him come out and sit with her, to talk about some of the details about Jake Buckley that he had not been able to ascertain. Maybe she was just lonely and needed to have someone sit with her, hold her hand and tell her they understood.

She wandered into the study, the one room in the house that she felt she could call her own. Perhaps a book would cheer her up. She entered the room and took in a deep breath. Standing in the middle of the room was Reese, her little brother. She jumped and let out a startled cry. He just looked at her with unfathomably sad eyes.

“Jesus, Reese, you scared me to death. When did you sneak in here? I didn’t even hear the doorbell. Oh, it’s good to see you. When did you get back?”

She went to him and enfolded him in a hug. Reese was tall; like Jake he was nearly six foot four in his stocking feet. He had black curly hair, a rogue’s smile, dark blue eyes and a dimple in his chin. His jaw was broad, his nose chiseled, and Quinn couldn’t help but give him an admiring glance. He was just so handsome. And so very young. She was filled with pride for a brief moment then shook it off.

“Sweetheart, I tried to reach you for days, but I could never get through.”

“I’m sorry, Quinn. I told you we’d be out of touch. It was amazing. Really amazing. I learned so much. I got in late last night and heard your message on my machine this morning. Why did you need to reach me?”

Quinn did not know how to approach the subject. She knew Whitney and Reese were not close by any means. But they were related, after all, that had to count for something. She took his hand and led him to the closest 344

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chair, a huge leather swayback with studded nails going up the sides. She sat him down and in turn took a seat on a velvet ottoman facing him. She took both of his hands in hers and looked him straight in his gorgeous eyes.

“Sweetheart, Whitney has been in an accident. She was killed. It happened, well, she was on her way here, to the house. I didn’t know if anyone else had gotten through to your team down there, that someone from home had told one of the doctors you were with. I wanted to tell you myself.”

There was no reaction from Reese, and Quinn’s heart sank. He couldn’t hate her, not that much. Reese looked up at her, his eyes troubled.

Quinn squeezed his hands tighter. “I know, honey, I know. It’s awful. There’s more. The police have taken Whitney’s laptop. Apparently she’s been involved, somehow, with this horrible man that has been killing these girls all over the Southeast. I didn’t know if you’d heard about that, either, though it’s been national news and in all the papers. I thought you might have heard something about it. Reese? Reese?”

Reese was staring, unblinking, his face drained of all color. A single tear built up in the corner of his eye and dribbled down his cheek unchecked. He shook his head, unbelieving. Quinn nattered on, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“I mean, I can’t understand it. Whitney, involved with this killer? I don’t know how that’s possible, and the police aren’t giving me a lot of information. I’m sure she was planning on doing some sort of story on it, and she was trying to reach me the day before—” Her voice broke, and she had to gather herself before she contin- All the Pretty Girls 345

ued. “The day before she died. Oh, Reese, what are we going to do?”

Reese finally met Quinn’s eyes, gently removing his hands from hers. “So she didn’t know?”

“She didn’t know what, sweetheart?”

Reese stood up and walked to the bookcase. He reached out a slender finger and traced the spine of an intricately carved book. “All that work,” he murmured to himself.

Quinn heard but didn’t understand what he said.

“What, sweetheart? I didn’t hear you. Are you okay?”

He turned to her, a small smile on his face and a glistening in his eyes. “All my work. She didn’t know.” He started to laugh, and Quinn was unsure what to do. Grief took all forms, and though she knew Reese was not terribly fond of his other sister, she thought that laughter was hardly the best emotional avenue for him to take at the news of her death.

“Now, Reese Connolly, I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I’ve just told you your sister is dead and you laugh. What is wrong with you?”

He was laughing harder now, tears streaming down his face. He stepped over to Quinn, took her in a brief yet forceful hug, and then, still laughing, disappeared from the room. Quinn heard the laughter fade away, then heard the front door slam. A throaty engine turned over and he tore off down the driveway. She sank into the chair he had been sitting in before his bizarre reaction to his sister’s death had drawn him to stand. What the hell was that about? Quinn shook her head. It was beyond her. She knew that there was no 346

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way he could know the truth, but maybe she was mistaken. Maybe Reese had been fooling them all along.

The doorbell rang, and she took a deep breath, got out of the chair and went to the door. She opened it to find both Taylor Jackson and a man she assumed was the FBI agent she’d spoken to standing on her doorstep. Taylor was sporting a black eye and a tight smile. The FBI agent just looked worried.

“Come in, come in, please.” She beckoned to the foyer and watched them closely while they came in the door. Something was going on. Hell, what else could be happening? The police had confiscated Whitney’s computer. They were searching for her husband. Her little brother had laughed when he found out his sister was dead. Her life was quietly disintegrating, and she didn’t know how to stop it.

Taylor and Baldwin settled themselves in the library, watching Quinn flutter about like a feather caught in a breeze. She finally sat across from them and took a deep breath.

“Please, tell me what’s going on. What’s the real reason the FBI is looking for my husband?”

Baldwin leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Mrs. Buckley, we have reason to believe that your husband has been involved in several crimes we’ve been investigating over the past few weeks.”

Quinn threw back her head and laughed. “Let me guess. You think Jake is the Southern Strangler. Please, Mr. Baldwin, let me assure you, Jake is no more the Strangler than I am. It’s just not something that could possibly happen. He’s not capable of killing. Sticking All the Pretty Girls

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his dick into any female that comes within twenty feet of him, absolutely. But killing? No.”

Baldwin wasn’t deterred. “Mrs. Buckley, you don’t seem to understand. Your husband has been in the exact areas that the girls have gone missing from, and the exact spots where their bodies were recovered. That in and of itself is compelling evidence against him. Have you heard from your husband today?”

“No, I haven’t, but that means nothing. Jake goes for days without checking in. I have no idea where he is half the time…” Her voice trailed off. She stared out the window for a moment. “You’re serious, aren’t you?

That’s why you took Whitney’s computer. You think Jake’s been sending her these messages, these poems. But why in the world would he do that? Jake doesn’t send poetry to anyone.” She broke off, her voice catching. “At least, not anymore.”

Her eyes widened. “That son of a bitch. He was sleeping with Whitney, wasn’t he? He was sending her love poems, like he used to do with… Dear God, is nothing sacred? That would make sense. My perfect husband fucking my equally perfect sister. Isn’t that just a riot?”

Baldwin tucked that morsel of information into his mind and tried to get the interview back on track. “Mrs. Buckley, I know how hard this must be for you. You’ve lost your sister, and your husband, well, we don’t know where he is, or what he’s been doing for the past few weeks. I’d like your permission to take a few articles of Mr. Buckley’s personal items with me. We’d like to run some tests, see if we can’t match—”