Page 126 of Girl Between
Monroe’s first victim? Or something more twisted?
Like the Casquette Girl victims, this corpse wore a simple white, linen dress—or at least it had been white before the fibers fused with the rotting flesh and fluids of decay. The lace around the collar and sleeves was still well preserved, the pristine white material a stark contrast to the dark leathery skin that encapsulated what was left of the woman’s withered body.
A few wisps of blonde hair still clung to the corpse’s scalp. But the strangest part of all was the jewelry. The body had been laden with necklaces. Hundreds of them.
LaSalle gave a low whistle as she took stock of the jewelry. “Guess no one told her you can’t take it with you in the end.”
A sickening feeling settled in Dana’s stomach as she stared at the layers of mismatched jewelry. She knew what they were. She’d known the moment she saw the familiar silver locket with the green stone in the middle. “The jewelry’s not hers,” Dana breathed.
LaSalle gave her a strange look. “How do you know that?”
Detective George stepped closer, his gaze moving from the corpse to Dana. “Because they’re trophies.”
Dana swallowed the bile rising in her throat as she watched George reach a gloved hand out to touch the same silver locket she couldn’t stop staring at. “This locket belongs to Elizabeth Barton.”
“The Harvest Girl?” LaSalle asked. “You’re sure?”
George nodded.
“Jesus,” LaSalle muttered. “This guy’s a real piece of work.”
The stuffy attic air was laden with the unspeakable horrors Monroe must’ve performed there. Dana could feel the pull of evil emanating from the place. It was as though the line between life and death was perilously thinner in the cramped room.
It was a sensation she’d felt before. One that seemed to seep into the very fibers and molecules it touched. It existed in places where the dead outweighed the living—cemeteries, battlefields, warzones, sites of mass casualties, and now, the Monroe farmhouse.
The farmhouse had been cleared with the initial sweep of the property, but the hidden room inside the attic hadn’t been discovered at first. Like a page straight out of Edgar Allen Poe, the entrance had been bricked over, hiding the body beyond. It was one of the additional K9 units that made the find, drawn by the scent of decay.
That same scent was now invading Dana’s lungs as she watched the crime scene photographer snapping photo after photo of the mummified corpse in front of her.
“Bag and tag everything,” George ordered, prompting the stunned agents and officers into action. “We find out who this victim is; we find Monroe.”
110
The overhead lightsglowed brightly as Jake’s legs chewed up the polished linoleum. He wondered what genius engineer had chosen daylight bulbs for the long underground terminal.
The design was probably meant to be soothing, but bringing light underground wasn’t fooling anyone. They were all just rats in a tunnel, hoping to move through it as quickly as possible.
Jake avoided the terminal tram and walked the extra distance. No reason to add more confinement to an already confined space. He took the escalator steps two at a time, calling “on your left” to a pair of oblivious twenty-somethings glued to their phones.
He took a deep breath when he finally saw a splash of sunlight ahead. He supposed the large windows were meant to be calming. But there was nothing calm about an airport. To Jake air travel was just a necessary evil.
Give me a car and the open road any day.
He didn’t hate flying. Living walking distance from an Airforce base had cured him of that early on. What he disliked about air travel were the people. Especially people in the midst of dragging their ungrateful spouses and children on some once-a-year vacation thatwas supposed to make up for the other eleven months they spent tormenting or ignoring each other.
To prove his point, a little girl in pigtails ran into his knee. She bounced off like she’d hit a wall. The little girl stared up at him. For a moment, they were both speechless. Then the girl burst into tears.
Christ.
Jake picked up the pink stuffed cat the girl dropped and tried to hand it back but that just made her cry harder. The girl’s mother appeared, her face awash with relief. “I’m so sorry,” the woman said to Jake, taking the stuffed cat before gently helping the little girl up.
She whispered something Jake couldn’t hear and lovingly scooped the toddler into her arms. The little girl threw her skinny arms around the woman’s neck and grinned at Jake, everything right in her world again.
Jake shook off the encounter, realizing he needed to stop deflecting. Not all families were as messed up as his. Perhaps if he’d come from a normal one, he wouldn’t be at the damn airport right now.
He found his gate and checked his watch. He was early.
Great. Now I have nothing but time to contemplate what the hell I’m doing here.
