Eileen Campbell came straight from morning church services to her antique shop in East Ridge. Sunday afternoon was a prime time for shoppers, and she made a habit of arriving early to get everything ready before opening time at one o’clock. Taking pride in the shop she had owned with her late husband since the early days of their marriage more than twenty years ago, she didn’t leave even the smallest detail to employees. She owned a third of the store’s contents, and the remaining two-thirds belonged to people who rented booths from her. Although the items displayed in half a dozen of the rental booths didn’t quite meet her high standards, being more or less junk, she was smart enough to know that some customers actually liked junk.

The long straps of her shoulder bag slid down her arm as she clutched the paper sack containing her lunch—a sandwich, pickles, and an apple—with her left hand. Holding her keychain in her right hand, she approached the double front doors, inserted the key, and unlocked her shop. She hurried inside, closed and locked the door behind her, and flipped on the light switches lined up along the wall at the entrance. One by one, the fluorescent lights came on, brightening the dark interior.

Eileen walked around the L-shaped counter that contained the cash register and credit card box as well as stacks of flyers advertising special sales for today. After hiding her purse and lunch sack under the counter and removing her lightweight jacket, she went straight to the utility closet and removed the vacuum cleaner. She vacuumed first and then swept any areas where the vacuum didn’t maneuver easily. While she dusted—only her own For Sale items—she checked to make sure no one had disturbed the way in which she had arranged each booth. The correct display was of the utmost importance if you wanted to catch an antiquer’s eye.

As she passed by Susan Cornelius’s booth, she caught a glimpse of something odd in her peripheral vision. It took a couple of seconds for her brain to register what she’d seen. Merciful Lord, there was someone sitting in one of the antique rocking chairs!

Eileen’s heartbeat accelerated as she stopped, turned around, and stared at the unwelcome visitor. How on earth had someone gotten inside the store? She kept the front and back doors locked. And in all the years she had been in business, she’d had only two break-ins, and those had been years ago before she put stickers on the doors and windows and a sign out front stating that the business was protected by a security system. Actually, it wasn’t. No way was she going to pay for the system when more than one person had assured her that having the signs and stickers would be enough to warn off potential burglars.

Should she actually confront the person, or should she walk away and hurry back to the front desk where she could call the police? If only she had put her cell phone in her pocket instead of leaving it in her purse, she could make the call immediately.

“Whoever you are, you should know that I’ve already called the police and they’re on their way here now,” Eileen lied.

No response.

Seeing the back of the person’s head—long, dark hair—as well as the narrow slope of the shoulders and slenderness of the waist, Eileen decided that the figure sitting in the rocking chair belonged to a woman. Armed with that belief, she ventured toward Susan Cornelius’s booth.

Hesitantly, Eileen made her way around to the front of the booth. Preparing to meet the intruder face-to-face, she picked up an antique brass bed warmer propped against the side of a small walnut bookcase. As Eileen opened her mouth to demand the person get out of the rocking chair and explain what she was doing inside the shop, the words died on her lips and a shrill scream erupted from her throat. The bed warmer fell from Eileen’s hand and hit the rug-covered concrete floor with a loud thud.

Sitting there, utterly still and quite obviously dead, an attractive young woman stared sightlessly straight ahead.

“Merciful Lord, merciful Lord.” Eileen wrung her hands together as she turned and ran up the aisle between the booths, heading straight for the telephone to call the police.

J.D. was now number one on his daughter’s shit list. She had not said two words to him since they left Audrey’s house last night. When he had tried to talk to her that morning, she had clamped her mouth shut and glared at him as if he were a monster. He had called Audrey several times, using her home number, her office number, and her cell number. Each time, the call had gone immediately to voice mail. He didn’t know if she wasn’t answering any calls or just not answering his. Damn it, both Zoe and Audrey were blaming him for something that wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t been the one to leak the information to the press.

No, but you’re the one who put Audrey’s stepbrother on your persons-of-interest list.

But no matter how he figured things, there was no denying that Hart Roberts was a person of interest. Did J.D. suspect him of being the Rocking Chair Killer? He had no proof of any kind against the man. There was no reason to suspect Roberts of a crime. But J.D.’s gut told him that he couldn’t overlook the possibility that Roberts was involved simply because he was Audrey’s brother.

Jeremy Arden was a more likely suspect, but J.D. would lay odds that the mysterious Corey Bennett would turn out to be their killer. This guy’s true identity was the problem. No one by that name in the Chattanooga area had any connection to Regina Bennett or her aunt and uncle. And if he was their killer, he wouldn’t be traveling long distances to kidnap his victims, kill them, and then disappear. No, their killer would probably be living somewhere within a fifty-mile radius. J.D. would bet his pension on it.

He couldn’t rule out the possibility that Corey Bennett might be an alias for either Roberts or Arden.

If he thought it would do any good, he’d try calling Audrey again.

Better to wait and give her time to cool off. Eventually her brain would override her emotions. Once she had a chance to think things through logically, she would understand.

