Judas Kiss Read online

  Praise for J.T. Ellison’s debut novel

  ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

  “A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut.”

  —Author Lee Child

  “Creepy thrills from start to finish.”

  —Author James O. Born

  “[All the Pretty Girls] has the attention to detail, unexpected twists and puzzles that are vital to topflight crime fiction.”

  Nashville City Paper

  “Relentlessly paced and intricately plotted—and it features a villain who will have readers looking over their shoulders, even in the daylight.”

  Romantic Times BOOKreviews (four stars)

  “With this debut thriller, Ellison puts her mentoring by Lee Child to good use.”

  —Library Journal

  “Complex and sharp-tongued, Taylor Jackson is destined to become an icon in crime fiction.”

  —Author Kristy Kiernan

  “The book is taut, tense and suspenseful.

  The best part of All the Pretty Girls, though, is its breathless pace.”

  —The Tennessean

  “A turbocharged thrill ride of a debut.”

  —Author Julia Spencer-Fleming

  “Ellison hits the ground running with an electrifying debut.”

  —Author J.A. Konrath

  “Southern readers will find All the Pretty Girls a thrilling ride through a well-known locale, and the rest of the country will get a closer view—and a different perspective—of Music City.”

  —BookPage

  “Fast-paced and creepily believable.”

  —Author M. J. Rose

  “A spine-tingling thriller you will not want to miss.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Ellison’s talent is evident not only in her ability to create nail-biting suspense, but also in her vivid characters.”

  —Author Tasha Alexander

  “J.T. Ellison’s fast-moving debut is as smooth as fine Kentucky bourbon.”

  —Romance Reader at Heart

  “Ellison’s characters—whether major players or quiet students—will stay with you long after you close the book.”

  —Author Pari Noskin Taichert

  JUDAS KISS

  Also by J.T. Ellison

  14

  ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

  JUDAS KISS

  J.T. ELLISON

  To Del Tinsley,

  without whom none of these books would see the light of day.

  And for my Randy,

  without whom I would be lost.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  While the execution of the words belongs to the author, we can’t make the books come alive without our research, our cheering sections and our inspirations. Thanking people is truly one of the most exciting steps in writing these books. So please indulge me while I wax poetic about my team.

  My incredible agent Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group, who always knows exactly what to say and when to say it, and Stephanie Sun, who makes every exchange a pleasure.

  My extraordinary editor Linda McFall, the woman who makes these manuscripts into coherent books. I couldn’t do it without you. And a special thanks to assistant editor Adam Wilson, who makes the business end so much fun. Between the two of them, they turn my words into magic, for which I will be forever grateful.

  The entire MIRA Books team, especially Heather Foy, Don Lucey, Michelle Renaud, Adrienne Macintosh, Megan Lorius, Marianna Ricciuto, Tracey Langmuir, Kathy Lodge, Emily Ohanjanians, Alex Osuszek, Margaret Marbury, Dianne Moggy and the brilliant artists who create these fabulous covers: Tara Kelly and Gigi Lau.

  My independent publicist Tom Robinson, who is truly a master at finding just the right spot to place me. Thank you for everything!

  The librarians across the country who’ve seen fit to order my books—it warms my heart every time someone says they found me in their local library!

  Detective David Achord of the Metro Nashville Homicide Department, my go-to, my first resource, my friend. He helps Taylor come to life in ways I never could.

  Dr. Vince Tranchida, Manhattan Medical Examiner, who makes sure Sam does everything right.

  Duane Swierczynski, for not knowing Polish.

  Elizabeth Fox, who stunned me with an e-mail—“I’m Taylor!”—and has since become a cherished friend.

  My amazing critique group, the Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Del Tinsley, Janet McKeown, Mary Richards, Rai Lyn Woods, Cecelia Tichi, Peggy O’Neal Peden and J.B. Thompson, who don’t ever hesitate to tell me when I’ve mucked it up, and are the first to cheer when I get it right. I love you guys!

  And an especial thanks to J.B., who always helps me get these pages ready for New York’s eyes.

  Laura and Linda, my goddesses at Borders—Cool Springs, who welcomed a new local author with open arms, and staff recommendations! Thanks, ladies!

  First reader Joan Huston needs a special thanks this time as well, for making me worry about my opening in this book. It’s stronger because of her concerns.

  My dear Tasha Alexander, the only woman who can actually keep me on the phone instead of at the keyboard, though many times we can do both at once. I love you, honey!

