The man wasn’t looking at Corrine. Those ice-blue eyes of his were still on Kylie.
“There was a murder today,” he said quietly. “Out in the old St. Francis graveyard, between here and the Rebecca Nurse Homestead. A young woman was found stabbed to death. Knife went into her twenty times.”
As if on cue, the news story on the TV switched. Just in—there had been a murder. Annie Hampton, twenty-four, of Peabody, had been found just an hour ago, brutally stabbed and left among the gravestones.
Fear settled in, and darkness clouded over the world.
Kylie passed out cold.
Two
The four young women were an intriguing group.
They’d been deeply distraught when Jon Dickson had produced his identification and asked to speak with them. He had done so in a way that suggested—just suggested—that they had no choice.
The woman who had so drawn his attention was still in his arms as he juggled his ID, and then everyone was scurrying about, trying to determine if 911 needed to be called or if she had imbibed a little too much of the Cauldron’s signature drink, aptly named the Witch’s Brew.
She began to come to almost immediately. Her eyes opened—a mix of green and something like gold—and landed on him. Alarmed and startled, she nearly landed a good punch on his face, but he caught her arm in time.
He tried to reassure her as the crowd looked on. His badge indicated he was a very special agent with the government, and he heard people beginning to wonder aloud about what was going on.
So there he was, holding a stranger who’d made a small scene about a recent murder, being stared at by her wary friends.
This case meant too much to ignore any possible leads.
He was already angry with himself. He’d come with the deepest hope he could prevent a murder. But a murder had taken place nonetheless.
As soon as he was able, Jon ushered the young women out of the bar and restaurant—drawing only a little more attention than they already had. The women were still flustered enough by their friend fainting and his Federal ID that they came along without resistance.
Jon had taken office space right on Essex Street—not that he wasn’t welcome at the police precinct; he was set up there as well. And he could always call on Detective Ben Miller, his local contact—and friend from the time they’d been five or six and starting out in kindergarten. But Jon had known he’d need his own place, and a shop had been empty, the windows blackened, and it had seemed perfect—right in the middle of town, perfect to watch the comings and goings around him.
“This is harassment,” insisted the woman who had identified herself as Corrine. “I’ll have you know we all went to Harvard!”
“And her fiancé studied law,” muttered one of her friends—Nancy, he thought.
“But still, I mean, you have to tell us what’s going on,” said the third woman—Jenny?
“I need your help,” he said flatly.
He hadn’t realized he’d taken the hand of the fourth young woman—Kylie Connelly, now perfectly fine on her own—to lead her down the street until she suddenly balked, trying to jerk away from him.
He stopped short, staring at her.
“I don’t know what kind of government agency you’re really with—or if that’s a badge you bought in a souvenir shop,” she told him. She stood very straight, and in her defiance, she reminded him of an Amazonian warrior—ready to go to battle for all that was right and just. She was about five-eight, with a headful of rich, chestnut hair that seemed to naturally curl around her shoulders and beautifully frame her face.
All four of the young women were attractive. Maybe they were just of an age to be attractive, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, professional, certainly, and at ease with themselves and the world. Confidence could be an attractive asset.
They were obviously close friends as well, and were quick to rush to one another’s defense, as siblings and best friends were prone to do.
He didn’t want to scare them more than necessary, but he’d been hunting a serial killer for almost a year—hopping state lines as if those lines were a blueprint for getting away with murder.
Which was why, of course, the FBI had gotten involved.
And since the first victim, Deanna Clark of Fredericksburg, Virginia, had been seen by her sister hours after her death, begging for help, the Krewe of Hunters had been called in. Jon was here, following in the wake of that murder—and the murders of Willow Cannon of New Haven, Connecticut, and Cecily Bryant of Warwick, Rhode Island.
Jackson Crow, field director of Jon’s unit, had called him in as a liaison after the first murder. He’d been hoping to get a step ahead of the killer by coming to Salem.
He’d failed.
He’d seen the latest victim, the young woman an odd splash of color in her cheerfully patterned dress against the gray tombstones and the haze of the day that had seemed to settle over the area—blending with the tombstones and the jagged rock that surrounded the place. Yes, her dress had provided color, as had her blood, spilled upon the stones and the ground.
He’d seen her dead; he’d been too late, a step behind.
No, in truth, dozens of steps behind, and if he didn’t discover the truth...
They’d find more bodies among the gravestones.
Maybe that was why he was grasping at straws, seeking any shred of information that might help.
He decided that the truth was going to serve best with this group of women. The truth—more or less—and nothing but the truth—more or less.
“It’s a real badge,” he said. “I’m with a special unit of the FBI. You’re welcome to check my credentials with my superior. I’m on the heels of a murderer. And you seem to know a great deal about a murder that was just committed. The news coverage you saw was the first out. The body was discovered just about two hours ago.”
Kylie shook her head, her defiance and assurance slipping.
“We know nothing about it,” she said, her voice husky and pained. “I saw the newscast. And it was horrible, and—”
“And I heard you clearly. You identified Michael Westerly as a murderer. You mentioned a knife. What I want to know is what would make you say that. What do you know about this murder?” Jon demanded.
The others gathered around Kylie Connelly as if they were a trio of nuns protecting an abandoned infant.
But she was having none of that. She maintained her pose of utmost dignity, glaring at him with distain. “I know nothing about a murder. Really,” she said. “My friends and I have been right here, in the heart of Salem, all day long.”