Today I'm showcasing, Her Darkest Secret by Jessica R. Patch a new Love Inspired release.
Enjoy!
ISBN-13: 9781335530028
Publisher: Harlequin Love Inspired
Release Date: 06-28-2022
Length: 352 pp
Buy It: Publisher/ Amazon/ B&N/ IndieBound
ADD TO: GOODREADS
Overview:
When a cold-case serial killer returns, FBI special agent Fiona Kelly has one last chance to stop him before he claims the prize he’s always wanted—her.The sight of a goose feather at a murder scene modeled after a children’s poem is enough to make FBI special agent Fiona Kelly's blood turn to ice. Almost two decades ago, a feather was left with her sister's body—and with every subsequent victim of the Nursery Rhyme Killer. Now he's back. Only this time, his latest gruesome murder is a message to the only one who ever got away: Fiona.
Finding “Rhyme” is an obsession that's fueled Fiona's career—and destroyed her marriage to fellow FBI agent Asa Kodiak. Now Fiona and Asa have to put their past tensions aside and work together one last time. But Rhyme is watching, and catching this killer may force Fiona to reveal her biggest, darkest secret…the one only he knows.
“Her Darkest Secret by Jessica R. Patch grabbed me in the first scene of this edge-of-your-seat suspense and didn't let go until the end!”—Patricia Bradley, author of the Memphis Cold Case novels
Read an excerpt:
Chapter One
“‘When this monster entered my brain, I will never know, but it is here to stay...’” Special Agent Fiona Kelly scanned the packed Loyola stadium-seating classroom. Every eye trained on her. Not a sound, not even a cell-phone interruption. “Most serial killers, like Dennis Radar, can’t pinpoint the exact moment they craved to murder. But they all share a voracious appetite to inflict pain, exact control and take human life. Some killers are shaped by environment. Abuse, neglect, torture. Lack of love or a twisted falsehood called love. These killers are made. Not all fall into this category.” She surveyed faces. One student covered her mouth. “Some serial killers are born that way.”
Murmurs stirred the atmosphere, as if she was telling a ghost story around a campfire as they awaited the boo to scare them into laughter. If she didn’t need the extra money, she wouldn’t even be lecturing part-time at the university. These kids had no clue what was out there hunting, stalking and making campfire stories sound as terrorizing as a baby bunny.
“Your job won’t be to determine which is which. It’s to catch them. Whether born or made, they all have similar minds. And you’ll have to learn to think like them.” Fiona had spent eight years with the South Division of the Strange Crimes Unit before transferring two years ago here to Chicago with the Midwest Division.
But she’d been learning to think like a killer much longer than her career with the FBI.
“If you can’t do that, then working in Violent Crimes—especially in the Strange Crimes Unit—probably isn’t for you.”
A girl that looked like she ought to be majoring in getting her “MRS degree” raised her hand. “Can you explain the difference between working for Violent or Strange Crimes since they both investigate serial killings?”
A decent question. “The Strange Crimes Unit only deals with the bizarre and unexplainable. Ninety-eight percent of these crimes will have warped religious undertones and ritualistic-type behavior. Sometimes we know that up front based on the nature of the crime or evidence, sometimes we don’t know until after we apprehend the criminal. We do not handle mass shooters, serial rapists—unless it’s considered strangely ritualistic or religious—or gangs and terrorists.”
“Are there that many bizarre crimes?” she asked. “And how do you decide? Jeffrey Dahmer’s crimes could be considered strange.”
They’d be shocked to know how many bizarre crimes happened daily. “True, but cannibalism doesn’t fall under strange, unless it has ritualistic undertones, or our caseloads are low and Violent Crimes needs a favor. On occasion, we will take a violent crime off their hands to aid in caseloads, such as cannibalism. We can and do assist other FBI divisions, as well as consult and profile for local law enforcement.”
Another hand shot up. Fiona pointed to her. “The Funeral Director was a Strange Crimes case. How does he differ from Dahmer?” the girl asked. “Did you work on that one—the Funeral Director?”
Fiona had transferred before that case came to the South Division. “No,” she responded. “Florida falls into the South Division. We have four regions throughout the US—Northwest, North, Midwest and the South. We weren’t called in to assist, but on occasion the regional divisions will aid and work in tandem.”
