The Hunted Girls by Jenna Kernan (best book club books for discussion txt) 📕

“Five times.”

Demko grumbled, “Should have made it six.”

For a moment there was quiet. Then Tina spoke up.

“I want the test, too.”

“Fine,” he said. “Take my DNA, too.”

Demko pulled into the dirt parking area, rolling over uneven ground and stopping before the nearest access to the trail where the bodies of Nikki Darnell and Rita Karnowski were discovered.

He cut the lights and they sat in darkness. Gradually Nadine’s eyes adjusted to the moonlight casting a wide silver band across the black waters of the St. Johns River.

Demko stepped out first, heading for the trail flanking the water. Insects buzzed in the trees. Nadine saw a blue light wink on and off to his left. Every hair on her neck lifted. She reached for her mace and threw open the door.

“Stay here,” she called to the women behind her. To Demko she shouted, “Get down.”

Demko fell to his stomach at Nadine’s shouted order.

Nadine crouched, hurrying toward Demko, pointing. “What was that?”

“What?”

Nadine explained what she saw. Her fear was that it was a targeting laser.

“Can’t be. That would have landed on a target, not flashed in the woods.”

Demko moved forward to investigate as Nadine swatted at mosquitoes. Her skin was freezing despite the warm, humid air. Something brushed against her leg, making her dance sideways.

Finally he returned.

“Wildlife camera.”

Had they just caught a break? Could that camera hold the image of their killer dragging two bodies along the trail?

While they waited for the sheriff to arrive, Nadine took note of how empty the site was. The river access would be busy in the early morning and possibly throughout the day. But now, before midnight, it was empty of people. Even the alligators were absent. With no sunlight, they had no reason to bask on the bank and warm their cold blood. She couldn’t see them. But they were there, nocturnal hunters all but submerged, hunting fish and turtle in the river or waiting for the prey to venture too close. Possum, raccoon, armadillo and possibly a pack rat or two scurried in the dry palmetto leaves. Small night creatures also needed to eat.

The sheriff arrived, lights but no siren, and Demko spoke with him as Nadine made her way back to the lot. Demko sent them home in his SUV as the sheriff contacted the FBI to see about procedures for evidence collection on an object possibly associated with their case. Juliette drove. Nadine was exhausted and her head began an incessant pounding, heralding a blooming migraine.

The three said their good nights and Nadine made it to her room after midnight, downing one of her migraine pills. She was impatient to work on her profile. But her body wasn’t cooperating. In the bathroom, she tugged on her black headband, a knockoff Versace with the gold Greca border. She’d accidentally dripped bleach on it and so it was now relegated to the bathroom. She drew her hair back with the band and scrubbed the sweat from her face, determined to push through her headache and get to work, but upon reaching the bed, she spotted the flashing red light on the phone indicating a message. She lifted the handset and pressed the message button.

“Dr. Finch, this is Rosie at the front desk. We have an envelope for you from Agent Skogen of the FBI. He asked us to deliver it to you as soon as possible. Could you please come to reception when you retrieve this message?”

What was it? A list of contractors where Betters worked? Some detail on the identified victims vital to her profile?

Nadine rose wearily. Her headache was getting worse, and the blurred vision and stomachache forecast a doozy of a migraine that her medication had yet to impact. Frustration blossomed with the pain. It was only a short journey to the desk, but her head pounded, and wavy lines disrupted her vision. They were better if she closed one eye.

On the way out, she spotted her key card and grabbed it. Closing one eye obviously affected her balance, because once in the hall, she toppled into the door beside hers and swore a string of obscenities that would have made her mother blush.

The elevator was the easy part. It had handrails, but the bright halogen bulb blinded. The light sensitivity signaled that the migraine had a firm hold. She lifted one hand as a visor against the assault.

As the elevator jolted to a stop at ground level, Nadine came to the recognition that her profile would have to wait for this headache to come and go in its own sweet time.

At the front desk, she braced against the nausea, still shielding her eyes.

The receptionist was male. She glanced to the bell stand to see one covered birdcage and one empty one. Juliette had taken to keeping the travel cage in her room and leaving this larger one in the lobby beside Petunia’s. It was well past both birds’ bedtime. Hers as well.

She told the man behind the desk what she needed, and he passed her a manila envelope with her name scrawled in jagged strokes.

Inside, instead of some vital document related to this case, she found four policy manuals on collaborating with the FBI and a Post-it with a message that read, For your team. This was what brought her down here? Fuming, she retraced her path, but the damn buttons on the elevator didn’t work.

It was several minutes of fumbling before she remembered to use her key card. Tapping it to the panel, the button now engaged. The doors swept closed and the car whisked her upward. She clutched the handrail and held on, squatting as the lights swam with her vision.

You are not puking in a hotel elevator.

But she might. The doors opened and she stood, weaving forward with one hand on the envelope and the other over one eye. The closing doors bounced off her back leg and then opened again, causing her to spin and collide with a cylindrical trash container. It shot forward and rolled