  My esteemed fellow authors Brett Battles, Rob Gregory-Browne, Bill Cameron and Dave White, for the IMs; Toni Causey, Gregg Olsen, Kristy Kiernan for constantly cheering me on and making me laugh, and all my Killer Year mates for being such amazing influences on me.

  My fellow Murderati bloggers, who inspire me daily, especially Pari Noskin Taichert, the best sounding board out there.

  Lee Child and John Connolly, for making me think about every word, and John Sandford, who needs thanks for inspiring me every time.

  My parents are the most enthusiastic cheerleaders for my novels, and need to be paid a commission on their book sales. Their love and support is phenomenal. My wonderful brother Jay, and Kendall, Jason and Dillon, for putting up with their wayward aunt. My other wonderful brother Jeff, who always, always makes me laugh.

  And where would I be without my darling husband to keep me grounded? Thank you, baby, for not letting me float away. You make all of this worthwhile.

  Nashville is a wonderful city to write about. Though I try my best to keep things accurate, poetic license is sometimes needed. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations are mine alone.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Monday

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Tuesday

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Wednesday

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Thursday

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Friday

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight
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  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Saturday

  Chapter Forty-One

  Prologue

  Blood.

  It was everywhere. The floor, the walls, the body. All over the jeans and T-shirt too. Damn, how was that going to come out? With a grimace, the killer set down the weapon and stood over the now inert body. No more arguments. No more screaming about failure, lost promise, disappointments. The wail of a child built in the distance, drowned out by the fury humming in the killer’s ears. A smile broke.

  “You horrendous bitch. This is exactly what you deserve.”

  Ten hours later

  “Mama?

  “Mama, Mama. Hungy. Cookie, Mama. Cookie.

  “Wake up, Mama, wake up.

  “Went potty, Mama. Good girl.

  “Mama?

  “Mama owie? Owie? Boo-boo? Mama fall down?

  “Bankie, Mama.

  “Bankie. Teddy.

  “Mama! Mamaaaaaaaaaaa.

  “Night-night, Mama. Bye-bye.”

  Monday

  One

  Michelle Harris sat at the stoplight on Old Hickory and Highway 100, grinding her teeth. She was late. Corinne hated when she was late. She wouldn’t bitch at her, wouldn’t chastise her, would just glance at the clock on the stove, the digital readout that always, always ran three minutes ahead of time so Corinne could have a cushion, and a little line would appear between her perfectly groomed eyebrows.

  Their match was in an hour. They had plenty of time, but Corinne would need to drop Hayden at the nursery and have a protein smoothie before stretching in preparation for their game. Michelle and Corinne had been partners in tennis doubles for ages, and they were two matches from taking it all. Their yearly run at the Richland club championship was almost a foregone conclusion; they’d won seven years in a row.

  Tapping the fingers of her right hand on the wheel, she used her left to pull her ponytail around the curve of her neck, a comfort gesture she’d adopted in childhood. Corinne hadn’t needed any comfort. She was always the strong one. Even as a young child, when Michelle pulled that ponytail around her neck, the unruly curls winding around her ear, Corinne would get that little line between her brows to show her displeasure at her elder sister’s weakness.

  Remembering, Michelle flipped the hair back over her shoulder with disgust. The light turned green and she gunned it, foot hard on the pedal. She hated being late for Corinne.

  Michelle took the turn off Jocelyn Hollow Road and followed the sedate, meandering asphalt into her sister’s cul-de-sac. The dogwood tree in the Wolffs’ front yard was just beginning to bud. Michelle smiled. Spring was coming. Nashville had been in the grip of a difficult winter for months, but at last the frigid clutch showed signs of breaking. New life stirred at the edges of the forests, calves were dropping in the fields. The chirping of the wrens and cardinals had taken on a higher pitch, avian mommies and daddies awaiting the arrival of their young. Corinne herself was ripe with a new life, seven months into an easy pregnancy—barely looking four months along. Her activity level kept the usual baby weight off, and she was determined to play tennis up to the birth, just like she’d done with Hayden.

  Not fair. Michelle didn’t have any children, didn’t have a husband for that matter. She just hadn’t met the right guy. The consolation was Hayden. With a niece as adorable and precocious as hers, she didn’t need her own child. Not just yet.

