“What are you doing here, Tilly?” Joe barked.
Ida hurried up behind Joe, wringing her hands on a kitchen towel, her eyes wide with alarm. “Yes, why did you come?”
Tilly swallowed hard. “I wanted to talk to you about Ruth and the two girls they discovered at the graveyard.”
Ida’s glare could scorch butter. “You have a lot of nerve. Your family ruined my life.”
Tilly offered her a tentative smile. “I’m sorry, Ida. I know Ruth wasn’t very nice to you and Hetty. Believe it or not, I tried to convince her to be more kind.”
“Well, she wasn’t,” Ida snapped. “She was mean and sneaky and I hated her as much as she hated me.”
“I know,” Tilly said. Although at times she wondered if Ida or Hetty had hurt Ruth, she couldn’t imagine them killing other young girls.
“Just answer one question,” Tilly said. “Do you think your father killed Ruth?”
Joe shot her a venomous look. “You shouldn’t have come here. None of us need that time dredged up again.”
“I’m not the one dredging it up,” Tilly said. “Whoever killed those girls is.”
The door by the kitchen opened and Ida’s daughter, Kat, appeared. “What’s going on, Mama?”
“Go back to your room,” Ida shouted.
Tilly pushed again. “Do you know where your father is, Ida? Do you think he killed my sister and that he’s been murdering other girls?”
“I don’t know where he is.” Ida folded her arms across her chest. “Now get off my property and leave me and my family alone.”
A second later, Joe pushed his way onto the porch. “You heard Ida, Tilly. Leave town. Nobody wants the likes of you here.”
His words cut Tilly to the bone. But she lifted her chin and stood her ground. She had run fifteen years ago, but she wasn’t running anymore.
And neither Ida nor Joe nor Clint Wallace would force her to.
“I’ll be back,” he shouted over his shoulder to Ida. “Gonna get some beer.”
She hurried to her car, but Joe was on her heels. “Don’t come back here, Tilly.”
She slid inside, slammed the car door and locked it, then sped off as he climbed in his truck. Nerves clawed at her as she turned onto the highway.
Was he really going for beer or did he want to make sure she left his property?
SEVENTY-TWO
Somewhere on the AT
He traced his finger over the red cowboy boot, remembering the way it felt to slide it off Jacey’s slender foot. While she lay still on the ground, he’d gently kissed her toes, admiring how delicate she was and reveling in his power over her.
The red scarf around her throat looked like a river of blood as he’d draped it over her neck and small breasts. Her fingernails were painted with alternating red and black, the UGA colors, although she would never be a student at the university.
Her time had come to an end.
Watching her take her last breath brought back the thrill of the kill and took him back to his mother. He had power over these girls. He’d had no power over his mother and her sick twisted boyfriends. Had been forced to watch through the crack in the closet doorway.
Time slipped away as the world blurred and he was five years old, huddled in the darkness.
A pair of his mother’s red high heels were tucked in the closet. The heel of the red stilettos dug into his back.
He snagged the shoe, then gently touched the feathers with his fingers. Closing his eyes, he rubbed the soft feathersagainst his cheek, sniffing the shiny ribbon on the heel. He shut out the grunting sounds outside the closet, then threw off his sneakers and socks and slid the right shoe onto his foot. Next he slipped on the left one, then tried to stand.