And if she didn’t understand?

What difference did it make? It wasn’t as if he and Audrey were involved. Hell, they weren’t even friends. She and Zoe were friends, and he knew that Audrey wouldn’t penalize Zoe for anything she thought he had done wrong.

J.D. poured himself a fourth cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table where he’d left his cereal bowl and juice glass from breakfast. Just as he picked up the Sunday paper and stared at the Rocking Chair/Baby Blue headlines on the front page, groaning as he started rereading the article, his phone rang.

For the second time today, his boss was calling. The first time had been at seven o’clock. They had discussed who the possible leak was and how they could smoke the person out into the open. Heads would roll if Phil Hayes found out that someone under his command was the culprit. Identifying the leak wouldn’t be easy and might prove impossible.

“It had damn well better be someone at the CPD,” Phil had said. “I’d rather this be Willie Mullins’s headache instead of mine. But the bottom line is that we’re all taking fire from the press and looking like we’re trying to hide information the public should know.”

J.D. answered the phone on the third ring. “What now? More bad news?”

“You could say that. Whitney Poole has shown up.”

“Dead, I assume.”

“You assume correctly.”

“When and where?” J.D. asked.

“Less than an hour ago. She’s sitting in a rocking chair inside an antique store. And yeah, she’s holding a blanket-wrapped toddler skeleton.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“You’re not very popular with Sergeant Hudson or Officer Lovelady,” Phil told him. “But they don’t have any choice but to work with you. I told Willie this morning that if they can’t be even halfway objective, then he needs to pull them and assign the Rocking Chair Killer cases to another team.”

“They’re not going to hand over their cases willingly. And I can’t blame either of them for being pissed at me. After all, Hudson is Hart Roberts’s uncle and Tam Lovelady is Audrey Sherrod’s best friend.”

“You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. When you placed Hart Roberts on the persons-of-interest list, you were just doing your job.”

“Try explaining that to them.” Try explaining it to Audrey.

“You don’t owe them an explanation,” Phil told him. “You just continue doing your job and try to ignore their hostility. It won’t be the first time you’ve worked with people you’ve pissed off.”

“Where’s the antique store?”

“East Ridge. Slater Road. The whole street is lined with antique shops. The one you’re looking for is called One Man’s Treasure.”

“I’m on my way.”

“One more thing—there may be a witness.”

“A witness to what?”

“To our guy putting the body inside the antique store.”

“I hope this supposed eyewitness is more helpful than the last one was.”

Garth avoided J.D. as if he had the plague. That suited J.D. just fine. Considering the fact that both he and Sergeant Hudson had reputations as hotheads, it was best if they didn’t wind up in a confrontation, possibly even a physical altercation. If Garth threw the first punch, there was no way J.D. would turn the other cheek or simply walk away. It wasn’t in his nature. Maturity had taught him not to start a fight, the way he’d occasionally done when he was younger, but he sure as hell wouldn’t walk away from a fight the other guy started.

Tam had met him when he first arrived on the scene at One Man’s Treasure. “You’re not to go anywhere near Sergeant Hudson. You’ll deal strictly with me. Understand? Those are the chief’s orders.”

“I’m surprised you’re speaking to me.”

“Either I work with you or Dad…the chief will have to take Garth and me off the Rocking Chair Killer cases,” Tam had admitted.

In the past half hour, J.D. had done his best to stay out of the way of the experts while police and civilian specialists investigated the crime scene. He spoke with the officers first on the scene, had a few words with ME Pete Tipton, and inspected Whitney Poole’s body sitting serenely in the antique rocking chair. A toddler skeleton, wrapped securely in a blue blanket, rested in Whitney’s arms. Mother and child. Posed almost identically to the previous two victims.

“Do you want to speak to Eileen Campbell?” Tam asked.

“Who?”

“The owner of the antique shop?”

“Not now. Maybe later.”

“A window at the back was smashed,” Tam said. “We figure he broke the glass, reached inside, and opened it. Then he crawled in and unlocked the door from the inside.”

“Why didn’t the security system go off?”

“She doesn’t have a security system. Just stickers and a sign claiming she does.”

“How would he know that?”

“Maybe he took a chance. If the alarm went off, he could have made a run for it and been gone before the police arrived.”

“Maybe.”

J.D. glanced around at the crowd gathered just beyond the yellow crime scene tape. Reporters and curiosity seekers. Passersby. People who had intended to shop for antiques that afternoon. What were the odds that the killer was among the onlookers, blending in without being noticed?

“What about the witness?” J.D. asked.

“What about him?” Tam’s hard gaze told J.D. her attitude toward him hadn’t softened in the least.

“Who is he? Where is he?”

“He’s a vagrant,” Tam replied. “An old wino who was sleeping it off behind the row of antique stores along this street. His name is…” She paused to refer to her notes. “Henry O’Neal. Fifty-seven. No permanent address.”

“Just what did Henry see?”