  She pulled into the Wolffs’ maple-lined driveway and cut the engine on her Volvo. Corinne’s black BMW 535i sat in front of the garage door. The wrought iron lantern lights that flanked the front doors were on. Michelle frowned. It wasn’t like Corinne to forget to turn those lights off. She remembered the argument Corinne and Todd, her husband, had gotten into about them. Todd wanted the kind that came on at dark and went off in the morning automatically. Corinne insisted they could turn the switch themselves with no problem. They’d gone back and forth, Todd arguing for the security, Corinne insisting that the look of the dusk-to-dawns were cheesy and wouldn’t fit their home. She’d won, in the end. She always did.

  Corinne always turned off the lights first thing in the morning. Like clockwork.

  The hair rose on the back of Michelle’s neck. This wasn’t right.

  She stepped out of the Volvo, didn’t shut the door all the way behind her. The path to her sister’s front door was a brick loggia pattern, the nooks and crannies filled with sand to anchor the Chilhowies. Ridiculously expensive designer brick from a tiny centuries-old sandpit in Virginia, if Michelle remembered correctly. She followed the path and came to the front porch. The door was unlocked, but that was typical. Michelle told Corinne time and again to keep that door locked at night. But Corinne always felt safe, didn’t see the need. Michelle eased the door open.

  Oh, my God.

  Michelle ran back to her car and retrieved her cell phone. As she dialed 911, she rushed back to the porch and burst through the front door.

  The phone was ringing in her ear now, ringing, ringing. She registered the footprints, did a quick lap around the bottom floor and seeing no one, took the steps two at a time. She was breathing hard when she hit the top, took a left and went down the hall.

  A voice rang in her ear, and she tried to comprehend the simple language as she took in the scene before her.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  She couldn’t answer. Oh God, Corinne. On the floor, face down. Blood, everywhere.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  The tears came freely. The words left her mouth before she realized they’d been spoken aloud.

  “I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God.”

  “Can you repeat that, ma’am?”

  Could she? Could she actually bring her larynx to life without throwing up on her dead sister’s body? She touched her fingers to Corinne’s neck. Remarkable how chilled the dead flesh felt. Oh, God, the poor baby. She ran out of the room, frenzied. Hayden, where was Hayden? Michelle turned in a tight circle, seeing more footprints. No sign of the little girl. She was yelling again, heard the words fly from her mouth as if they came from another’s tongue.

  “There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints…Hayden?” Michelle was screaming, frantic. She tore back into the bedroom. Something in her mind snapped, she couldn’t seem to get it together.

  The 911 operator was yelling in her ear, but she didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Who is dead?”

  Where was that precious little girl? A strawberry-blond head appeared from around the edge of the king-sized sleigh bed. It took a moment to register—Hayden, with red hair? She was a towhead, so blond it was almost white, no, that wasn’t right.

  “Hayden, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?” She gathered the little girl in her arms. Hayden was frozen, immobile, unable or unwilling to move for the longest moment, then she wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders with an empty embrace of inevitability. Pieces of the toddler’s hair, stiff and hard with blood, poked into her neck. Michelle felt a piece of her core shift.

  “Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?”

  The operator’s voice forced her to look away from Corinne’s broken form. She raised herself, holding tight to Hayden. Get her out of here. She can’t see this anymore.

  “Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…” They were on the stairs now, moving down, and Michelle could see the whispers of blood trailing up and down the carpet.

  The operator was still trying to sort through the details. “Hayden is your sister?”

  “Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.”

  As Michelle reached the bottom of the stairs, the child shifted on her shoulder, reaching a hand behind her, looking up toward the second floor.

  “Mama hurt,” she said in a voice that made her sound like a broken-down forty-year-old, not a coy, eighteen-
month-old sprite. Mama hurt. She doesn’t anymore, darlin’.

  They were out the front door and on the porch now, Michelle drawing in huge gulps of air, Hayden crying silently into her shoulder, a hand still pointing back toward the house.

  “Who is dead, ma’am?” the operator asked, more kindly now.

  “My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s…she’s cold.”

  Michelle couldn’t hold it in anymore. She heard the operator say they were sending the police. She walked down those damnable bricks and set Hayden in the front seat of the Volvo.

  Then she turned and lost her battle with the nausea, vomiting out her very soul at the base of the delicate budding dogwood.

  Two

  A morning off.

  Instead of lounging in bed, luxuriating in the crisp sheets and getting irritated with the Tennessean, Metro Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson was squinting at the ceiling in her living room, a small flutter of panic moving through her chest.

  “Baldwin?” she called, stepping closer to the fireplace. “Baldwin!”