If the South Division had needed help, Asa Kodiak wouldn’t have called in the Midwest. The last person he’d want to see, let alone work with, was Fiona.
“As far as the differences, Dahmer was a cannibal and sex offender. The Funeral Director tortured women, then embalmed them alive. Which would have fallen under Violent Crimes. However—unlike Jeffrey Dahmer—Dorian Kosey Khan, aka the Funeral Director, murdered his victims as a sacrificial ritual to the god of death in hopes he’d give him reigning power in the underworld. That special brand of cuckoo landed him on the Strange Crimes doorstep.”
“But how did they know that’s why he was murdering the women?”
“Good question. At first local investigators led the charge, but when three victims were found, they enlisted the FBI, Violent Crimes. In their efforts, they discovered markings on each victim and called a member of the South Division’s Strange Crimes Unit who is a religious behavioral analyst—he specializes in religions and religious behavior including rituals. When he concluded it was markings to the Egyptian god of death, Anubis, the case changed hands and the SCU took it from there.” She missed Tiberius Granger’s practical jokes and famous double burgers with fried eggs and bacon. Her hips did not. “But sometimes it’s not always that cut-and-dried.”
“That’s messed up,” a young man in the back quipped and grinned.
“It is...messed up.” Criminal-justice majors pretty much all had the same notion.
Excitement. Anticipation. Intrigue.
Believing TV shows portrayed truth. Thirty to forty percent of these students were here because of Criminal Minds and CSI. Film made the occupation appear glamorous. Seductive. Where the good guys always won and fell in love with their therapists, if they were forced to visit one.
In reality, year one would be a wake-up call and many would toss in the towel over the mountains of paperwork alone. Year two, the nightmares would be in full swing. Insomnia. Paranoia. Agents rarely slept even when they had the opportunity.
By year five—if they hung on—they’d drink too much, likely have their first affair, and by years six to ten be divorced, cynical and maybe suicidal. But if they could survive all that and keep going, they might have the mettle it required to track down these monsters. And with each win it gave a sliver of hope that they could do it again and again. That maybe good would conquer evil in the bitter end.
Another hand shot up. A young man with hair hanging in his eyes. He’d have to cut that mop at some point. She automatically touched the back of her hair, lying at the nape of her neck. “What’s the strangest crime you’ve ever encountered?”
Always the same questions. She bypassed the strangest crime she’d ever encountered and shared the strangest crime she’d ever solved.
A guy with a trendy man bun and eyes so blue they appeared photoshopped raised his hand. “Is it true that in your first year with the Violent Crimes Unit, you linked three murders to one man? The Nursery Rhyme Killer.” A burst of heat rose from her belly into her chest, tightening it.
Rhyme.
He’d been with her for almost twenty years, the driving force behind her career path. She woke up and fell asleep to him. “Yes.” Since she’d linked the first three crimes with a death count of six people total, he’d strangled and staged his victims in different nursery rhyme scenes two more times. Two more lives snuffed out. The last four years had been silent.
“How did you do it?” someone else chimed in. “Figure out they linked and that they were nursery rhymes?”
Sheer luck. Fiona inhaled and exhaled. “The first victims were abducted seventeen years ago in the Memphis area. Four teenage girls. Forced into white gowns. Three of them murdered in the woods. One escaped. Her eyewitness testimony revealed he wore a Venetian plague doctor’s mask, the beak covered with white feathers—”
“Do you always refer to yourself in third person, Agent Kelly?” The student with the man bun, who asked the original question, broke in. “It was you who escaped, right?” Busted. Not that it was a secret, but seventeen years ago these kids were playing in the dirt and potty training. “Yes. I escaped.” A harsh taste filled her mouth.
Another man—a little older with blond hair and a bushy beard—interjected. “Do you think being in the grasp of a killer has helped you think like one? What was that like?”
Being the sole survivor? Knowing that she’d lived, but her younger sister and two other girls had been strangled with ropes? Murdered at the hands of Rhyme? She felt their nooses choking her daily. Like balancing on the edge of a rickety chair that was about to fall out from underneath her, leaving her to asphyxiate. Not only the guilt slowly killing her, but also the secrets.