“He saw a car pull away from behind One Man’s Treasure. Henry was asleep in a bed he’d made from discarded boxes at the back of the store next door. And no, he can’t ID the car, except that it looked like an ‘older-model big car.’ His exact words.” Tam crossed her arms over her chest. “He has no idea what time it was. He said it was dark.”

“Did he see the man driving the car?”

“A glimpse. He couldn’t even give us a description.”

“Then there’s no point in my questioning him, is there?”

“Probably not. You can read Officer Grissom’s report and my report. We both questioned Henry.” Tam frowned, twisting her mouth and glancing up and down, as if she was considering her next words carefully. “He did see something else.”

That comment got J.D.’s undivided attention. “What did he see?”

“A bumper sticker on the back of the car. He said it glowed in the dark.”

J.D. groaned. “Why couldn’t he have seen the license plate, too?”

“He says it was too dark.”

“Anything unusual about the bumper sticker, other than it glowed in the dark?”

“It was a pro-life sticker that read ‘Smile! Your mother chose life!’”

“The sticker could have been there when he bought the car.”

Tam nodded. “It could have been.”

“But you don’t think so. You think the killer chose the sticker and put it on the car himself. ‘Smile! Your mother chose life!’ is a unique way of saying she didn’t kill you, so be happy.”

“Your mother didn’t kill you the way Cody Bennett’s mother killed him, the way she killed him again and again by taking the lives of other little boys.”

“I get it.” J.D. cleared his throat. “I have some photos in the car that I want the uniformed officers to take a look at and then walk around through the crowd to see if anyone looks familiar. And I think I’ll show the same photos to Henry O’Neal.”

“I want to see the photos first,” Tam said.

“Sure. But I can tell you now that you’re not going to like the fact that one of the photos is of Hart Roberts.”

Tam glared at him.

When she didn’t say anything, he added, “The other photo is of Jeremy Arden.”

“Go get the photographs. I’ll have a couple of our officers take them and look through the crowd. But I can promise you that if Hart is out there, it’s only because he’s interested in the fact there’s been another body discovered, along with a child’s skeleton that could be his brother, Blake.”

“I understand,” J.D. told her. “Look, for what it’s worth, I don’t think Hart Roberts is our killer, but if I didn’t even consider him as a possible person of interest, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”

“I know,” Tam said reluctantly before turning and walking away.

When her doorbell rang at seven twenty that evening, the last person Audrey expected to find on her doorstep was J.D. Cass. For a split second she thought about slamming the door in his face.

“If you’re here to tell me that Whitney Poole is dead, I already know.”

“I figured you did since you have an in with the CPD. Plus the fact that every reporter in the state showed up at the crime scene.”

“Then what do you want?” she asked.

“May I come in?”

Reluctantly, Audrey stepped aside so he could enter. Once he was inside, she closed the door, turned to him, and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Why are you here?”

“I thought we should talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Well, I have a few things to say to you.”

“Please say them as quickly as possible and then leave.”

“You’re pissed at the wrong person.”

Clenching her teeth and scrunching her face into an angry frown, she glared at him, and then after a hasty indrawn and released breath, she said, “No, I think I am, as you so eloquently put it, pissed at the right person.”

J.D. groaned.

She could tell that he was frustrated by her refusal to see things from his point of view. “If that’s all—”

“No, by God, that’s not all.”

She stepped back, afraid that he was going to grab her.

“I’d like to shake some sense into that pretty head of yours.” He growled the words.

“Don’t you dare touch me.”

He huffed angrily. “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

Sensing she was on the verge of tears, Audrey swallowed several times, hoping to control her emotions. “Will you please say whatever it is you came here to say.”

“I will be interviewing your stepbrother tomorrow. I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

“I see. All right, you’ve told me.”

“I’m also interviewing Jeremy Arden. And we’re continuing our search for Corey Bennett.”

“Leaving no stone unturned.”

“That’s right. Damn it, Audrey, you’re a retired policeman’s daughter, the niece of a CPD detective. You know that if I didn’t consider every possibility, didn’t question anyone who might know anything about these murders, I wouldn’t be doing my job. Interviewing your stepbrother could easily eliminate him from the persons-of-interest list altogether.”

Audrey knew J.D. was right. He was just doing his job. But Hart was her brother and she knew he wasn’t a killer. There was no way Hart could tell the TBI anything about the murders. Couldn’t J.D. see that? No, of course not. J.D. didn’t know Hart the way she did. To him, her stepbrother was simply a guy with emotional problems who had been in various kinds of trouble most of his life.

“I understand that you’re just doing your job,” Audrey said. “What I don’t understand is why you thought it necessary to come here and try to explain yourself to me.”

He didn’t respond at first. He stood there and stared at her. And then he said, “Damn if I know.”

Without another word, he turned around, opened the door, and left.

Audrey released a pent-up breath and closed her eyes as they filled with tears. She hated J.D. Cass. Hated him, hated him, hated him.

No, you don’t hate him. And that’s why you’re so upset.