open, anyway.
She stopped in the middle of the room and looked around, trying to clear her mind of distractions. Such as the distinctive masculine scent that seemed to permeate every corner of the motel room, a blend of soap, aftershave and—she took another quick sniff—gun oil. So he was carrying a weapon? She hadn’t found one anywhere in the room, so he probably had it on him. And if he’d been carrying a concealed weapon, the deputies who’d picked him up last night would have already checked his CCW permit. He’d clearly passed muster, or he’d still be cooling his heels in jail.
She forced her gaze around the room one more time. If she were going to hide something in a motel room, something she didn’t want anyone else to find, where would she hide it?
Her eyes gravitated toward the bed. The bedcovers were neatly in place, the pillows symmetrically positioned. Shipshape, even. What were the odds the giggling teens Bay View Inn employed as housekeeping staff could make a bed so neatly?
After checking out the window to make sure nobody was heading toward the room, Natalie pulled back the bedcovers. The pillows sat side by side, positioned perfectly across the bed. But there was something odd-looking about the pillow closest to her. She grabbed it and discovered it was heavier than a pillow should be.
She opened the case and looked inside. Below the fluffy foam-filled pillow lay a thick file folder full of papers.
She pulled out the folder and opened it. The papers inside were photocopies of police reports, crime-scene photos, witness testimony transcripts, autopsy reports, even newspaper clippings—a treasure trove of information about a series of murders dating back over a decade. The deeper she delved, the more her stomach tightened, nausea rising up her throat in cold waves.
There was no photo of her sister’s crime scene in this folder, though the top-most sheet of paper was a photocopy of the article about the murder that had run in the Terrebonne Banner the day after. But Natalie didn’t need a photo; she’d been the person who’d found Carrie’s body. She remembered exactly how she had looked—lying on her back, as if she were merely sleeping, with her hands flat to the floor next to her. A series of knife wounds across her abdomen had spilled blood onto the pale yellow blouse she’d worn that day, turning it crimson.
Every woman’s body in this file could have been Carrie’s. The position was the same. The women were curvy brunettes like her sister, and, in the handful of photos where the victim’s eyes were open, their eyes were brown like Carrie’s.
No wonder J. D. Cooper thought Carrie’s death was connected.
Forgetting all about covering her tracks, Natalie pulled out all of the photos in the file and laid them across the motel bed, beginning to tremble as she saw the sheer number of photos involved. Sixteen women, once alive, now dead at the hands of what clearly was a serial killer.
Or two killers, if J.D.’s theory was correct.
The rattle of the doorknob made her jump. Her first instinct was to scramble to return the photos to the folder, but she quickly realized she’d never put things back the way he’d left them. She left the photos where they were and pulled her Glock from the holster at her waist. If it was J.D., she’d explain herself and hope he understood the desperation that drove her. And if it was an intruder, she was armed.
It wasn’t an intruder. It was J. D. Cooper, carrying a newspaper in one hand and a dark gray gun case in the other.
He jerked to a stop in the doorway, instantly focused on the Glock in her hand. His eyes widened a notch.
She put her weapon away. “Sorry.”
J.D.’s gaze swept over the scene, taking in the haphazardly placed pillows, the turned back bedcover and the photos laid out across the bed. His eyes blazed with anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?”
“Trying to find out if you’re for real,” she answered, keeping her voice steady, although inside, she was cringing with shame at being caught breaking and entering. What on earth had she been thinking?
“Do you have a warrant?”
She licked her lips. “No.”
“Then get the hell out of my room.”
She couldn’t get out of the motel room without moving past him, and right now, he was filling the doorway completely, blocking her exit. But she couldn’t just stand where she was, so she started forward, her knees trembling as the full impact of her foolish decision hit her.
It wasn’t enough that she’d broken the law by picking the lock and tossing his room. She’d done so without any thought of what would happen if he caught her. What did she know about him, really? He’d told her some sob story about his dead wife, and he’d talked up Margo, the town gossip, but how much of what he’d told either of them was the truth?
He made no attempt to move out of her way. She faltered to a stop in front of him, drawing herself up to her full five feet nine inches, and he was still several inches taller than she was.
“You couldn’t look me up on your computers at the station?”
She lifted her chin. “I’m on administrative leave.”
“For breaking and entering?” he shot drily.
She supposed she deserved that. “Because apparently the department-ordered psychologist thinks I’m a danger to myself, my fellow deputies and the public.”
“Are you?”
“No.” Though she couldn’t muster much conviction in the denial, considering he’d just caught her snooping in his motel room without permission.
His lips curved, as if he could read her mind. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
She glanced over at the photos on the bed. “Maybe more than I was looking for.”
“Your sister looked like those women.” He wasn’t asking a question, just making an observation. Carrie’s picture had been included in the Banner article. He must have seen the similarities between her and the victims in those photos. It was probably what had drawn him here in the first place.
“I found her body,” she confessed in a reed-thin voice, wishing in vain that she could be stronger and more professional at this moment. “She was lying on the kitchen floor at Annabelle’s. Stretched out straight. On her back, with her arms by her sides. Palms down. You’d have thought she was asleep.”
“Except for the blood.”
Her gaze snapped up to find him looking at her, his expression soft with sympathy. “Except for the blood,” she agreed. “Twelve puncture wounds. Deep. Tore up her insides.”
“He twists the knife.” J.D.’s words came out in a growl.
Her chest ached in response. “Yes.”
J.D. finally moved out of the way, crossing to the bed. Setting the newspaper and gun case on the bedside table, he silently gathered the photographs and returned them to the folder. He put them back in correct order—the way she’d found them before she had spread the photos out on the bed—apparently, he knew the folder contents by heart. He tucked it against his chest, holding it with one arm as he might hold a child.
The door in front of her was open. There was no reason she shouldn’t leave while she had the chance. But a question that had nagged at her since the day before wouldn’t remain unasked. “How did you know to come here?”
His head snapped up, as if he had forgotten she was still there. “You mean to Terrebonne?”
She nodded. “What made you think Carrie’s murder matched the others you’ve been looking into?”
“She looks like Brenda.”
“Your wife?”
“Your sister looks more like her, in some ways, than any of the other victims.” His faraway gaze focused on Natalie. “Not much