Secrets she’d never told a soul. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t. There was too much shame. Too much guilt. Too much fear.
What was it like being in the hands of a killer? She cleared her throat. “Well, it wasn’t as exciting as Christmas morning, but to answer how I did it, I happened to be in the right place at the right time.” Fiona came around the podium and crossed her arms. SCU hadn’t been organized yet. The cases were bizarre but appeared isolated, not connected.
A pastor and his wife.
A high school track coach.
And the very first murders were teenage girls, including her sister. Just a lone feather to connect crimes two and three. But there had been white feathers on Rhyme’s mask when he’d abducted and hunted her in the woods that frigid night...before he’d become practiced and skilled, creating his signature and his MO.
“I was doing a summer workshop at the Collierville library. Talking to kids about the FBI. On my way out, I noticed the librarian dressed as Mother Goose. She happened to be reading the nursery rhyme ‘Georgie Porgie,’ which sounded eerily similar in description to the way the victim in the third killing had been staged. I borrowed a copy. That was that.”
It was more than that, but some things couldn’t be disclosed to the public—a few private things she wouldn’t.
It had been when she stumbled across “Hickory Dickory Dock” and “Three Little Kittens” that there was no doubt he was staging his victims in scenes from nursery rhymes. She rubbed her arms at the cold memory.
It was that discovery that landed her in the Strange Crimes Unit in the Memphis field office and the nursery rhyme murders exchanged hands from Violent Crimes to Strange Crimes, with no apparent religious undertones, but it was bizarre. She hadn’t moved office buildings, only floors. She was already acquainted with the task force. Though at that time, Asa wasn’t the special agent in charge.
Their relationship went all the way back to Quantico training.
“Why does he do it?” Man Bun asked. Some were obsessed with Ted Bundy. Some the Night Stalker. In months to come, the Funeral Director would be someone’s focus. But for this guy...the Nursery Rhyme Killer.
“There isn’t always a why like on TV or in movies. Serial killers like Rhy—the Nursery Rhyme Killer—have no empathy. No remorse. No genuine emotion like love or compassion. Only need and drive to kill. I could speculate why he stages these scenes, but it would only be conjecture.” “But I thought you said you had to think like them,” he countered, baiting her.
She wasn’t seventeen anymore; her cards weren’t on the table for the world to see. “The profile of this killer isn’t public knowledge.”
“Then you do know why he’s doing it?” He smiled, entirely proud of his line of questioning, slightly reminding her of a young Asa Kodiak. Full of himself.
“I have a pretty solid clue. Now, any other questions? That’s all I can discuss with you about the Nursery Rhyme Killer.”
Thirty minutes later, she turned the lecture back over to Professor Lang and excused herself. Her feet ached; she hated heels but always wore them to speak. On a workday, she wore shoes for comfort. After shrugging out of her gray blazer, she draped it over her arm as she clip-clopped through the parking lot to her car. Chicago was hot in this late June heat. Not as hot as Memphis would be right now. Wouldn’t be long before the Fourth of July. Crowds would gather on Mud Island to ooh and aah over the explosion of fireworks that would dance over the Mississippi River. Concessions. Picnics. Water activities for children. The Fourth didn’t hold quite the same meaning to her anymore. This year she’d celebrate independence with a red-white-and-blue Popsicle, a Christmas in July Hallmark movie and an early bedtime.
She turned into the Chicago field office, passed security and headed for her floor. Time to get to real work. Inside her small cubicle, she glanced at the three photos on her desk. A family portrait—Dad, Mom, Fiona and Colleen. One of her and Colleen from nearly twenty years ago.
And one photo she should have left packed away.
It sat as a glaring reminder that happy endings didn’t exist. Even when killers were caught, they left a string of pain and grief in their wake.
If she could find a single way to repair the damage that had been done to her—to her family—she’d pay every dime she owned. But nothing assuaged the destruction. Nothing made turning off the lights at night okay. Nothing stopped the nightmares and cold sweats. Not yoga. Not boxing. Not shopping. Not chocolate. Not even a whiskey neat...though that would dull it for a minute. Not even love. One more peek at the photo garnered a regretful sigh.
If she could track down Rhyme, she could bring justice to herself, the victims and the families. Then she might be free to move on from the pain and the grief. A normal life would await her.
