’t, your being the sheriff and all. You’d think I’d be used to having my dinners interrupted by business calls.”

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