All the Beautiful Brides (5 page)

The tests would tell, though, if she would be the one.

He brushed snow from her hair as he laid her on the sofa by the fire. Mama sat hunched in her wheelchair watching him, the afghan over her legs slipping slightly.

He hurried to tug the blanket around her legs—Mama did get so cold. The circulation in her legs had gone downhill fast with the sugar, and she was always freezing. He poked the fire to stir it up again, then set the poker on the hearth.

Constance lay like an angel on the sofa, her long hair spilling across her shoulders, her lips parted slightly in sleep.

“What do you think, Mama?” he asked. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She’s pretty, all right,” his mama said. “Where did you meet her?”

“In the library.” He didn’t tell her he’d actually found her online. Mama didn’t know everything he did in his spare time.

He lifted Constance’s hand in his. Her skin felt cold to the touch, and her face was pale now, her hair tangled from the wind.

An image of her holding that blood-red rose flashed behind his eyes, and he smiled. She would look so beautiful in white.

“Cut that whore hair off of her,” Mama said.

He nodded obediently, then grabbed the scissors from the kitchen and began to hack it off.

Johnny Pike’s gut knotted as he listened to the guards talking in the walkway between the cellblocks.

When that lawyer had contacted him a few weeks ago about the parole hearing, he’d tried not to get his hopes up.

“Did you hear about that girl murdered at Graveyard Falls?” one guard asked.

“Yeah. Found her the same day they held the memorial for the girls Pike killed.”

Johnny curled his fingers around the bars. Another murder? Jesus.

At least they couldn’t pin this one on him.

Except . . . hell, Sheriff Buckley would if he could. He’d do anything to keep Johnny in prison.

When he’d first been locked up, he’d shouted and screamed his innocence to everyone in this godforsaken place. But not a soul had believed him. Every inmate in this hellhole claimed they’d been set up.

He’d stopped shouting long ago.

Hell, the evidence had been so stacked against him that he’d had to take that plea.

Besides, guilt smothered him. It was his fault those girls had died.

The dreams . . . the nightmares of the murders kept him awake every night. He heard the girls’ screams in his sleep. Saw their eyes pleading to let them live.

Saw his parents’, and sweet Anna’s, faces staring at him with disbelief and shock.

Then their backs as they turned away from him.

“Think the Thorn Ripper has a copycat?” the guard asked.

Footsteps pounded as they walked down the block nearer him, and Johnny dropped back onto his cot, closed his eyes, and pretended to be asleep.

He didn’t have to see them to know they’d stopped by his cell and were watching him with those condemning eyes as if he were some kind of monster. He should be used to those looks by now.

“Maybe Pike has a protégé,” the guard mumbled. “Some creep who looked up to the sick son of a bitch.”

Johnny thought about pictures of the dead girls the sheriff had found beneath his bed.

The pictures of those damn roses crammed down their throats . . .

Panic seized him, making his stomach churn.

He had received hate mail over the years. And other letters from admirers who wanted to make a name for themselves as he had done.

Was some sick bastard using the Thorn Ripper’s MO now to make himself famous?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mona combed the house, too antsy to sleep. Ever since Brent had died, she’d become an insomniac.

Most nights she tossed and turned, only to finally fall asleep in the wee hours of the morning. Even then, she was plagued by nightmares.

First of the miscarriage. Then of Brent’s death.

She brewed a cup of hot tea, then paced to the sunroom that overlooked the woods and curled up on the glider. The snowy mountains looked majestic in the moonlight, the ancient trees swaying with the wind, the sharp ridges jutting out, creating cliffs and overhangs.

So beautiful yet so dangerous.

Brent had died on one of the mountain roads outside Knoxville. She closed her eyes, willing the image of his mangled car from her mind. He’d flown over the edge on a switchback and nose-dived into the stretch called Devil’s Canyon.

Tears burned the backs of her eyes. If only she hadn’t pushed him about trying to get pregnant again, he might not have left the house that night. If she’d let it go, given him more time, he might still be alive . . .

Too frustrated to sleep, she retrieved the yearbook from Graveyard Falls High as she had done so many times before, the one from the year of the Thorn Ripper.

The girls had been killed a few months before she was born. Which meant that her mother’s picture might be inside this album.

She’d looked through it several times, painstakingly, page by page, but maybe this time she’d see something she’d missed.

Settling back on the glider, she opened the book and began to search the faces of the girls in the senior class. Granted, her mother could have been younger, in a different grade, but she had to start somewhere.

Maybe she’d see something familiar in one of their eyes, a similarity to herself at that age, and she’d instantly know.

Cal phoned Peyton and asked her to check out Gwyneth’s Facebook account, especially the two men who’d suggested meeting her at the bar.

Then he headed to Mrs. Toyton’s house.

He parked, noting most of the house lights in the neighborhood were off.

He doubted Gwyneth’s mother would sleep at all tonight.

The deputy met him at the front door. “She’s calmed down a little now that her neighbor came over.”

Cal hated this part of the job, dealing with the families. Questioning them at the worst times of their lives.

Deputy Kimball led him inside through a small foyer with a side table showcasing various photos of Gwyneth, chronicling her childhood and high school years, including a prom photo.

Again, no engagement picture.

He squared his shoulders as he entered the kitchen, where two women sat around a pine table, sipping tea. Even if he hadn’t recognized the mother from the photographs, he would have known her from the swollen, tear-stained eyes; glazed, anguished expression; and the wad of tissues she clenched in her hands.

Deputy Kimball introduced him to the women.

“Call me Linnea,” Gwyneth’s mother said in a voice that trembled with grief.

“Linnea, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Cal said, feeling helpless at the phrase, but compelled to say it anyway.

“I don’t understand why anyone would want to hurt Gwyneth,” she said brokenly. “The deputy said she was . . . strangled. Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Cal said gently. “But that’s what I intend to find out.”

“She was a good girl,” Linnea blubbered through another round of tears. “She worked hard to get through school, she was on a good path.”

The other woman rubbed Linnea’s back. “She was, Linnea. Everybody at church knew that.”

Cal claimed a chair beside her, hesitant, but knowing he had to push forward. This woman was grief stricken, but she would want answers. Would want her daughter’s killer caught.

And every second that passed counted.

“I know this is difficult, but anything you can tell me about her, no matter how small or insignificant, might help,” Cal said. “Who was she involved with?”

Linnea frowned. “You mean, did she have a steady boyfriend?”

Cal nodded. “We need to talk to everyone she was close to. Boyfriend, fiancé, girlfriends.”

Linnea’s brows knitted together. “Gwyn wasn’t seriously involved with any man.”

Cal felt the creeping dread that he was on the wrong track. Her apartment had certainly made him question the engagement. “She wasn’t engaged?”

“No.” Linnea blew her nose. “Why do you think she was?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just come out with it. She was wearing a wedding gown when we found her.”

“What?” Her face blanched. “That’s crazy. My daughter didn’t even have a serious boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry,” Cal said. “And I will get to the bottom of this. Was she dating anyone in particular? Maybe some man wanted to marry her and she turned him down?”

“I’m telling you that she wasn’t seeing anyone regularly. She would have told me.”

Cal gave her a sympathetic look. If Gwyneth had some special guy or had been hooking up with a man, she obviously hadn’t shared that with her mother.

And if she wasn’t seeing anyone in particular, then the killer could have chosen her randomly.

Which would make him more difficult to catch. And it made the wedding dress even more bizarre.

Hell, the unidentified subject—or unsub, as they were called—could be anyone. He could have spotted Gwyneth in a crowd or on campus or in the damn grocery store.

Which meant he’d strangled her for the simple pleasure of watching her die.

And that he would kill again.

The next morning Mona’s eyes were still glazed over from scouring the yearbook. Unfortunately no specific face stuck out, no one who resembled her as a teenager.

She’d already called the hospital, but they didn’t keep birth records dating back thirty years. She’d have to comb through files at the county records department.

Cal still hadn’t returned her call, so on the way to the county office, she phoned him again.

“Hello?”

She heaved a breath. Something about Cal’s deep drawl had always turned her inside out with longing. The ache felt deeper now, making emotions well in her throat.

“Cal, it’s me, Mona. Did you get my message last night?”

A hesitant second passed. “Yeah, but I was busy with the case.”

Of course. The case. “Do you have any idea who killed the woman?”

Another tense pause. “Not yet.”

She rolled her shoulders to relieve the tension. At one time, both Brent and Cal had respected her opinion, had asked her advice about criminal behavior and profiling. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I . . . don’t think so. I’ve questioned the mother and searched the girl’s apartment. I’m going to talk with her friend this morning. Maybe she can shed some light on it.”

“Good luck. And stop by tonight for dinner after you get through.” He started to argue, but Mona shushed him. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

He reluctantly agreed, and Mona hung up.

She needed to see Cal’s face again. Hear his voice. Know that he still cared about her, at least as a friend.

That he didn’t blame her for Brent’s death.

The sign for the county records department slid into view, and she turned into the parking lot. Determined to find the truth, she battled the cold to the front door.

She introduced herself to the woman in charge, a white-haired lady named Thelma with a sweet smile, who immediately told her that she’d lived in Graveyard Falls all her life.

“I know who you are,” Thelma continued. “I heard your show last night.”

“Thanks for listening.” Mona explained that she wanted to look at birth records from thirty years ago.

Thelma raised a brow. “You looking for anyone in particular, dear?”

Mona debated how much to tell her. But she was never going to get any information if she didn’t talk to someone. And since Thelma had lived here for years, she might have some answers.

“Actually, I was adopted and I’m looking for my birth mother. I have reason to believe she was from Graveyard Falls.”

Thelma’s eyes widened. “You don’t know her name, hon?”

Mona shook her head. “I thought if I looked at birth records, I might find something.”

“Of course.” Thelma patted her hand and led her to another room. “We tried to get all the records entered into the computer, but we haven’t made it back that far.” She gestured toward a wall of filing cabinets. “They’re labeled by years. You probably want to check those two on the end.”

The task looked daunting, but Mona thanked her and Thelma left the room.

If her birth record was in there, maybe she’d find her mother’s name.

That damn reporter Carol Little was driving Cal crazy by calling him, wanting the story. He’d phoned Deputy Kimball and told him to give her a brief statement, but to withhold details for now.

He clenched the steering wheel with a white-knuckle grip as he drove toward Rosalyn Nix’s apartment. Dammit, Mona would want to talk about Brent, maybe rehash memories, and he would have to pretend he wasn’t harboring secrets from her. That Brent was the wonderful, heroic cop she’d thought he was.

And he’d have to keep his hands off her.

Difficult to do when every night he fantasized about holding her, touching her, making her his.

A car beeped at him, and he realized he needed to focus on traffic. It had been minimal in Graveyard Falls, but grew thick with early-morning commuters when he turned onto the freeway.

It was midmorning by the time he reached Knoxville. Rosalyn lived outside the city in a small apartment complex. He veered into the parking lot, noting the nondescript buildings. Before he’d left his rental cabin, he’d done some research. She was twenty-six, working on a master’s in communication, and had a waitressing job at a local diner. He’d also called and asked her if he could come by and talk to her.

He parked, yanked on his bomber jacket, and headed toward Rosalyn’s building.

Wind beat at him as he climbed the stairs, and he knocked on the door. Seconds later, it swung open, and a young woman with red hair stood on the other side, coffee in hand.

“Rosalyn Nix?”

She nodded, eyes narrowed behind her rectangular glasses. Eyes that looked red-rimmed as if she’d been crying. “Yes?”

Cal flashed his identification. “I called earlier. I’m investigating the death of your friend Gwyneth.”

Her lower lip quivered, and she gestured for him to come inside. He followed her to a tiny kitchen adjoining the living area by a breakfast bar. She set her coffee cup on the bar, and he noticed her computer was open to the news. “I . . . didn’t know until I read about it this morning . . .”

“I know it’s a bad time, but I need to ask you some questions.”

A second passed, then Rosalyn burst into tears. “It’s all my fault,” she cried. “Gwyneth is dead because of me.”