Fiona studied the photo, feeling the weight of everything it had meant and everything she’d lost. She slid it inside a drawer then closed it, shutting out that chapter of her life—one that couldn’t be rewritten.
And until Rhyme was behind bars, nothing new could be penned.
The moon had ascended into the dark sky like a lone eye watching over the night. No condemnation. Only a soft glow of approval coaxing and urging him like the voice that whispered to his soul. A familiar voice that had first called to him when he was only ten years old as he’d discovered his grandfather swinging back and forth from the rafters. Like the old grandfather’s clock that chimed each hour in his study. Tick tock. Tick tock.
Grandfather’s body hung from a thick rope and lulled him into a trance as he studied the unusual but fascinating angle of his neck. Then it dawned that Grandfather’s head had been jarred from his spine as if it was a fragile branch being snapped under a foot.
The sickening scent of vanilla clung to the air.
Tick. Tock.
Back and forth.
Grandfather’s frightened dead eyes had peered down at him, jolting him with excitement. How would it feel to be this powerful? To put that kind of fear into someone’s eyes?
In those thoughts, he heard the voice purr and scold eerily, like Grandmother’s.
You’re a naughty kitten. Naughty kittens do bad things and they shall have no pie.
Hairs rose on his arms and neck as the whispers swirled and enveloped him, enticing him into his mission. Naughty kittens deserved no pie...deserved to die.
Grandfather’s corpse had slowed to a stop and he’d tiptoed over.
Do it. With trembling hands and wild fascination, he’d reached out and pushed. Grandfather swayed again; the rhythmic rub of rope on wood soothed him as he stood in the dim moonlight peeking through the window.
Laughter interrupted his unholy moment. Outside a few girls strode by—too late for good kitties to be out.
As he’d peered from the window, a fleeting thought had paused then grown. What would they look like dangling from the rope? How would it feel to watch fear rise in their eyes before their life drained away?
Naughty kittens. All three of them.
A car horn in the distance interrupted the treasured memory and reminded him that right now, ten feet away in a brick two-story, another naughty little kitten had cut the lights and tucked herself into a bed with white Egyptian cotton sheets and a matching quilt.
The epitome of innocence. Cleanliness.
The streets were quiet minus the hum of traffic in the distance. The lingering smells of family barbeques and good times hovered in the muggy air. Slipping through the shadows, he moved with purpose, easily scaling the wooden privacy fence. The sizzling air blanketed his body, producing sweat; it slicked down the chill bumps that had broken out on his arms in anticipation.
Under the purple-and-white crepe myrtles, he murmured this naughty kitten’s personal rhyme—Rhyme. What she called him. He loved it. Loved that she’d given him a term of endearment. Excitement coiled in his gut as he thought of Fiona, about how often she thought of him. Daily.
Not one day had passed that she wasn’t on his mind, too. He’d been with her throughout the years. Even when she’d left for Chicago. He’d been there.
But he was about to bring her back.
Even though Naughty Kitten insisted Rhyme was stupid and weak. Since he was four he’d had to hear this.
Easing upward, he peered into the window of Jenny Miller’s bedroom. He’d had months to watch and discover truths and lies about her and to plan the perfect nursery rhyme scene. Could someone stupid and weak lurk in the shadows without being sensed or seen?
He’d allow her to fall into a good, deep sleep. It was much more thrilling when they woke from sound sleep, disoriented and unsure. He wrapped his hand around the thick hilt of his blade and trembled with intoxication. As the hours ticked by, lights dimmed, dogs stopped barking and TVs were silenced. He watched her chest rise and fall rhythmically, her delicate hand hanging off the bed. No leg twitches. No fear of something creeping out from under the bed to grab her hand.
She was exactly how he wanted her to be.
Under tree covering, he worked slowly but smoothly. Using his crowbar, he raised the window, allowing a blast of cool air into his face. The hum of the box fan tuned out any noise he might make. First he placed his duffel bag on the carpet and then he moved with agility as he entered her home, quietly unzipping the bag and sliding on his plague doctor’s mask. Time to purify.
Flowery scents mixed with spices from dinner. ou shall have no pie.
Jenny’s blond hair spilled over her pillow.
Slowly, he rested on the edge of her bed, listening to her even breathing. She stirred, then froze.
