But Susannah’s gaze was fixed on the passenger side mirror. She wanted to look away from the rapidly shrinking house of her youth, but her eyes would not obey. The lone figure standing in the front yard compelled her to keep watching. Even from a distance she could feel the sadness that weighed down his broad shoulders.
Her brother Daniel was a big man, as their father had been. The women in their family were small, but the men were hulking and large. Some larger than others. Susannah swallowed back the panic that had lurked at the base of her throat for the past two weeks. Simon’s dead, for real this time. He can’t hurt you anymore. But he could, and he would. That he could torment her from beyond the grave was an irony Simon would find hilarious. Her older brother Simon had been one son of a bitch.
Now he was a dead son of a bitch and Susannah hadn’t shed a single tear. Her parents were dead as well, because Simon had killed them. Now, only the two of them remained. Just me and Daniel, she thought bitterly. Just one big happy family.
Just she and her oldest brother, Special Agent Daniel J. Vartanian, Georgia Bureau of Investigation. One of the good guys. Daniel had built a career trying to make up for the fact that he was Judge Arthur Vartanian’s spawn. Just like I have.
She thought of the devastation in his eyes when she’d walked away, leaving him standing in the front yard of the old house. After thirteen years, Daniel finally knew what he’d done, and more importantly, what he had not.
Now Daniel wanted forgiveness, Susannah thought bitterly. He wanted atonement. After more than ten years of total silence, her brother Daniel wanted a relationship.
Her brother Daniel wanted too damn much. He’d have to live with what he had done, and what he had not. Just like I have.
She knew why he’d left, so long ago. Daniel hated the house almost as much as she did. Almost. She’d managed to avoid the house the week before, when they’d buried their parents. After the funeral Susannah walked away, vowing never to return.
But a phone call from Daniel the day before had brought her back. Here. To Dutton. To this house. To face what she had done, and importantly, what she had not.
An hour ago she’d stood on that front porch for the first time in years. It had taken every ounce of her strength to walk in that door, up those stairs, into her brother Simon’s old bedroom. Susannah did not believe in ghosts, but she did believe in evil.
Evil lived in that house, in that bedroom, long after Simon died. Both times.
The evil had settled around her as soon as she’d entered Simon’s room, sending panic clawing up her throat along with a scream she kept silenced. She’d drawn on her last reserves, keeping the illusion of serenity and control intact as she’d forced herself into the closet, dreading what she feared lay behind its walls.
Her worst nightmare. Her greatest shame. For thirteen years it had remained hidden in a box in a hidey-hole behind Simon’s bedroom wall, unbeknownst to anyone. Even me. Especially me. After thirteen years, the box was out of the closet. Ta-da.
Now, the box resided in the trunk of the car belonging to Special Agent Luke Papadopoulos, GBI. Daniel’s partner and friend. Papadopoulos was taking the box back to GBI headquarters in Atlanta where it would be entered into evidence. Where CSI techs and detectives and the legal team would sort through the contents. Hundreds of pictures, hideous and obscene and very, very real. They’ll see. They’ll know.
The car went around a bend and the house disappeared. The spell broken, Susannah eased back against the seat and drew a quiet breath. It was finally over.
No, it was only beginning for Susannah, and nowhere near the end for Daniel and his partner. Daniel and Luke were chasing a killer, a man who’d murdered five Dutton women in the last week. A man who’d turned his murder victims into clues to lead authorities to what was left of a band of rich-boy thugs who’d wreaked their own evil on Dutton’s teenaged girls thirteen years before. A man who, for his own reasons, wanted the rich boys’ crimes made public. A man who hated the band of rich-boy bastards almost as much as Susannah did. Almost. No one hated them more than Susannah. Unless it was one of their twelve other surviving victims.
Soon they’ll know, the other victims. Soon everyone will know, she thought.
Including Daniel’s partner and friend. He still watched her, his eyes dark and brooding. She sensed Luke Papadopoulos saw more than she wanted anyone to see.
He’d certainly gotten an eyeful today. Soon, everyone would. Soon . . . Her stomach pitched and she concentrated on not throwing up. Soon her greatest shame would be the chatter around water coolers and coffee pots all over the country.
She’d overheard enough water cooler chatter to know exactly how it would go. Did you hear? they’d whisper, pretending to look horrified. Did you hear about those rich boys down in Dutton, Georgia, who drugged and raped those girls thirteen years ago? One of them even murdered one of the girls. They took pictures. Can you imagine?
And they’d all shake their heads, imagining it and secretly wishing those pictures would get leaked to the Web where they might “accidentally” stumble upon them.
Dutton, another would muse, unwilling to be left out. Isn’t that the town where all those women were murdered and left in drainage ditches? Just in the last week?
Yes, another would confirm. It’s also that Simon Vartanian’s hometown. He was one of the rich-kid rapists—he took the pictures thirteen years ago. He’s also the one who killed all those people up in Philadelphia. Some detective up in Philly killed him.
Seventeen people dead, including her own parents. Countless lives destroyed. I could have stopped it all, but I didn’t. Oh my God. What have I done? She kept her expression cool and her body stationary, but in her mind she rocked like a scared child.
“That was difficult,” Papadopoulos murmured.
His rumble of a voice brought her back and she blinked hard, remembering who she was now. An adult. A respected attorney. One of the good guys. Yeah. Right.
She turned away from him, fixing her gaze once again on the side mirror. Difficult was far too sanitized a word for what she’d just done. “Yes,” she replied. “Difficult.”
“Are you all right?” he asked again.
No, I am not all right, she wanted to snap, but kept her voice cool. “I’m fine.” And outwardly, she was. Susannah was skilled at maintaining the illusion, as she should be. She was Judge Arthur Vartanian’s daughter, after all, and what she hadn’t inherited through blood she’d learned by watching her father live a lie every day of their lives.
“You did the right thing, Susannah,” Papadopoulos said quietly.
Yeah, right. Thirteen years too late. “I know.”
“We’ll be able to put away three rapists with the evidence you helped us find today.”
There should have been seven men going to prison. Seven. Unfortunately, four of them were already dead, including Simon. I hope you’re all burning in hell.
“And thirteen women will be able to face their attackers and get justice,” he added.
There should have been sixteen women facing their attackers, but two had been murdered and the other had taken her own life. No, Susannah, there should have only been one victim. It should have stopped with you.
But she’d said nothing then, and she’d have to live with that for the rest of her life.
“Facing one’s attacker is an important part of dealing with an assault,” Susannah said levelly. At least that’s what she’d always told the rape victims who were uncertain about testifying in court. In the past she’d believed it. Today she wasn’t so sure.
“I guess you’ve prepared your share of rape victims to testify.” His voice was incredibly gentle, but underneath she heard the tremble of a barely leashed fury. “I imagine it will be more difficult when you’re the one in the witness box.”
There was that word again . . . difficult. It wouldn’t be difficult to testify. It would be the most terrifying experience of her life. “I told you and Daniel that I’d s
tand with the other victims, Agent Papadopoulos,” she said sharply, “and I meant it.”
“I never thought anything different,” he said, but she didn’t believe him.
“My flight to New York is at six. I need to be at the Atlanta airport by four. Can you drop me off on your way back to your headquarters?”
He shot her a frown. “You’re going back tonight?”
“I missed a lot of work with my parents’ funeral last week. I need to get back.”
“Daniel had hoped to spend some time with you.”
Annoyance flared and her voice hardened. “I think Daniel has his hands full with picking up the three surviving . . .” She faltered. “Members of Simon’s club.” But the word she used daily on the job would not roll off her tongue. “Not to mention catching whoever’s killed five Dutton women in the last week.”
“We know who the killer is.” His own annoyance came through. “We will find him. It’s just a matter of time. And we’ve got one of the rapists in custody already.”
“Ah, yes. Mayor Davis. That one surprised me.” Thirteen years ago Garth Davis had been a dumb jock, not the type to lead a gang of his peers to assault his classmates. But he’d certainly followed along. The pictures didn’t lie. “But Deputy Mansfield escaped, killing his tail.” Randy Mansfield had always been a weasel. Now he wore a badge and carried a gun, a terrifying prospect considering he was still roaming free.
A muscle twitched in Luke’s jaw. “Mansfield’s tail was a damn good agent named Oscar Johnson,” he said tightly. “He left behind three kids and a pregnant wife.”
He was grieving. He was also Daniel’s friend, and obviously loyal. “I’m sorry,” she said more gently. “But you have to admit you and Daniel do not have the situation under control. You don’t even know who the third . . .” Say it. Now. She cleared her throat. “Who the third rapist is.”
“We’ll find him,” Papadopoulos repeated stubbornly.
“I’m sure you will, but I still can’t stay. Besides, Daniel has a new lady friend to hold his hand,” she added, hearing that edge in her voice she despised. That Daniel had found happiness out of all this mess seemed . . . unfair. Of course that was childish. Life wasn’t fair. Susannah had learned that long ago. “I wouldn’t dream of intruding.”
“You’d like Alex Fallon,” he said, “if you’d just give her a chance.”
“I’m sure I would. But Miss Fallon’s had a hard day, too, seeing her sister’s picture in that box with all the others.” Including mine. Don’t think about it. Instead, she focused on Alex Fallon.
Daniel’s new girlfriend was connected to their lives in a very real way. Alex’s twin sister had been murdered thirteen years ago by one of the boys who’d assaulted so many. Susannah might be childish enough to resent Daniel’s happiness, but she could not wish anything bad on Alex Fallon. The woman had suffered a great deal in her life.
Luke grunted in reluctant agreement. “True. And her stepsister’s still missing.”
“Bailey Crighton,” Susannah said. One of the four dead rapists was Bailey’s brother. On the way out to the house, Luke had told her that Bailey’s brother Wade had written a confession letter of sorts and shortly after its receipt, Bailey had been abducted. They believed one of the rapists had gotten nervous about what Bailey knew.
“Bailey’s been gone a week now,” Luke said.
“It doesn’t look good for her then,” Susannah murmured.
“No. It doesn’t.”
“So, like I said before, Daniel has his hands full. As do you. So . . .” She blew out a quiet sigh. “Back to my original question, Agent Papadopoulos. Can you drop me off at the airport on your way back to your headquarters? I need to go home.”
His own sigh was weary. “It’ll be tight, but yeah. I can.”
Chapter Two
Dutton, Georgia, Friday, February 2, 3:20 p.m.
Luke stole a look at Susannah before fixing his eyes on the curving road ahead. The first time he’d seen her she’d stood next to Daniel at their parents’ funeral wearing a conservative black suit, her face so pale he’d wondered if she’d remain standing. But she had, exhibiting a calm strength that impressed him and a delicate beauty that had him looking twice. But under her calm façade was a darkness that drew him like a lodestone. She’s like me, he’d thought, unable to rip his eyes away. She’d understand.
Today she sat in his passenger seat, dressed in another black suit, this one a bit trendier. Once again her face was pale and once again he sensed the darkness that vibrated within her. She was angry. She had every right to be.
I’m fine, she’d said, but of course she was not. How could she be? She’d just come face to face with her worst nightmare in a brutally graphic way. An hour ago she’d marched into Simon’s bedroom and pulled the box from the hidey-hole behind his closet, as calmly as if it had been filled with baseball cards instead of vile photos of rape. Her own rape. Luke had wanted to punch a wall, but he’d maintained his control. He’d done his job. And so had she, with a composure that would put any cop to shame.
Still, Susannah Vartanian was definitely not “fine.”
And neither am I. Then again, Luke had not been “fine” in a very long time. He could feel his own fury, way too close to the surface. It had been a very bad week. It had been a very bad year. Too many faces stared at him from the depths of his mind. All taunting him. Haunting him. You were our only hope, and you were too late.
They’d been too late once again, thirteen years too late this time. A shiver slithered down his back. Luke was by no means a superstitious man, but he’d been his mother’s son too long not to have a healthy respect for the number thirteen. Thirteen surviving rape victims, the crime perpetrated thirteen years before.
One of the thirteen survivors sat in his passenger seat, her eyes haunted.
She blamed herself. It was clear. If only she’d said something . . . the other victims would have been spared. There would have been no band of rapists on which a present-day murderer could seek revenge and five Dutton women might still be alive. If she’d said something back then, Simon Vartanian would have been arrested with the other rapists and never would have gone on to kill so many himself.
Of course she was wrong. Life just didn’t work that way. Luke wished it did.
He wished that her coming forward thirteen years ago would have erased the box of photos he carried in the trunk of his car. But he knew if she’d said anything, Arthur Vartanian would have bailed Simon out and brought his son home, as he had every other time. Simon would have killed her, of this Luke was certain. There had been no way out for Susannah then, and no way of knowing Simon had orchestrated the rape of others.
Now that she knew, she’d come forward in a way that inspired his profound respect. She’d been hurt and angry and scared. But she’d done the right thing.
“You know you’re not to blame,” he said quietly.
Her jaw tightened. “Thank you, Agent Papadopoulos, but I don’t need the pep talk.”
“You’re thinking I don’t understand,” he said mildly even though he wanted to snarl.
“I’m sure you think you do. You mean well, but—”
Dammit, he didn’t think he did. He did. The lid on his temper rattled. “Four days ago I found three kids dead,” he interrupted, the words out of his mouth before he knew he planned to say them. “Nine, ten, and twelve. I was less than a day too late.”
She drew a deep breath and let it out quietly. Her body seemed to settle. Her fury seemed to rise. “How did they die?” she asked, her voice ominously quiet.
“Shot in the head.” And he could still see their small faces every time he closed his eyes. “But before they were murdered, they’d been molested in front of a Webcam. For years,” he spat. “For money. For perverts all over the world to see.”
“Bastards.” Her voice trembled. “That must have been horrible for you.”
“More horrible for them,” he muttered and she made a small s
ound of agreement.
“I guess I’m supposed to say you’re not to blame. Obviously you think you are.”
His hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles ached. “Obviously.”
A few moments passed, then she said, “So you’re one of those.”
He could feel her studying him and it made him feel unsettled. “One of what?”
“One of those guys who works Internet sex crimes against kids. I’ve worked with a few, through the DA’s office. I don’t know how you guys do it.”
His jaw tightened. “Some days, I don’t do it.”
“But most days, you do what you have to do. And a little more of you dies each day.”
She’d articulated the state of his life very well. “Yeah.” His voice was rough, unsteady. “Something like that.”
“Then you’re one of the good guys. And you’re not to blame.”
He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”
From the corner of his eye he saw she still watched him. Some of the color had returned to her face and he knew he’d given her something else to think about. He didn’t want to talk about this, wished he hadn’t mentioned it, but it was distracting her from her shock and to accomplish that, he’d talk about anything she wanted.
“I’m confused,” she said. “I thought you and Daniel were Homicide, not Internet.”
“Daniel’s Homicide. I’m not. I’ve been on the Internet task force for over a year.”
“That’s a long time to have to live with such filth. I know guys who’ve worked Vice for ten years that didn’t last a month on the child porn task forces.”
“Like you said, we do what we have to do. I’m not normally Daniel’s partner. This is a special assignment. After Tuesday, when I found the kids, I asked for a temporary reassignment. Daniel was chasing this guy that’s been killing Dutton women and everywhere he turned he kept running into Simon. Simon was everywhere in this case. This killer wanted us to find Simon’s club. Simon’s pictures. Simon’s key.”