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Cecil opened the door. “Agents. Nice to see you made it out of the Swallow alive.” He swept his hand for them to enter. “What can I do for y’all tonight?”
“We need a favor.”
Cecil’s eyebrows raised as if he’d expected this visit. “If you’re wondering if I gave Bella Dawn a purse, I did.”
“Are the women you gave leather purses to, these holler girls, prostitutes?” Violet asked. “I got the feeling you were withholding last we talked about that. Is that why you call them dark but lovely?”
Cecil looked up at the wall of plaques filled with Scripture and the crosses. “They are dark in their sinful ways. But they are lovely. Aren’t they?” His blue eyes pierced hers. “Yes, Agent. They sell themselves to men.”
“Do you buy what they’re selling, Cecil? Are the purses gifts for their services?”
Cecil frowned. “Do you need anything else?”
“Do you have Bella Dawn?”
He stared at her and sighed. “No. Last I saw Bella Dawn was when she left the bar with my brother.”
“I thought she left the bar with Regis Owsley.”
“She did.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sunday, October 22
11:54 p.m.
The moon was a thumbnail slicing through heavy clouds peppering the night sky. The rain had finally slacked, but the air was cold and wet. Plumes of breath rose from his lips as he trekked through the hills southeast of the old place. He hated it and loved it.
He slipped by the yellow crime-scene tape rattling in the wind. Past the cave and onto the worn footpath from childhood. How many times had he pretended to be hiding in the forest from gnarly hags?
Or his own mom.
But she had no power over him anymore. No forcing him to be someone he wasn’t. He entered the clearing to the old cabin where he’d been born and spent the early years of his life before they’d moved into the other house.
But he liked it here best. In the silence. Isolated. No one telling him what to do or who to be.
No one telling him no.
He was careful on the rotted porch. He hadn’t been back here since the agent and detective had snooped through his private things, invaded his space. When she’d looked through the woods into his eyes.
The wind howled and whistled its way inside. His latest doll he’d been making with the agent’s pretty red undergarment was almost finished. Lula liked the first doll so much she’d probably like this one too. Wood shavings from his last project littered the floor underneath the chair.
He approached his old bedroom door and cracked it open. On the twin bed with the dirty mattress, Bella Dawn lay.
He’d bound her hands and ankles before leaving this morning. Her torn dress hung off her shoulder. If she hadn’t put up such a fight, he wouldn’t have had to tear the pretty blue thing. The curves of her collarbone were exposed. Feminine. Delicate. Like a porcelain doll.
He laid a plastic to-go bag on the rickety table and glanced at his old pencil box, then he sat on the side edge of the bed.
She drew up her legs, but not far enough out of his reach. Finally, she was in his grasp. He traced her bare legs with his index finger. Soft and lovely.
Bella Dawn flinched and whimpered.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Bella Dawn. You know me.”
Her hair was a disaster. Matted and stuck to her face from tears; mascara had run and caked in smoky trails. “I brought you something to eat.”
Slowly, he eased the duct tape from her lips, but she hissed anyway. “Sorry. But I can’t have you yelping out here.” No one would suspect he’d bring her this close to where they’d discovered Tillie, Darla and Atta. Someone would have to be stupid to do that. Or smarter than them. Here in this cabin is where he first dreamed of touching a girl. Wanting a girl.
