“None of it is,” he agreed, though he suspected she didn’t just mean the obvious.
“It isn’t the same.”
“What isn’t?” he asked, and she moved her gaze to his.
“Everything.” She motioned to the interior of the hut, then to the doorway, her eyes narrowing. “Trust me, Pierce; this one’s not like the rest.”
Chapter 37
Driving home, Nikki tried to scrub the image of Naomi Kittle’s dead body from her mind. But she couldn’t. Nor could she erase the memory of Jamison’s car screeching to a stop in the lane before he jumped out, leaving the BMW running while he ran headlong into the clearing. He’d ignored warnings from the deputies and sped to the sanctuary, where he’d viewed the horrible, gut-ripping scene of his wife’s macabre death.
Even though she’d both secured an interview and Jamison’s agreement that she could publish the story of the discovery of Naomi’s body once he’d told his children, Nikki felt hollow inside. The old, pre-motherhood Nikki Gillette would have been elated at the prospect of an exclusive interview with Jamison Kittle, the husband of the latest victim of the Savannah Slasher. But the new, maternal Nikki was fighting a losing battle with empathy and grief for the loss of a wife and mother. As she drove toward the city, the lights of Savannah glowing in the distance, she couldn’t help but remember the middle Kittle daughter Shana’s pale, tortured face during Jamison’s briefing with the press. Now the little girl and her sisters were mother less, and their unfettered joy of childhood, their feeling of safety within their family, was shattered forever.
“And now you spend your time writing about man’s brutality to man. You make your living off the pain of others.”Westin Stark’s accusation still stung.
But tonight she had a job to do.
She pulled into the driveway, and Arlo whined to get out of the rental. “Okay, okay, I think I owe you a treat, or maybe a thousand,” she said, thinking of how the dog had raced to her rescue. How far Arlo had come in the past few weeks. From a snarling, fearful beast who had threatened her to a snarling, brave animal ready to sacrifice himself for her. “Come on, now, hero dog,” she said, once she’d parked.
Arlo bounded out of the car and ran to the back door, whining and scratching to get inside.
Lily hurried down the stairs as Nikki set her purse on the side counter, then found the pre-offered dog treat, not only for Arlo, but a patiently waiting Mikado as well.
“It’s really Naomi?” Lily asked, swallowing.
“Unfortunately.”
“God, what’s happening around here?”
“That’s what Pierce is trying to piece together.” Nikki grabbed a glass and filled it with water at the sink. “How’re the girls?”
“Asleep, thank God. But it’s all over the news. Not Naomi’s name, of course. I got that when Pierce called to check on Chloe. But … dear God.”
“I know.”
“You found her?”
“Yeah.” Nikki took a long swallow from her glass. “Awful,” she admitted, then filled Lily in on the details. “Look, I need to write this story and submit it, so we’ll catch up later.”
“Sure. But, oh, sweet Jesus.” Lily collapsed on the couch and wrapped herself in a blanket. “This is … obscene.”
“Amen.” Nikki hurried up the stairs and took a minute to check on Chloe, who, as Lily had said, lay deep in slumber. In a onesie decorated with pink llamas, her hair a mop of curls, she looked peaceful, serene, and safe.
She pressed a kiss to her soft cheek as Mikado crept into the room and curled up next to Chloe’s bed. “Sleep well, angel,” Nikkiwhispered before heading up to her office and finding Arlo already in his bed, eyes trained on the door. His tail thumped as she gave him a quick pet, then settled into her chair.
She had a story to write and then a companion piece on Naomi.
Fink, she thought, would be satisfied, even if the articles would have her byline without any credit given to Metzger. As she wrote, she gave out the details she was allowed by the police, but thought of those she couldn’t acknowledge. At least not yet.
She’d stayed at the scene long enough to hear that the stone held in Naomi’s hand had been etched with the number 11, just like the other three rocks, in Arabic and Hebrew, the numbers darkened presumably by blood. But this was information she couldn’t share with the public.
Yet.
Until it was her exclusive story.
Or was leaked, she thought sourly.
Even so, she didn’t feel that same sense of accomplishment, that satisfaction of discovering something that turned the case around. Not for the first time, she wondered if she were losing her edge. If she should hang up her journalism degree before she became lackluster, uninspired, and lazy like Norm Metzger. Or maybe just write books about crimes others had solved.