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“It’s religious. Jesus says in the book of Revelation He’s the Alpha and Omega—the beginning and the end.”
“I have an address. Follow me.” They left Nadine’s, and in about fifteen minutes, they arrived downtown. Maybe many moons ago the downtown district of Crow’s Creek was charming, but paint now peeled on wooden buildings and brick had chipped in places. Even the lopsided sidewalks appeared tired and broken.
Pots of yellow and purple mums attempted to serve as minor cosmetic surgery to give the aging town a lift. Alpha and Omega Handcrafted Leathers was sandwiched between an empty store and a donut shop that was closed, but the smell of sugar still lingered in the air as they strode to the front door.
A large wooden sign with the logo A? squeaked as it swayed in the breeze. A bell rang as they opened the heavy wooden door and entered to the smell of a stable minus the manure.
A rounder to their immediate left held dozens of leather belts in a myriad of colors and designs. Beside that were tables of wallets, business card holders, and purses of every size and shape. Sheaths for knives lay neatly in glass cases. The store was expertly organized, creating an aesthetic array of color across the entire landscape. Artistry at its finest. Instrumental violin and acoustic guitar played beyond the counter and hallway that led to the back of the store. Polished hardwoods looked original to the building, but what snagged Violet’s undivided attention was the back wall on the right.
From floor to ceiling it was filled with leather crosses. Many of them had John 3:16 stamped into them. The only verse Violet knew by heart. It was the verse she’d heard that night as a child before walking up the aisle at the church service to ask Jesus into her heart.
For God so loved the world... The words had echoed inside her and released the pinch, giving her room for hope. Hope that for once she might be loved. Even at ten, she’d been acutely aware that she was alone in the world. But if God so loved the world then surely that must have included her. She’d take the love of an unseen God any day in comparison to the seen rejection of her mom and grandmother.
And if He loved her then maybe she wasn’t the monster Reeva claimed, and He could wash away the darkness, she knew even then, that had stained her.
God help her she was dark, but He said she was lovely. She’d been told she was pretty since she was a preschooler, but to know that God thought she was lovely, knowing the ugliness that lurked in her could be washed into inner loveliness...
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to tear her gaze from the cross.
She was beyond fairytales now.
“You seeing what I’m seeing?” John muttered.
No. No, she probably wasn’t. He pointed to the wall above the hallway entrance. Plaques with several carved Scripture verses and lined with leather hung in a neatly arranged cluster.
“Be right there,” a reedy voice carried from the back.
“I’m not saying this guy is our killer. We are in Kentucky, and it’s steeped in Christianity. Crosses and plaques sell well,” John said and perused the wallets. “Hand stitching,” he said from the corner of his mouth.
Violet chuckled. He sounded almost comical. Finally a door clicked, and a man glided into the hallway. His solid white T-shirt was splattered with wood stain. His jeans were worn but not raggedy, and he wore thick hiking boots. Average height. That was all that could be considered average about him though.
He was stunning.
Perfectly symmetrical features from the Greek nose to the round, sharp blue eyes fanned by long lashes. Full lips with a perfect Cupid’s bow offset the clean-shaven, creamy skin. Like something out of a Dove commercial. His hair parted in the middle and hung to the tops of his shoulders in surfer waves. Nicks and calluses covered his knuckles.
But the face.
The porcelain face did not match his sinewy build.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his eyes curious.
“I don’t know,” she muttered, and John tossed her a quizzical expression. “Sorry.” She pulled her creds. “I’m Agent Rainwater and this is Detective Orlando. We’re here investigating the deaths of—”
“I know.” He held out his hand. “Cecil Johnson. I own this place.” His accent was pleasant and carried less drawl than she’d expected.
He shook their hands. His was firm, cool.
“It’s unbelievable, really. Nothing like this happens in Night Holler—or here in Crow’s Creek.” He sighed. “Until now. How can I help y’all with that?” His tourmaline eyes remained on Violet, studying her without gawking. A skill she was adept in as well. She’d been sizing him up without making it obvious. But she was no average Joe, and it appeared Cecil Johnson wasn’t either.
“Can you tell us if you made these purses?” Violet showed him a picture of the ones they’d found.
“Sure. I’ve made them for almost all the holler girls.”
“You mean girls that live in Night Holler?”
His pale eyebrows pulled together, and a knowing smirk played on his lips. “What else would I mean?”
She wasn’t sure. The term could be specific or general. “Why do you put this particular Scripture on them?”