Ah, yes! The first stroke of elation—the moment her subconscious cautioned her. You’re not alone anymore. This presence and scent do not belong to your husband. To anyone familiar.
Danger.
It’s not a bad dream.
Warning.
Wake up. Wake up.
Alert.
Jenny’s blue eyes flew open and she gasped, paralyzed with fear.
Covering her mouth, he muffled her scream. “Shh...hush now, kitty.”
Rhyme had five seconds max before her flight-or-fight kicked in and she began clawing him, or thrashing to get free from her bed.
Neither would prevail.
He slipped his knife from his side belt—not his choice of death but a well-made instrument of submission. “You’re going to be quiet or I’m going to gut you.” He caressed the serrated knife down her torso to her abdomen and applied gentle pressure—enough to warn her to obey.
“You’ve been a naughty kitty. You shall have no pie.” He laughed as confusion and horror dilated her eyes.
She glanced across the room to the doorway.
“No one is coming to your rescue, kitty.” He lifted his hand from her mouth. The begging would come next.
“Don’t kill me. Please,” she cried. “Please. I’ll—I’ll do anything. Anything you say and I won’t fight. I promise. You don’t understand, I—”
“I do understand, though.” He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. “I know everything about you.” He pulled a feather from his bag. “Here,” he whispered, “hold this.” He forced the goose feather into her clammy hand. “I said I wouldn’t gut you. You’ve been very good, so I won’t. I’m a man of my word.”
A pop of relief settled in her eyes. She would live through this. Even now she was gearing up to deal with her worst fears, and survive them. “No, I’m not about the sensationalism of blood. I find it unnecessary and hard to clean up.” He lifted the rope from his bag and fear seized her as she finally realized what he was saying.
“Please. Please!” she begged.
Her words and her scream fell on deaf ears.
She’d already sealed her fate.
There was nothing she could do.
But die.
Praise:
“Her Darkest Secret by Jessica R. Patch grabbed me in the first scene of this edge-of-your-seat suspense and didn't let go until the end!” –Patricia Bradley, author of the Memphis Cold Case Novels"Gritty and terrifying, Her Darkest Secret pulled me into a pulse-spiking story and I will never be able to look at nursery rhymes the same way again. Ms. Patch masterfully weaves a chilling plot with authentic characters and a villain that won't let readers sleep until they find out what happens next."
—Natalie Walters, author and Carol Award Finalist of Living Lies and the Harbored Secrets series
“Her Darkest Secret takes the reader on an intense experience with a superbly deviant serial killer. For readers who love all things Criminal Minds and behavioral science, this story will play with your senses and toy with your mind!”
–Jaime Jo Wright, author of Christy-Award winning The House on Foster Hill
“Her Darkest Secret...is a taut, psychological thriller with deeply relatable characters. Patch’s brilliantly created plot will keep readers turning pages until they reach the shocking conclusion. I highly recommend it!”
–Nancy Mehl, author of the Quantico Files series
“Her Darkest Secret keeps you on edge until the very end! Patch knows how to masterfully weave a suspenseful tale. This is one book you won’t want to miss.”
–Christy Barritt, USA Today bestselling author
“Read with all the lights on!...The suspense increases with every page until it twists into a deadly spiral that had me racing through the final scenes to the satisfying and redemptive conclusion.”
—Lynn H. Blackburn, author of the award-winning Dive Team Investigations series
“Her Darkest Secret is a spellbinding thriller bursting with dynamic walk-off-the page characters, mind-bending plot twists, and a swoon-worthy unforgettable reunion romance. Hold onto the edge of your seats, readers!”
–Elizabeth Goddard, bestselling author of Present Danger
"Beautifully flawed characters face off against a deadly serial killer with a complex criminal psychology. This gritty thriller is one you won't want to miss!”
–USA Today and Publisher’s Weekly bestselling author Lisa Phillips
“Her Darkest Secret is a gripping story of loss and redemption with many twists and turns that kept me guessing until the very end.”
–Terri Reed, Publisher’s Weekly bestselling author and author of Alaskan Rescue
I've got this one to read soon. Looking forward to it.
ReplyDeleteOh can't wait to see what you think!
DeleteI am intrigued. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDelete