Dead Little Darlings Read online

  Another clap of thunder cracked outside, and she jumped. He stroked her arm and shoulder, tightening his hold on her. “Was there anything that sticks out?”

  “Not really,” she said quietly. “I received hate mail during the Keepers stories, but I also received support.”

  He nuzzled his cheek into her hair. She smelled like lavender. He’d suggested she keep some toiletries at his place, but she was so damn stubborn and independent she’d refused. It was as if she thought leaving a toothbrush at his place meant a commitment.

  As a compromise, he’d bought her favorite lavender body wash and kept it in his bathroom for her visits.

  Her body quivered, drawing him back to what happened to her.

  It was time to address the big white elephant in the room, their earlier confrontation. “Then today’s incident was about the story you’re currently working on?”

  “Maybe.” She rubbed his chest with her hand. He was tempted to wipe away the memory of the attack on her with lovemaking, but he wanted answers. It was the only way to protect her.

  They sat for a long time simply holding each other, and he continued to stroke her hair with his fingers. “I can’t protect you if I don’t know the truth, Marilyn. You have to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. Why you were at Eaton’s and what happened there this morning.”

  She didn’t reply. Instead he realized her breathing had steadied, and she’d fallen asleep in his arms.

  Frustration knotted his insides, but he didn’t have the heart to wake her. He’d let her sleep tonight.

  But in the morning, he’d demand she come clean.

  Marilyn wrestled with nightmares of storms and murder all night. Every time she awakened, she curled closer to Ryker. It was so easy to hide in his arms in the dark that she wanted to stay there forever.

  Tomorrow though she’d have to face realty. Talk to him. Look him in the eye and . . . do what?

  Confess everything?

  That she believed Eaton had murdered a fourteen-year-old girl and kidnapped her baby? That she knew that because she’d witnessed it and never told anyone?

  Tears of shame clogged her throat. She’d kept the secret for so long that it was eating up her inside.

  She choked back another crying fit. Damn it. She wasn’t usually so emotional.

  But it wasn’t every day a car tried to run her down.

  Shuddering, she welcomed Ryker’s arms as he tightened them around her.

  Could she finally break the silence she’d kept for twenty-five years and trust him with her secret?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ryker held Marilyn all night. He woke to her dropping sweet kisses on his chest. His body instantly hardened, but he rolled to his side and tilted her chin to look at him.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.

  “You could never hurt me.” She pulled his face toward her and kissed him hungrily, her lips melding with his. Her husky voice, laced with desire, stirred his arousal, and he deepened the kiss, using his tongue to tease her lips apart so he could taste her.

  Seconds later, they were naked and writhing against each other. He slowly ran his fingers over her naked body, then trailed kisses over her bruises, his anger churning, intensifying his passion for her.

  When he thrust inside her, she cried out his name, and he closed his eyes and silently told her that he loved her.

  The words would come one day. When she was ready. But for now, he didn’t want to scare her off.

  Hell, he’d been scared himself for a long time. His parents had a good marriage. But his mother’s second marriage was a disaster, and he’d shut down from thinking about family or love after that.

  Only today, seeing Marilyn hold that baby roused images of Marilyn in a long white gown at their wedding, then Marilyn holding their son or daughter . . .

  “Ryker, I need you,” Marilyn whispered against his neck.

  He buried his head against her. “You’ve got me as long as you want me,” he whispered.

  Her body trembled with her release, drawing him back to the present and he thrust deeper. Her soft sensual sounds of pleasure triggered his own orgasm, and he gripped her hips and held her tightly as he pounded himself inside her.

  Their erratic breathing punctuated the air as they lay entwined, and rode out the sensations.

  His phone buzzed, but he ignored it. He had to get to work, but he wasn’t finished with Marilyn yet.

  He kissed her on the nose. “I’ll make coffee.”

  She murmured yes, and he slipped from bed, yanked on a pair of gym shorts and a t-shirt and strode to the kitchen.

  He brewed a pot of coffee and carried her a cup. He didn’t intent to let her sneak out without an explanation.

  While she leaned against the pillows and sipped her coffee, he returned to the kitchen to make breakfast before he crawled back in bed with her and kissed her senseless.

  When she appeared in the kitchen a few minutes later still wearing his robe, regret darkened her eyes. Regret for coming here? For breaking down in front of him?

  He sat two plates filled with eggs and bacon on the table.

  She patted his robe self-consciously. “My clothes are wet and torn,” she said softly.

  His stomach clenched at the reminder of the attempt on her life. “I can probably find a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt you can wear home.”

  “Thanks, that would help.”

  She sank into the chair and eyed the eggs as if she was starved. If she’d come straight here from the library, she’d skipped dinner and crashed without eating.

  Their conversation could wait a few more minutes. He dove into his food and gave her time to do the same, hoping the silence would encourage her to open up.

  She devoured the meal then poured herself another cup of coffee, but she was moving slowly and limping slightly.

  He gestured toward her leg. “We should have taken you to the hospital.”

  She shook her head. “I’m just bruised, nothing broken.”

  He gritted his teeth. She didn’t deserve to be bruised or battered. No woman did.

  Marilyn slid back into the chair across from him with a sigh, then ran a hand through her hair. Without makeup and in his robe, the choppy layers made her look even sultrier.

  He leaned back in his chair, studying her. Waiting. It was a technique he’d learned in beginner’s interrogation class.

  “I guess I owe you an explanation,” she finally said.

  Ryker’s lungs squeezed for air. Why was it so hard for her to confide in him? Because of the case, or was it personal?

  “I told you I’d protect you, Marilyn, but I need to know from what.”

  That self-defiant chin lifted. She looked as if she was going to insist that she could protect herself, but he gave a pointed look at her bruised wrists and hands, and she hesitated.

  “I don’t know who tried to run me down,” she said. “Or if that attempt on my life has to do with the story I’m investigating.”

  “But that story involved Eaton, a man who was murdered yesterday. Assuming you didn’t kill him, you may have been the last person who saw him alive.”

  Her gaze swung to him. “He was alive when I left.”

  He gestured toward her wrist. “But he did that?”

  She looked down into her coffee, then took another sip. “Yes. He grabbed my arm before I left. I thought he was going to say something, but he . . . didn’t. A call came in from his caregiver, and I left before she arrived.”

  Ryker narrowed his eyes. “What do you know about the caregiver?”

  “Just that her name is Gayle,” Marilyn told him. “That’s what she said on the message. So if she arrived right after I left, she was the last person to see Eaton alive, not me.”

  He sat his coffee mug onto the table. “
I’ll find her. Now, why were you questioning Eaton?”

  Marilyn resisted the urge to squirm. Last night she’d contemplated confiding everything to Ryker. But in the light of day, she wanted answers first. Right now all she had were hunches.

  She felt raw and unhinged this morning, as if her outer layer of skin had been peeled off and Ryker could see all the way to her soul.

  “Marilyn, don’t lie to me,” Ryker said. “For God’s sake, you could have been killed last night. And who knows when this person might try again.”

  A chill slithered through her. He was right. “I think Eaton had something to do with the disappearance of the Darling girls. Or at least with one of their deaths.”

  Surprise flickered in Ryker’s eyes. “What makes you think they’re connected?”

  Marilyn traced a finger around the rim of her coffee mug. She really liked the seashells in the design. Ryker had bought it for her one day when she commented on it in a store window. She’d told him then that it reminded her of collecting seashells with her mother on the beach on her days off. He’d also insisted she keep it at his place.

  He wanted more from her. She wished she had more to give. But if he knew the whole truth about her, he would never look at her the same way.

  Still, she’d been alone so long, ever since her mother had died. She wanted to be close to him, to have someone in her life she could count on.

  “Marilyn?” he said. “Go on.”

  “A source told me.” She raised a finger. “And don’t ask for the name of my source. You know I can’t divulge names.”

  Irritation oozed from his grimly set mouth. “All right. But why does this person think Eaton is connected to the Darling case? The girls’ father was the primary suspect, and still is.”

  “Eaton was the lighthouse keeper,” she said. “My source believes that Eaton saw the girls at the Village after they left home. That would mean that Mr. Darling didn’t murder them.”

  His phone buzzed with a text, and he checked it. “The captain. I have a warrant to search the Darling property.”

  “Good,” Marilyn said. “Maybe you’ll find something indicating the girls’ plans when they left home.”

  He attached his phone to his belt. “But we’re not finished. What else have you dug up?”

  She breathed out. “A woman in town claims Eaton was known as the Punisher, that he eliminated problems for other people.”

  Interest flared in Ryker’s eyes. “What kind of problems?”

  “I’m still working on that.” She leaned forward. “Now, you answer me something, Ryker. The ME identified Deborah and Candace Darling’s remains. Did he mention that either of them delivered a baby?”

  Ryker had an incredible poker face, but a slight widening of his eyes indicated he was surprised by her question.

  That he hadn’t known about the baby.

  Perhaps she was wrong, and the infant hadn’t belonged to Deborah. But if it hadn’t, who was the mother?

  Ryker’s mind raced. Eaton had been known as the Punisher? One of the Darling girls might have had a child?

  Questions ticked in his head. If Mr. Darling had discovered one of his daughters was pregnant, he might have gone into a rage and killed her . . .

  Or perhaps fear of severe repercussions was the reason the girls ran away.

  “What makes you think one of the girls was pregnant?” he asked.

  Marilyn sighed. “Again, that came from my source.”

  “What if this person is just feeding you misinformation to lead you astray? What if he or she is the one who tried to kill you?”

  Marilyn shrugged. “Whoever was driving that car doesn’t want the truth to be revealed.”

  “You’re saying the driver might have been Mr. Darling?”

  Marilyn seemed to consider that possibility. “I guess it could have been. I also spoke to the groundskeeper who worked at the lighthouse twenty-five years ago. He warned me not to keep asking questions.”

  “A name, Marilyn?” Ryker asked impatiently.

  She hesitated. “Lloyd Willing.”

  “I’ll look into him and see if Darling has an alibi for last night,” Ryker said,

  “Is there anything else?”

  “That’s it,” she said. “Now that I’ve shared, tell me where you are on the case.”

  Ryker’s phone beeped with another text, and he checked it. “I think you may be onto something regarding the Darling teens. Agent Manson and I talked to a guy named Jeremy Linchfield who had a bad accident shortly after the girls said they would get back at him and his friend Preston for ignoring them.”

  “Does Jeremy believe the girls caused his accident?” Marilyn asked.

  “He refused to talk to us, but his animosity toward the Darlings was clear.”

  “Maybe he’ll talk to me,” she said.

  Ryker frowned. “Let me do the investigating, Marilyn.”

  A devious smile flickered on her lips. “Then I can go with you to the Darlings to execute that warrant?”

  He mumbled an obscenity. “You can go home and stay there and rest.”

  She simply nodded, and he knew good and goddamn well going home and resting would be the last thing she’d do.

  Still, she’d unearthed information he hadn’t.

  She stood, then leaned over him and kissed him deeply. “Thank you for taking care of me last night.”

  He held her tight. “Thank you for trusting me enough to talk to me this morning.”

  She clung to him for another minute, and he knew she was still holding something back. But pushing her wouldn’t get him anywhere.

  Hopefully, in her own time she’d tell him everything.

  If she didn’t get herself killed first.

  Marilyn borrowed a pair of sweats and one of Ryker’s sweatshirts, tugged on her raincoat and drove to her loft.

  The fact that he’d held her and comforted her last night without question humbled her—and made her feel closer to him than she ever had before.

  She scanned the parking deck to make certain no one was watching her, then hurried up the back staircase of the building to the main lobby. A noise down the hall startled her, and she swung around and dropped her keys.

  Voices . . . just her neighbors. She was safe.

  A mother pushed her infant in the stroller toward the elevator, giving the little girl a running play of their plans for the day. For a brief second, something tugged inside Marilyn.

  The yearning to have a little one of her own?

  She quickly pushed aside the feeling that her biological clock was ticking as she entered the elevator. She’d seen the hardships her mother faced as a single parent. Her life was too complicated for a child. She wasn’t married.

  Ryker might not want kids.

  She halted, wondering where those thoughts had come from. She’d never experienced maternal instincts before. Or thought about marriage.

  Except even as a little girl, she’d wanted to save that baby from that monster.

  She made a mental note to research infants who’d been abandoned around the time of Deborah Darling’s death.

  After exiting the elevator, she hurried to her unit and unlocked the door. As she stepped inside, she checked the security alarm and visually scanned the living area. A relieved breath escaped her. No one was inside.

  Senses still alert, she hurried to her bedroom, and flipped on the light. But she froze in the doorway, her lungs straining for air.

  Someone had been here. The articles and photos she’d tacked on her desk wall had been ripped into pieces. Fear pulsing through her, she scanned her room, then stepped to the closet and looked inside. The intruder wasn’t there.

  She slipped her phone from her purse to call Ryker as she inched toward the bathroom.

  Lipstick . . . on her mirror
. A warning.

  Unable to breathe for a moment, she simply stared at the scrawled angry message.

  Then she slowly backed away. Back into the bedroom. Her mind trying to process what she was seeing.

  The torn pieces of her research, the message written in red lipstick that looked like blood.

  Hand shaking, she pressed Ryker’s number.

  He answered on the second ring. “Hey, sexy,” he murmured. “I didn’t expect to hear—”

  “Ryker, someone broke into my condo.”

  A heartbeat passed. “Is the intruder still there?”

  Marilyn frantically glanced around the bedroom, then hurried back to the living room. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Ryker’s breath rushed out. “Keep the doors locked. I’ll be right there.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ryker raced toward Marilyn’s, his stomach knotting with every mile. Someone had tried to run her down yesterday.

  And now an intruder had been in her house.

  He didn’t like it one damn bit.

  He careened into the parking lot, raced to a stop, jumped from his vehicle and jogged up the steps to the entrance to Marilyn’s. Inside, he took the elevator, then raced to her unit and knocked on her door.

  “It’s Ryker, Marilyn!” he yelled through the door.

  The buzz from the security system sounded as Marilyn opened the door. One look into her frightened face, and he dragged her into his arms.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded against him, but clung to him, a sign she was truly shaken. He stroked her back, soothing her, but held her tightly just to assure himself she was safe and alive.

  Her heart was pounding, her breathing unsteady, but as they cradled each other close, slowly her breathing and heart rate steadied.

  He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and lifted her chin so he could see into her eyes. “What happened?”

  She licked her lips, her bottom lip quivering. “When I got home, I went into the bedroom. Someone had been in there. They . . . ripped up articles and pictures of the story I was working on.”

  “Show me.”