Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

didn’t kill. She always uses hands-off methods, seems like: poisons, falls down stairs, drownings.”

We both think about that for a while. What it takes to embark on a career of ice-hearted murder like that and slip away without a trace every single time. She’s never been arrested for anything serious enough to get her into a national database, and by moving state to state, she’s been keeping herself off the radar.

We may never know exactly how many people she’s killed. Only that it’s probably more than we have found.

“Best write it all up and send it to TBI,” he says. “They’re going to want to take it federal, most likely, since it’s a multistate investigation now. This goes far beyond our little town, Kez. Let it go. If she’s out there somewhere, she’s going to be found.”

While I’m finishing the write-up, an email comes in from the TBI. The bones we found on the grid search belong to Tommy Jarrett. He’s been lying up there in those hills since the day he disappeared. He didn’t leave Sheryl and those soon-to-be-born kids. And I sincerely doubt it was any kind of an accident.

Sheryl. It keeps coming back to Sheryl.

I don’t want to just trust someone else to do these dead children justice, but Prester’s right: I don’t really have any choice.

It’s over.

It doesn’t feel over.

Gwen calls just as noon approaches, and she’s got a lot to give me, because she’s got the 411 on Douglas Adam Prinker. I’d honestly just about forgotten about him in the rush of revelations about Sheryl, though she’d mentioned the name and I’d intended to get into it. But Gwen’s beaten me to it.

Turns out Mr. Prinker—who’s alleged to have been doing slow rolls past Sheryl’s house, according to the neighbor Gwen interviewed—has a shady record, including multiple domestic violence complaints. Currently newly married with one child, and I feel for that woman; Douglas isn’t likely to change his ways.

There’s a white van registered in his name, but it’s so old it’s got to be on its last thousand miles. His credit report is littered with unpaid bills, and his trailer is threatened with foreclosure. Breaking four hundred on a credit score would be a really good day for him. To him, Sheryl must have seemed like she had it all.

Could be it’s just that simple. Maybe Prinker saw an opportunity to grab a woman with money, meant it for a robbery, and something went hard sideways. Given Sheryl’s history, that would be ironic. But if so, why take her? No action on her bank account, nothing on the two credit cards active under Sheryl’s name.

Gwen’s included Prinker’s employment history. He’s working part time at the Norton landfill, and when I call, he’s at work.

“Landfill?” Prester leans back in his chair. “I assume you got this.”

I’m putting on my jacket and wishing I’d worn older clothes. “Yeah, I got this,” I say. “Unless you’re so bored you can’t miss this chance to smell the sights.”

“Kezia Claremont, I searched that damn landfill twice looking for two different murder weapons in my career, and I have done my stinky-garbage time. You enjoy yourself.” He goes back to typing, but then glances up as I pass. “And watch your back.”

That’s our version of a warm hug.

I turn back when I hear him make a sound. It’s an odd one, a groan, and when I walk back, I see that he’s sitting hunched over. His face looks ashy, and he’s pressing a hand to his stomach. He grimaces when he sees me back. “I’m all right,” he says. “Ulcer’s acting up, that’s all. I’ll be fine. I made an appointment with the damn doctor, I see him next Monday. Stop hovering.”

He means it. I don’t like it, but at least he’s actually sensible enough to seek some medical care, thank God.

I look around, and see Sergeant Porter watching us both. I point to Prester, then to my eyes, and he nods.

Porter will watch over him while I’m gone.

I head for the landfill, which is situated far enough out of town that the smell hardly ever drifts to downtown. But it’s easy to know you’re getting there. Between that and the sewage plant situated close by, it’s a full, stinky experience.

Seagulls circle the dump like vultures, swept-back wings riding the currents. I don’t like the damn things, and I just know I’m going to get crapped on out there by one of them. But as Prester said: you got to put in your garbage time, and this is part of mine.

The stench is like to knock me over when I get out of the car, but I power through the invisible fog over to the small, yellow-painted office. Incredibly, they keep the windows open. Maybe it’s to keep their tolerance level up.

I lean in the window to the big man crowded at the desk and show my badge. “Hey,” I say. “Afternoon. Kezia Claremont, NPD. Here to talk to Douglas Prinker.”

“You mean Junior? He’s up on the ridge driving the compactor. Big thing with the roller. Can’t miss it. Just finished lunch, so he should be back up there by now.”

“Can I drive up there?”

“Only if you got a tractor. No cars allowed.”

He points out on the map where I’ll find Junior, and I go outside. There’s a wide path winding up the hill, pale dirt that’s kept hard-packed by tractors running daily. Not a hard climb, except for the stench. Seagulls shriek and dive into the jumble of white, blue, green, and red bags that litter the slope, ready to be pushed down flat. One man’s trash is a flying rat’s treasure.

Douglas Prinker is dwarfed by the giant machine he’s driving. I watch him a minute, then get close enough that he can hear my shouts. The roaring engine dies with a rattle, and the cries of birds take over the empty space. He climbs down onto the step of the compactor . . .