O N C E   B R O K E N

(A RILEY PAIGE MYSTERY—BOOK 20)

B L A K E   P I E R C E

Blake Pierce

USA Today and #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce is the author of numerous series in the mystery and thriller genres, spanning 10 years of work, including the Jessie Hunt, Ella Dark, Rylie Page, Faith Bold and Rachel Gift series. Blake’s most recent latest releases are the Alison Payne, Isla Rivers Kari Blackhorse, and Kate Valentine series.

Please visit blakepierceauthor.com to learn more, join the email list, receive free books, and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025 by Blake Pierce. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright BortN66 used under license from Shutterstock.com.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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

PROLOGUE

The final notes of the jazz score faded as the movie screen dimmed, concluding with the familiar noir resolution of The Night Walker that had captivated audiences since 1954. Veronica Slate sat motionless in her front-row seat, watching her mother’s young face disappear into darkness. Even now, seventy-two years later, the sight of Roberta Rimes in her breakout role—vibrant, beautiful, and doomed—stirred complex emotions that Veronica had never quite managed to untangle.

The credits rolled, elegant white text against black, names that had long since passed into Hollywood legend. The lights in the theater slowly brightened, revealing the rapt faces of film students, critics, and admirers of classic cinema, their expressions dreamy with the afterglow of celluloid magic. A smattering of applause began, then swelled into something more substantial.

Veronica took a deep breath. At sixty-six, she had spent decades in the public eye herself, yet these small, unexpected moments still triggered a flutter of anxiety. She smoothed the fabric of her navy blue dress—chosen deliberately for its understated elegance—and stood. Gillian Sinclair, head of Magnolia Gateway Studios and the mastermind behind this week-long retrospective, gave her an encouraging nod from the aisle.

The path to the front of the theater seemed to stretch longer before her. Faces turned her way, some smiling in recognition, others whispering behind cupped hands. Veronica had carved out her own place in Hollywood, both as an actress and vocalist, yet she knew that tonight, she was primarily Roberta Rimes’ daughter—the living connection to the woman they had just watched become a star on screen.

She reached the small podium positioned before the now-blank screen. “Good evening,” she began. “Thank you all for joining us tonight for the opening film of this retrospective.”

The words came easier now. “Watching The Night Walker always takes me back—not just to my childhood memories of my mother, but to her stories about making this film. She always said that dying on screen in the first thirty minutes was the best career move she ever made.” A ripple of appreciative laughter swept through the audience.

“My mother never lost her love for Atlanta,” Veronica continued. “Though Hollywood claimed her for decades, she always spoke of this city as home. The place that shaped her, that gave her the dreams she later pursued. And when she retired after her final film in 1975, Dandelion Days, it was to Atlanta she returned. She used to say that California gave her fame, but Georgia gave her soul.”

A murmur of approval hummed through the theater.

“What many of you may not know is that my mother was also a great supporter of Magnolia Gateway Films from its inception. She believed in the vision of creating a vibrant film industry right here. She would be thrilled to see how that vision has flourished, making Atlanta the ‘Hollywood of the South.’

“So as we embark on this journey through my mother’s filmography over the coming week, culminating on what would have been her hundredth birthday, I thank you for keeping her memory alive. And I especially thank Gillian Sinclair and everyone at Magnolia Gateway Films for making this celebration possible.”

The audience applauded, several people rising to their feet. Veronica stepped away from the podium just as Gillian moved forward, elegant in a crimson suit that complemented her silver-streaked dark hair.

Gillian embraced her. “That was perfect,” she whispered before turning to the audience.

“Aren’t we fortunate to have Veronica with us tonight?” Gillian’s voice projected confidence and warmth. “Before we all disperse, I’d like to invite Ms. Slate and any interested guests to join us for a special surprise. Something we’ve been preparing for months in honor of Roberta.”

Veronica tilted her head, genuinely caught off guard.

“It’s just a short walk to the studio,” Gillian continued, addressing the audience. “For those who’d like to join us, please gather in the lobby in five minutes.”

As the crowd began to disperse, Gillian turned to Veronica with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Don’t look so suspicious, Ronnie. I promise you’ll love it.”

“You know I hate surprises,” Veronica said, though she couldn’t help but smile at the use of her nickname. Only those who’d known her for decades dared to call her that.

“This one’s different,” Gillian assured her, linking their arms as they walked toward the lobby. “It’s a tribute, not a shock.”

The September evening welcomed them with a gentle warmth as they exited the theater. A group of about twenty had chosen to follow, creating an impromptu procession through the Atlanta streets.

Veronica felt an odd sense of anticipation. “You really won’t give me a hint?” she asked Gillian, who walked beside her, leading the group.

“And spoil the moment? Never.” Gillian’s eyes crinkled with pleasure at her own secret. “We’re almost there anyway.”

The distinctive entrance to Magnolia Gateway Films appeared ahead, the wrought iron gates framing the path to a complex of buildings that had grown steadily over the decades. Even at night, the studio grounds hummed with purpose—security lights illuminating pathways, the occasional golf cart zipping between buildings, carrying crew members for whatever productions were currently underway.

Nevertheless, her eyes fell upon a familiar but unwelcome face—a uniformed security man.

She nudged Gillian and asked, “Is that Malcolm Hartley?”

“Why yes,” Gillian said. “How on earth do you happen to know him?”

Veronica shuddered a little at bitter memories. But now was no time to let this reminder of the past interfere with whatever surprise was in store for her.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said to Gillian. “I’ll tell you about him later.”

Veronica’s apprehension quickly vanished, and she felt a familiar flutter of belonging as they passed on through the gates. This wasn’t Hollywood, with its relentless spotlight and perpetual performance. This was something else—a place where her mother had found peace in her final years. As they approached one of the larger soundstages, Gillian’s smile widened in anticipation.

“Ready?” she asked, her hand poised on the door handle.

Veronica nodded, suddenly eager to see what lay beyond.

The heavy soundstage door swung open with a theatrical groan, revealing a scene that made Veronica’s breath catch in her throat. Before her, meticulously recreated down to the smallest detail, stood the Midnight Lounge—the fictional nightclub where her mother’s character had met her doom in The Night Walker. The familiar curved bar gleamed under soft blue lighting, cocktail glasses catching prisms of light along their cut-crystal edges. Cigarette smoke—theatrical haze, she realized—drifted in lazy tendrils through the air, backlit by amber stage lights that created the perfect noir atmosphere. For a moment, Veronica felt suspended between decades, the boundary between 1954 and the present dissolving like sugar in a bitter cocktail.

“Oh, Gillian,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft murmur of appreciation from the small crowd behind them. “How did you…?”

“Do you like it?” Gillian’s face was illuminated with pride, her eyes searching Veronica’s for approval. “We’ve been working on it for months. Our set designers used original photographs, production notes, even frame-by-frame analysis of the film.”

Veronica stepped forward into the space. Every detail was eerily perfect—the checkered floor tiles, the velvet-upholstered booths along the perimeter, even the distinctive mural of a jazz band on the wall behind the small stage. In the corner, a jazz quartet played softly, the same haunting melody that had underscored her mother’s iconic scene.

The musicians were dressed in period attire—dark suits with thin ties, hair slicked back in the style of the early fifties. The saxophonist caught her eye and nodded respectfully without missing a beat.

“We sourced period-appropriate furniture,” Gillian explained, gesturing toward the tables with their heavy ashtrays and art deco lamps. “The bar is an exact replica, and those martini glasses? They’re authentic vintage pieces from the early fifties.”

Several extras in period costume milled about—women in pencil skirts and men in suits—creating the illusion of a busy nightclub. They chatted in low voices, occasionally laughing or clinking glasses, all while maintaining a respectful distance from Veronica and the other guests from the theater.

“The smoke,” Veronica said, watching it curl upward toward strategically hidden vents in the ceiling. “It’s perfect. Just the right density. Mother always said that was one of the hardest things to get right on set.”

“Non-toxic theatrical haze,” Gillian confirmed. “Mixed with a hint of sandalwood—I remember you mentioning once that your mother always associated that scent with nightclubs.”

The small detail—something Veronica had mentioned in passing years ago—touched her deeply. She turned to Gillian, momentarily speechless, and squeezed her friend’s hand in silent appreciation.

As Veronica absorbed the scene, a few attendees instinctively reached for their cellphones, eager to capture the moment. The soft glow of screens flickered in the dim light.

Gillian noticed immediately, her eyes narrowing with playful reproach. “Ah, ah,” she chided gently, her voice carrying just enough authority to prompt compliance. “Show some respect. Remember, there were no cellphones in 1954.”

The guests exchanged sheepish glances before tucking their devices away, chuckling at their own oversight. One woman in a sleek pencil skirt offered an apologetic shrug as she slipped her phone into her clutch. A man in a sharp suit mimicked the gesture with a wink, his device vanishing into his jacket pocket.

“Thank you,” Gillian said with a smile that softened any lingering embarrassment. Her gaze returned to Veronica, who stood mesmerized by the authenticity surrounding her.

“Shall we?” Gillian gestured toward an empty table near the stage—the very one where Roberta’s character, lounge singer Elaine Carr, had sat before her fateful performance. “I believe this is your mother’s table.”

As they settled into their seats, a waiter in a crisp white jacket approached them. “Good evening, ladies. What can I get you from the bar?”

“I’ll have a gin rickey,” Gillian said. “The house specialty, as I recall from the film.”

Veronica smiled at the historical accuracy. “And I’ll have a Manhattan. Mother always said her character should have ordered that instead of the poisoned champagne. Said it might have saved her life.”

The waiter nodded and retreated toward the bar as the other guests from the theater found seats around the room, their excited whispers adding to the authentic ambient noise of the club.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” Veronica said, leaning forward across the table. “This is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

Gillian’s eyes sparkled in the dim light. “Roberta deserves nothing less. Your mother wasn’t just a star, Ronnie. She was a force of nature who helped put Atlanta on the map. This city owes her a debt that goes beyond cinema.”

The waiter returned with their drinks, placing them carefully on cocktail napkins emblazoned with the fictional “Midnight Lounge” logo. Veronica lifted her Manhattan in a toast.

“To Mother,” she said. “Who taught me that dying in a film can be more memorable than living through it.”

They clinked glasses and sipped. The sweet vermouth and whiskey warmed Veronica’s throat, a pleasant burn that complemented the atmosphere of manufactured nostalgia surrounding them.

After a moment of companionable silence, Gillian leaned forward, an impish gleam in her eye. “You know what would make this perfect?”

“I’m afraid to ask,” Veronica replied, though she already suspected what was coming.

“The song,” Gillian said, nodding toward the small stage where a microphone stood, illuminated by a single spotlight. “Your mother’s song. ‘Midnight Reverie.’ You could sing it.”

Veronica felt a flutter of resistance. Though she’d inherited her mother’s vocal talents and had enjoyed a successful recording career of her own, she’d always been careful to establish her distinct musical identity. Singing her mother’s signature song, in this replica of the setting where it had been immortalized on film, felt like crossing a boundary she’d long maintained.

“I don’t know, Gill…”

“Please?” Gillian reached across the table, touching Veronica’s wrist lightly. “For her. For all of us who loved her work.”

The guests from the theater had noticed their conversation, and a few were watching expectantly.

With a slow, deliberate breath, Veronica nodded. “Alright. One song.”

A ripple of excited murmurs passed through the small crowd as Veronica stood and smoothed her dress. The jazz quartet noticed her movement and seamlessly transitioned into the opening notes of “Midnight Reverie,” the haunting melody that had introduced Roberta Rimes to the world.

The short walk to the stage felt surreal. Veronica’s heels echoed against the checkered floor, each step an act of transformation—daughter becoming mother, present collapsing into past. The saxophone player nodded to her, a silent cue that they were ready. Veronica closed her eyes for a moment, summoning not just the lyrics but the spirit of her mother’s performance. When she began to sing, her voice emerged rich and melancholy, carrying the same smoky quality that had made Roberta’s version so memorable.

The room fell into reverent silence as Veronica moved through the song, her gestures and expressions unconsciously mirroring those her mother had used in the film. The lyrics spoke of lost love and midnight regrets, of shadows that couldn’t be outrun—ironic foreshadowing of her character’s fate in the film.

As she reached the final verse, Veronica opened her eyes and found herself transported. For one disorienting moment, she could almost believe she was Elaine Carr, singing her swan song before an audience unaware of her impending doom. The thought sent a chill down her spine, even as she held the final note with perfect control, letting it fade into the hush of the room.

Applause erupted, genuine and enthusiastic. Veronica bowed slightly and made her way back to the table where Gillian waited.

“That was extraordinary,” Gillian said as Veronica sat down. “You channeled her perfectly, but it was still uniquely you.”

Veronica smiled, reaching for her Manhattan. “It felt strange. Good, strange, but still…” She took a sip of her drink, noting that it had warmed slightly during her performance. The taste seemed different now—sharper, with an unfamiliar bitterness that hadn’t been there before.

“You okay?” Gillian asked, noticing Veronica’s slight frown.

“Yes, it’s just—” She put her glass down a bit clumsily. “The drink tastes off.”

A strange tingling sensation spread across her lips, followed by a disturbing numbness. Veronica’s hand moved to her throat as breathing became increasingly difficult. The room seemed to tilt sideways, the carefully recreated decor blurring at the edges of her vision.

“Gillian,” she managed, her voice strained and unfamiliar to her own ears. “Something’s wrong.”

The first spasm hit without warning—a violent contraction of her neck muscles that jerked her head backward. Veronica’s body went rigid, her spine arching as she slid from her chair onto the floor.

“Call an ambulance!” someone shouted, the voice seeming to come from very far away.

Another convulsion ripped through her, more powerful than the first. Through the fog of pain and spreading paralysis, Veronica had one last coherent thought.

Strychnine poisoning—exactly like her mother’s character in the film.

CHAPTER ONE

The pancake batter sizzled as it hit the hot surface of the griddle, releasing a comforting aroma that filled the kitchen. Riley Paige flipped the golden disk, adding it to the growing stack on a nearby plate. Saturday mornings had become special in the Paige household—a rare island of normalcy in the chaotic sea of her life as an FBI agent.

Even with April away at college and Bill off on an FBI case, Riley maintained the ritual of making a pancake breakfast. She wore a simple gray t-shirt and faded jeans—weekend clothes that allowed her to relax physically while her mind remained perpetually alert.

Behind her, Gabriela moved quietly, taking plates and silverware out to the dining room where there would be space for everyone to sit down. Riley put a cover over the platter of pancakes to keep them warm and followed behind her.

The long maple table was surrounded by six chairs, each one symbolizing a place for every family member plus an extra. However, only three of those seats would be occupied today.

Riley’s youngest daughter, Jilly, sat at one end of the table, her dark hair falling over her face as she focused on her homework. A laptop lay open in front of her, its screen casting a soft glow across her features. She kept her focus on the screen even as her big-eared little dog, Darby, and her sister’s black-and-white cat, Marbles, scampered playfully in and out of the room.

“This is so unfair,” Jilly groaned. “Who assigns this much homework on a weekend? It’s like Ms. Tennyson thinks we don’t have lives.”

Riley smiled. “I seem to remember April saying the exact same thing when she was in Ms. Tennyson’s class.”

“Yeah, well, April’s smart,” Jilly muttered. “She probably finished this stuff in like twenty minutes.”

“Your sister worked very hard for her grades,” Riley said, her tone gentle but firm. “Just like you’re working hard now.” She reached across to tuck a strand of hair behind Jilly’s ear, revealing the girl’s scowl. The gesture was a small connection with the teenager who had once been a desperate child on the streets of Phoenix.

“Almost time,” Jilly noted, abandoning her homework without hesitation. “Should we use the laptop instead of the phone? The screen’s bigger.”

Riley nodded. “Good call.”

As Gabriela finished setting the table for breakfast, she placed a small vase containing three yellow daisies on the table—a touch of brightness.

Just then, the laptop chimed.

“It’s her!” Jilly exclaimed unnecessarily as she accepted the video call.

The emotions Riley felt about April’s absence at college had surprised her with their intensity. Pride dominated—pride in April’s scholarship, her determination to follow a challenging path despite the traumas she’d experienced in her young life. But beneath that pride lurked a persistent worry. The world contained dangers that most parents never imagined, dangers that Riley had confronted firsthand. Knowing what humans were capable of made letting go of her daughter almost unbearable.

“Isn’t it working yet?” Jilly asked.

“Almost,” Riley replied, clicking the video icon for the third time. “The internet’s being temperamental.”

Then the connection stabilized, and April’s face filled the screen—familiar yet somehow different, as if college had already begun reshaping her into someone new. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, tendrils escaping around her face in a way that reminded Riley of her own younger self.

“Hey, Mom!” April’s smile brightened her entire face. “And Jilly! And Gabriela! Is everyone there?”

“We’re all here, honey,” Riley said, feeling the familiar tug in her chest—pride mixed with the ache of separation. “Bill’s joining too,” she added. “He’s out in Nashville on a case, but he should be connecting any—”

The screen split, making room for Bill’s tired face. He sat propped against a hotel headboard. His expression brightened visibly at the sight of them.

“There’s my favorite Paige women,” he said. “And Gabriela, of course. How’s everyone doing?”

“Bill!” April’s excitement was palpable. “So glad you’re here!”

“So, do you have any news?” Bill asked.

“Do I ever!”

For the next ten minutes, April bubbled with stories—the late-night study group that turned into an impromptu pizza party, the intimidating library with its labyrinthine stacks, the roommate who organized her sock drawer by color gradient.

“And how about classes?” Riley asked during a natural pause. “Are they what you expected?”

“Mostly,” April said, shifting slightly in her desk chair. The movement caused her laptop to reveal more of her dorm room—a slightly rumpled bed, a half-empty coffee cup on the windowsill. “Psych 101 is basically a review of what you taught me over the years, Mom. Introduction to Criminal Justice is fascinating—we’re covering investigative procedures next week. American Politics is… interesting. The professor’s super intense.”

“What about the social scene?” Bill asked, his voice casual. “Meeting new people? Making friends?”

“Yeah, tons,” April said, her posture relaxing slightly. “My roommate introduced me to her high school friends, and there’s this group from my dorm floor that gets together for dinner most nights.” She hesitated, then added with forced nonchalance, “I actually met this interesting guy in my American Politics class last week.”

Riley’s attention sharpened, though she kept her expression neutral. “Oh? Tell us about him.”

“Not much to tell, really,” April said with a small shrug that seemed rehearsed. “We just chatted for a bit after class.” She took a sip from a water bottle beside her. “We grabbed coffee at the cafeteria, but then he kind of disappeared. Hasn’t been back to class since.”

Bill’s eyes met Riley’s through their respective screens—a quick, concerned glance.

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?” Riley asked.

“Just, you know, stopped showing up,” April replied. “But he was only auditing the class anyhow.”

Jilly, who had been quiet throughout most of the conversation, leaned closer to the screen. “Was he cute?” she asked with the blunt curiosity of a fifteen-year-old.

April rolled her eyes but smiled. “I guess? Kind of intense looking. Dark hair, really confident. He knew a lot about the FBI, actually.” She looked directly at Riley.

“So does this guy have a name?” Jilly asked.

“Yeah, his name is Leo.”

Riley was seized by a chill from head to foot.

Could it be … ? she wondered.

“Leo Dillard?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s right. Do you know him?

That name hit Riley like a physical blow. She watched April’s innocent expression through the screen, her daughter utterly unaware of the bomb she’d just detonated.

On screen, Bill’s expression changed instantly—his features hardening in the space of a heartbeat.

April quickly picked up on their reactions. “Mom? What’s the matter? Do you know him or something?”

Gabriela, sensing the shift in atmosphere, moved closer to Riley, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. Jilly looked from Riley to the screen and back, her young face registering that something was very wrong.

“April,” Riley said, her voice steadier than she felt, “I need you to tell me exactly what Leo Dillard said to you.”

The name alone conjured images of her classroom at Quantico, of a tall student with unnervingly intense eyes who had lingered after lectures, his questions growing increasingly personal until he had crossed a line physically. Riley filed a report at Quantico and had thought that was the end of it. She hadn’t seen him since. But now, somehow, he had found her daughter.

Riley forced herself to meet April’s eyes on the screen. “Leo Dillard was a student in my criminal profiling class at Quantico last semester,” she said, measuring each word carefully. “He became… problematic.”

“Problematic how?”

Bill leaned forward on his screen. “April, this guy developed an unhealthy fixation on your mother.”

“He was obsessed,” Riley continued, watching her daughter’s expression shift from confusion to dawning comprehension. She quickly decided not to describe his attempt to kiss her in her office. “After security confronted him, he disappeared. Dropped out of the academy program entirely.”

April’s face drained of color, mirroring Riley’s own pallor. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “He—he never mentioned knowing you. He just asked about my last name, and when I said ‘Paige,’ he seemed really interested, but I thought…” Her voice trailed off.

“This wasn’t a coincidence,” Bill said grimly. “He sought you out specifically.”

Riley felt Gabriela’s hand tighten on her shoulder. Beside her, Jilly had gone completely still.

“April, I need you to think carefully,” Riley said. “What happened between the two of you?”

April closed her eyes momentarily, visibly trying to organize her thoughts. “There’s not much to tell. I noticed him in class, and I guess he noticed me. We ran into each other in the cafeteria, and he said he’d actually been looking a chance to talk to me. I was flattered, I guess. He said it was good to make a friend. He felt kind of isolated, not being an enrolled student yet.”

“Did he say anything else about Quantico? About his instructors there?” Riley pressed.

“No, he didn’t even mention going there.”

“What did he tell you about himself?”

“Not much. He transferred from somewhere else. Said he was staying off-campus but didn’t specify where.” April’s voice gained strength as she recalled details.

Jilly moved closer to the screen, her face tight with worry. “Is April in danger?” she asked bluntly.

The question gave voice to the fear now in the room. Riley glanced at her younger daughter, torn between honesty and the desire to protect both her children from unnecessary terror.

“We don’t know that,” she said carefully. “But we need to take precautions.”

“I’ll contact campus security,” Bill interjected. “Get them a description and Dillard’s file from Quantico.”

Riley nodded. “April, I want you to stay with friends as much as possible. No going anywhere alone, especially after dark. And if you see him again—”

“Call 911 immediately,” April finished, her voice small but resolute. “I know the drill, Mom.”

Riley began mentally calculating next steps—calling Jefferson Bell’s security office herself, arranging for protection, possibly driving up to campus first thing in the morning. She could pull some strings, get a local FBI field agent to check in on April until they determined the level of threat.

Her cellphone, lying on the table beside the laptop, vibrated against the wooden table with a harsh buzz. The distinctive ringtone—a no-nonsense triple beep she’d assigned specifically to Brent Meredith—punctuated the tense silence.

Riley stared at the phone, momentarily frozen by indecision. Meredith would never call on a Saturday unless it was urgent. As the phone continued its insistent rhythm, Bill’s expression told her what she already knew—some calls couldn’t be ignored, no matter the timing.

“I should take this,” she said reluctantly, reaching for the phone.

April nodded, attempting a brave smile. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Riley pressed the accept button, keeping the laptop screen in view. “Paige,” she answered,

“I need you and Esmer in my office ASAP,” Meredith’s gruff voice commanded, skipping any greeting. “New assignment.”

Riley watched April on the screen, saw Jilly’s concerned face hovering at the edge of the frame, felt Gabriela’s steadying presence behind her. “Sir, I’m in the middle of a family situation right now. My daughter at college—”

“This can’t wait, Paige,” Meredith cut her off, his tone brooking no argument. “Atlanta PD just called in a high-profile murder that matches the signature of a case we’ve been tracking. If you still want to head up a team that takes cases instead of just teaching, you have to be with us on this one.”

“I understand, sir, but this is—”

“A plane will be waiting,” Meredith interrupted again. “Wheels up in ninety minutes. Esmer’s already on her way in.”

The line went dead before Riley could respond further. She lowered the phone slowly, looking from it to the concerned faces on her screen, duty and family pulling her in opposite directions. This case had to be high-profile, or Meredith wouldn’t be so demanding.

“You have to go,” April said quietly, reading her mother’s expression. “It’s okay, Mom. Really.”

“I’ll cut my Nashville case short,” Bill said immediately. “I can be at Jefferson Bell by tomorrow afternoon.” His eyes met Riley’s through the screen—steady, reassuring. “I’ll personally check things out, make sure campus security is on alert.”

Riley exhaled slowly, grateful for Bill’s solution. After all, it had been her decision to be a field agent again as well as a parent.

Was she going to regret it?

CHAPTER TWO

As Riley turned into the parking lot for the Behavioral Analysis Unit at Quantico, the familiar landscape did nothing to settle her thoughts. The image of April’s face on the video call—shifting from casual excitement to dawning horror as she realized who Leo Dillard really was—kept replaying in her mind. She’d left home in such a rush that she’d only swallowed half a cup of coffee and one pancake that she’d grabbed on the way out. She hoped that Jilly and Gabriela would make good use of the rest that she’d left sitting under their cover on the dining room table.

She pulled into her usual parking spot, cut the engine, and sat for a moment in the silence. The bright September sun seemed at odds with the darkness of her thoughts.

“Damn it,” she whispered, rubbing her temples.

As she reached for her bag on the passenger seat, a flash of movement caught her eye. Ann Marie Esmer was just pulling into the slot beside her, her small blue sedan gleaming under the late morning sun. The young agent spotted Riley and waved with characteristic enthusiasm, a gesture that seemed almost comically out of place against Riley’s current mood.

Riley stepped out of her car, forcing her thoughts away from April and back to the present moment. She needed to compartmentalize—a skill that had served her well throughout her career but was proving unusually difficult today.

“Agent Paige!” Ann Marie called as she emerged from her car, somehow managing to simultaneously grab her laptop bag, straighten her immaculately pressed blazer, and lock her vehicle with a beep of her key fob. “Can you believe Meredith called us in on a Saturday? Must be something big.”

Her blue eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement. Despite having worked several cases now, Ann Marie still approached each new assignment with the eagerness of a rookie on her first day. Today, she wore her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail.

“Something big enough to interrupt family time,” Riley agreed, her tone flatter than she’d intended.

Ann Marie’s expression shifted immediately. “Everything okay? You seem… distracted.”

Riley hesitated, then decided there was no point in pretending. “It’s April. There’s a situation at Jefferson Bell.”

They fell into step together, walking toward the BAU building. The grounds were quieter than on weekdays, but even on weekends, Quantico never truly slept. A group of academy trainees jogged past in formation, their synchronized footfalls providing a steady rhythm that punctuated their conversation.

“What kind of situation?” Ann Marie asked, her voice dropping to match Riley’s serious tone.

“Remember Leo Dillard?”

Ann Marie’s step faltered. “The student who was stalking you recently?”

Riley nodded grimly. “Turns out he’s been hanging around April at Jefferson Bell. Approached her, befriended her. She had no idea who he was until our video call this morning.”

“Oh my God,” Ann Marie breathed, all excitement about the new case momentarily forgotten. “That’s… that’s terrifying. What are you going to do?”

“Bill’s heading there tomorrow. He’s going to check in with campus security, make sure they’re aware of the situation.” Riley pushed through the glass doors of the building, the rush of cool air from the air conditioning raising goosebumps on her arms. “But I can’t shake this feeling that I should be the one going there. Not flying off to Atlanta for a case.”

They badged through security and headed for the elevator. Ann Marie pressed the button for the fourth floor, where Meredith’s office was located.

“If there’s anything I can do to help…” Ann Marie offered.

Riley gave her a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks. For now, let’s just see what Meredith has for us. He was insistent that I take this one on.”

The elevator doors opened with a soft ping, revealing the familiar corridor that led to the BAU offices. As they walked, Riley tried to focus on the task ahead, pushing thoughts of April to a compartment in her mind that she could revisit later. But the image of Leo Dillard—his intense eyes, the way he had leaned too close during office hours, the uncomfortable questions about her personal life—kept bleeding through.

Meredith’s office door stood open, the African-American man himself visible behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear. He gestured for them to enter when he spotted them, his conversation continuing as they took seats across from him.

Riley studied her superior’s face, noting the deep lines around his eyes. Brent Meredith cut a daunting presence even when seated—his broad frame and his perpetually serious expression a reminder of why he’d risen to Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.

“Yes, I understand the sensitivity. I’ve got my best team on it.” He said into the phone. “They’re heading out within the hour. We’ll coordinate directly with Atlanta PD.” A pause. “Yes, I’ll keep you updated.” He hung up with a weary sigh.

“This high-profile case has everyone jumpy,” he said by way of greeting.

“What are we looking at?” Riley asked, forcing herself to engage despite the distraction of her personal concerns.

Meredith slid a file across the desk. “Veronica Slate was murdered last night at Magnolia Gateway Films studio in Atlanta. Poisoned, specifically.”

Riley’s eyes widened slightly as she recognized the name. “The actress? Roberta Rimes’ daughter?”

“The same,” Meredith confirmed. “But it’s the method that’s concerning us. The murder was staged as a re-creation of a scene from her mother’s breakout film, The Night Walker.”

Ann Marie leaned forward. “Where Roberta Rimes’ character is poisoned while singing at a nightclub?”

Riley and Meredith both turned to look at her with mild surprise.

“What?” Ann Marie said with a small shrug. “I went through a classic noir phase in college. That film’s iconic.”

“She’s right,” Riley said, opening the file. Crime scene photos revealed an elaborate set designed to look exactly like the fictional “Midnight Lounge” from the 1954 film. Veronica Slate’s body lay sprawled on the checkered floor, her face frozen in a rictus of pain. “It looks like they recreated the entire set from the film for some kind of retrospective event.”

“Precisely,” Meredith said. “Magnolia Gateway Films was hosting a weeklong celebration of Roberta Rimes’ work, culminating on what would have been her hundredth birthday. Veronica Slate was the guest of honor. After a screening of The Night Walker, the guests were invited to this replica of the nightclub set where Rimes’ character was murdered.”

“And then history repeated itself,” Riley murmured, flipping through more photos. “Strychnine?”

“Preliminary tox screen suggests so,” Meredith confirmed. “Just like in the film.”

“This is no ordinary homicide,” Ann Marie observed.

“Which is why Detective Marcus Hayes of Atlanta PD reached out to us,” Meredith interjected. “This has all the markings of a highly organized killer with possible obsessive tendencies toward film or Roberta Rimes specifically. And given the public nature of the murder—”

“There were witnesses,” Riley concluded, studying a photo showing elegant partygoers standing in shocked clusters around the perimeter of the crime scene. “How many?”

“About thirty,” Meredith said. “All film industry people, critics, or special invitees to the retrospective. The murder happened in full view of everyone present, yet somehow the poison was administered without anyone noticing.”

“And the media?” Ann Marie asked.

Meredith’s expression darkened. “Already a circus. Veronica Slate was Hollywood royalty, and the theatrical nature of the murder has every entertainment reporter in the country descending on Atlanta. Hayes is overwhelmed, and the mayor’s office is panicking about the publicity.”

Riley closed the file. This was exactly the type of complex, high-profile case that demanded her full attention—the type of case she’d built her career on solving. And yet, all she could think about was April, alone on a college campus with Leo Dillard possibly lurking nearby.

“Sir,” she began, “about the timing of this assignment—”

Meredith held up a hand. “Before you continue, Paige, let me be clear. I need you on this case. You have the experience with obsessive perpetrators and the skills to navigate the media attention.”

“I understand that,” Riley said, leaning forward in her chair. “But there’s a situation with my daughter that I need to address first.”

She explained about Leo Dillard’s appearance at Jefferson Bell, watching Meredith’s expression shift from impatience to concern as she detailed the morning’s discovery.

“I filed the report when he became inappropriate with me last semester,” Riley concluded. “But I never imagined he’d target April. Bill’s cutting his Nashville case short to check on her tomorrow, but honestly, I’d feel better handling this personally.”

Meredith was silent for a moment. The only sound in the office was the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant ringing of a phone somewhere down the hallway.

“You told me about that Dillard business when it happened,” he finally said. “He disappeared from the program soon after he was called out on it, right?”

“That’s right.”

Meredith sighed, a rare glimpse of the man behind the title. “As a father myself, I understand your concern, Agent Paige. But I also know Bill Jeffreys. If he says he’ll handle it, he will.”

Riley felt a flicker of frustration. “With all due respect, sir—”

“Agent Paige,” Meredith cut in, his tone gentler than his words, “the Atlanta situation needs your specific expertise. There are twenty witnesses who saw a woman die horribly, and a killer who’s demonstrated both planning skills and theatrical flair. That combination rarely stops at one victim.”

The implication was clear. If this was indeed the work of a serial killer just beginning their spree, every hour mattered.

“Trust Bill on this,” Meredith continued. “He’ll coordinate with campus security, review surveillance footage, and do everything necessary to ensure April’s safety. Meanwhile, I need you and Agent Esmer on that plane to Atlanta. Detective Hayes is expecting you.”

Riley knew when she was beaten. More importantly, she knew Meredith was right—professionally, at least. She nodded reluctantly.

“The jet’s fueled and waiting,” Meredith said, standing to signal the end of the briefing. “You’ll be met at Hartsfield-Jackson. I’ve arranged for a car and hotel accommodations near the studio.”

Riley and Ann Marie rose as well, gathering their materials. As they turned to leave, Meredith added, “And Paige? Keep me updated on both situations. If anything changes with April, we’ll reassess.”

The small concession was enough to make Riley nod gratefully before following Ann Marie out of the office.

They walked in silence toward the elevator, the weight of the new assignment settling over them. When the doors closed, sealing them in momentary privacy, Ann Marie turned to Riley.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I think you’re amazing for being able to focus on work at all right now. If it were my family…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

Riley appreciated the younger agent’s empathy, even as she wondered if Ann Marie’s assessment was accurate. Was she really focusing? Or was she going through the motions while her mind remained fixed on the danger potentially stalking her daughter?

“Bill will handle it,” Riley said, as much to convince herself as to respond to Ann Marie. “He’s very good at what he does.”

They left the building and headed toward the small airstrip where the BAU jet waited.

“I’m really looking forward to working this case with you,” Ann Marie said as they walked, her natural enthusiasm resurfacing. “The theatrical aspects, the historical connection—it’s fascinating. Terrible, obviously,” she added quickly, “but fascinating from an investigative standpoint.”

Riley nodded absently, her thoughts still divided. Ann Marie, perceptive as always, picked up on her distraction.

“April’s going to be okay,” she said softly. “And I know you’re worried about more than just that.”

Riley glanced at her, surprised by the insight. “I made a mistake during our last case,” she admitted, echoing words she’d spoken to Bill months ago. “A big one. I let my instincts fail me, and it almost cost someone their life. I suspected the wrong person because I didn’t like her, while completely missing the real killer because she seemed kind and traumatized.”

“We all make mistakes,” Ann Marie offered.

“That’s what Bill said too,” Riley replied with a small, rueful smile. “But it wasn’t like me, at least, not like the agent I used to be. And now I’m heading into another high-profile case while distracted by personal concerns. Not exactly a recipe for success.”

“Or maybe,” Ann Marie suggested gently, “being aware of your potential blind spots makes you more careful, more thorough. That’s not weakness, Agent Paige. That’s growth.”

Riley looked at her younger colleague with new appreciation. Behind Ann Marie’s eager exterior and occasional social awkwardness lay a surprising depth of insight.

As they reached the steps of the waiting jet, Riley paused, taking one last look at the Quantico grounds—the place where she taught, where she had confronted Leo Dillard, where she was supposed to be the expert. The expert who now felt anything but certain.

As she climbed the steps, her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Bill: “On my way to Jefferson Bell. April will be okay. We both will make sure of it.”

A small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

“Come on,” Riley said to Ann Marie. “Let’s go catch a killer.”

CHAPTER THREE

The BAU jet banked gently as it began its final descent into Atlanta. Riley hadn’t slept during the two-hour journey, her mind alternating between the case file spread across her lap and the image of April’s face when she’d learned about Leo Dillard. Even now, thousands of feet in the air and hundreds of miles from Virginia, she felt the tug of competing responsibilities.

“We’re about five minutes from landing,” Ann Marie announced.

Soon the jet’s wheels bumped gently on the tarmac, the engines reversing thrust with a roar. As they taxied toward a private section of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, Riley’s phone chimed with an incoming text. She quickly retrieved the device from her pocket.

It was from Bill: “Campus security briefed. They’re reviewing all surveillance footage for Dillard.”

Relief washed through her. She typed a quick “Thank you” before tucking the phone away.

“April?” the younger agent asked.

“Bill’s got things under control,” Riley said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Let’s focus on why we’re here.”

“Do you think this is the start of something bigger?”

“Let’s not get ahead of the evidence,” Riley cautioned, though the same question had been nagging at her. Serial killers who chose theatrical, public displays rarely stopped at one victim.

The jet came to a complete stop, and the engines wound down. When Riley and Ann Marie descended the jet’s stairs into the humid Atlanta afternoon, they saw a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit standing beside an unmarked police sedan. He stepped forward to meet them.

“Agent Paige,” he said, his grip firm as they shook hands. “Detective Marcus Hayes, Atlanta PD Homicide. Thank you for coming so quickly.” His voice carried the subtle cadence of someone born and raised in the South.

“Riley Paige,” she confirmed. “This is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer.”

Hayes nodded toward Ann Marie, shaking her hand as well. “Ma’am. Car’s right over here. I figured we’d head straight to the studio.”

He led them to the sedan, opening the rear door for Ann Marie while Riley took the passenger seat. Once they were all settled, Hayes pulled away from the airstrip, navigating through the maze of service roads that would eventually lead them to the main highway.

“I appreciate the Bureau’s quick response,” Hayes said. “This case has the potential to become a media nightmare. Already is, really.”

Riley understood his concern. “Tell us more about the witnesses. Thirty people, Meredith said?”

“Thirty-three, to be exact,” Hayes replied, merging onto the highway. “Most of them were part of the same group that attended the screening of The Night Walker at the Majestic Theater downtown, then followed Gillian Sinclair—she’s the head of Magnolia Gateway—to the studio for what she called a ‘special surprise.’ Turns out the surprise was this elaborate re-creation of the nightclub set from the film.”

“Were these people checked in through security?” Riley asked.

Hayes shook his head. “Not formally. It was a private event, invitation only. Gillian Sinclair personally knew most of the attendees—film critics, industry people, a few academic types who specialize in classic cinema. We’ve been working on nailing down the exact list. Most of them were still there when officers arrived, traumatized but cooperative.”

“Security cameras?”

“They don’t have security cameras on a soundstage. Some outside the building are still being checked.”

“And the festival’s been canceled?” Ann Marie asked from the back seat.

“Officially postponed,” Hayes corrected, “though no one expects it to resume anytime soon. Roberta Rimes’ centennial was supposed to be a big deal for Atlanta. The mayor’s office is devastated, both by the loss and the potential impact on tourism.”

Riley asked, “Why did you specifically request BAU assistance, Detective? Local homicide could handle a poisoning case, even a high-profile one.”

Hayes was silent for a moment, seemingly weighing his response. “Two reasons,” he finally said. “First, the theatrical nature of the crime—this wasn’t just a murder, it was a performance. That level of pathology is beyond what we typically see, even in a city the size of Atlanta. Second…” He hesitated. “There’s the potential for copycat incidents. Roberta Rimes died in different ways in at least three of her films. If our killer is working through some kind of filmography-based fantasy…”

“You think we could be looking at multiple planned murders,” Riley concluded.

“I hope to God I’m wrong,” Hayes said grimly. “But if I’m not, we need to get ahead of this. And frankly, Agent Paige, your reputation precedes you. Glad to have you here for this one.”

The remainder of the drive passed with Hayes filling them in on the preliminary forensics. The poison—confirmed as strychnine—had been in Veronica Slate’s Manhattan cocktail, most likely added while she was performing on the small stage. Fingerprints on the glass belonged only to the victim and the bartender, a studio employee who had been thoroughly vetted and cleared.

As they approached the Magnolia Gateway Studios complex, Riley noticed the media vehicles gathered near the entrance—satellite trucks from local and national networks, reporters doing standups with the studio gates visible in the background.

“Vultures are circling,” Hayes muttered as he slowed the car. “Been like this since the story broke last night. I’ll get us through.”

He flashed his badge at the security checkpoint, and the guard waved them through immediately, much to the visible frustration of the reporters who surged forward, shouting questions and thrusting microphones toward the car.

Hayes ignored them all, and so did Riley and Ann Marie as he navigated them through the throng until they reached the relative sanctuary of the studio grounds. He parked near a modern glass building with “Administration” etched on the doors.

“Ms. Sinclair’s office is on the third floor,” he explained as they exited the vehicle. “She’s been… well, devastated is putting it mildly. They were close friends for decades.”

Inside, the building was cool and quiet, the usual bustle of a film studio notably absent. As they crossed the lobby to the elevator, a security guard nodded solemnly, his expression grim. The third floor was decorated with framed movie posters—productions from Magnolia Gateway’s history, Riley presumed. Hayes led them down a corridor to a set of double doors with “Gillian Sinclair, President & CEO” engraved on a brass plaque.

He knocked once before opening the door. “Ms. Sinclair? The FBI agents are here.”

The office beyond was spacious and tastefully decorated, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the studio lot. Gillian Sinclair sat behind a large desk, her silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a severe bun that emphasized the stark lines of exhaustion on her face. She looked up as they entered, her eyes red-rimmed but dry.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, rising to greet them. Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been crying or shouting or both. “I’ve been trying to make sense of this nightmare, but…” She gestured helplessly.

“Ms. Sinclair, I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, and this is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer. We’re very sorry for your loss.”

Gillian nodded, motioning for them to sit in the leather chairs arranged in front of her desk. Hayes took a position near the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“I’ve told Detective Hayes everything I can remember,” Gillian said, sinking back into her chair. “But it’s all so surreal. Veronica was singing—her voice was still so beautiful, you know, even at sixty-six—and then… just minutes later …” Her voice cracked. “I keep seeing her face. That terrible expression of pain.”

Ann Marie moved her chair closer to Gillian’s desk. “Ms. Sinclair,” she said gently. “I’ve seen how violent death affects those left behind. There’s no right way to process what you’ve experienced.”

Riley knew that Ann Marie had learned how to be with people during such terrible moments from growing up in her father’s funeral home. She observed the interaction silently, noting Gillian’s physical responses—the slight relaxation of her shoulders at Ann Marie’s words, the way her hands unclenched from the fists they’d formed. But was that genuine grief, or a skilled performance?

“Ms. Sinclair,” Riley said after allowing a respectful pause, “I understand you were the one who conceived of the Midnight Lounge re-creation.”

Gillian’s face crumpled. “It was supposed to be a tribute. A celebration of Roberta’s legacy and Veronica’s connection to it. I never imagined…” She trailed off, swallowing hard. “I even encouraged her to sing ‘Midnight Reverie.’ The last thing she ever did was recreate her mother’s most famous scene, and now she’s gone the same way. It’s like some twisted joke.”

“Tell me about your relationship with Veronica,” Riley prompted.

“We’ve known each other for over thirty years,” Gillian began, her gaze drifting to a framed photograph on her desk—a younger version of herself with Veronica Slate, both smiling broadly at some long-ago event. “When I was just starting out as a production assistant, Veronica was already established as both an actress and vocalist. We met when she came to Atlanta for a film her mother was making—one of Roberta’s last before retirement. Veronica took me under her wing, introduced me to people who could help my career.”

Her voice caught, then she continued. “Over the years, our friendship deepened. When I founded Magnolia Gateway, Veronica was one of our earliest supporters. She invested financially, yes, but more importantly, she lent her name and connections to help establish us. And when Roberta’s centennial approached, it seemed natural to honor both women with this retrospective. Veronica was excited about it. Said it felt like bringing her mother home one last time.”

“I’d like to see the crime scene,” Riley said. “Would you be willing to accompany us, Ms. Sinclair? It might help us understand exactly how events unfolded.”

“Of course. Whatever helps catch whoever did this to Ronnie.”

The use of the nickname—intimate, personal—struck Riley as significant. Either Gillian was truly close to the victim, or she was masterfully playing the grieving friend.

They followed Gillian out of the office and through a maze of corridors, eventually exiting the administrative building and crossing the lot to a large soundstage marked “Stage 4.” A police officer stood guard outside, nodding to Hayes as they approached.

“The scene’s been fully processed,” Hayes informed Riley and Ann Marie. “Forensics finished around dawn.”

Gillian pushed open the heavy door, revealing the meticulously recreated Midnight Lounge. The set was now harshly illuminated by work lights that stripped away any nostalgic glamour. Crime scene tape still cordoned off the area where Veronica’s body had been found.

Riley stepped carefully into the space, absorbing details. The period-appropriate furniture, the vintage glassware behind the bar, the small stage with its lone microphone standing sentinel—every element had been chosen with care. She tried to imagine the scene as it had been: filled with elegantly dressed guests, suffused with atmospheric lighting, the air hazy with theatrical smoke.

“Ms. Sinclair,” Riley said, turning back to face the studio executive, “could you walk us through exactly what happened last night? Start from when you arrived at the set with the guests.”

Gillian nodded, visibly steeling herself. “We’d just come from the screening at the Majestic. The guests were excited when I mentioned a surprise waiting at the studio. And Veronica had no idea what was in store. When we arrived here, the set was dark. Then the lights came up slowly, revealing the Midnight Lounge exactly as it appeared in the film. There was audible gasping. Veronica was stunned.”

“Where were you seated?” Riley asked.

Gillian pointed to a table near the stage. “There. That table for two. It’s the same one Roberta’s character sat at in the film before her performance.”

“And the other guests?”

“They spread throughout the room at the remaining tables. The bartender served period-appropriate cocktails. There were even actors hired to mill about as extras, creating the atmosphere of a busy nightclub.”

“Then what happened?” Riley prompted.

“I asked Veronica if she would sing ‘Midnight Reverie,’ her mother’s signature song from the film. She was hesitant—she’d always been careful to establish her own musical identity, separate from her mother’s. But then she agreed. She went up to the stage, the quartet began playing, and she sang. She was magnificent. For a moment, it was almost like having Roberta back.”

“And after the performance?”

“She returned to our table. We toasted with our drinks—I had a gin rickey, she had a Manhattan. She took a sip, and then…” Gillian’s composure finally cracked, her voice breaking. “Then she started to struggle for breath. Her glass fell. She collapsed. It all happened so fast.”

Ann Marie stepped closer to Gillian, offering silent support as the woman fought to regain control.

Riley surveyed the scene again, trying to piece together the logistics of the poisoning. “The Manhattan—it was delivered while Veronica was performing?”

Gillian nodded. “The waiter brought fresh drinks to our table just before she finished her song.”

“The same waiter who had served you earlier?”

“I… I think so. It was dark, atmospheric. I wasn’t paying close attention to the staff.”

“You said the whole scene was meant to be a surprise. How many people were in on it?”

Gillian nodded. “Oh, it’s hard to say. We had construction and tech workers here all the time we were setting this up, so they knew. And of course, the extras and the jazz quartet. God knows how many people they might have told. But most of the movie audience did seem surprised.”

Riley turned to Hayes. “I’d like to see this place as it was that night. Can we recreate the exact lighting and atmosphere?”

Hayes glanced at Gillian, who nodded. “Of course.” She moved to a control panel near the entrance, checking the switches. “The technical crew set everything up with programmable presets. This should restore it exactly as it was.”

She pressed a button, and the harsh work lights dimmed. Soft amber lighting faded up, casting the set in a warm glow. Blue gel lights illuminated the bar from beneath, creating an ethereal effect that transported the space back to 1953. A subtle hiss preceded the appearance of theatrical haze, drifting lazily through the air in perfect simulation of cigarette smoke.

The transformation was startling. What had seemed merely an elaborate set moments before now became a living, breathing space that blurred the line between reality and fiction.

“My God,” Ann Marie whispered beside her. “It’s exactly like the film.”

Riley paused at the table Gillian had indicated, running her fingers lightly over its surface. Two indentations in the tablecloth marked where glasses had stood. In her mind, she could almost see Veronica returning from her performance, flushed with success, lifting her drink in celebration, only to find death waiting in the glass.

Here in this magical space, Riley recognized a familiar sensation. Her unusual talent nudged at her, as if she needed to pay attention. Would it work? Could she get a sense of this killer’s mind right now? Riley closed her eyes and reached out …

CHAPTER FOUR

As Riley stood in the re-created nightclub with her eyes closed, she let her consciousness drift, seeking that elusive connection—the invisible thread that might link her to a killer’s thoughts. It wasn’t a psychic ability, not exactly. She viewed it as an intuitive process that had been honed over years of immersing herself in the darkest corners of human psychology. But in truth, it was more than just an accumulation of information that any good agent might gather. She had an exceptional talent for mentally slipping into shadows where monsters dwelled.

This physical setting was artificial, but evocative. The theatrical haze that had filled the room tickled her nostrils, carrying with it the faint chemical scent that was nothing like real cigarette smoke, yet evocative enough to help transport her back in time. There was also a hint of sandalwood in the air—perhaps to make the smoke less noxious.

The ambient sounds receded—Hayes’ steady breathing, Ann Marie’s quiet footsteps as she explored the perimeter of the set, Gillian’s occasional sniffles. Riley focused instead on absorbing the scene, letting it imprint itself on her consciousness. The table where Veronica had sat. The stage where she’d performed. The path between them.

In a few seconds, the Midnight Lounge and the sequence of events came to life in her mind. Riley could see Veronica singing on stage, captivating her audience. The waiter delivering fresh drinks to the table while all eyes were on the performer. Gillian, seated with her back to the bar, her attention fixed on her friend’s performance. Veronica returning to her seat, flushed with the success of her performance, lifting the Manhattan to her lips.

A particular realization crystallized. From Gillian’s position, she would have had limited peripheral vision of anyone approaching their table from behind. The atmospheric lighting—purposefully dim to create the 1950s nightclub ambiance—would have further obscured any suspicious activity. The theatrical haze that now drifted around Riley’s face would have provided additional cover, distorting depth perception.

The killer might have engineered the perfect opportunity. Or had they simply recognized and exploited it?

Riley allowed her thoughts to drift deeper, seeking the emotional signature of the crime. What kind of person would choose such a method? What were they trying to communicate?

A paradox emerged in her intuition. On one hand, the murder felt deeply personal—the choice of victim, the specific method mirroring a film scene, the symbolic destruction of Veronica through the same means that had made her mother famous. This wasn’t random. Veronica Slate had been chosen specifically, her death choreographed with intimate knowledge of her life and legacy.

Yet at the same time, the theatrical nature of the crime suggested something broader, more performative. The killer had arranged an audience, ensured witnesses, crafted a moment that would be recorded, remembered, discussed. They wanted attention, recognition for their work.

This was about more than eliminating a single person; it was also about making a statement.

That duality pointed to something she’d seen before in the most dangerous type of killer—one who combined personal grievance with a terrible artistic ambition, a need for recognition. Such perpetrators rarely stopped at a single victim. They created series, progressively elaborate demonstrations of their vision.

So who might be the next target? Someone else connected to Roberta Rimes’ legacy? Another figure from classic Hollywood? Or perhaps someone connected to Magnolia Gateway Studios itself?

Without concrete evidence, the possibilities remained frustratingly vast. But Riley felt certain of one thing—this killer wasn’t finished. The murder of Veronica Slate wasn’t the finale; it was the opening act.

She opened her eyes, blinking against the amber lights of the set. Her colleagues stood watching her—Hayes with barely concealed skepticism, Ann Marie with open curiosity, Gillian with a mixture of hope and dread.

“Find anything in there?” Hayes asked, gesturing vaguely toward Riley’s head.

Riley ignored the subtle mockery in his tone. Local detectives often regarded the BAU’s psychological approach with suspicion, and even more so Riley’s intuitive methods. In fact, Riley had confided in few people about exactly how those methods worked. One of those people was Bill. The other was Ann Marie.

“Possibly,” she replied, stepping away from the table where Veronica had received her fatal drink. “Ms. Sinclair, based on the layout and lighting, it would have been relatively easy for someone to add something to her drink before it was delivered or even afterward, while she was performing.”

“I wasn’t watching the drinks or the servers at all,” Gillian replied. “I was watching Ronnie on stage.”

“That’s not your fault,” Ann Marie said gently. “The killer deliberately used the circumstances to their advantage.”

Riley moved closer to Gillian, who had sunk onto one of the period-appropriate chairs, her normally commanding presence diminished by grief and now guilt.

“Ms. Sinclair,” Riley said, her voice low and steady, “I need to ask you something important. In the days before her death, did Veronica mention any conflicts? Anyone she was having trouble with, or who might have had reason to wish her harm?”

Gillian stared at the floor, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Veronica had her share of professional rivalries over the years, but nothing recent or serious enough to…” She trailed off, then looked up suddenly. “Wait. There was something. Just before we entered the soundstage last night.”

Riley felt a familiar prickle of anticipation. “What happened?”

“We were walking through the studio gates with the group from the theater. Veronica suddenly tensed beside me. She’d spotted our head of security.” Gillian’s voice took on a new urgency.

“What was his name?” Riley asked.

“Malcolm Hartley. She recognized his face, although she didn’t tell me from where or when. She asked if that was really him, and when I confirmed it, she seemed… disturbed. Said she’d tell me about him later.”

“Did she elaborate at all?” Riley pressed.

Gillian shook her head, distress evident in her features. “We got caught up in the excitement of the surprise. I completely forgot about it until just now.” Her eyes widened with dawning horror. “And she never got the chance to tell me what it was about.”

Riley exchanged a glance with Hayes, whose posture had shifted from relaxed skepticism to alert interest.

“We need to speak with Malcolm Hartley immediately,” Riley said.

Hayes nodded. “Where would we find him at this hour, Ms. Sinclair?”

“His office is in the security building, near the main gate,” Gillian replied, rising from her chair with renewed purpose. “I’ll take you there.”

Gillian led them out of the soundstage into the harsh daylight of the Atlanta afternoon. The contrast between the atmospheric noir setting they’d just left and the mundane reality of a film studio—golf carts, clipboard-carrying assistants, the distant sound of construction—was jarring. Riley felt as if they’d stepped through a portal from one world to another, from fiction into fact.

As they walked, Hayes fell into step beside Riley. “You think this security guy could be involved?” he asked in a low voice.

“It’s a connection worth exploring,” Riley replied, careful not to overcommit. “Veronica’s reaction to seeing him suggests a possible history between them. At least, something troubled her enough to mention it even during what should have been an exciting moment.”

Ann Marie joined their quiet conversation. “If there was bad blood between them, Hartley would have had both motive and opportunity. And Veronica took notice of him just a few moments before she died.”

They crossed the studio lot, passing various buildings and outdoor sets. The security building was a modest structure near the main entrance—practical rather than impressive, with small windows and a utilitarian design that contrasted with the more aesthetically pleasing studio facilities.

Gillian pushed through the front door, nodding to a uniformed guard at the reception desk. “Is Malcolm in his office?” she asked, her tone carrying the easy authority of someone accustomed to command.

The guard straightened slightly. “No, ma’am. Mr. Hartley didn’t come in today. Don’t know where he is. He didn’t even call in sick.”

Riley saw Hayes and Ann Marie exchange significant glances. A security chief absent the day after a high-profile murder on his watch was, at minimum, suspicious.

“The timing’s convenient,” Hayes muttered.

“I need to see his office,” Riley said to Gillian.

Gillian hesitated only briefly. “Normally I’d need to respect privacy protocols, but under the circumstances…” She turned to the guard. “We need access to Malcolm’s office. This is Detective Hayes from Atlanta PD, and these are FBI agents investigating Veronica’s death.”

The guard’s expression shifted from surprise to solemn understanding. “I don’t have a key to his private office, ma’am. It’s always locked when he’s not in.”

“I have master keys,” Gillian replied, already reaching into her pocket. “Please note in the log that we entered with proper authorization during an active investigation.”

The guard nodded, turning to his computer. “Yes, ma’am. His office is down the hall, last door on the right.”

Gillian led them through a narrow corridor lined with security monitors displaying various areas of the studio grounds. Malcolm Hartley’s office door was unmarked except for a small plaque reading “Head of Security.”

Gillian hesitated with the key in her hand. “I should mention that Malcolm has always been… particular about his privacy. In the three years he’s worked here, I’ve never actually been inside his office.”

Riley noted the subtle tension in Gillian’s voice. “Any reason for that level of privacy?”

“Not really. He’s efficient at his job, if somewhat standoffish. Keeps to himself, doesn’t socialize with the rest of the staff. But security has been excellent under his watch.” She inserted the key. “Until now, I suppose.”

The lock turned with a soft click. Gillian pushed the door open and flipped a light switch, revealing a space that initially appeared ordinary—a desk with a computer, filing cabinets along one wall, a small conference table with four chairs. Functional. Impersonal.

As they all stepped into the office, they were greeted by a large, free-standing bulletin board, its surface sparsely decorated with a handful of notices and photos. The board’s wooden frame seemed sturdy yet portable, mounted securely on four small wheels that hinted at its mobility. With a sense of curiosity, Riley extended her hand and gently spun the board completely around. Her breath caught in her throat at the first glimpse of the back, and she heard gasps from her companions as they all saw what she saw.

The back was also a cork surface, this one covered with photographs of Veronica Slate—dozens of them, spanning decades of her career. Magazine covers. Publicity stills. Candid paparazzi shots. Screenshots from films. But each image had been defaced in some way—eyes scratched out, faces slashed with red marker, obscenities scrawled across her features. Some photos had been burned around the edges, others stabbed repeatedly with what must have been a letter opener.

In the center of this disturbing collage was a publicity photo from The Night Walker—not of Roberta Rimes, but of Veronica at what appeared to be the film’s revival screening years ago. Across her throat, someone had drawn a red line with meticulous precision. Beneath it, in neat block letters: “LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER.”

The group stood frozen in the doorway, the silence broken only by Gillian’s sharp intake of breath. Riley felt Ann Marie stiffen beside her and noticed Hayes’s hand instinctively moved toward his holstered weapon.

The bulletin board transformed the mundane office into something profoundly sinister—a shrine to obsession and hate, carefully maintained and hidden behind a locked door. The images stared back at them, Veronica’s mutilated face multiplied across the wall in a grotesque gallery that told the story of a fixation that had clearly festered for years. Now it looked like an unpleasant obsession might have culminated in murder.

What was the man who had made this ugly display doing right now?

CHAPTER FIVE

Riley’s trained eyes cataloged every scratch, burn mark, and violent annotation marring Veronica Slate’s face across dozens of images on that bulletin board. The methodical defacement—eyes meticulously scratched out, precise red lines drawn across throats—revealed the creator’s psychological state. This wasn’t random destruction; it was ritualistic, performed with the careful attention of someone nursing a profound hatred that must have festered for years.

The words “LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER” in block letters were perfectly aligned on the cork surface, as if measured with a ruler. Malcolm Hartley hadn’t just harbored an obsession with Veronica Slate—he had cultivated it.

“My God,” Gillian whispered, her hand covering her mouth. “I had no idea.”

“How long has Hartley worked here?” Riley asked, stepping closer to examine a particularly disturbing photo where Veronica’s eyes had been burned out with what appeared to be cigarette marks.

“Three years as head of security,” Gillian replied, her voice hollow with shock. “He came highly recommended.”

“What do you make of all this?” Detective Hayes asked Riley.

“It looks like it’s about vengeance,” Riley said. “Hartley believed Veronica or her mother had wronged him somehow.”

Gillian said weakly, “Last night, Veronica said she’d tell me about him later. If only I’d pressed her then…”

“We need to find him,” Riley said firmly. “Ms. Sinclair, I assume you have Hartley’s home address on file.”

Gillian nodded. “I can access it on my cellphone and send it to yours.”

Hayes gave her his cellphone number, and she sent the address immediately.

“I’ll get my officers on it immediately. But if he’s running—”

“He might not be,” Riley interrupted. “This preparation, the theatrical nature of the murder—it suggests someone who wants recognition.”

The security guard who had let them into the building appeared in the doorway.

“Is everything okay in here?” His eyes widened at the sight of the bulletin board.

Riley turned to him. “How well do you know Malcolm Hartley?”

The guard shifted uncomfortably. “Not well, ma’am. He keeps to himself mostly.”

“When he’s not working, where might he go? Any regular haunts, favorite places?”

“Well, he spends a lot of time at the Silver Screen Café. Hollywood-themed place. Sometimes I see him there when I’m getting coffee before my shift. He’s always alone, always heads for a booth in the back room.”

Riley exchanged glances with Hayes and Ann Marie. “The Silver Screen Café,” she repeated.

Gillian stepped forward. “I know it,” Gillian said. “Local spot, popular with film buffs and studio employees. Decorated with Hollywood memorabilia.”

The guard gave the address for the café, and Riley jotted it down.

Hayes pulled out his car keys. “I’ll drive.”

“Ms. Sinclair, could you stay here and coordinate with the forensics team when they arrive?” Riley asked. “We’ll need everything documented exactly as we found it.”

Gillian nodded, her earlier shock hardening into determination. “Of course. And I’ll have security pull whatever surveillance footage we have of Malcolm’s movements yesterday.”

“Send anything you find directly to my phone,” Riley said, handing Gillian her card.

As they left the security building, Riley felt the case accelerating. The discovery of Hartley’s shrine to hatred had shifted their investigation from theoretical to concrete. Why had Veronica recognized him? As Riley, Ann Marie, and Hayes stepped out of the confines of the security building, the midday sun hit them with an intensity that matched their urgency.

As they passed again through the security checkpoint, the small throng of reporters was still gathered like vultures circling fresh prey. The air buzzed with anticipation, microphones poised like weapons ready to strike.

Cameras flashed in rapid succession as they approached, capturing every determined stride.

Riley squared her shoulders, her face an unreadable mask honed by years of dealing with media frenzy. “No comments at this time,” she stated firmly, her voice cutting through the cacophony like a knife through butter.

Ann Marie glanced sideways at Riley, taking cues from her seasoned colleague while keeping pace. Her posture was confident yet unassuming, mirroring Riley’s composure as she navigated through the sea of inquiries.

Detective Hayes moved ahead slightly, his broad frame creating a path through the throng. “Step aside,” he barked with authority that brooked no argument. His presence alone was enough to clear a path for them all to slip through and continue on their way to Hayes’ vehicle.

“You think he’ll be there?” Ann Marie asked as they climbed into the unmarked sedan.

“If he believes he’s executed the perfect crime, he might maintain his routines,” Riley replied.

Hayes started the engine. “Or he could be halfway to Mexico by now.”

“I don’t think so,” Riley said, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. “This isn’t over for him.”

“You think there’s another target?” Hayes asked.

“I’m not sure yet. But Hartley’s obsession seems tied to both Veronica and her mother. There’s something deeper here than just fixation on a celebrity.”

***

Bill Jeffreys stepped out of his Bureau-issued sedan into Jefferson Bell University’s main parking lot. The campus sprawled before him—red brick buildings with white trim, pathways lined with mature oaks, students moving between classes with the energy of a new semester. Under different circumstances, he might have appreciated the scenic beauty and the crisp September air. Instead, his eyes automatically scanned for threats, cataloging exit routes and sightlines with the habitual vigilance of his profession.

He checked his watch—11:53 AM. April would be waiting in the student union.

The union hummed with midday activity—students hunched over laptops, groups gathered around tables, the scent of coffee and grilled sandwiches filling the air. Bill spotted April immediately, seated at a corner table with a clear view of the entrance. Smart girl.

April raised a hand in greeting as he approached. She wore a Jefferson Bell sweatshirt and jeans, blending in with every other student.

“Bill,” she said, standing to greet him. “Thank you for coming.”

He gave her a brief, reassuring hug. “Of course. Your mom would have come herself if she could.”

They sat across from each other, Bill positioning himself to keep the entrance in his line of sight.

“Have you seen him today?” Bill asked, his voice low despite the ambient noise of the busy commons.

April shook her head. “No. Not since that time in the cafeteria last week. I still can’t believe he was one of Mom’s students. He seemed so… normal.”

“That’s what makes someone like Dillard dangerous.”

“He never mentioned Mom. Not once.”

“What did you tell you about himself?”

“Not much. He mentioned that he was working in a local bookstore until he could save up enough money for tuition. Other than that, we talked about books we’d both read. At the time, I just thought he was making conversation.”

Bill leaned forward. “I’d like to speak with your professor. The one teaching the American Politics class that Dillard was auditing.”

April nodded. “That’s Professor Elena Winters. Her office hours should be starting now. I can show you where her office is.”

“Good,” Bill said, standing. “I’ve also arranged for campus security to increase patrols around your dorm and classroom buildings. And I’d like you to check in with your mother or me at regular intervals until we locate Dillard.”

As they walked out of the student union into the midday sunshine, students streamed past, backpacks slung over shoulders, engaged in animated conversations or staring at phones.

“Professor Winters’ office is in Hamilton Hall,” April said, pointing toward a stately building across the quad. “Second floor. She’s really nice—intense about politics, but fair. She lets people audit classes pretty freely, says it encourages civic engagement.”

“Has security spoken with you yet about Dillard?”

“This morning,” April confirmed. “They took down his description and said they’d check the visitor logs and surveillance footage. But if he wasn’t officially enrolled…”

“We’ll find him,” Bill assured her, though he knew that if Dillard had any sense—and obsessives like him were often quite cunning—he’d be keeping his distance from campus now.

They crossed the quad, Bill maintaining a position slightly behind and to April’s right—a protective stance instinctive to his training. He noted with approval that she walked with awareness, her gaze systematically scanning their surroundings.

“There’s Hamilton,” April said, gesturing toward a four-story brick building with white columns framing the entrance. “Professor Winters’ office is Room 237.”

As they climbed the steps to the entrance, Bill felt a peculiar mixture of emotions. Pride in April’s composure. Anger at Dillard. And something deeper, more personal—a fierce protectiveness.

He realized with sudden clarity that somewhere along the line, April had become like a daughter to him. Not just Riley’s daughter, but someone he cared for deeply. He thought of his own sons, now living far away with his ex-wife Maggie, and felt the familiar ache of their long absence—an ache somehow soothed by his new growing bonds.

“It’s this way,” April said, leading him down a hallway. She stopped before a door with a small nameplate reading “Prof. Elena Winters, Ph.D.” Beneath it, a handwritten note announced “Office Hours: M-W-F 12–2 PM.”

“Do you want me to wait?” April asked.

Bill shook his head. “No need. Why don’t you head to your next class? Text me when you get there, and again when it’s over.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to handle this, April. Try not to worry.”

She nodded, attempting a brave smile that reminded him so much of Riley that his chest tightened. “Thanks, Bill. For coming all this way.”

“Always,” he replied simply.

As April walked away, Bill turned toward Professor Winters’ door. Finding Leo Dillard had just become his highest priority, not just for Riley’s peace of mind, but for his own.

***

Leo Dillard remained perfectly still in the shade of a massive oak tree, his body angled behind the trunk just enough to obscure his presence from casual observation. A navy baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a nondescript gray hoodie completed his anonymity. From this position, he had a view of the student union’s entrance without exposing himself to the security cameras mounted above the building’s doors. At this distance and with the flow of students between himself and the building, he could remain unseen.

He’d been waiting for forty-three minutes when April Paige finally emerged from the building. But she wasn’t alone. The sight of the man accompanying her sent a jolt of recognition through Leo’s system: Bill Jeffreys. Riley Paige’s partner. Her lover. The man who had everything Leo deserved.

Leo’s leaned against the rough bark of a tree. He knew Jeffreys’ face well—had studied photographs of him with Riley at Bureau events, had dissected their body language in every image he could find online. Exactly as Leo had imagined, the man looked solid, self-assured, unremarkable except for a certain easy confidence.

“So she sent her attack dog,” Leo whispered to himself, watching as Jeffreys positioned himself slightly behind April, his eyes constantly scanning the surroundings. The protective stance was unmistakable—they knew. April had told her mother about meeting him, and Riley had dispatched Jeffreys to investigate.

Leo forced himself to breathe slowly, to think rationally. This was a setback, not a disaster. In truth, he’d been careless. Revealing his real name to April had been a mistake born of vanity, a desire for her to know who he really was. He’d wanted her to eventually understand the connection between them.

Their conversation in the cafeteria last week had gone perfectly until that moment. April had been friendly, open—clearly her mother’s daughter in both appearance and manner. The familiar hazel eyes, the dark hair, even the way she tilted her head slightly when considering a response—all echoes of Riley. Getting close to April had been surprisingly easy.

But then he’d slipped when he’d said his own name. The moment the words left his mouth, he’d known it was a tactical error. If April mentioned his name to her mother, the game would be over before it truly began.

Now Leo understood that his window of opportunity at Jefferson Bell had closed. They would be looking for him—campus security, perhaps even local police. He backed deeper into the shadow of the tree.

A group of students passed nearby, their laughter jarring against the intensity of his thoughts. One glanced curiously in his direction, and Leo casually pulled out his phone, adopting the posture of someone simply taking a break between classes. The student looked away, interest fading as quickly as it had appeared.

His original plan had been elegant in its simplicity. Get close to April. Gain her trust. Use that connection to orchestrate some sort of confrontation with Riley. The ultimate revenge—Riley Paige would come face to face with the man she’d dismissed as insignificant, only to find him in a position of power over what she valued most.

“I was your best student,” Leo muttered, the words barely audible. “I understood you better than anyone.”

It was true. He’d studied Riley Paige long before entering her classroom—read every article about her cases, watched every available interview, researched her methods and insights until he could anticipate her thoughts. She had a gift for understanding killers’ minds, and he had a gift for understanding hers. They were intellectual equals, spiritual counterparts. She should have recognized that special connection between them.

Instead, she’d rejected him. Embarrassed him. Destroyed his future at the FBI.

Leo watched as April and Jeffreys disappeared into Hamilton Hall. Time to go.

He pushed away from the tree and walked unhurriedly in the opposite direction from Hamilton Hall, keeping his pace measured, his posture relaxed. Nothing to see here. Just another student going about his day.

This setback with April was unfortunate but not insurmountable. He’d simply need to adjust his approach. Riley Paige thought she’d banished him from her life with a simple complaint to authorities. But she was wrong. Their story wasn’t over; it was merely entering a new chapter.

“We’ll settle things soon, Riley,” he whispered as he reached his car in the visitor’s lot. “Sooner than you think.”

CHAPTER SIX

When Detective Hayes pulled his sedan to the curb in front of the Silver Screen Café, Riley saw that the place was an homage to old Hollywood glamor. Its vintage marquee-style sign glowed even in the afternoon sunlight, art deco elements framed the entrance, and movie poster reproductions lined the windows.

Inside, she hoped they might find the man whose disturbing shrine to Veronica Slate had made him a prime suspect. Malcolm Hartley

“Quite the Atlanta landmark,” Hayes commented as they left the vehicle. “Been around since the seventies. Owner’s obsessed with preserving the golden age of cinema.”

Riley’s attention remained fixed on the entrance. “How do you want to handle this? If he’s inside, we don’t want to spook him.”

“I’ll take point,” Hayes said, his voice dropping to a professional murmur. “You two flank me. No sudden movements, keep it casual until we confirm he’s there.”

Ann Marie nodded, her earlier enthusiasm tempered by the gravity of what they’d discovered in Hartley’s office. She placed herself slightly behind Riley, a position that offered both visibility and protection—the instinctive formation of experienced agents approaching an unpredictable situation.

The café’s heavy glass door swung open with a melodic chime, releasing a wave of air-conditioned coolness scented with coffee and something sweeter—caramel or vanilla, Riley couldn’t quite distinguish. The interior unfolded before them like a shrine to cinema history, more museum than eatery.

Every available wall space displayed framed movie posters, publicity stills, and signed photographs of stars from Hollywood’s golden era. Glass cases held artifacts that seemed almost sacred in their careful presentation—a pair of ruby slippers (replicas, surely), a fedora purportedly worn by Humphrey Bogart, vintage cameras and film reels arranged in artful displays. The lighting was deliberately theatrical—warm amber spots illuminating memorabilia while keeping the dining areas in a softer glow reminiscent of a darkened theater.

Ceiling fans rotated lazily overhead, their wooden blades adding to the atmosphere of timeless elegance.

The counter where baristas prepared elaborate coffee concoctions was designed to mimic an old-fashioned ticket booth, complete with art deco detailing and brass fittings. Behind it, the coffee menu was displayed on a board styled after a vintage cinema marquee, listing drinks named for famous films and actors.

“Impressive,” Ann Marie whispered, her eyes drawn to a display case containing what appeared to be original scripts with handwritten notes in the margins.

“Focus,” Riley reminded her gently. Her own gaze methodically scanned the occupied tables—a middle-aged couple sharing a dessert, three college students hunched over laptops, a solitary woman reading near the window. No sign of Malcolm Hartley yet.

“The guard told us that he always heads for a booth in the back room.” Riley said.

“Through there,” Hayes replied, gesturing toward an opening on the other side of the room. They saw that the café extended deeper than the frontage suggested, with a corridor leading to additional seating areas arranged in themed sections.

They strolled past two rooms, each adorned with nostalgic decor inspired by classic films. A few patrons sat scattered at tables, immersed in quiet conversation, but no booths occupied these spaces. As they continued, they arrived at an impressive archway, above which a sign reading “The Director’s Cut” was elegantly suspended.

“This must be it,” Hayes muttered as he stepped inside. Riley and Ann Marie maintained a casual pace behind him. A server approached with menus, but Hayes declined with a polite smile and continued toward the rear section.

The Director’s Cut area was designed to evoke a vintage screening room. The lighting was dimmer here, the walls draped with heavy burgundy curtains reminiscent of theater hangings. Private booths were each separated by dividers that created the illusion of personal screening boxes. Directors’ chairs emblazoned with famous names hung on the walls, interspersed with black-and-white behind-the-scenes photographs from classic film sets.

In the farthest corner, a solitary figure sat hunched over a half-empty coffee cup. Malcolm Hartley. He hadn’t noticed them yet, his eyes had a faraway look, and his thoughts must have been elsewhere.

Riley observed him for a moment—a man in his mid-forties, with thinning dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a scholarly appearance. He looked more like a film historian than a security chief.

Hayes caught Riley’s eye and nodded almost imperceptibly. They began moving toward Hartley’s booth, maintaining a casual pace that wouldn’t attract attention. They had closed half the distance when Malcolm glanced up.

His eyes darted from Hayes to Riley to Ann Marie, clearly assessing them as law enforcement rather than casual café patrons. His expression shifted from concentration to recognition, and then to alarm.

“Malcolm Hartley?” Hayes called, his voice carrying clearly across the remaining distance. “Atlanta Police. We need to ask you some questions.”

Malcolm’s response was immediate and unambiguous. He rose from his seat in a single fluid motion and moved rapidly toward a swinging door marked “Staff Only” at the rear of the room.

“Mr. Hartley, stop!” Riley called out, already in motion. “FBI!”

Several patrons turned at her words, conversations halting mid-sentence as the atmosphere in the café shifted from relaxed to tense in an instant. Malcolm ignored the command, pushing through the swinging door with his shoulder, disappearing from view.

Hayes accelerated into a controlled run, Riley and Ann Marie flanking him as they navigated between tables. Riley’s mind raced through possibilities. Was he armed? Did he have a vehicle waiting? Was there another exit through the kitchen?

They burst through the swinging doors into the brightly lit kitchen, the sudden shift from the dim café momentarily disorienting. Stainless steel surfaces reflected the overhead fluorescents, creating a harsh glare that Riley squinted against. The kitchen staff froze in their tasks, startled by the sudden intrusion.

“FBI and Atlanta PD,” Hayes announced, badge already extended. “Did a man just come through here?”

A young chef pointed wordlessly toward the back exit, a red emergency door that was now slowly closing. The three moved in tandem through the kitchen, navigating around a central island stacked with plates of half-prepared food. A pot boiled over on a stove, the water hissing as it hit the burner, but the staff remained frozen in place, watching the unusual scene unfold.

Riley reached the emergency exit first, shouldering it open to reveal a narrow alley behind the café. The contrast between the kitchen’s sterile brightness and the dim passage momentarily disoriented her. She blinked against the change, her vision adjusting in time to see Malcolm Hartley’s retreating figure about thirty yards ahead, running toward the street at the far end.

“Hayes!” she called, already moving in pursuit. “He’s heading east!”

Hayes emerged behind her, with Ann Marie close on his heels. They spread out slightly in the narrow alley—Hayes taking the center while Riley and Ann Marie moved to either side. The formation was instinctive, born of their training; it maximized their coverage while minimizing the risk of interfering with each other.

The alley was littered with the detritus of restaurant operations—stacked milk crates, recycling bins overflowing with cardboard, the occasional puddle of questionable origin. Riley navigated these obstacles without breaking stride, her focus locked on Hartley’s retreating form.

“Malcolm Hartley!” Hayes shouted, his voice bouncing off the brick walls of the surrounding buildings. “Stop now or we’ll add resisting arrest to your charges!”

Whether motivated by Hayes’ warning or simple exhaustion, Hartley slowed momentarily, glancing back over his shoulder. In that split second of divided attention, his foot caught on an uneven section of pavement, and he stumbled.

Riley seized the opportunity, accelerating her pace. Ann Marie mirrored her movement from the opposite side of the alley, both women converging on their target.

“Hands where I can see them!” Riley commanded, closing the final yards between them.

Hartley froze, his eyes darting between Riley approaching from his left and Ann Marie from his right. For a moment, Riley thought he might comply. Then his expression hardened, and he made a final desperate lunge toward the alley’s exit.

Hayes intercepted him with the precision of a linebacker, catching Hartley’s midsection in a controlled tackle that drove them both against the alley wall. The impact knocked the wind from Hartley, who slid to a sitting position, gasping for breath as Hayes maintained a firm grip on his shoulder.

“That’s enough,” Hayes said, his voice surprisingly calm despite the exertion. “You’re only making this worse for yourself.”

Riley approached cautiously, her hand hovering near her holster, though she hadn’t drawn her weapon. Hartley didn’t appear armed, but the desperation of his flight suggested a dangerous level of determination.

“Malcolm Hartley,” she said, maintaining a professional distance as Hayes pulled the man to his feet. “We need to talk about Veronica Slate.”

At the mention of Veronica’s name, something shifted in Hartley’s expression—a flicker of emotion that Riley couldn’t immediately identify. Fear? Anger? Satisfaction? It was gone before she could be certain.

“Turn around,” Hayes instructed, rotating Hartley to face the wall. “Hands behind your back.”

The security chief complied without resistance, his earlier flight instinct apparently exhausted. As Hayes secured the handcuffs, the metallic click echoing in the confined space of the alley, Riley studied their suspect’s profile. Malcolm Hartley bore little resemblance to the passionate obsessive suggested by his disturbing photo collection. In person, he seemed small somehow, perhaps diminished by capture.

“Malcolm Hartley,” Hayes began formally, turning the man to face them, “you’re under arrest for evading police and interfering with an investigation. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”

As Hayes continued reciting the Miranda rights, Riley watched Hartley’s face. His initial panic had faded, replaced by a calculating stillness that concerned her more than his desperate flight had. His eyes met hers, holding her gaze with unexpected steadiness.

“…Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?” Hayes concluded.

“I understand,” Hartley replied, his voice surprisingly composed. Then, without prompting, he added: “I didn’t kill Veronica Slate.”

The declaration was neither a plea nor a shout but a simple statement delivered with unsettling certainty. Riley studied his expression, searching for the tells of deception she’d observed in countless interrogations throughout her career. His gaze remained level, his breathing controlled despite the recent exertion.

“No one accused you of that yet,” she noted carefully, watching his reaction.

“You will,” he replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “But I didn’t kill her.”

The absolute confidence in his tone sent a whisper of doubt through Riley’s mind. The evidence against him seemed compelling—the shrine of mutilated photographs, his absence from work after the murder, his flight upon seeing them. Yet something in his demeanor suggested either remarkable acting skills or genuine innocence.

“We’ll discuss that down at the station,” Hayes said, taking Hartley’s arm to guide him back toward the café’s rear entrance, where they’d left their vehicle. Rather than escort their prisoner back through the café, the detective led them out of the alley and back to the car.

On the way, Riley thought of the words with those defaced photos on Hartley’s bulletin board —“LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER.” Those words were certainly incriminating. And if Hartley hadn’t killed Veronica, who had?

CHAPTER SEVEN

The fluorescent lights of the fast-food restaurant cast an unnatural pallor across Riley’s half-eaten burger. The vinyl booth squeaked beneath her as she shifted, checking her watch for the third time in ten minutes. An hour had passed since they’d brought Malcolm Hartley in to Atlanta Police Headquarters, and the waiting game had begun—a familiar limbo in the rhythm of an investigation, yet no less maddening for its predictability.

Across the table, Ann Marie methodically arranged her french fries by length before selecting the longest one to dip into a small plastic cup of ketchup. “They’re taking their time,” she observed, her voice pitched low though the restaurant was not crowded at this mid-afternoon hour.

Riley nodded, pushing her burger and fries away. Food was the last thing on her mind. Between the bulletin board of mutilated Veronica Slate photos and the persistent worry about April, her appetite had vanished entirely.

“Hayes knows what he’s doing,” she said, though her tone lacked conviction. “He’ll call when they’re ready for us.”

“Do you believe Hartley’s denial?” Ann Marie asked, selecting another fry with surgical precision. “That board in his office seems pretty damning.”

Riley considered the question. The contrast between Hartley’s calm declaration of innocence and the violent hatred displayed on that bulletin board created a dissonance she couldn’t quite resolve. Her instincts, usually so reliable, were sending mixed signals.

“Obsession doesn’t always equal action,” she said finally. “Plenty of people fixate on celebrities without crossing the line into violence.”

“But making use of that celebration to recreate the murder from The Night Walker, the same strychnine poisoning—that suggests intimate knowledge and planning.” Ann Marie’s eyes lit with analytical interest. “And most obsessive fans wouldn’t have access to the Magnolia Gateway soundstage beforehand.”

“Unless they worked there,” Riley countered. “As head of security, Hartley would have had both the access and the opportunity.”

“True,” Ann Marie conceded. “But if he wanted to kill Veronica Slate so badly, why wait until she was surrounded by witnesses? Why not choose a more private moment?”

The question lingered between them, underscoring the puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit. Riley was formulating a response when her phone vibrated against the table, the screen lighting up with Bill’s name.

“Bill,” she answered, unable to keep the concern from her voice. “Any news?”

“I’ve been at Jefferson Bell most of the day,” Bill’s steady voice came through clearly. “Spoke with Professor Elena Winters about an hour ago—she’s the one teaching April’s American Politics class.”

Riley straightened, instantly alert. Ann Marie’s attention sharpened as well, her methodical fry-sorting abandoned.

“What did she say about Leo?” Riley asked.

“She confirmed he was auditing her class, though he wasn’t officially registered with the university.” Bill’s voice carried a note of professional frustration. “Apparently he told April the same thing that he had told Professor Winters—that he was working in a bookstore and saving money so that he could enroll.”

Riley stiffened, the details landing like small, precise blows. “Working-class background? Saving for tuition?”

“That’s the story he gave her,” Bill confirmed. “Winters found it completely believable. Said he presented himself as a polite, earnest young man—passionate about political science and eager to learn. The perfect student, basically.”

“It was a lie,” Riley said flatly. “All of it.”

She felt Ann Marie’s questioning gaze but kept her focus on the call. This fabricated identity revealed something disturbing about Leo’s methods—a calculated approach that went beyond simple fixation.

“What do you mean?” Bill asked.

“Leo’s background is in his Academy file,” Riley explained, her voice tight. “I looked into it when I made my complaint against him. His parents are Elizabeth Hollington Dillard and Charles Preston Dillard. The Hollingtons are Georgetown real estate royalty—they own half the historic buildings in the neighborhood. And Charles is senior partner at Lawson and Dillard.”

There was a moment of silence as Bill absorbed this information. “So he’s playing a role,” he said finally. “Creating a false persona to gain sympathy or connection.”

“Or to hide his tracks,” Riley added. “Did April mention anything about Leo describing himself as struggling financially?”

“Yes she did,” Bill replied. “Apparently, he told her he was working in a bookstore and saving up money so he could enroll.” 

Riley rubbed her temple, where tension was gathering into the beginnings of a headache. “This makes him more dangerous, Bill. He’s not just obsessed—he’s methodical. Creating false identities, approaching April as a way to get to me…”

“I know,” Bill said grimly. “I’m going to dig deeper into the Dillard family. See if I can find anything useful.”

“Elizabeth Hollington Dillard is a fixture in DC society pages,” Riley told him. “Art museum boards, charity galas—the works. She and Charles live in one of those multi-million-dollar Georgetown townhouses. I remember Leo’s address from his file.”

“You think they know what their son is up to?”

“I have no idea,” Riley admitted. “But they’re our best lead for finding him. Or at least the only one we have right now.”

As they spoke, Riley’s phone notified her of an incoming call. Detective Hayes’ name flashed on the screen.

“Bill, I have to go. Hayes is calling. Keep me updated on anything you find about Leo or his family.”

“Will do. And Riley? Try to focus on the case there. April is safe, and I’m keeping things under control.”

Riley ended the call and immediately answered Hayes’ incoming one, putting it on speaker so Ann Marie could hear.

“Hayes,” she said by way of greeting. “What’s the status with Hartley?”

“We’ve been dealing with his attorney,” Hayes replied, sounding tired. “Marcus Ewing—former federal prosecutor turned defense counsel. Guy’s got a reputation for being meticulous, and he’s living up to it. Been reviewing every detail of what we can and can’t ask Hartley.”

“And?” Riley prompted.

“And he’s finally agreed to let us question his client, but I doubt Ewing will let Hartley say much. He’s already talking about ‘his client’s constitutional rights’ and ‘the prejudicial nature of circumstantial evidence.’“

Riley exchanged glances with Ann Marie. “We’ll be right there.”

“Good. And Agent Paige? This guy Ewing—he’s good. Used to put away criminals for the Justice Department until he had some kind of crisis of conscience. Now he specializes in cases where he thinks the cops have the wrong person. If he’s taken Hartley’s case, he believes in his innocence.”

“Or he’s being well-paid,” Riley countered.

“He’s public defense,” Hayes replied. “Not making a dime more than usual.”

The call ended, and Riley pocketed her phone. “Let’s go,” she said to Ann Marie, already sliding out of the booth. “Sounds like we’re in for an interesting interrogation.”

Ann Marie gathered her bag and followed Riley toward the exit. “So what do you think about Hartley? Innocent or guilty?”

“I think the evidence is circumstantial,” Riley replied, pushing through the door into the warm Atlanta night. “That bulletin board proves he hated Veronica Slate, but hate and murder aren’t the same thing.”

They walked briskly to the sedan that Meredith had arranged for them. As Riley slid behind the wheel, her thoughts toggled between the two cases—Veronica Slate’s theatrical murder and Leo Dillard’s methodical deception. Different crimes, different states, yet they felt connected by the theme of obsession.

She started the engine, its soft purr breaking the night’s stillness. “Let’s see what Malcolm Hartley has to say for himself,” she said, pulling out of the parking lot toward Atlanta Police Headquarters.

***

Bill Jeffreys stared at his phone for a long moment after ending the call with Riley. The student union hummed with activity around him—laptops clicking, conversations overlapping, the hiss of the espresso machine punctuating it all. None of it interrupted the focus of his thoughts.

He knew that Leo Dillard was not just any obsessed young guy; he was calculating. The fabricated working-class persona, the careful approach to April, the strategic positioning that allowed him to observe Riley’s daughter—all of it spoke to a methodical mind capable of far more than simple stalking.

April had texted him fifteen minutes ago, confirming she’d arrived safely at her dormitory, where her roommate was waiting. Bill had arranged for campus security to maintain regular patrols past her building, though he knew such measures would provide only limited protection against someone as determined as Leo appeared to be.

Bill opened his contacts and scrolled until he found the number he’d requested earlier from the FBI database—the Dillard family’s Georgetown residence. This inquiry lay outside official Bureau channels; no crime had been committed at Jefferson Bell, no direct threat made. Leo’s presence here was concerning but not yet actionable in any formal capacity.

But Bill had long ago learned that waiting for “actionable” often meant waiting until it was too late.

He pressed the call button, his jaw set in determination. The phone rang three times before a woman’s voice answered, cultured and cool.

“Dillard residence.”

“Mrs. Elizabeth Dillard?” Bill kept his tone professionally neutral.

A pause, barely perceptible. “Yes. Who’s calling, please?”

“Special Agent Bill Jeffreys, FBI.” He allowed the weight of the credentials to settle before continuing. “I’m calling regarding your son, Leo.”

The silence that followed was neither surprise nor confusion, but something harder—a deliberate stop. When Elizabeth Dillard spoke again, her voice had dropped several degrees in temperature.

“I have nothing to say about Leo.” The statement carried no maternal concern, only weary resignation tinged with anxiety.

“I’m investigating a situation at Jefferson Bell University where Leo has been auditing classes.” Bill chose his words carefully, navigating the narrow space between truth and necessary omission. “He’s been misrepresenting himself to faculty and students.”

“I can’t help you,” Elizabeth replied, her voice a flat line devoid of emotion.

Bill seized the moment to probe further. “Mrs. Dillard, when did you last speak with him?”

Her response was clipped and precise. “Fourteen months ago.” A pause, then a choking sound, almost like a sob of grief. Or perhaps even fear. “I have nothing more to say about him.”

Bill tried again, “Do you know where he might be staying now?”

“No I don’t.” Elizabeth’s tone turned frosty. “Agent Jeffreys, my husband and I are done with Leo. Whatever he’s doing now is his own affair.”

Bill attempted one last time, “This could be serious—”

But she interrupted sharply, “It always is with Leo.” Her patience had clearly run out. With an air of finality, she said, “If there’s nothing else, I’m busy,” and ended the call abruptly.

He lowered the phone slowly, processing the dismissal and the troubling insights it had yielded. But more troubling were they unanswered new questions it raised. He detected dread in Elizabeth’s voice at the mere mention of her son’s name. The portrait emerging of Leo Dillard was increasingly concerning—a pattern of obsessions stretching back to childhood, wealthy parents who had distanced themselves from their son’s behavior, and a young man adept at reinventing himself to suit his purposes.

Bill glanced around the student union, noting the carefree interactions of students whose biggest worry might be an upcoming exam or a relationship issue. April deserved that same normalcy, that same freedom from fear. And Riley—already stretched thin by her case in Atlanta—deserved to know her daughter was safe.

He weighed his options. The FBI’s official channels moved at a deliberate slow pace, bound by protocols and jurisdictional considerations. A formal investigation into Leo Dillard would require evidence of specific threats or criminal acts, neither of which they yet possessed. By the time such an investigation received approval, Leo could have disappeared again, reemerging under yet another carefully constructed identity.

The decision crystallized in his mind with sudden clarity. Elizabeth Dillard’s refusal to talk to him had only reinforced his concerns about Leo. If she wouldn’t help willingly over the phone, perhaps an in-person visit would yield more cooperation—or at least more information. The Georgetown address was less than an hour’s drive from Fredericksburg.

Bill stood, gathering his jacket from the back of the chair. He would drive to Georgetown immediately and speak with the Dillards face-to-face. The direct approach often revealed things that phone calls concealed—body language, household dynamics, the subtle tells that could point toward Leo’s whereabouts or intentions.

As he walked toward the exit, Bill sent a quick text to April, reminding her to stay with friends and to call immediately if she spotted Leo. Then he pocketed his phone and quickened his pace, a sense of urgency propelling him toward the wealthy, insulated world that awaited—and perhaps within it, the key to understanding the threat that Leo Dillard posed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

When Riley pushed open the door of the Atlanta Police Department headquarters, the lobby hummed with a familiar controlled chaos—uniformed officers escorting handcuffed suspects, civilians waiting with expressions ranging from boredom to barely contained panic, and the persistent ringing of phones that never seemed to be answered quickly enough.

“Agents,” Hayes called as he made his way toward them, weaving between a pair of patrol officers. “Glad you made it. Our guy’s all set up in the interrogation room.”

Riley nodded, falling into step beside him. “What’s Ewing’s approach so far?”

“Combative,” Hayes replied, leading them toward a security door. “Claims we’re harassing his client based on prejudicial assumptions and circumstantial evidence.”

“Marcus Ewing’s a one-man crusade against what he calls ‘prosecutorial overreach.’ Takes on cases pro bono when he believes the accused is being railroaded.”

“So he actually believes Hartley is innocent?” Riley asked.

Hayes shrugged. “Or he just wants to make sure we follow every procedural detail to the letter. Just so you know, he’s got a particular dislike for federal involvement in local cases. Thinks it’s an overreach of power.” He offered a thin smile. “So don’t take it personally when he tries to eviscerate you in there.”

“Noted,” Riley replied.

Hayes pushed open the door to reveal a small viewing room with a large one-way mirror. Through it, they could see Malcolm Hartley seated at a metal table, his shoulders hunched, hands clasped before him. Beside him sat a man Riley immediately pegged as Marcus Ewing—silver-haired, immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than most cops made in a month, his posture ramrod straight.

“Ready?” Hayes asked, his hand already on the door to the interrogation room.

Riley nodded, exchanging a quick glance with Ann Marie. The younger agent’s expression was focused, absorbing every detail of the scene.

Hayes led them into the standard issue interrogation room—beige walls, fluorescent lighting, a metal table bolted to the floor, and four uncomfortable chairs. A camera in the upper corner recorded everything, its small red light a constant reminder of accountability.

“Mr. Hartley, Mr. Ewing,” Hayes began, gesturing toward Riley and Ann Marie. “These are Special Agents Riley Paige and Ann Marie Esmer from the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Ewing rose smoothly, extending his hand. “Marcus Ewing. A pleasure to meet you both, though I must question the necessity of federal involvement in what appears to be a local matter.” His voice carried the polished cadence of someone accustomed to courtroom oratory.

“The theatrical nature of Ms. Slate’s murder suggests a potential for escalation that warrants our involvement,” Riley replied, her tone professional as she shook his hand briefly.

“Theatrical? Interesting choice of words, Agent Paige. Almost as if you’ve already constructed a narrative around my client.”

“May we sit?” Ann Marie interjected, her voice carrying a warmth that contrasted with the tension crackling between Riley and Ewing.

Without waiting for a response, she moved to the chair opposite Malcolm, settling into it with a grace that seemed at odds with the environment. Riley took the seat beside her, while Hayes positioned himself near the door, arms crossed.

“Mr. Hartley,” Riley began, “we’d like to ask you about—”

“Before my client answers any questions,” Ewing interrupted smoothly, “I’d like to establish some parameters. First, Mr. Hartley has not been charged with any crime. Second, the search of his office was conducted without a warrant. And third, the only evidence you’ve presented thus far is a private collection of altered photographs that, while perhaps distasteful, do not constitute proof of criminal activity.”

Riley maintained her composure. “Mr. Ewing, we’re simply trying to understand Mr. Hartley’s relationship with Veronica Slate.”

“My client had no relationship with Ms. Slate,” Ewing stated flatly. “He was employed as head of security at Magnolia Gateway Films, where she was an occasional visitor. That’s the extent of their connection.”

“Mr. Hartley,” Riley tried again, “could you explain the bulletin board in your office? The one with the defaced photographs of Veronica Slate?”

Ewing placed a hand on Malcolm’s forearm before he could respond. “My client is not obligated to explain his private artistic expressions. Unless you can demonstrate a direct connection between those photographs and Ms. Slate’s death, they remain irrelevant to your investigation.”

“Mr. Hartley,” Riley persisted, “you were absent from work after Ms. Slate’s murder. Can you explain why?”

“My client was distraught upon learning of the tragedy that occurred at his workplace,” Ewing answered smoothly. “He took a personal day to process the shock, as is his right under his employment contract.”

“And his attempt to flee when we approached him at the Silver Screen Café?”

“A misunderstanding,” Ewing replied without hesitation. “Mr. Hartley didn’t realize you were law enforcement. In today’s climate, many citizens are understandably cautious when approached by strangers.”

The pattern was clear—each question directed at Malcolm was intercepted and neutralized by Ewing.

Then Ann Marie shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly. When she spoke, her voice held a gentle, almost conversational quality. “You know, Mr. Hartley,” she began, her blue eyes meeting his directly, “I grew up in a funeral home.”

The non sequitur caught everyone off guard. Malcolm blinked, his gaze finally lifting to meet hers. Even Ewing paused, momentarily thrown by the apparent change in direction.

“My father runs Esmer Funeral Home in Georgetown,” Ann Marie continued. “I spent my childhood around people experiencing the worst moments of their lives.”

Malcolm’s posture shifted subtly—a slight relaxation of his shoulders, a tilt of his head that suggested curiosity rather than defense.

“I look at you, Mr. Hartley,” Ann Marie said, her voice dropping slightly as if sharing a confidence, “and I see someone carrying a burden. Not guilt—not necessarily. But something heavy. Something old.”

Ewing stirred beside his client. “Agent Esmer, if you have a specific question—”

“It’s all right, Marcus,” Malcolm said, speaking for the first time since they’d entered. His voice was softer than Riley had expected, with the careful enunciation of someone accustomed to academic discussions. “I’d like to hear what Agent Esmer has to say.”

“The bulletin board in your office—it’s not recent work, is it? Those photos, the way they’re arranged, the precision of the cuts… that’s years of accumulated resentment. That’s not about her death. It’s about something she did to you.”

Malcolm stared at her for a long moment. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he chuckled—a dry, humorless sound. “Very perceptive, Agent Esmer. Yes, Veronica Slate and I have history. Not the kind you’re implying, but history nonetheless.”

“Malcolm,” Ewing cautioned, “you don’t need to—”

“I’d like to explain, Marcus,” Malcolm said firmly. “I’m tired of being treated like a suspect.” He turned back to Ann Marie. “I was a film historian before I became a security guard. Did my doctoral work on Hollywood during the McCarthy era, specialized in the impact of the House Un-American Activities Committee hearings on the film industry.”

Ann Marie nodded encouragingly. “That’s quite a leap—from academic to security chief.”

“Not by choice,” Malcolm replied, a flash of bitterness crossing his features. “Ten years ago, I was researching a book on Roberta Rimes. A comprehensive biography that would have included previously undisclosed information about her testimony in 1955 before HUAC.”

Riley’s interest was piqued. “What kind of information?”

Malcolm adjusted his glasses, a habitual gesture that seemed to help him organize his thoughts. “Roberta Rimes cultivated an image as one of Hollywood’s golden girls—talented, beautiful, untouched by scandal. But like many stars of that era, she had secrets. During the McCarthy witch hunts, she was called to testify before HUAC.”

“That wasn’t unusual for actors at that time,” Hayes interjected from his position by the door.

“No, it wasn’t,” Malcolm agreed. “But unlike the public hearings that ruined so many careers, Roberta’s was conducted behind closed doors. And for decades, the contents of that testimony remained classified. The very fact that she testified at all was never made public.”

“Until you discovered it,” Ann Marie prompted gently.

A spark of professional pride briefly illuminating Malcolm’s features. “I found references to it in the personal papers of a HUAC committee member that had been donated to a university archive. Followed the thread, filed Freedom of Information Act requests, cross-referenced with other sources. It took years, but I eventually uncovered the truth.”

“Which was?” Riley asked.

“Roberta Rimes named names,” Malcolm said simply. “She testified against fellow actors, directors, writers—people she’d worked with, people who trusted her. She did it to save her own career.”

“And you wanted to include this in your biography,” Riley prompted.

“It was historically significant,” Malcolm insisted. “I approached Veronica about the biography, thinking she might appreciate an honest accounting of her mother’s life.”

“I’m guessing she didn’t,” Ann Marie said quietly.

Malcolm’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “That would be an understatement. She not only refused to cooperate—she threatened me. When I made it clear I intended to publish with or without her blessing, she hit me with a cease and desist order. Used her connections to pressure my publisher into dropping the project. And when that wasn’t enough, she started calling colleagues, department heads, journal editors.”

“She blacklisted you,” Riley said, the irony clearly not lost on her.

“Exactly,” Malcolm confirmed, his face flushed with remembered humiliation. “Just like her mother did to others. She systematically destroyed my academic reputation. Suggested I was fabricating evidence, that my research methods were questionable. Within a year, I couldn’t get published anywhere. My department ‘failed to renew’ my contract. My career was over.”

“That explains the bulletin board,” Anne Marie said.

Malcolm nodded, some of his anger seeming to deflate. “Not my proudest creation. But yes, after losing everything I’d worked for, I developed a… fixation on Veronica. The irony wasn’t lost on me—being essentially blacklisted for trying to expose how her mother had blacklisted others.”

Riley said, “Mr. Hartley, I understand your anger. But it doesn’t explain why you ran when we approached you at the café.”

Ewing reasserted himself. “My client has explained his history with Ms. Slate. That doesn’t obligate him to account for every action, especially when he hasn’t been charged with a crime.”

Ann Marie tried another approach. “Were you at the studio the night Veronica died?”

“Of course he was,” Ewing answered before Malcolm could speak. “He’s the head of security. But he was monitoring the main entrance, far from the soundstage where the event took place. Multiple security staff can confirm his whereabouts throughout the evening.”

Hayes pushed off from the wall, stepping closer to the table. “Mr. Hartley, we’re currently searching your office. We’ll be obtaining warrants for your residence and electronic devices as well. Is there anything you’d like to tell us before we find it ourselves?”

Malcolm paled slightly, his eyes darting to Ewing. The lawyer placed a hand on his client’s shoulder. “Detective Hayes, unless you’re formally charging my client, this interview is over. Mr. Hartley has cooperated fully, explained the context of the photographs in his office, and provided information about his past interactions with the victim. Without specific evidence linking him to the crime, continued questioning constitutes harassment.”

Hayes and Ewing locked eyes in a silent battle of wills. Finally, Hayes said, “We’ll take a break here.” He called out, “Officer,” and the door opened to reveal a uniformed policeman, “Please escort Mr. Hartley back to holding.”

“This is outrageous,” Ewing protested, rising to his feet. “My client has not been charged with any crime. You can’t continue to detain him without cause.”

“We can hold him for 48 hours,” Hayes countered calmly. “And given that he fled from federal agents, we have cause.”

As Malcolm was led from the room, Ewing gathered his leather portfolio and straightened his tie. “I’ll be filing a formal complaint about this treatment. And when my client is eventually released—which he will be, as you have no actual evidence against him—we’ll be discussing civil action for wrongful detention and defamation.”

With that parting shot, he strode from the room, leaving Riley, Ann Marie, and Hayes alone in the suddenly quiet space.

Hayes dropped into the chair Ewing had vacated, running a hand over his face. “Well, that was illuminating, if not entirely productive.”

“I disagree,” Riley said. “We learned quite a bit about Malcolm’s reason for hating Veronica.”

“And that gives him motive for murder,” Hayes pointed out.

“It does. But something doesn’t quite fit.”

Hayes looked at her with surprise. “Seriously? The guy had a shrine of mutilated photos of the victim, a decade-long grudge against her for destroying his career, and he ran when we tried to question him. What part of that doesn’t scream ‘guilty’ to you?”

“The part where he’d wait ten years to kill her,” Riley replied. “And the method. Poisoning her during a public event, in a setting that recreates her mother’s famous death scene? That’s incredibly specific and theatrical. It doesn’t align with Malcolm’s grudge, which was academic and personal.”

“So what are you saying?” Hayes asked, frustration evident in his voice.

“Malcolm Hartley is definitely hiding something. But I’m not convinced that ‘something’ is Veronica’s murder.”

Ann Marie added. “The searches of his home and computer should tell us more. If he’s our killer, there will be evidence of planning, research into poisons, something concrete.”

Hayes sighed. “Fine. I’ll let you know what the searches turn up. In the meantime, what’s your next move?”

Riley stood, gathering her notes. “We need to find out more about Roberta Rimes. If Veronica was willing to destroy a man’s career to keep her testimony secret, it might be the key to something we’re missing.”

Ann Marie followed Riley’s lead, rising from her chair. “Thank you for your help, Detective. We’ll be in touch.”

Outside the police station, the two BAU agents moved away from the building.

“There’s a café about a block from here,” Riley said. “Let’s regroup there. Maybe we can get a decent cup of coffee.”

As they walked, she glanced at Ann Marie. “That was impressive, what you did with Hartley.”

Ann Marie smiled, a hint of color touching her cheeks. “Funeral home diplomacy. My father always said that when people are defensive, sometimes the best approach is to acknowledge their pain rather than challenge their position.”

“Well, it worked brilliantly. This HUAC angle is interesting. If Roberta’s testimony was as damaging as Malcolm claims, it could explain why Veronica was desperate to keep it buried.”

“And why someone might want revenge,” Ann Marie added.

“Exactly.”

They paused at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. The café Riley had mentioned was visible across the street—a small establishment with outdoor tables shaded by large umbrellas.

When the walk sign lit up, she added, “Something in the past … something we don’t yet know about Veronica Slate and her mother.”

CHAPTER NINE

The film canisters weighed heavy in Ted Coonfield’s arms as he fumbled with the keys to The Velvet Screen. A month had passed since the arthouse movie theater’s official closure, and the familiar weight of 35mm film reels brought him a comfort that digital files could never replicate.

Ted’s reflection stared back at him from the glass doors—a man in his sixties with thinning gray hair and the slightly stooped posture of someone who had spent decades hunched over projectors in darkened rooms.

The lock finally yielded with a satisfying click. Ted shouldered the door open, balancing the precious canisters in his arms. Inside, the lobby stood frozen in time—popcorn machine unplugged, candy display emptied, ticket booth abandoned. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that penetrated the space through the glass doors, giving the air a dreamy, suspended quality.

Ted paused, considering whether to lock the door behind him. A wry smile crept across his weathered face as he decided against it. Who would bother breaking into an abandoned arthouse theater? There was nothing left to steal—the owners had already taken everything of value when they closed the place down. All that remained were the massive projectors upstairs, too obsolete for modern theaters to want, too heavy for thieves to bother with.

“Nobody’s coming for you but me, old girl,” he murmured to the empty space, his voice echoing slightly in the silent lobby.

He made his way past the concession stand, through the double doors leading to the main theater. The seats—plush velvet in a deep burgundy that had given the theater its name—sat in orderly rows facing the blank screen. Ted had always thought there was something sacred about an empty theater, like a church awaiting its congregation. In the dimness, he could almost see the ghosts of audiences past, leaning forward in their seats, faces illuminated by the flickering light of stories unfolding before them.

The service stairs to the projection booth creaked under his weight as he climbed, each step a familiar melody to his ears. He’d walked this path thousands of times over the years, carrying the same kind of cylindrical metal containers, feeling the same anticipation of bringing worlds to life through light and celluloid. The difference now was the hollow ache of knowing this was just a temporary resurrection. The Velvet Screen was dead; he was merely performing a séance.

At the top of the stairs, Ted set down the canisters beside the booth door and fished out another key. The projection booth had always been his sanctuary, a place where magic was manufactured through mechanical precision. When he swung open the door, the familiar smell welcomed him—a mixture of metal, oil, and the faint chemical odor of film.

Inside, sat two massive projectors, their lenses pointed toward small windows overlooking the theater below. Ted ran his hand lovingly over the nearer one, wiping away a thin layer of dust.

“Hello, beautiful,” he whispered. “Ready for one more dance?”

A month of unemployment had left him with too much time to brood on the changing world. The International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees union card in his wallet felt like a relic now, about as useful as a membership to a dinosaur appreciation society. He’d watched as theater after theater converted to digital projection, each one offering him the same choice: adapt or leave. But Ted couldn’t—wouldn’t—adapt. Digital projection wasn’t filmmaking; it was data transfer, cold and soulless. There was no art in pressing a button and walking away while a computer did all the work.

Ted began the ritual of loading the first projector. He opened the canister marked “Reel 1” and carefully lifted out the spool of film. Holding it to the light, he examined the first few feet for any damage or deterioration. The film was in excellent condition—stored properly all these years, protected from the enemies of celluloid: heat, humidity, and rough handling.

“See, this is what people don’t understand,” Ted said aloud to the empty room. “This film is almost fifty years old, and it’s still perfectly viewable. Try that with your digital files and hard drives. All it takes is one power surge, one corrupted file, and poof—gone forever.”

He threaded the film through the projector’s intricate path—over and under rollers, through the gate where each frame would momentarily be illuminated, around the sound drum where the optical soundtrack would be read. Every movement was precise. His fingers, though more arthritic now than in his youth, still moved with confidence and grace.

The second reel followed the first, loaded onto the adjacent projector. This was the art that audiences never saw—the seamless transition from one reel to the next, accomplished through timing, skill, and the small cue marks that appeared in the corner of the frame near the end of each reel. The projectionist’s magic was invisible when done right, glaringly obvious when done wrong.

With both projectors loaded and ready, Ted flipped on the lamp of the first one, the xenon bulb blazing to life with an intensity that still made him squint despite years of experience. He adjusted the focus, watching as the image sharpened on the screen below. The familiar opening credits of Dandelion Days appeared, the title card rendered in a flowing script that evoked the film’s pastoral setting.

Roberta Rimes’ name appeared prominently, and Ted felt a bittersweet pang. This had been her final film, released in 1975, before she retired and returned to Atlanta—the city where she’d begun, coming full circle.

The projector hummed contentedly, the mechanical sound as soothing to Ted as a lullaby. “Perfect,” he murmured, shutting it off after confirming everything was in working order. The screen below returned to blankness, awaiting its late-night audience of one.

He reached for his cell phone—the one concession to modernity he’d embraced without resistance. He hesitated, a flutter of nervousness tickling his stomach. Even after decades in the film industry, the thought of speaking directly to one of America’s most respected film critics gave him pause. Their previous conversations had been brief and professional, yet he couldn’t help feeling like a starstruck novice each time.

“Get a grip, old man,” he chided himself. “She’s just another film lover.”

But that wasn’t entirely true. Crystal Keene wasn’t just any film lover—she was the film lover whose opinions shaped discourse, whose reviews could make or break careers, whose book Pantheon Directors sat dog-eared and coffee-stained on Ted’s bedside table. And tonight, he would be her personal projectionist.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed the call button. The phone rang three times before she answered.

“Crystal Keene speaking.” Her voice carried the crisp authority of someone accustomed to being listened to.

“Ms. Keene, it’s Ted Coonfield from The Velvet Screen.” He winced at the slight tremor in his voice. “I’m just calling to confirm that everything’s set for tonight’s screening. The equipment’s in good working order, and I’ve got Dandelion Days all loaded up and ready to go.”

“Mr. Coonfield, you’re a godsend.” Crystal’s tone warmed considerably. “After the shock of what happened to poor Veronica, I wasn’t sure I’d get to see any more of Roberta’s films before flying back. The postponement of the entire festival has been such a disappointment.”

“Terrible business, that,” Ted agreed, settling into the projection booth’s worn chair. “I heard about it on the news. Hard to believe someone would do something like that, especially recreating that scene from The Night Walker.”

“Ghastly,” Crystal confirmed. “The entire film community is reeling. I’ve been fielding calls from reporters all day, not to mention fans who’ve spotted me around the hotel. That’s why I’m so grateful for this late-night arrangement. Eleven o’clock is the earliest I can slip away unnoticed.”

Ted felt a swell of pride at being entrusted with this clandestine screening. “No trouble at all, Ms. Keene. I’m happy to do it. Not many chances to run these projectors since The Velvet closed down.”

“Your dedication to traditional projection is admirable, Mr. Coonfield. It’s becoming a lost art in this digital age.” There was genuine respect in her voice. “I understand you’ve refused to work with digital projectors?”

“That’s right.” Ted’s voice strengthened with conviction. “Been with IATSE for over forty years, and I intend to finish my career the same way I started it—with real film running through real projectors. What passes for movie projection these days… it’s just glorified television, if you ask me.”

Crystal chuckled warmly. “I may quote you on that in my next column. There’s something to be said for standing on principle.”

They chatted for a few more minutes about the festival’s potential rescheduling before Crystal had to end the call. “I’ll see you at eleven, Mr. Coonfield. And thank you again for making this possible.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Keene. See you tonight.”

Ted ended the call and sat in contemplative silence, listening to the subtle creaks and groans of the old theater settling around him. Having Crystal Keene thank him for his dedication to traditional projection felt like vindication after months of being told he was obsolete, a dinosaur too stubborn to evolve.

With hours to kill before Crystal’s arrival, Ted decided to indulge himself. He’d watch part of the film now, alone in his booth, a private communion with the art form he’d devoted his life to preserving. He flipped the switch on the first projector, and the lamp blazed to life once more.

Below, on the screen, Dandelion Days began to unfold. The speakers in the booth crackled slightly before delivering the orchestral score, swelling with the nostalgic strings that perfectly captured the film’s themes of memory and loss. Ted settled deeper into his chair, watching the familiar scenes with the same attention he’d given them when the theater was full of paying customers.

Roberta Rimes appeared on screen, and Ted leaned forward slightly. Even in her final role, playing a novelist returning to her rural hometown after decades away, she possessed a luminous quality that transcended the celluloid capturing her image. Her character—a famous writer revisiting the places and people of her youth—moved through the pastoral setting with a grace that belied the tension simmering beneath the surface.

“They don’t make stars like you anymore,” Ted murmured, watching Rimes deliver a particularly poignant monologue about the passage of time. Her face filled the screen, the 35mm film rendering every nuance of her expression with a depth and texture that digital could never quite replicate. This was what Ted fought for—this warmth, this grain, this imperfect perfection that made film feel alive in a way ones and zeros never could.

As the story progressed, Ted found himself drawn once more into its gentle rhythms. He’d projected this film dozens of times over the years, yet it still held his attention, still moved him. The subtle clicking of the projector, the slight flutter of the image—these weren’t flaws to be corrected but reminders of the mechanical miracle unfolding, twenty-four frames per second transforming into fluid motion, into life, into art.

So absorbed was he in the film and his own thoughts that the sudden knock at the booth door nearly launched him from his chair. The sound was jarringly out of place—sharp, insistent, and utterly unexpected. Ted’s heart hammered against his ribs as he stared at the door, momentarily frozen.

Who could possibly be here? The theater was closed, Crystal wasn’t due for hours, and he’d told no one else about tonight’s private screening. Had someone seen the lights on?

The knock came again, more urgent this time.

“Hello?” Ted called, his voice sounding thin in his own ears. “Who’s there?”

No answer came, only another knock.

Reluctantly, Ted rose from his chair and moved toward the door. Perhaps it was the building’s owner, checking on the property. Or maybe some film enthusiast had noticed the activity and gotten curious. He reached for the handle, suddenly wishing he’d locked the theater’s front door after all.

The heavy booth door swung open, revealing a figure silhouetted against the dimness of the stairwell. Ted had only a moment to register the presence—a dark figure against darkness—before something hard and heavy swung toward his head.

Pain exploded across his temple, bright and shocking. His vision fractured into sparkling fragments, the world tilting sickeningly as his knees buckled. As consciousness fled, his last thought was of the projector still running behind him, Roberta Rimes’ face still illuminating the screen below, unaware and uncaring that her faithful audience of one had just been violently banished.

CHAPTER TEN

The café welcomed Riley and Ann Marie with the comforting aroma of freshly ground coffee and pastries. They chose one of the outdoor tables, shaded by a large umbrella and positioned just off the sidewalk. Riley sat where she could observe the entire space, her trained instincts automatically selecting a position that kept her back protected. Even in this mundane moment—two colleagues grabbing coffee between investigative tasks—the habits of decades in law enforcement remained, a second nature as intrinsic to her as breathing.

“I’ll grab us something from inside,” Ann Marie offered, setting her bag on the chair. “The usual?”

Riley nodded, grateful for the moment alone to organize her thoughts. Her mind kept toggling between two separate threads of concern—the Atlanta murder investigation and April’s situation back at Jefferson Bell. She pulled out her phone, checking for messages from Bill.

Nothing new. The lack of updates left her feeling suspended between relief and anxiety.

Ann Marie returned with two steaming mugs and a small plate of pastries. “Thought we could use the sugar,” she said, placing a blueberry scone in front of Riley. “The barista says they’re baked in-house.”

“Thanks,” Riley replied, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic. She stared into her coffee, watching the light play across its dark surface. “I think this murder must have something to do with Roberta Rimes’ HUAC testimony. Malcolm just told us Roberta named names during the McCarthy era—betrayed colleagues to save herself. Veronica was desperate enough to destroy Malcolm’s career to keep that information hidden.”

“But that testimony happened in the 1950s,” Ann Marie pointed out. “Most of the people involved would be dead by now.”

“Not necessarily,” Riley countered. “Roberta testified when she was in her thirties. Anyone who was young in the industry then—in their twenties—could still be alive, in their nineties now. Or their children or grandchildren might be looking for justice.”

Ann Marie tapped her finger thoughtfully against her mug. “So you think someone connected to one of the people Roberta named might have killed Veronica as revenge? After all these years?”

“It’s a possibility we can’t ignore,” Riley said. “The theatrical nature of the murder explicitly connects Veronica to her mother’s legacy. ‘Like mother, like daughter’—that’s what was written on Malcolm’s bulletin board. But he’s probably not alone in feeling that sort of anger toward her.”

“If that’s true,” Ann Marie mused, “then Malcolm might be innocent—of the murder, at least, if not of his disturbing photo collection.”

Riley nodded. “And if we’re right, there could be other targets. Anyone else connected to Roberta or perceived as benefiting from her betrayal.”

A shared look of concern passed between them.

“We need to talk to Gillian Sinclair again,” Riley decided. “As Veronica’s close friend, she might know more about the HUAC testimony and who might have a grudge related to it.”

“Agreed,” Ann Marie said, already reaching for her bag.

Riley checked her phone again—still no updates from Bill. She sent a quick text: “Any news on Leo?”

As they gathered their things to leave, Riley’s phone vibrated with Bill’s reply: “Following a lead on the Dillard family. Will update soon. April is safe.”

The message provided minimal reassurance, but it was something. Riley tucked her phone away and followed Ann Marie out of the café, stepping back into the warm Atlanta afternoon.

The drive to Magnolia Gateway Films passed in relative silence, each woman absorbed in her own thoughts. Riley watched the city slide past her window—gleaming skyscrapers giving way to the more industrial landscape surrounding the film studio complex. Atlanta had transformed itself from a regional hub to an international film production center over the past decade, and Magnolia Gateway had been at the forefront of that evolution.

As they approached the studio entrance, Riley noted that the media presence had diminished somewhat since their earlier visit. Only two news vans remained parked across the street, their crews likely waiting for any developments in the high-profile case. Riley and Ann Marie drove past them unnoticed.

They checked in with the security guard at the gate, who then informed them, “Ms. Sinclair is on Soundstage 7, just follow the numbers.”

Riley drove past the familiar Soundstage 4, then 5 and 6. Soon 7 loomed before them, its massive doors currently slid halfway open. Unlike the meticulously recreated Midnight Lounge on Soundstage 4, this space buzzed with activity. Crew members moved purposefully around what appeared to be a partially constructed interior set—the skeleton of a Victorian-era drawing room taking shape amid scaffolding and piles of lumber.

As they entered, Riley felt the distinct temperature drop that characterized these massive, climate-controlled spaces. The cavernous interior echoed with the sounds of construction—drills whirring, hammers striking nails, voices calling measurements and instructions across the concrete floor.

Near the center of the activity stood Gillian Sinclair, her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She was deep in conversation with a younger woman who gestured animatedly at a set of blueprints spread across a folding table. Both women looked up as Riley and Ann Marie approached.

“Agents,” Gillian said, straightening. The lines of fatigue around her eyes had deepened since their last meeting, but her posture remained commanding. “Is there anything new?” Then she indicated the woman beside her, “This is Sarah Brooks, our director of production design.”

Sarah—a woman in her thirties with short-cropped hair and paint-spattered jeans—extended her hand. “Agents. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“So do we,” Riley replied, noting the genuine emotion that flickered across the designer’s face at the thought of Veronica’s death.

“I still can’t believe it,” Sarah continued, her voice dropping slightly. “Veronica was a legend, of course, but she was also just… kind. Down to earth. She’d stop by the set during her visits, talk to everyone—not just the executives and directors. She remembered names, asked about people’s families.” She shook her head, blinking rapidly. “Sorry. It’s just… hard to process.”

“No need to apologize,” Ann Marie said gently. “Your perspective is valuable. You knew her professionally but also personally.”

“We weren’t really close, but I liked her. And if there’s anything I can do to help your investigation, anything at all—” Sarah began.

“We appreciate that,” Riley interjected. “We may take you up on it.”

Gillian placed a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Would you mind overseeing the rest of today’s construction? I need to speak with the agents privately.”

Sarah nodded. “Of course. The crew knows what they’re doing anyway.” She turned to Riley and Ann Marie. “My design studio is just off the main production office. I have all the archives from past Magnolia productions, including the original sketches from Roberta Rimes’ films shot here.”

As Sarah moved away, calling instructions to the construction crew, Gillian gestured toward the exit. “Let’s go to my office. It’s quieter there.”

They walked in silence across the studio lot, the afternoon sun beating down on them after the artificial coolness of the soundstage. Crew members nodded respectfully to Gillian as they passed, their expressions somber—the entire studio still operating under the shadow of Veronica’s death.

Back in her third-floor office again, Gillian directed the agents to the same two leather chairs. However, instead of taking her place behind her big desk, this time she chose a third chair, positioning herself as a participant in the conversation rather than its authority. “Do you have some new information about the case?”

Riley noted the change in seating arrangement—a subtle shift that suggested Gillian wanted a more collaborative dynamic. “We do. Malcolm Hartley is currently being held as a suspect.”

“I guess I’m not surprised,” Gillian said. “Veronica was so disturbed when she saw him that night of … of her death. And those photographs in his office …”

Her voice faded and she shuddered.

“We’ve learned more about his grudge against Veronica,” Riley continued, watching Gillian’s reactions carefully. “According to Malcolm, he was once a film historian working on a biography of Roberta Rimes. When he approached Veronica about including information on her mother’s testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee, Veronica not only refused to cooperate but actively worked to destroy his academic career.”

Gillian sat back, her expression shifting from shock to something more complex—discomfort mingled with resignation. “I… had no idea about any of that. Veronica never mentioned it.”

“You find that surprising?” Riley asked. “Given your close friendship?”

A flicker of something—guilt, perhaps, or defensiveness—crossed Gillian’s features. “We were close, yes. But Veronica was… protective of her mother’s legacy. There were aspects of Roberta’s life that Veronica preferred not to discuss, even with friends.”

“But you knew about the HUAC testimony?” Riley pressed.

Gillian nodded slowly. “Yes. Not in detail, but I knew it existed. Veronica mentioned it once, years ago, after too many glasses of wine. She said it was the one part of her mother’s life that caused her any shame.”

“Did she mention who Roberta named in her testimony?” Ann Marie asked.

“No,” Gillian replied, shaking her head. “Only that it happened, and that Roberta had named ‘colleagues.’ Veronica was determined that it never become public knowledge. She said her mother had lived with enough guilt over it; she didn’t want Roberta’s reputation posthumously destroyed by something she’d done out of fear during a terrible time in American history.”

She squinted thoughtfully and said, “But you’ve got Malcolm in custody. Does that mean you’ve caught Veronica’s killer.”

“We’re not sure of that yet,” Ann Marie said.

“Ms. Sinclair,” Riley began, leaning slightly forward, “we have reason to believe that Veronica’s murder might be connected to her mother’s HUAC testimony. The specific method—poisoning her during a re-creation of her mother’s famous death scene—suggests a symbolic connection between mother and daughter.”

Gillian’s expression darkened. “You think someone killed Veronica as revenge for something her mother did seventy years ago?”

“It’s a theory we’re exploring,” Riley confirmed. “Is there anyone still living who might have direct knowledge of Roberta’s testimony? Someone who knew her personally during that period?”

Gillian was silent for a moment, her gaze distant as she sorted through memories. “Most of Roberta’s contemporaries are gone now. But there is one person in Atlanta who knew her well—Diane Kingsley. She was an actress too, though never a star like Roberta. They were close friends during the Hollywood years.”

“Where can we find her?” Ann Marie asked.

“She owns Timeless Threads Boutique, a vintage costume shop in Midtown. Lives in an apartment above the store.” Gillian hesitated, a frown creasing her brow. “But I should warn you—Diane is… fragile. She had a breakdown about forty years ago and left acting entirely. She’s somewhat reclusive now, and occasionally… unstable.”

“Unstable how?” Riley asked.

Gillian searched for the right words. “She lives very much in the past. Sometimes the line between memory and present reality blurs for her. She’s not dangerous, just… eccentric. Veronica was one of the few people who stayed in contact with her, despite the fact that they lived so far apart.”

Riley nodded, making a mental note. “We’d like to speak with her. Do you think you could call ahead, make an introduction? It might be easier for her to talk to us if she knows we’re connected to you.”

“Of course,” Gillian agreed, reaching for her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, then pressed the screen. After a moment, her expression softened. “Diane? It’s Gillian Sinclair… Yes, I know, it’s terrible… I miss her too.”

Riley and Ann Marie waited as Gillian explained their request. They could hear the tinny sound of an enthusiastic voice responding on the other end.

“That’s very kind of you, Diane,” Gillian said into the phone. “They’ll be there soon… Yes, I’ll tell them… Goodbye now.” She ended the call and looked up. “She’s eager to meet you. She says she’ll be glad to help.”

“That sounds promising,” Ann Marie said.

Gillian’s expression remained concerned. “Just… be gentle with her. Diane’s grip on reality can be tenuous sometimes. But she knew Roberta better than almost anyone still living.”

“We’ll be respectful,” Riley assured her. “Can you give us the address?”

Gillian wrote it down on a notepad, tore off the page, and handed it to Riley. “Timeless Threads is on Peachtree Street, in a renovated Victorian house. You can’t miss it—there’s a mannequin dressed in a replica of Judy Garland’s Wizard of Oz costume in the front window.”

Riley pocketed the address. “Thank you for your help, Ms. Sinclair. We’ll keep you updated on any developments.”

As they rose to leave, Gillian remained seated, her expression troubled. “Agents? If Veronica was killed because of something her mother did… does that mean other people might be in danger?”

Riley considered her response carefully. “We don’t know yet. But if you think of anyone else connected to Roberta who might be at risk, please let us know immediately.”

Gillian nodded, her shoulders tense. “I will. And please… find whoever did this. Veronica deserved better.”

Outside, as they walked back to their car, Ann Marie broke the silence. “So, our next stop is a reclusive former actress who might be mentally unstable but knows secrets about Roberta Rimes that ‘the world needs to know.’“

“Should be interesting,” Riley replied as they approached the car.

It could be more than that, she thought.

She knew that she and Ann Marie were silently wondering the same thing. Were they about to meet the real killer?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bill stepped out of his Bureau sedan and surveyed the three-story Federal-style residence, noting the polished brass fixtures that gleamed in the afternoon sunlight and the perfectly manicured boxwoods that flanked the entrance. The Dillard family townhouse stood like an elegant fortress among Georgetown’s historic homes, its redbrick façade and black shutters projecting the discreet wealth of old money.

As he approached the imposing front door, the contrast between this rarefied world and the modest background Leo had fabricated in his story at Jefferson Bell couldn’t have been starker. The deception itself was telling—and troubling.

Bill straightened his tie and pressed the doorbell, hearing its muted chime echo inside.

The drive from Fredericksburg had given him time to plan his approach, but standing before this symbol of privilege and power, he reconsidered his tactics. Elizabeth Dillard’s terse phone manner had already revealed her reluctance to discuss her son. Face-to-face, that resistance would likely intensify.

After a delay, the door opened to reveal a thin man in his sixties, his posture ramrod straight, his expression professionally neutral. Not family, Bill noted immediately. Staff.

“May I help you?” the man inquired, his tone suggesting that help was the last thing he intended to offer.

“Special Agent Bill Jeffreys, FBI.” Bill presented his credentials. “I need to speak with Mrs. Elizabeth Dillard.”

The butler—for that’s clearly what he was—examined Bill’s identification with exaggerated care, then returned his gaze to Bill’s face. “I’m afraid Mrs. Dillard is not receiving visitors today. Perhaps you could call to make an appointment.”

The door began to close, but Bill placed his hand against it—not forcefully, but with enough pressure to signal his determination. “This is a matter of some urgency,” he said, his voice low but firm. “It concerns her son, Leo.”

Something flickered across the butler’s face—recognition, concern, perhaps even fear. The reaction was subtle but unmistakable to Bill’s trained eye. The Dillard household knew something about Leo that they preferred not to discuss.

“One moment, please.” The door closed, not quite in Bill’s face but decisively enough.

He waited on the doorstep, studying the neighboring townhouses with their similarly imposing façades. Georgetown real estate royalty, Riley had called the Hollingtons. The description fit. These weren’t merely homes; they were statements of generational wealth and influence.

Three minutes passed before the door reopened. The butler’s expression had not warmed, but a certain resignation had replaced his initial resistance. “Mrs. Dillard will see you briefly in the drawing room. Please follow me.”

Bill stepped into a marble-floored entryway that opened to a sweeping staircase. Oil paintings in gilded frames lined the walls—landscapes mostly, with a few formal portraits interspersed. The butler led him through an archway into a room that epitomized old-world elegance: Persian rugs on hardwood floors, antique furniture arranged in conversational groupings, silver-framed photographs displayed on side tables.

“Agent Jeffreys, Mrs. Dillard,” the butler announced before withdrawing, closing the double doors behind him with a soft click.

Elizabeth Hollington Dillard stood near a bay window, her silhouette outlined by afternoon light. As she turned, Bill was struck by the composed dignity of her appearance. In her early sixties, she wore her silver-streaked hair pulled back in a classic chignon. Her tailored navy dress and single strand of pearls completed the picture of upper-class restraint.

“Agent Jeffreys,” she said, not moving toward him nor offering her hand. “I believe I made myself clear on the phone. I have nothing to say about Leo.”

“I appreciate you seeing me anyway, Mrs. Dillard. Is your husband at home as well?”

A flicker of annoyance crossed her features. “Charles is in court today. He’s representing the Shelton Foundation in a property dispute.” The information was offered as if it should mean something to Bill—a reminder that he was in the presence of people whose names carried weight in certain circles.

“I see.” Bill maintained eye contact, refusing to be intimidated by her demeanor or surroundings. “Mrs. Dillard, I wouldn’t have come if this weren’t important.”

“Important to whom?” she asked coolly. “My husband and I have not been in contact with Leo for five years. Whatever he’s involved in now is not our concern.”

“It’s important to a young woman and her mother,” Bill replied, watching Elizabeth’s face carefully. “And potentially to public safety.”

Something in his tone must have registered, because Elizabeth’s posture shifted slightly. She gestured toward a pair of wingback chairs positioned near the fireplace. “Five minutes, Agent Jeffreys. Then I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Bill took the offered seat, noting how Elizabeth perched on the edge of hers, maintaining both physical and emotional distance. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers lightly interlaced.

“Mrs. Dillard,” he began, choosing his next words carefully, “I should be upfront with you. I’m not here in an official capacity. This isn’t an FBI investigation—at least, not yet.”

Her eyebrows rose slightly, the only indication of surprise. “Then why are you here, using your credentials to gain access to my home?”

Bill leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Because I’m concerned about the safety of people I care about. My colleague at the FBI, Riley Paige, was my long-time partner in the field and now she is my partner in life. Riley taught a class at Quantico that your son attended last semester. Leo became… fixated on her. His behavior became inappropriate enough that she had to file a complaint.”

Elizabeth’s expression remained guarded, but she didn’t interrupt.

“We thought that was the end of it,” Bill continued. “Leo disappeared from the program after being reprimanded. But recently, we discovered he’s been auditing classes at Jefferson Bell University, where Riley’s daughter April is a student. He approached April, befriended her under false pretenses, without revealing his connection to her mother.”

A slight pallor spread across Elizabeth’s face, but her voice remained steady. “And you believe he poses a threat to them?”

“I don’t know,” Bill admitted. “That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to understand who Leo is, what motivates him, and whether Riley and April should be concerned for their safety.”

Elizabeth studied Bill’s face as if searching for deception or manipulation. Finding none, her shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly.

“They are important to you,” she said.

“Very much.”

Elizabeth rose abruptly and crossed to a cherry wood sideboard, where a crystal decanter stood beside several glasses. “Would you care for some water, Agent Jeffreys? Or perhaps something stronger?”

“Water would be fine, thank you.”

As she poured, Bill noted the slight tremor in her hands—the first crack in her composed façade. When she returned with two glasses, her eyes held a weariness that hadn’t been visible before.

“Leo has always been drawn to strong, intelligent women,” she said, resuming her seat. “Particularly those in positions of authority. It began with his teachers in preparatory school.”

Bill waited for her to continue.

“He would develop these… attachments. Obsessions, really. At first, we thought it was just adolescent admiration. But there was something unnerving about the intensity.” She took a small sip from her glass. “When he was sixteen, his literature teacher requested a transfer to another school after finding elaborate journal entries he’d written about her. Detailed fantasies about their future together.”

“How did you and your husband handle that?”

Elizabeth’s laugh was brittle, devoid of humor. “Charles used his connections to make it go away. Increased our donation to the school’s endowment. Arranged for the teacher to receive a better position elsewhere. We convinced ourselves it was a phase.”

She set her glass down on a coaster, precisely centered. “We made things ‘go away’ for Leo his entire life. Until we couldn’t anymore.”

“What changed?” Bill asked quietly.

Elizabeth’s gaze drifted toward one of the silver-framed photographs on a nearby table. From his angle, Bill couldn’t see the image clearly.

“Kelli,” she said, the name emerging as something between a sigh and a prayer. “Our daughter. Leo’s younger sister.”

Bill remembered Riley mentioning that the Dillards lived in a Georgetown townhouse, but nothing about a daughter. “I wasn’t aware you had a daughter.”

“Had,” Elizabeth repeated, the single syllable weighted with grief. “Kelli took her own life five years ago. She was nineteen.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Bill set down his own glass, giving Elizabeth his complete attention. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Elizabeth nodded, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than acceptance. “Leo was twenty-two then, finishing his undergraduate degree at Georgetown. Kelli was a freshman. She was… everything Leo wasn’t. Warm, open, genuinely kind.” Her eyes refocused on Bill. “Do you have children, Agent Jeffreys?”

“Two sons,” he replied. “They live with their mother in California.”

“Then you understand how parents can simultaneously love and fear for their children.” She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. “Kelli had always been sensitive. Emotionally vulnerable. And Leo… Leo knew exactly how to exploit that vulnerability.”

Bill felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. “What did he do?”

“It started with small cruelties when they were children. Hidden toys, whispered taunts, little traps designed to make her cry or get her in trouble. As they grew older, his methods became more sophisticated.” Elizabeth’s voice had taken on a distant quality, as if she were reciting facts from a case file rather than describing her own children. “He would plant doubts, undermine her confidence, isolate her from friends through subtle manipulations.”

“Did you and your husband intervene?”

“When we caught him, yes. But Leo was—is—extraordinarily intelligent. He learned to cover his tracks.” She met Bill’s gaze directly. “The worst part was watching him comfort her afterward. He’d be the perfect big brother, consoling her for pain he himself had caused. And she never suspected. She adored him.”

Bill remained silent, allowing Elizabeth the space to tell her story at her own pace.

“During Kelli’s freshman year, she met a young man, James. They became serious quickly. For the first time, she seemed truly happy, confident in herself and her future. Leo couldn’t stand it.”

“What did he do?” Bill asked, though he dreaded the answer.

“He systematically destroyed her relationship…and also her sense of self. Created fake social media accounts to send her boyfriend evidence of infidelity that never happened. Hacked her email to send disturbing messages to her professors. Convinced her roommate that Kelli was unstable, dangerous even.” Elizabeth’s voice remained level, but tears had begun to gather in her eyes. “By spring semester, James had broken up with her, her roommate had requested a transfer, and her academic standing was in jeopardy.”

“Did Kelli know Leo was behind it?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No. That was the true cruelty of it. He remained her confidant, the one person she believed was still on her side. He’d come home for weekends, spend hours with her, listening to her problems—problems he had created.”

Bill’s stomach clenched at the calculated malice such behavior revealed. “How did you discover his involvement?”

“After…” Elizabeth paused, composing herself. “After we found her, I couldn’t understand why. There was no note, no explanation. I began going through her things, looking for answers. That’s when I found her laptop and accessed her email account.”

She rose again, moving toward the photograph Bill had noticed earlier. She picked it up, studied it for a moment, then brought it to him. “This was Kelli.”

The picture showed a young woman with her mother’s fine features, smiling brightly at the camera, her arms around a golden retriever. Her eyes held a gentle kindness that made the knowledge of her fate all the more painful.

“She was beautiful,” Bill said softly, handing the frame back.

“Yes, she was.” Elizabeth returned the photograph to its place. “On her laptop, I found thousands of emails—a systematic campaign of psychological torture, all from anonymous accounts. But there were patterns in the language, specific phrases I’d heard Leo use. And when I confronted him…”

“He didn’t deny it,” Bill surmised.

“Worse. He explained it. Calmly, rationally, as if discussing an interesting psychology experiment. He said Kelli was ‘too weak for this world’ and he’d merely ‘accelerated the inevitable.’“ Elizabeth’s voice finally broke. “He showed no remorse. None at all.”

Bill had encountered true psychopathy rarely in his career, but he recognized the pattern Elizabeth was describing. The combination of high intelligence, charm, and complete absence of empathy created a particularly dangerous individual.

“We told him to leave,” Elizabeth continued after regaining her composure. “Charles cut him off financially. Changed our wills, removed him from family trusts. However, he’d already received a substantial inheritance from his grandfather, so none of that affected his ability to live on his own.”

She met Bill’s gaze directly. “Agent Jeffreys, I don’t know what Leo wants with this woman and her daughter, but I urge you to take whatever measures necessary to protect them. My son is…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Leo is capable of causing immense suffering while appearing completely benign. That’s what makes him so dangerous.”

“Has he ever been physically violent, to your knowledge?”

Elizabeth considered the question. “Not directly. He prefers psychological manipulation—it’s cleaner, more satisfying to him. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t resort to violence if it served his purpose.”

Bill nodded, processing this information and its implications for Riley and April. “Thank you for your candor, Mrs. Dillard. I know this can’t have been easy to discuss.”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “It wasn’t. But I couldn’t live with myself if I remained silent and someone else suffered because of Leo.” She stood, signaling that their conversation had reached its conclusion. “I wish I could tell you where to find him or what he might be planning, but we truly have had no contact.”

Bill rose as well. “Your insights are invaluable. If you do hear from him, or if you think of anything else that might help us understand his intentions, please call me.” He offered her his card, which she accepted with a slight nod.

As the butler appeared to escort him out, Elizabeth added, “Agent Jeffreys? Leo has always been patient, methodical. Whatever he’s planning, he’s likely been working on it for months. Please… be careful.”

The warning followed Bill through the marble entryway and out onto the street. The evening had taken on a grayish cast, clouds gathering overhead to match his darkening thoughts.

Back in his car, Bill sat motionless behind the wheel, processing everything Elizabeth Dillard had shared. Leo wasn’t merely an obsessive former student with boundary issues; he was a sophisticated psychological predator who had already driven one woman to suicide—his own sister, whom he should have protected.

And now he had set his sights on Riley and April.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Riley navigated Atlanta traffic skillfully through the approaching dusk while her mind traveled down two separate paths of concern—the murder in her professional focus, plus the shadow looming over April.

In the passenger seat, Ann Marie studied the GPS on her phone. “We should be about ten minutes from Timeless Threads Boutique.”

“What kind of name is Timeless Threads anyway?” Riley asked, grateful for the change of subject. “Sounds like a craft store, not a vintage clothing shop.”

“According to what I found online, it specializes in period costumes and movie memorabilia. The owner—Diane Kingsley—worked in Hollywood wardrobe departments before she became an actress.”

Riley’s phone buzzed, and Ann Marie reached for it. “It’s Bill,” she said, answering and putting it on speaker. “Agent Esmer here with Agent Paige. You’re on speaker, Bill.”

“Riley? Ann Marie?” Bill’s voice filled the car, the connection slightly fuzzy. “I just left the Dillard house in Georgetown. You need to hear this.”

The gravity in Bill’s voice sent a chill through Riley. “What did you find out?”

“Leo Dillard is more dangerous than we thought. I spoke with his mother, Elizabeth. She said that she and her husband had cut off Leo and hadn’t heard from him in five years. She also told me about Leo’s younger sister, Kelli.”

“I didn’t know he had a sister,” Riley said, navigating around a delivery truck double-parked on the narrow street.

“Had is the operative word,” Bill replied grimly. “She committed suicide five years ago, when she was nineteen. A freshman at Georgetown University.”

Ann Marie leaned closer to the phone. “And Leo was involved?”

“According to Elizabeth, he systematically destroyed his sister’s life—isolated her from friends, sabotaged her relationship with her boyfriend, created fake evidence of things she hadn’t done. And the whole time, he presented himself as her supportive brother, the one person she could trust.”

“That’s why they cut him off,” Riley murmured.

“Exactly. After Kelli’s death, Elizabeth found emails proving Leo had orchestrated everything. When confronted, he showed no remorse. Said his sister was ‘too weak for this world’ and he’d merely ‘accelerated the inevitable.’“

A heavy silence filled the car as Riley processed this information. The traffic light ahead turned yellow, then red. She stopped, staring through the windshield at nothing in particular.

“Elizabeth described him as fixating on authority figures, especially women,” Bill continued. “Said it started with teachers in preparatory school. He would develop intense obsessions, creating elaborate fantasies about their futures together.”

“Just like with me,” Riley said quietly.

The light turned green, but Riley didn’t immediately accelerate. A horn blared behind her, jolting her back to awareness. She eased the car forward.

“How’s April doing?” she asked, hating the tremor she couldn’t quite keep from her voice.

“I just got off the phone with her before I called you,” Bill reassured her. “She’s with her roommate and some friends. Campus security is aware of the situation, and they’ve increased patrols around her dorm and classroom buildings.”

“Good.” She paused, then asked the question that had been gnawing at her. “Bill, what can we actually do here? Leo dropped out of the Academy after my complaint, and while his interaction with April is disturbing, he hasn’t broken any laws or even made a direct threat.”

Bill’s sigh crackled through the speaker. “That’s the problem. Legally, our hands are tied until he actually does something. But given what happened to his sister…”

“We keep April safe,” Riley said firmly. “We make sure she’s never alone, that she stays in public places, that she varies her routines.”

“Already on it,” Bill confirmed. “I’ve set up a system where she checks in with me at regular intervals throughout the day. And I’ve spoken with campus security about monitoring their visitor logs and surveillance footage.”

Riley navigated a sharp turn, following Ann Marie’s gestured directions. “Do we have any leads on where Leo might be staying? Any property in his name?”

“I’m working on that now. The family cut him off financially, but Elizabeth mentioned he’d received a substantial inheritance from his grandfather. He’s not hurting for money, which means he could be anywhere, using any name.”

The frustration in Bill’s voice mirrored Riley’s own feelings. They were trained to hunt killers, to track predators through the most obscure trails of evidence. But Leo hadn’t killed anyone directly—yet. He had intentionally destroyed his sister, but with emotional weapons over a period of time.

“What’s your next move?” she asked.

“I’m heading back to Fredericksburg now. I’ll follow up with April in person and make sure she understands the seriousness of the situation. Then I’ll start digging into Leo’s financial records, see if I can trace any purchases or rental agreements.”

Riley checked the cross streets as they approached their destination. “Bill, be careful. If Leo is as methodical as his mother says, he might be watching April’s movements. That means he could spot you, too.”

“I’m always careful. How’s your case going?”

“We’re following a lead now—headed to meet a former actress who knew Roberta Rimes during the McCarthy era. There might be a connection between Veronica’s murder and her mother’s testimony before HUAC.”

“Old ghosts coming back to haunt the next generation,” Bill mused. “Sounds promising. Keep me posted.”

“I will. And Bill? Thank you for handling all this with April. I hate being so far away from her right now.”

“She’s like a daughter to me, too, Riley. You know that.”

“I know. I’ll call you later.”

After ending the call, Riley turned onto Peachtree Street, scanning the storefronts for their destination.

“There it is,” Ann Marie said, pointing to a narrow Victorian house sandwiched between more modern buildings. True to Gillian Sinclair’s description, a mannequin dressed in a replica of Judy Garland’s iconic blue gingham dress and ruby slippers stood in the front window, frozen mid-step on a journey to somewhere over the rainbow.

Riley parked across the street, studying the building as they unbuckled their seatbelts. Timeless Threads Boutique occupied the first floor of the three-story Victorian, its faded elegance evident in the ornate woodwork and stained glass accents. A hand-painted sign hung above the door, the letters styled to evoke 1940s glamour. But despite the artistic presentation, there was something melancholy about the place—like a beautiful woman who had aged without quite accepting the passage of time.

A “CLOSED” sign hung in the window, likely a response to Veronica Slate’s death, as Gillian had suggested. Beside it, a smaller sign read “By Appointment Only” with a phone number.

“Guess we’re the appointment,” Ann Marie remarked as they crossed the street.

Riley pressed the brass doorbell beside the entrance, its chime audible even from outside. Nothing happened. She pressed it again, longer this time.

After nearly a minute, movement flickered behind the door’s frosted glass panel. The lock clicked, and the door opened just enough to reveal a woman’s face peering out at them.

“Yes?” The voice was soft, slightly tremulous.

“Ms. Kingsley? I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, and this is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer. We’re with the FBI. Gillian Sinclair called ahead about our visit.”

The door opened wider. Diane Kingsley was tall and thin, her frame draped in a flowing caftan of peacock blue silk that might have been fashionable decades ago. Her silver hair was arranged in an elaborate updo that seemed too formal for a quiet afternoon at home, and her face—once beautiful, Riley could tell—wore makeup applied with a hand that wasn’t entirely steady.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Diane said, her hands fluttering like agitated birds. “Gillian called. About dear Veronica. Such a tragedy. Please, come in.”

She stepped back, swinging the door wide. Riley and Ann Marie entered a space that felt more like a film set than a retail store. Racks of vintage clothing lined the walls, organized by era—1920s flapper dresses shimmering with beadwork, 1930s bias-cut gowns in liquid satins, 1940s suits with strong shoulders and nipped waists. But what drew Riley’s attention were the mannequins.

They stood throughout the shop, at least a dozen of them, each dressed in a recognizable costume from classic Hollywood. Not just dressed—transformed. Wigs, makeup, and accessories all meticulously arranged to create the illusion that these weren’t mannequins at all, but specific stars themselves, frozen in their most iconic moments.

“My little family,” Diane said, following Riley’s gaze. She approached the nearest mannequin—dressed in Audrey Hepburn’s black Givenchy dress from Breakfast at Tiffany’s—and gently adjusted its pearl necklace. “They keep me company. This one’s been fussy today. The pearls never sit quite right.”

Riley exchanged a quick glance with Ann Marie, whose expression remained professionally neutral despite the oddness of the moment.

“We have so much to discuss,” Diane continued, gesturing for them to follow her toward the back of the store. “Not down here, though. Too many ears.” She cast a meaningful look at the mannequins, then smiled as if sharing a private joke. “This way to my apartment. We’ll have privacy there.”

She led them through a curtained doorway to a narrow staircase that creaked beneath their feet. The walls of the stairwell were lined with framed movie posters, many featuring a young Roberta Rimes.

At the top of the stairs, Diane unlocked a door and ushered them into her apartment. Here, every surface held memorabilia—signed photographs, small props, vintage movie magazines carefully preserved in plastic sleeves. The furniture was an eclectic mix of periods and styles, creating the impression that various film sets had been dismantled and reassembled in this single room.

“Please, sit,” Diane urged, indicating a velvet settee that might have been lifted directly from a 1930s drawing room comedy. “Would you like tea? I was just about to make some.”

“That would be lovely,” Ann Marie replied with a warm smile—the gentle manner she used to put people at ease.

Diane disappeared into what Riley presumed was the kitchen, leaving them alone to absorb their surroundings. Ann Marie leaned closer to Riley, keeping her voice low.

“She’s exactly as Gillian described—eccentric but seemingly harmless.”

Riley nodded, her gaze drawn to a collection of photographs arranged on a side table. Most featured Diane herself, decades younger, posed with various Hollywood figures. In one, she stood beside Roberta Rimes, both women laughing, their arms around each other’s waists.

“Look at this,” Riley murmured, picking up the framed photo for a closer inspection. “This must be from the 1970s. Roberta looks to be in her fifties here, and Diane appears to be in her twenties.”

“Quite the age difference for close friends,” Ann Marie observed.

“Roberta was more than a friend,” Diane said from the doorway, startling them both. She carried a tray with a teapot and cups, which she set on a coffee table before them. “She was my mentor. My savior, really. I was just a wardrobe assistant when we met—a nobody with dreams of acting. Roberta saw something in me that no one else did.”

Riley returned the photograph to its place. “You worked together on films?”

“Three of them,” Diane confirmed, pouring tea into delicate china cups that didn’t quite match. Her hands trembled slightly, causing the spout to clink against the rim. “Roberta insisted I be cast in small roles. That’s how I got my start. She believed in me when the studios didn’t.”

She handed them each a cup, then settled into an armchair opposite the settee. “But you’re not here to talk about my modest career. You’re here about Veronica.”

“Yes,” Riley acknowledged. “We’re investigating her murder. First I have to ask—where were you last night when she was poisoned?”

Diane didn’t seem perturbed by the question. “Oh, I was right here. I’m always right here. I never go out if I can possibly help it. The world is much too dangerous.”

“We understand you were close to both Veronica and her mother,” Ann Marie said.

Diane nodded. “Roberta was my dearest friend for many years. After she retired and moved back to Atlanta, I visited whenever I could. I was there the day Veronica was born. Helped care for her when Roberta was busy with her charity work.”

“Ms. Kingsley,” Ann Marie began gently, “we’re exploring a possible connection between Veronica’s murder and something from Roberta’s past—specifically, her testimony before the House Un-American Activities Committee in the 1950s.”

The teacup in Diane’s hand stilled halfway to her lips. For a moment, she appeared frozen, like one of her own mannequins. Then, deliberately, she set the cup back in its saucer.

“So it’s come full circle,” she whispered. “After all these years.”

Riley leaned forward. “What do you mean by that?”

“Roberta’s secret shame.” Diane’s eyes refocused on Riley with unexpected clarity. “Her testimony before HUAC. She named names—colleagues, friends. People who trusted her. She betrayed them to save her own career. The guilt ate at her for decades.” Diane’s gaze drifted toward the window. “Whenever the subject came up, she would say, ‘Some ghosts can never be exorcised, only accommodated.’“

The phrase caught Riley’s attention. “Ghosts,” she repeated. “Do you believe Veronica’s murder might be related to someone seeking vengeance for Roberta’s testimony?”

Diane’s eyes suddenly widened, her expression shifting to alarm. “Veronica,” she gasped, rising from her chair so abruptly that her teacup clattered to the floor, spilling its contents across the ornate carpet.

Riley and Ann Marie exchanged concerned glances as Diane moved to the window, pressing her palms against the glass as if reaching for something beyond.

“Ms. Kingsley?” Ann Marie ventured, setting down her own cup. “Are you all right?”

“She’s here,” Diane whispered, her breath fogging the glass. “She’s been trying to tell me something.”

She turned back to face them, her voice steadier than it had been since their arrival. “I knew she was gone even before Gillian called. Veronica came to me the night she died. Standing right there.” She pointed to a space near the doorway. “She didn’t speak. Couldn’t, I suppose. But I knew she was saying goodbye.”

Riley felt the disappointment of realizing that a potential witness might be too detached from reality to provide reliable information.

“Ms. Kingsley,” she began cautiously, “when you say Veronica ‘came to you’…”

“I’m not delusional, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Diane interrupted with unexpected sharpness. “I’m quite aware that most people don’t believe in visitations from the departed. But I’ve experienced them all my life—my grandmother, my father, several friends. And now Veronica.”

She returned to her chair, straightening her caftan with dignity. “You don’t need to believe me. But it might be best if you do. I want to help you. I really do.”

Riley studied the woman before her—the theatrical makeup, the elaborate hairstyle, the grand gestures that belonged to another era of performance. How much of what Diane might tell them would be factual, and how much embellished by decades of isolation and possible mental fragility?

Nevertheless, she encouraged Diane to continue, “We’d like to hear everything you know, Ms. Kingsley. About Roberta’s testimony, about who might have wanted revenge after all these years, and about anything Veronica might have told you recently.”

Diane’s smile was bittersweet. “Roberta always said the past never stays buried. How right she was.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “But before I tell you what I know, you should understand something. Veronica didn’t just come to say goodbye. She came to warn me. And perhaps to warn you too, now that you’re involved.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Riley studied Diane’s face, searching for any sign that the woman was deliberately misleading them. The theatrical makeup, the elaborate hairstyle frozen in time like her mannequins downstairs—all of it suggested someone disconnected from reality. Yet beneath the eccentricity, Riley sensed something authentic.

“What do you think Veronica was trying to warn you about?” Ann Marie inquired softly.

“It wasn’t anything concrete,” Diane responded. “Or if it was, I didn’t get the full message. But I’m worried that more people might be in jeopardy.”

Riley realized that Diane genuinely believed she’d received a warning and was eager to keep others out of harm’s way. Even so, that didn’t actually help with the case. They needed more practical information.

“Ms. Kingsley,” she began,” do you know a man named Malcolm Hartley? He works as head of security at Magnolia Gateway Films.”

Diane’s silver brows drew together, creating fine creases in her carefully applied foundation. “Malcolm Hartley?” She rolled the name on her tongue as if tasting an unfamiliar dish. “No, I don’t believe so. Should I?”

“He was obsessed with Veronica—or more specifically, with exposing information about Roberta’s HUAC testimony,” Ann Marie explained. “He had a bulletin board in his office covered with defaced photos of Veronica.”

“How dreadful,” Diane murmured, her hand fluttering to her throat. “But no, the name means nothing to me. Like I said, I rarely leave this place. My world has grown smaller over the years—by choice, I might add.” Her gaze drifted toward the window again, then back to her visitors. “Why would this man matter?”

Riley noted how quickly Diane had dismissed the topic of Malcolm Hartley. Either she truly didn’t know him, or she was an exceptional actress—which, given her background, remained a possibility.

Ann Marie leaned forward slightly, her expression softening. “Ms. Kingsley, could you tell us more about your friendship with Roberta? You mentioned she was your mentor.”

The question transformed Diane. Her posture straightened, her eyes brightened, and a genuine smile replaced the anxious expression she’d worn moments before.

“Roberta was…” She paused, searching for the right words. “She was extraordinary. Not just as an actress—though heaven knows she was brilliant on screen—but as a human being. We met on the set of Autumn Shadows in 1971. I was twenty-three, just a wardrobe assistant with delusions of becoming an actress someday.”

Diane rose and moved to a small cabinet in the corner. She opened it to reveal dozens of photo albums, carefully labeled and arranged by year. She selected one and brought it back to her seat.

“Here,” she said, opening the album to reveal photographs of a much younger Diane standing beside Roberta Rimes on what appeared to be a film set. “Roberta took me under her wing. She insisted I read for small parts, coached me through auditions, and introduced me to directors and producers.”

Riley examined the photographs as Diane turned the pages. In each image, the younger Diane looked at Roberta with undisguised adoration.

“I had some success—nothing like Roberta’s, of course, but enough to keep working. Until 1983.” Diane’s voice dropped. “My… breakdown.”

Riley waited, sensing that Diane needed time to continue at her own pace.

“It was a perfect storm,” Diane finally said. “A role I desperately wanted went to someone else. My mother died suddenly. My marriage fell apart. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Eventually, I couldn’t even leave my house without panic consuming me.”

She closed the album gently. “The industry isn’t kind to ‘difficult’ actresses, especially ones who aren’t major stars to begin with. My career was over almost overnight.”

“That must have been devastating,” Ann Marie said softly.

Diane nodded. “It would have destroyed me completely if not for Roberta. She found me the doctors I needed. Paid for my treatment when the insurance ran out. And when I was ready to leave Los Angeles—when I couldn’t bear to be in that town another day—she helped me set up this shop here in Atlanta, close enough that she could visit regularly after she retired.”

The story painted a picture of Roberta Rimes that contrasted sharply with the woman who had testified against colleagues to save herself. Riley wondered which version was more authentic—the loyal friend Diane described, or the frightened actress who had named names during the McCarthy era.

“Ms. Kingsley,” Riley said, “we need to understand more about Roberta’s testimony before HUAC. What exactly did she tell you about it?”

The change in topic dimmed the light in Diane’s eyes. She set the photo album aside and folded her hands in her lap, suddenly looking every one of her years.

“Roberta didn’t speak of it often,” she began. “The first time was after too much wine, during a weekend visit in the early eighties. She said it was the great shame of her life—something she could never atone for, no matter how much good she tried to do afterward.”

Diane rose again, moving to a small bar cart in the corner. Without commenting or offering the two agents anything, she poured herself a finger of amber liquid—whiskey, Riley guessed—and took a sip before continuing.

“Roberta was very young when it happened. About 25, I think. It was 1955, and The Night Walker had just made her famous.” Diane’s voice took on a storyteller’s cadence, as if she’d mentally rehearsed this narrative. “Like many young, idealistic people in Hollywood at that time, she attended a few meetings of the American Peace Mobilization. She wasn’t political, really—she went because a friend invited her, because it seemed like the right thing to do.”

“The American Peace Mobilization was considered a Communist front organization,” Riley noted.

Diane nodded. “Yes, though Roberta didn’t realize the full implications at the time. It was a youthful mistake—naive, perhaps, but hardly sinister. But HUAC was looking for any connection, any association they could use.”

She took another sip of her drink. “When Roberta received a subpoena to testify, she was terrified. This was at the height of the blacklist—careers, lives were being destroyed daily.”

“So she testified,” Ann Marie prompted gently.

“Behind closed doors,” Diane confirmed. “A clandestine session, not public like the hearings we’ve all seen footage of. The committee offered her a deal—name others who had attended those meetings, and her own participation would be kept confidential.”

Riley felt a chill despite the apartment’s warmth. “And she accepted.”

“She was young, ambitious, and terrified,” Diane said, not quite an answer but clearly a kind of defense. “The studio had made it clear: cooperate or be blacklisted.”

“So she named names,” Riley said, keeping her tone neutral.

Diane turned to stare out the window at the deepening dusk. “Yes. She gave them what they wanted—names of others who had attended those meetings. I think maybe some were already known to the committee, while others weren’t.”

“Did she ever tell you who specifically she named?” Riley asked.

Diane shook her head firmly. “No. She wouldn’t speak of it in such specific terms—not even to me. She would only say that her testimony had ‘destroyed lives’ and that she ‘lived with the consequences every day.’ I think she feared that if I knew the names, I might someday let something slip, and her secret would be exposed.”

She returned to her seat, glass still in hand. “Roberta once told me she’d rather be a nobody today than have done what she did. That all her success felt tainted because of how she’d protected herself at others’ expense. But she was too afraid to come forward publicly and confess, even decades later.”

“And you believe Veronica was killed because of her mother’s testimony?” Ann Marie asked.

“I’m certain of it,” Diane replied without hesitation. “Why else make use of that recreated scene from The Night Walker? It’s symbolic—punishing the daughter for the mother’s sins. But more than that…” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “It won’t end with Veronica.”

Riley leaned forward. “What makes you say that?”

“Because vengeance like this doesn’t simply stop once blood has been spilled. It grows, consumes.” Diane’s eyes seemed to focus on something beyond the room’s confines. “When Veronica came to me last night, I sensed her fear—not for herself, but for others. That’s what she was trying to warn me about.”

The claim about Veronica’s “visit” still struck Riley as the delusion of a troubled mind, but the idea behind the “warning” itself held a certain logic. If the murder was indeed connected to Roberta’s testimony, there could be other targets—perhaps others who had benefited from keeping that testimony secret.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Riley asked. “Anything Roberta might have mentioned about the people involved, even if she didn’t name them specifically?”

Diane considered the question, swirling the remaining liquid in her glass. “I wish I could tell you more, but that’s all I know. Roberta kept that part of her life carefully compartmentalized—even from those closest to her.”

She set her empty glass down with a sense of finality. “I’ve lived with Roberta’s secret for decades without mentioning it to another soul. I’m breaking that confidence now only because Veronica is gone, and because I believe others might be in danger.”

“We appreciate your candor,” Riley said, rising from the settee.

Ann Marie followed suit. “You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Kingsley.”

“Will you find whoever did this?” Diane asked, suddenly vulnerable in a way that made her seem smaller, frailer than before.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Ann Marie assured her with genuine warmth.

Diane walked them to the door, her steps careful. “Be vigilant,” she said as they prepared to leave. “Whoever killed Veronica has waited a very long time for their revenge. They won’t stop now that they’ve begun.”

Riley nodded, acknowledging the warning without endorsing Diane’s supernatural explanation for it. “Thank you again, Ms. Kingsley. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

The descent down the narrow staircase felt like a transition between worlds—from Diane’s carefully preserved shrine to old Hollywood, back to the present reality of a murder investigation. The shop below sat in darkness, the glamorous mannequins looking even more alive in the dim light, their frozen poses more eerie.

Outside, twilight had settled over Atlanta, painting the sky in deepening shades of blue. Streetlights flickered on as Riley and Ann Marie made their way back to their car.

“What do you think?” Ann Marie asked once they were out of earshot of the shop.

Riley exhaled slowly, organizing her thoughts. “I think Diane Kingsley is deeply unstable—living in a fantasy world where dead friends pay social calls. But there’s no doubt that she’s telling the truth about Roberta’s testimony and its significance. At least, as much as she knows about it.”

“That’s right,” Ann Marie agreed as they reached the car. “If someone connected to one of the people Roberta named has nursed a grudge all these years, they could be well into their eighties or nineties now—or it could be a child or grandchild carrying out revenge for a family member.”

Riley unlocked the car but paused before opening the door, Diane’s warning settling over her like the gathering darkness. “Either way, I think she’s right about one thing—this isn’t over. The theatrical nature of Veronica’s murder, the symbolism of using the same poison from her mother’s famous film role… that’s not the work of someone who plans to stop after a single killing.”

“So who might be next?” Ann Marie asked, her expression grave in the soft glow of the streetlight above them.

“I don’t know,” Riley admitted. “But if the motivation is vengeance for Roberta’s testimony, it could be anyone connected to keeping that secret—friends, studio executives, maybe even others who testified and were protected while their colleagues were exposed.”

They slid into the car, the interior still warm from the day’s heat. Riley started the engine but didn’t immediately pull away from the curb, her mind working through the implications of what they’d learned.

Before she and Ann Marie could decide on a course of action, Riley’s phone rang, its screen illuminating the darkened car interior. Both women glanced down at the display, where Detective Hayes’ name flashed urgently against the background.

What had could Hayes have discovered that he couldn’t wait until morning to share it?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When Riley answered the phone call, tapping the speaker button so Ann Marie could hear, Detective Hayes’ voice was taut with excitement.

“Paige? Esmer? You’re not going to believe what we found,” Hayes began without preamble, his words tumbling over each other. “The search of Hartley’s apartment yielded multiple encrypted hard drives. Our tech team has only cracked the first layer, but what they found is damning.”

“What did you find, Detective?” Ann Marie asked, her voice calm.

“Hartley’s been running an extortion racket through the dark web,” Hayes replied, satisfaction evident in his tone. “Under a pseudonym, of course. He’s been targeting wealthy individuals with compromising information—affairs, financial irregularities, you name it. The operation is sophisticated and has been active for at least six years.”

Riley frowned, absorbing this new information. “Excellent work,” she told him. “But you believe this connects to Veronica’s murder?”

“It absolutely does,” Hayes insisted. “The man’s a blackmailer who had a documented obsession with Veronica Slate. When she recognized him at the event, she became a threat. Classic motive—she could expose him, ruin everything he’d built.”

Riley exchanged a glance with Ann Marie, reading the same skepticism in her partner’s expression that she felt herself.

“We’ll have him in the next twenty-four hours,” Hayes continued, his confidence unwavering. “The extortion charges alone are enough to hold him indefinitely while we build the murder case. I wouldn’t be surprised if he confesses once he realizes how much we have on him.”

“Detective,” Riley said carefully, “Hartley’s dark web activities do help explain why he ran when we approached him at the Silver Screen Café. I don’t think that he was fleeing because he murdered Veronica—he was running because he had illegal operations that could send him to prison regardless.”

“What’s the difference?” Hayes countered. “A guilty man ran. We caught him. Now we’ve found evidence of criminal activity that establishes a pattern of behavior consistent with someone capable of murder.”

“The difference,” Riley explained, “is that extortion and murder are different crimes with different motives. Running an anonymous blackmail operation requires secrecy and distance. Murdering someone in a highly theatrical, public manner suggests different psychological drivers.”

Hayes’ sigh crackled through the speaker. “I understand that you have to take the BAU approach, Agent Paige, but sometimes the simplest explanation is the right one. Hartley hated Veronica Slate, had access to the studio where she was killed, and had a history of criminal behavior. That’s a good case in my book.”

Riley persisted. “We just met with Diane Kingsley. She was close friends with Roberta Rimes and knows about her testimony before HUAC. She’s convinced—and frankly, so are we—that Veronica’s murder is connected to that testimony.”

“You mean that testimony from seventy years ago?” Hayes’ voice dripped with skepticism.

“Yes,” Riley confirmed. “The killer made use of the re-creation of Roberta’s famous death scene from The Night Walker—the same film that made her a star just before she testified. That’s not coincidental. And remember the phrase on Hartley’s bulletin board: ‘Like mother, like daughter.’ Hartley is probably not alone in harboring that sentiment. Whoever the killer is, he is drawing a direct connection between Veronica and her mother’s actions.”

The silence that followed suggested Hayes was at least considering her point. Then he asked, “And how does this theory explain Hartley’s involvement?”

“It doesn’t necessarily,” Ann Marie interjected. “But as a film historian researching Roberta Rimes, Hartley might know details about her testimony that aren’t public knowledge—specifically, which names she gave to the committee.”

“We’d like to interview him again,” Riley added. “Focus on what he knows about the HUAC testimony rather than his personal grudge against Veronica. If he can tell us which Hollywood figures Roberta named, we might identify who would have motive for revenge after all these years—or whose family might.”

Hayes’ response was immediate and firm. “No. Absolutely not. I’ve indulged this federal involvement out of respect, but I’m not going to let you derail my investigation now with speculative theories about ancient history.”

“Detective—” Riley began.

“I’ve made my decision, Agent Paige,” Hayes cut her off. “Malcolm Hartley is our prime suspect for Veronica Slate’s murder. The dark web operations only strengthen that case. As the lead investigator, I’m instructing you and Agent Esmer to stand down on this unless I specifically request your assistance. Is that clear?”

The authority in his voice was unmistakable. Though the BAU had been invited to consult, the case remained under Atlanta PD jurisdiction. Hayes had every right to limit their involvement and to bring charges as he saw fit.

“Crystal clear, Detective,” Riley replied, her tone professional despite her frustration. “We’ll await further instructions.”

“Good. I’ll update you if anything significant develops.” With that, Hayes ended the call, leaving Riley and Ann Marie in silence punctuated only by the soft hum of the car’s engine.

Ann Marie was the first to speak. “Well, that went well.”

Riley tossed her phone onto the dashboard with more force than necessary. “He’s fixated on Hartley and missing the bigger picture.”

“To be fair,” Ann Marie offered, “the dark web extortion is compelling evidence of criminal behavior. Most detectives would focus on that.”

“Most detectives aren’t dealing with a murder carried out in the re-creation of a seventy-year-old film scene,” Riley countered. “That couldn’t have been easy to carry off. What would be the point of using that setting if it meant nothing to the killer? Hartley may be guilty of plenty, but I don’t think he killed Veronica Slate.”

Ann Marie checked her watch. “So what now? Hayes made it pretty clear he wants us to back off.”

Riley started the car, its engine coming to life with a gentle rumble. “Now we find somewhere to eat, check into those hotel rooms Meredith arranged, and reassess in the morning. Hayes might come around once he’s had time to think.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Riley pulled away from the curb, merging into the light evening traffic. “Then we decide how far we’re willing to push jurisdictional boundaries to prevent another murder—because I’m convinced there will be one if we don’t solve this quickly.”

Somewhere in Atlanta, Riley believed, someone was executing a plan of vengeance that had been decades in the making—and Malcolm Hartley’s dark web activities, while criminal, were merely a distraction from the real danger still unfolding.

***

Later that evening, Riley viewed the generic comfort of her hotel room—crisp white sheets, abstract watercolor prints on beige walls, the faint hum of the air conditioning system that never quite reached the perfect temperature. She perched on the edge of the king-sized bed, laptop balanced on her knees as she waited for the video call to connect. The screen flickered, then filled with three separate windows: Bill’s steady gaze from their living room at home, Jilly sprawled across the couch beside him, and April in her dorm room, the walls painted in what residence life probably called “sunshine yellow.”

“Can everyone see and hear each other?” Bill asked, his voice slightly tinny through Riley’s laptop speakers.

“I can see you all,” April confirmed, adjusting her camera. She looked tired, Riley noted with a pang of concern.

“All good here,” Jilly chimed in, flashing a peace sign at the camera. Her casual posture couldn’t quite mask the tension in her shoulders, a detail that didn’t escape Riley’s notice.

“I’m here,” Riley said, forcing warmth into her voice despite the worry gnawing at her insides. “How’s everything at home?”

“Quiet,” Bill replied. “I’ve been working with campus security at Jefferson Bell. They’ve increased patrols around April’s dorm and classroom buildings.”

“And I’ve been taking all of Sergeant Bill’s orders too,” Jilly said with a theatrical salute. “No going anywhere alone, no predictable routines, constant vigilance.”

Riley nodded, grateful for Jilly’s attempt to lighten the mood while still acknowledging the seriousness of their situation. She shifted her attention to April, studying her daughter’s face carefully.

“April, I’ve been thinking,” Riley began, choosing her words deliberately. “Maybe it would be best if you came home for a while. Just until we locate Leo and resolve this situation.”

April’s expression shifted immediately from tired to defiant. “Mom, no. I’m not abandoning my classes three weeks into my first semester.”

“You wouldn’t be abandoning them,” Riley countered. “Most of your professors offer remote options now. You could keep up with the work from home.”

“It’s not the same and you know it,” April said, her jaw set in a way that reminded Riley startlingly of herself. “Besides, if I leave, he wins. He disrupts my life, makes me afraid to live it on my terms. I won’t give him that power.”

Riley recognized the determination in her daughter’s voice—the same stubborn resolve that had carried Riley through her own darkest moments. Pride mingled with frustration, creating a knot of emotion in her chest.

“April’s right,” Bill interjected gently. “Running might seem safer, but it can become its own kind of prison. We’ve put solid precautions in place. She’s being smart about her movements, and campus security is aware of the situation.”

Riley sighed, relenting. “Okay. But I want regular check-ins, and you stick to the safety protocols we discussed.”

“I will,” April promised, her expression softening. “I’m being careful, Mom. I promise.”

“Let’s go over everything again,” Bill suggested. “For both girls.” He straightened in his chair. “Always be aware of your surroundings. No headphones while walking alone. Vary your routes and schedules when possible.”

“Carry your phone at all times, fully charged,” Riley added. “And keep the emergency SOS feature enabled.”

Jilly held up her phone. “Already programmed to call both of you plus 911 if I press the side button five times.”

“And you both have the photo I sent of Leo Dillard?” Bill asked.

April nodded. “Downloaded to my phone. I’ve shown it to my roommate and friends too, so they know to alert me if they see him.”

“I have it memorized,” Jilly said, her usual bravado momentarily slipping to reveal genuine concern. “I couldn’t forget that face now if I tried.”

“Remember that he could use some kind of disguise, Bill warned. “A cap, sunglasses, a hoodie …”

“Got it,” April interrupted.

“Me too,” Jilly added.

Riley felt a twist of guilt at involving her younger daughter in this vigilance, at bringing danger once again into the lives of her children. Yet she knew that awareness was their best defense against any calculated pursuit.

“The most important thing is to trust your instincts,” Riley emphasized. “If something feels wrong, if you think you’re being watched, don’t second-guess yourself. Move to a safe, public place immediately and call for help.”

“We know, Mom,” April said, not unkindly. “You’ve trained us well.”

“Too well, sometimes,” Jilly added with a crooked smile. “Yesterday I nearly pepper-sprayed the mailman because he came to the door at an unusual time.”

Bill chuckled. “She’s exaggerating. But she did make the poor guy show ID before accepting the package.”

The moment of levity eased some of the tension, and Riley felt herself relax fractionally. Her daughters were smart, alert, and prepared—they’d absorbed her training well. Still, she couldn’t shake the knowledge that Leo Dillard was unlike the average predator. His intelligence, patience, and methodical nature made him particularly dangerous.

“How’s the case going?” April asked, clearly trying to change the subject from her own situation.

Riley hesitated, unsure how much to share. “It’s… complicated. The local Detective has his theory, but Ann Marie and I are pursuing a different angle.”

“Meaning he thinks you’re wrong and wants you to back off,” Bill translated with the insight of someone who’d worked with Riley for years.

“Something like that,” Riley admitted. “We’re regrouping in the morning.”

The conversation continued for another fifteen minutes, drifting to lighter topics—Jilly’s latest art project, April’s literature professor who insisted on wearing a different bow tie for each author they studied, Bill’s successful repair of the dishwasher that had been making mysterious grinding noises. Normal life continues despite the shadows hanging over them.

“I should go,” April finally said, glancing at something off-screen. “My study group’s meeting in ten minutes in the common room.”

“And I’ve got homework,” Jilly added, already shifting to stand.

“Stay safe,” Riley said, unable to keep the urgency from her voice. “Both of you. I love you.”

“Love you too, Mom,” they echoed almost in unison before their windows disappeared from the screen, leaving only Bill’s face looking back at her.

“They’ll be okay,” he assured her quietly. “I won’t let anything happen to them.”

Riley nodded, grateful beyond words for his steady presence in their lives. “I know. Keep me updated on anything—anything at all-that seems out of place.”

“I will. Try to get some rest, Riley. You look exhausted.”

After they disconnected, Riley sat motionless on the edge of the bed, the room suddenly vast and empty around her. She closed the laptop and set it aside, then moved to the window, pushing aside the heavy curtain to look out at the Atlanta skyline glittering against the night sky.

Somewhere out there was a killer motivated by decades-old grievances, possibly planning their next move. And hundreds of miles away, her daughters were doing their best to live normal lives while a dangerous obsessive lurked somewhere close by. The distance between them had never felt so insurmountable, so suffocating.

Riley pressed her forehead against the cool glass, closing her eyes. Two separate threats, two different predators, and right now she felt powerless against both.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Crystal Keene straightened her silk scarf against the evening chill as she stepped from the Uber onto the sidewalk in front of The Velvet Screen. The theater’s marquee above her was dark, its bulbs extinguished since the venue’s closure a month prior, yet warm light spilled from the lobby windows. She checked her watch: eleven o’clock precisely. Ted Coonfield would be waiting inside, analog to his core, a man who measured his life in the steady rhythm of twenty-four frames per second. She admired that—the commitment to craft in a world that increasingly mistook convenience for progress.

“Thanks,” she told the driver, who responded with a disinterested nod before pulling away. The car’s taillights receded into the night, leaving Crystal alone on the deserted block.

She approached the theater entrance, her heels clicking against the concrete. Tonight’s clandestine screening felt deliciously subversive—a small act of rebellion against the digital homogenization of cinema. After the horror of Veronica Slate’s murder and postponement of the Roberta Rimes film festival, this private viewing of Dandelion Days offered both comfort and continuity. A reminder that art endured, even as artists perished.

The glass doors yielded to her push without resistance. Unlocked, as Ted had promised. Crystal stepped into the lobby, her nostrils filling with the familiar perfume of a vintage movie house: aged carpeting, faint remnants of butter and salt, the subtle ghost of decades of perfumes and colognes that had passed through these doors in more vibrant times.

“Ted?” she called, her voice echoing slightly in the empty space. “It’s Crystal Keene.”

No answer came. The concession stand stood abandoned, its popcorn machine cold and silent, display cases emptied of their candy and snacks. The lobby lights burned bright, however, suggesting Ted’s presence somewhere in the building.

Crystal frowned, mildly annoyed. They’d arranged everything so precisely over the phone—she would arrive at eleven, and he would have Dandelion Days ready to screen. Perhaps he was busy in the projection booth, making final adjustments to ensure the perfect presentation.

She made her way toward the main theater, pushing through the padded double doors. Inside, the house lights glowed at half-strength, illuminating rows of burgundy velvet seats that faced the blank screen like supplicants before an altar. The theater was larger than she’d expected—perhaps three hundred seats, arranged in a gentle slope toward the screen. Though modest by modern multiplex standards, it had an intimacy that newer venues lacked, a sense that the space had been designed for communion between audience and art.

Crystal paused at the entrance, scanning the empty seats for any sign of Ted. Finding none, she tilted her head back to look toward the projection booth—a small windowed room set high in the back wall. Light spilled from its windows, and she could make out the silhouette of projectors inside.

“Ted?” she called again, louder this time. “Are you up there?”

A figure moved across one of the windows, a dark shape against the brightness. A hand raised in what appeared to be a wave.

“Should I take a seat?” she called. “Is the film ready?”

The figure raised its hand again—another wave, or perhaps a gesture of confirmation. Crystal couldn’t be sure from this distance, but she took it as an affirmative.

“I’ll be right here in the center,” she announced, making her way down the sloped aisle.

She selected a seat in the middle of the theater—row M, the sweet spot where sound and image would be perfectly balanced. As she settled in, smoothing her slacks and placing her handbag on the adjacent seat, she wondered briefly at Ted’s lack of verbal greeting. Perhaps the acoustics made it difficult for him to hear her from the booth, or maybe he was simply focused on his preparations.

Crystal allowed herself to relax into the seat’s velvet embrace. In her sixty-five years, she had watched countless films in countless theaters, from glamorous Hollywood premieres to crumbling art houses in Eastern Europe. Each space had its own personality, its own relationship with the films it screened. The Velvet Screen, even in its twilight, maintained a dignified character—a venue that took its role as a conduit for art seriously.

The house lights dimmed suddenly, plunging the theater into near darkness. A cone of light burst from the projection booth, striking the screen with the promise of an unfolding. Crystal felt the familiar flutter of excitement that preceded every film, regardless of how many thousands she had viewed in her career. Each new screening represented possibility—the chance to be moved, challenged, transformed.

The screen filled with the rich, slightly faded color palette of 1970s film stock as Dandelion Days began to unspool. No stream of studio logos or digital anti-piracy warnings—just the immediate immersion into the film itself, as movies had routinely begun back before corporate branding.

The opening shot panned across a rural landscape, golden fields swaying in summer breeze, before settling on a country road where a solitary car approached in the distance. The musical score swelled, strings and piano weaving a theme of nostalgic longing that had haunted Crystal since she’d first heard it as a young critic.

Within moments, Roberta Rimes appeared on screen, her face filling the frame in close-up—those extraordinary eyes communicating volumes about her character’s hidden depths. Crystal leaned forward slightly, captivated as always by Rimes’ ability to convey complex emotion with the smallest shift in expression. Digital projection might offer technical perfection, but it could never capture the organic warmth of celluloid, the subtle grain that seemed to breathe life into Roberta’s performance.

The scene continued, and Crystal found herself transported by the familiar story—a celebrated novelist returning to her small hometown after decades away, confronting the memories and relationships she’d transformed into fiction. The narrative was simple yet profound, a meditation on the way art both preserves and distorts reality. Roberta’s portrayal of the writer carried the weight of her own experiences—a woman who had seen much, hidden more, and emerged with wisdom that could not fully compensate for her regrets.

Watching Dandelion Days again, Crystal thought of her own book, Pantheon Directors, and how she had argued for the film’s director, Anthony Cahill, to be included among cinema’s greatest visionaries despite his limited output. Some critics had dismissed the film as sentimental, but Crystal had recognized its subtle subversion of nostalgia, the way it exposed the selectivity of memory without surrendering to cynicism.

The only element missing from this viewing experience was the communal energy of an audience—the collective breath held during moments of tension, the ripple of laughter at shared humor, the silent communion of strangers united by artistic experience. Yet there was something uniquely intimate about being the sole viewer, as if Roberta Rimes were performing for her alone across the gulf of decades.

Twenty minutes into the film, Crystal settled deeper into her seat, appreciating Ted’s skill at projection. The focus was razor-sharp, the framing precise, the audio balanced perfectly. These were the hallmarks of a professional who understood that his art lay in invisibility—when projection was done right, the audience forgot entirely about the technical aspects of presentation and surrendered completely to the story.

Her thoughts drifted briefly to Ted himself. What would become of him now, with traditional projection becoming increasingly rare? He belonged to a dying breed, artisans whose specialized knowledge was being rendered obsolete by the relentless march of digitization. Crystal had witnessed similar transitions throughout the industry—hand-drawn animation supplanted by computers, carefully staged special effects eclipsed by CGI, celluloid giving way to pixels. Progress, they called it, though sometimes it felt more like erasure.

On screen, Roberta’s character stood at the edge of a lake, watching the sunset paint the water in amber hues. The composition was exquisite—a perfect balance of human figure and natural landscape, each reflecting the emotional state of the other. Crystal made a mental note to mention this sequence in her next column, perhaps as part of a broader piece about the visual grammar of 1970s American cinema.

The peaceful scene was shattered by a sudden stutter in the projection. The image jumped, froze momentarily, then resumed for a second before freezing again. Crystal frowned, pulled from her single-minded focus.

The stuttering continued, each jerk of the film accompanied by an ominous clicking sound from the projection booth.

Then came the dreaded sight that every film lover feared—a small spot in the center of the frame began to bubble and distort. The film had caught in the gate, the intense heat of the projection lamp now burning through the celluloid itself. The spot expanded rapidly, blossoming into an irregular hole that grew larger as flames consumed the trapped frame.

The screen went blindingly white as the burning frame melted completely, leaving only the harsh illumination of the projector’s lamp. Crystal shielded her eyes against the sudden glare, surprised by the intensity of light unfiltered by film.

“Ted?” she called, turning in her seat to look back at the projection booth. “The film’s caught!”

Only silence answered her. The white light continued to pour onto the screen, creating an uncomfortably bright void where Roberta Rimes had been moments before.

Crystal waited, certain that Ted would notice the problem and stop to patch the break. Seconds stretched into a minute, then two. The projector continued to run, its mechanical whir audible in the silent theater.

“Ted?” she called again, louder this time. “Is everything all right up there?”

The silhouette she’d seen earlier was no longer visible in the booth windows. Crystal’s mild annoyance shifted toward concern. Even an amateur projectionist would immediately respond to a burned film—for a professional like Ted to ignore it was unthinkable.

She rose from her seat, gathering her handbag. Something felt wrong. The emptiness of the theater, previously cozy and exclusive, suddenly seemed ominous. The harsh white light from the screen cast everything in an unnatural glow.

“I’m coming up to check on you,” she announced, her voice sounding smaller than she intended.

No response came from the booth.

Crystal made her way up the sloped aisle, her shadow stretching grotesquely ahead of her in the projector’s unfiltered light. At the back of the theater, a small door marked “Staff Only” stood slightly ajar. Beyond it, a narrow staircase led upward, presumably to the projection booth.

She hesitated at the threshold, a vague uneasiness settling over her. In her decades as a critic, she had visited countless projection booths, watched operators thread film through complicated paths. There was no rational reason for her sudden reluctance.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered to herself, pushing through the door.

The staircase was dimly lit by a single bulb, the steps worn in their centers from years of use. Crystal climbed slowly, one hand trailing along the wall for balance. The mechanical sound of the still-running projector grew louder with each step, a steady rhythm like the heartbeat of the theater itself.

At the top of the stairs, another door stood partly open, spilling light into the stairwell. Crystal paused, listening. No movement, no voice—only the whir of the projector.

“Ted?” she called, rapping her knuckles against the door. “It’s Crystal. The film’s caught in the gate.”

Silence.

She pushed the door wider and stepped into the projection booth. Two massive projectors dominated the small space, their complicated mechanisms gleaming under the overhead lights. One was dark and silent, while the other—the one projecting the stark white light onto the screen below—continued to run, its reels spinning steadily despite the absence of film passing through the gate.

Ted Coonfield was nowhere to be seen.

Crystal moved deeper into the booth, her unease growing with each step. Obviously Ted had been here, otherwise the showing wouldn’t have started. And yet he had vanished without addressing the film problem—behavior entirely at odds with his reputation for professionalism.

A strange sensation prickled along Crystal’s spine—recognition not of a place but of a scenario. Something about this moment felt familiar in a way that had nothing to do with her previous visits to projection booths.

Then it struck her with chilling clarity. The Broken Window. The 1954 film noir directed by Weston Black. In its most notorious scene, a female film critic is murdered in a projection booth, her body then chained to the projector as a macabre statement about the relationship between critic and art.

Crystal had written about that scene in her book, analyzing its visual composition and thematic resonance. Now she stood in an eerily similar setting—alone in a projection booth with no sign of the projectionist who should be there.

The parallel was too precise to be coincidental.

Her heart rate accelerated as adrenaline flooded her system. She needed to get out of here. If someone had deliberately recreated this scenario, if Ted’s absence was not an accident but a design…

She never completed the thought. As she turned and reached for the door handle, a dark shape lunged from behind a storage cabinet—moving with terrible purpose. Crystal caught only a glimpse of a face contorted with hatred before strong hands seized her from behind.

Something thin and flexible looped around her neck. It tightened with vicious speed, cutting off her airway and digging into the soft flesh of her throat.

Crystal clawed at the garrote, her fingernails scraping uselessly against her attacker’s gloved hands. She tried to scream, but only a strangled whimper escaped her constricted throat.

The pressure increased. Dark spots swam before her eyes as oxygen deprivation set in. Her struggling weakened, her body betraying her as consciousness began to slip away.

In her final moments of awareness, as the projection booth dimmed around her, Crystal Keene experienced a film critic’s last irony—dying exactly as described in a scene she had analyzed dozens of times.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The phone’s shrill ring dragged Riley from the depths of sleep. She surfaced reluctantly, fragments of troubled dreams dissolving as awareness returned—vague impressions of April in danger mixing with Atlanta’s darkened streets. The digital clock beside the bed read 5:07 AM.

Nothing good ever came from calls before sunrise.

She fumbled for her phone on the unfamiliar nightstand. When she found the vibrating device, the screen’s harsh blue glow cut through the pre-dawn darkness. The call was from Detective Hayes.

“Paige,” she answered, her voice thick with interrupted sleep.

“There’s been another murder.” Hayes’ words tumbled out in a rush, his tone urgent and raw. “At The Velvet Screen Theater.”

Riley sat upright, sleep evaporating. Another murder. Just as she and Ann Marie had predicted.

“Crystal Keene,” Hayes continued before she could respond. “The film critic. Found chained to a projector in the booth. Strangled.”

Riley swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet connecting with the hotel room’s carpeting. “When?”

“Sometime last night. Projectionist found her about an hour ago. Says he was knocked unconscious yesterday evening and woke up bound in a closet. When he managed to free himself she was beyond any help.” Hayes paused, and Riley heard what it cost him to say the next words. “You were right. About there being more victims. About this being connected to Hollywood history.”

Riley didn’t allow herself even a moment of satisfaction at the vindication. Being right meant someone else was dead. “The scene—it was deliberately staged?”

“Like something out of a goddamn movie,” Hayes confirmed. “The projectionist recognized it immediately. From some old film noir called The Broken Window.”

“I know it,” Riley said, moving toward the bathroom, phone pressed against her ear. She flipped on the light, wincing at the sudden brightness. “A film critic is murdered in a projection booth and chained to the projector.”

“Look,” Hayes said, his voice dropping into something that sounded almost like an apology. “I need you and Agent Esmer at the scene. Now. Whatever’s happening here, it’s beyond anything I’ve dealt with before. These… theatrical murders.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she promised. “Text me the exact address.”

“I’ll be waiting at the entrance,” Hayes replied, then disconnected.

Riley set the phone down on the bathroom counter and splashed cold water on her face, forcing her mind to compartmentalize. One crisis at a time. Here in Atlanta, someone was murdering people in ways that evoked cinematic deaths. Back in Virginia, Leo Dillard remained a threat to April. Both situations demanded her complete attention, an impossible division that left her feeling insufficient.

Her phone buzzed with Hayes’ text containing the address. Then Riley called Ann Marie’s room.

The younger agent answered on the third ring, her voice alert despite the early hour. “Esmer.”

“There’s been another murder,” Riley said without preamble. “Crystal Keene at The Velvet Screen theater. Hayes wants us there ASAP.”

“I’ll be ready in five,” Ann Marie replied, no trace of smugness in her voice despite their theories being confirmed. Like Riley, she understood that being right about murder predictions was a hollow victory.

“Meet me in the lobby,” Riley instructed before ending the call.

She quickly brushed her teeth and changed into black slacks and a navy blouse. Professional. Authoritative. A costume in its own way, armor against the world’s darkness. She gathered her weapon, badge, and the small notebook she always carried, tucking them into appropriate pockets and holsters. The familiar weight of the gun against her hip provided its usual cold comfort—a reminder of both her authority and its limitations. A gun was useless to a life already taken, no help against threats hundreds of miles away.

Riley checked her phone once more for messages from Bill or April. Nothing new since their video call last night. She told herself this was good news—no crisis had erupted overnight—but the silence offered little reassurance. Absence of evidence wasn’t evidence of absence, especially when it came to someone like Leo Dillard.

With a final glance around the hotel room to ensure she hadn’t forgotten anything essential, Riley hurried out of her room. As the elevator descended toward the lobby, her mind was already imagining the scene that awaited them. Crystal Keene chained to a projector, another life extinguished to satisfy some decades-old grievance.

And perhaps most disturbingly, the killer seemed to be following a script that only they fully understood.

***

In a short time, Riley was driving the sedan through Atlanta’s empty pre-dawn streets. Beside her, Ann Marie studied something on her phone, the blue light illuminating her features in the darkened car. The city seemed suspended in that liminal space between night and morning—when most of the nocturnal had gone to rest but most of the diurnal had yet to stir—lending an eerie stillness to their journey.

“He should have listened to us yesterday,” Ann Marie said, breaking the silence. She looked up from her phone, where she’d been reviewing notes on The Broken Window. “If Hayes hadn’t been so fixated on Hartley, maybe Crystal Keene would still be alive.”

Riley slowed for a red light despite the absence of other traffic. “We should have pushed harder,” she countered. “Insisted on pursuing the HUAC connection even without his approval.”

“You think he would have budged?” Ann Marie asked, skepticism evident in her tone.

“Probably not,” Riley admitted. “But we could have kept digging independently.”

The light changed, and Riley pressed the accelerator, the car’s engine humming as they continued through the sleeping city.

Behind her professional focus, fragments of her interrupted dreams flickered through her mind. She couldn’t recall the specifics, only the overwhelming sense of dread, the way her subconscious had merged her anxieties about April with the dangers of the current case. In the dream, the face of Leo Dillard had somehow blended with the faceless killer they pursued in Atlanta, both threats somehow becoming a single menace.

Riley tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Compartmentalization had always been her strength—the ability to seal off personal concerns while working a case, to prevent emotional contamination of her professional judgment. But those boundaries were eroding, the walls between her roles as mother and FBI agent becoming increasingly permeable.

“Riley?” Ann Marie’s voice cut through her thoughts. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Riley replied automatically, then caught herself. Ann Marie deserved better than platitudes. “Just finding it harder than usual to keep the personal and professional separate.”

Ann Marie nodded, understanding in her eyes. “With Leo Dillard targeting April while we’re hundreds of miles away, I’d be more concerned if you weren’t struggling with that.”

The GPS directed them to turn right, and Riley guided the car onto a narrower street lined with older buildings. Up ahead, she saw the flashing lights of police vehicles, their red and blue pulses marking the location of The Velvet Screen.

“Looks like the whole department showed up,” Ann Marie observed as they approached.

Riley pulled up behind a crime scene van, taking in the organized chaos before them. Uniformed officers maintained a perimeter with yellow tape, keeping at bay the small cluster of early-rising journalists who had somehow already caught wind of the story. Crime scene technicians in white coveralls moved between vehicles and the theater entrance, carrying equipment and evidence bags.

As promised, Detective Hayes stood waiting at the entrance, his posture tense, shoulders hunched against the morning chill—or perhaps against the weight of his professional miscalculation. He straightened when he spotted them, raising a hand in acknowledgment.

“Agents,” he greeted as they approached, his face haggard under the harsh lights. The confidence he’d projected yesterday had evaporated, replaced by the grim determination of a man forced to recalibrate his entire understanding of a case. “Appreciate you coming so quickly.”

Riley nodded. “What do we know so far?”

Hayes gestured for them to follow him inside, ducking under the crime scene tape. “Victim is Crystal Keene, 65, film critic for Metropolitan Monthly. She was here for the Roberta Rimes festival that got postponed after Veronica Slate’s murder.”

The old lobby of The Velvet Screen was transformed into an active crime scene. Harsh portable lights illuminated every corner, technicians dusted surfaces for prints, and a police photographer methodically documented the space.

“A projectionist named Ted Coonfield called 911 to report the murder,” Hayes continued, leading them deeper into the lobby. “Like I told you, he claims he was attacked. Woke up bound and gagged in a supply closet.”

“And he’s the one who found her?” Ann Marie asked.

Hayes nodded. “Says it took him hours to get free. When he did, he went to the projection booth and found Crystal Keene there.” He paused, his expression darkening. “Coonfield’s pretty shaken up, but he’s coherent. He’s over there.”

He indicated a man sitting on a bench along the wall, a paper cup of coffee clutched in trembling hands. Ted Coonfield looked to be in his sixties, with thinning gray hair and the stooped posture of someone who had spent decades hunched over equipment. A paramedic hovered nearby, periodically checking the swollen bruise on Coonfield’s temple.

As they approached, Coonfield looked up, his bloodshot eyes haunted. “You’re the FBI people?”

“I’m Special Agent Riley Paige,” Riley confirmed, keeping her voice gentle. “This is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer. We’d like to hear what happened.”

Coonfield nodded, setting his coffee aside. “Ms. Keene called yesterday. She wanted to see Dandelion Days—Roberta Rimes’ final film. Said she was disappointed the festival had been postponed after what happened to Veronica Slate. And of course, she wanted to see it on film. Not a digital copy. I came in early last evening to test the equipment and load the film. The theater’s been closed, so I wanted to make sure everything was working properly.”

“What time was this?” Riley asked.

“Around seven. The screening was set for eleven.” Coonfield’s hand drifted unconsciously to the bruise on his temple. “I was in the projection booth, testing the equipment, when someone knocked on the door. I opened it, and somebody hit me here.” He touched the swollen area gingerly. “Next thing I knew, I was waking up in the janitor’s closet downstairs, tied up and gagged.”

“Did you see who attacked you?” Ann Marie inquired.

Coonfield shook his head, wincing at the movement. “Never got a look. Could have been anyone—man, woman, I don’t know.”

“And when you regained consciousness?” Riley prompted.

“It was dark. My watch was gone, so I don’t know exactly what time it was.” Frustration flashed across his features. “I spent God knows how long working the ropes loose. My wrists are all torn up.” He displayed his bandaged wrists as evidence. “By the time I got free, I figured Ms. Keene must have come and gone, maybe thought I’d stood her up.”

His voice caught slightly. “I went up to the projection booth to check the equipment, see if anything had been taken or damaged. That’s when I found her.”

“Tell us exactly what you saw,” Riley said, maintaining eye contact.

Coonfield swallowed hard. “She was… chained to the number one projector. The lamp was still on, projecting white light onto the screen. When I looked at the film, I saw that it had been deliberately sliced to make it jam in the gate and burn through.”

His professional indignation briefly overtook his horror. “Whoever did this knew projectors. They knew exactly how to make the film catch and burn—created a slice that would snag in the gate.”

“You mentioned recognizing the scene,” Hayes interjected. “From a movie?”

Coonfield nodded gravely. “The Broken Window. 1957. There’s a scene where a film critic is murdered in a projection booth, strangled, and then chained to the projector as a statement. It’s… infamous among projectionists. A kind of urban legend in our profession.”

“I’d like to see the crime scene now,” Riley said, turning to Hayes.

The Detective nodded grimly. “This way. Techs have documented everything, but we left the body in place for you to see.”

He led them through the theater’s main auditorium, where the screen still glowed with the harsh light from the projector above. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating dust particles dancing in its path. At the back of the theater, they climbed the narrow service stairs that Crystal Keene had ascended the night before, heading toward her death.

The projection booth was crowded with crime scene technicians, the small space barely accommodating the additional bodies. They stepped aside respectfully as Hayes ushered Riley and Ann Marie in.

The smell hit Riley first—the acrid scent of burned film and the distinctive odor of death in its early hours. Crystal Keene’s body was secured to one of the massive projectors with heavy chains, her head lolled forward, a bleeding wound around her neck where a garrote wire had cut through her flesh. Her elegant clothing—a silk blouse and tailored pants—contrasted sharply with the indignity of her death. Nearby, a loop of melted film hung from the projector like a grotesque decoration.

Riley stepped closer, carefully avoiding the markers placed by the crime scene unit. She studied the positioning of the body, the chains, the meticulous attention to detail evident in the staging. This was not a crime of opportunity or passion. This was methodical, planned to the minutest detail.

But she needed to know more than that if they were going to prevent another death. Riley closed her eyes, allowing her mind to shift, reaching for a sense of the killer’s thoughts at the moment of murder.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Riley reached out with her thoughts, pulling at strands of possibility and intent, drawing them together for insight into a killer’s mind. It was her gift—and her curse—this ability to slip into their mindset, to see through their eyes, even if only for moments.

At first was as though her consciousness floated through the darkened theater below. She could almost see the eerie glow of the screen as Crystal Keene had watched, too unsuspecting to sense danger.

Then she felt the presence of the killer watching in the control room. Her mind put together everything she had glimpsed or felt or been told about this person, subtleties she wasn’t even consciously aware of, anything from previous discussions, both actual details and mere wisps of possibilities. It was her talent to turn all of that into a sense of connection with the mind of a killer.

She felt this killer’s satisfaction, the snug fit of the plan, the intoxicating sense of control and artistry. And something else …

Revenge.

As her eyes opened, Riley saw Anne Marie watching her, but didn’t think anyone else had taken special note of her brief mental absence.

She reached for the box of latex gloves Detective Hayes had brought, snapping them onto her hands. “I need to look at the film,” Riley said, her voice steady despite the sense of the killer still strong in her mind. Now she would turn to more tangible physical evidence, starting with the film itself, deliberately sabotaged to set up this macabre scene.

Hayes nodded, gesturing to a crime scene technician who had been documenting the evidence. “Let Agent Paige examine the splice.”

Riley approached the projector, careful not to disturb the position of Crystal Keene’s body still chained to the machine. The melted film hung like a grotesque ornament, its edges blackened and curled from the intense heat of the projection lamp. She peered at the section of film just before the burn, where the frames remained intact enough to examine.

“There,” she murmured, pointing to a spot several inches before the melted portion. “That’s the slice Coonfield mentioned.”

Ann Marie moved closer, her shoulder nearly touching Riley’s as they both studied the sabotaged film. “It’s almost invisible unless you’re looking for it.”

Riley nodded. “It’s deliberate—meant to catch in the gate after running for a specific amount of time.”

“So the killer knew exactly when the film would jam,” Hayes observed, leaning in to see the detail Riley had identified.

“More than that,” Riley said, straightening to face them. “The killer knew exactly how a projector works, how film moves through the mechanism, precisely where the weak point would be.” She glanced around the booth, taking in the complex array of equipment. “This isn’t amateur work. It’s calculated—someone with knowledge and experience.”

Hayes and Ann Marie remained silent, giving her space to process the scene.

“The killer clearly came prepared,” Riley said, her voice dropping slightly as the various impressions clarified in her mind. “Knew the exact layout of this booth, where everything was positioned.” She gestured to the corners of the small room. “Knew where to hide, how to ambush someone entering. And where to stash someone they wanted out of the way.”

She turned to face Hayes directly. “The killer must have known that Crystal had arranged a private screening. And not just that—they knew Ted Coonfield would come early to prepare, that he would be alone, vulnerable.”

“How would they know that?” Hayes asked, his brow furrowed.

Riley’s gaze drifted to Crystal Keene’s body. “Either they overheard the arrangements being made, or they have a connection to the film community here. Maybe both.”

Ann Marie tilted her head thoughtfully. “Crystal Keene was in Atlanta for the Roberta Rimes festival. After Veronica’s murder, she might have mentioned to several people her disappointment about the festival being postponed. If she was looking for a way to see Dandelion Days on her own…”

“Word could have gotten around,” Riley finished the thought. “In a community still reeling from Veronica’s death, people talk. The killer could have learned about Crystal’s plans through conversation, maybe even overheard Crystal herself discussing it.”

Hayes nodded slowly, processing this angle. “So our killer either had a key to this place—”

“Or knew how to pick a lock,” Riley interjected. “The theater’s been closed for a month. Security probably isn’t a priority.”

“No,” Hayes agreed. “Not a single working surveillance camera in the theater. I’ve directed one of my team to find out if any cameras picked up something outside The Velvet Screen, but there aren’t a lot of those nearby.”

Riley moved toward the door of the projection booth, reconstructing the sequence in her mind. “The killer came early, before Coonfield arrived.”

“Waited in here?” Hayes suggested.

Riley scratched her chin.

“No, Coonfield himself told us otherwise. The killer surprised him by a knock on the projection room door. Coonfield opened the door, and the killer knocked him out with a single blow to the head.”

Riley walked through the space, following the invisible path of the killer’s movements. “After Coonfield was unconscious, the killer bound him, gagged him, and moved him downstairs to the janitor’s closet—out of the way, but not killed. Why?”

“Because Coonfield wasn’t the target,” Ann Marie suggested.

“Exactly,” Riley agreed. “The killer needed him alive but incapacitated. Needed him to be found eventually, to discover the body, to recognize the scene from The Broken Window. That was part of the message.”

Hayes leaned against the wall, his expression grim. “So after securing Coonfield, the killer returned here and prepared the film.”

Riley nodded, turning back to the projector. “Made the slice that would cause the film to jam and burn through. Loaded everything correctly, just as Coonfield would have done. Then waited for Crystal Keene to arrive.”

Hayes nodded. “We found the outside door unlocked. So the victim could have entered without any help from whoever was in the projection room.”

“Exactly,” Riley said. “The killer could just stay up in the projection room until Crystal was seated in the theater below. She had no way to know it wasn’t Coonfield.”

She closed her eyes again, seeing the scene unfold. “Then the killer starts the film, letting it run normally at first. Crystal watches, unaware that anything is wrong. The film plays for perhaps twenty minutes, long enough for her to become fully engaged. Then, exactly as planned, the film catches in the gate.”

Riley opened her eyes, focusing on the melted section. “The frame burns through. The screen goes white. Crystal calls out for Coonfield, but of course, he doesn’t answer. After waiting, growing increasingly concerned, she decides to come up to the booth herself.”

Hayes straightened from the wall. “Walking right into the trap.”

“Right into the trap,” Riley echoed softly. “She enters, expecting to find Coonfield dealing with a technical problem. Instead, she finds the killer waiting for her.”

The silence that followed felt heavy, charged with the grim reality of what had happened in this small space just hours ago.

“The killer killed her with a garrote wire, based on this wound,” Ann Marie said finally, her gaze toward Crystal’s neck.

Riley nodded. “Quick, efficient. Once she was dead, the killer chained her to the projector—completing the re-creation of the scene from The Broken Window.”

“My God,” Hayes muttered, running a hand over his face. “The level of planning…”

“This wasn’t just murder,” Riley agreed. “It was craftsmanship. The same careful attention to detail we saw with Veronica Slate’s poisoning.”

“And it’s personal,” she emphasized, her voice firm with conviction. “These aren’t random theatrical murders. First Veronica Slate, poisoned like her mother’s character in The Night Walker. Now, Crystal Keene was murdered like the critic in The Broken Window. Both connected to Roberta Rimes’ legacy, both killed in ways that reference specific films from that era.”

Riley paused before offering another idea.

“Film is the killer’s very life. They live, breathe, and eat motion pictures. They love the way movies make stories come to life. They love the way movies make their magic, the same way a stage magician makes his audience believe his tricks are real. They love turning make-believe into something that seems realer than real.”

The words seemed to fall out of Riley’s mouth, and she herself was surprised by them. She wasn’t even sure exactly what she meant. But it came from a strong gut feeling.

She turned to face Hayes directly. “You already know Malcolm Hartley isn’t your killer, Detective. He was in a jail cell when this happened. He’s still there even as we speak. And he wasn’t involved with the killings in any way, not even indirectly. He may be guilty of running a dark web extortion operation, but these murders require a different kind of obsession—a decades-long grudge connected to Roberta Rimes’ testimony before HUAC.”

Hayes didn’t immediately refute her assessment, a stark contrast to his defensive posture the previous day. The second murder had shaken his certainty, forced him to reconsider his theory of the case.

“What do you need?” he asked finally, his voice subdued.

“I need to talk to Malcolm Hartley again,” Riley replied without hesitation. “Not about his obsession with Veronica or his extortion business, but about what he discovered in his research on Roberta Rimes. Specifically, the names she gave during her HUAC testimony.”

Ann Marie added, “If we can identify who Roberta named, we can trace their connections—find out who might still harbor enough resentment to exact this kind of elaborate revenge decades later.”

Hayes considered this for a long moment, his gaze moving from the carefully staged body to Riley’s determined expression. “I’ll arrange it,” he conceded. “I’ll call ahead, have them prepare an interview room.”

“Thank you,” Riley said simply.

Hayes nodded, then stepped outside the booth to make the call, leaving Riley and Ann Marie alone with Crystal Keene’s body.

“You really think Hartley will tell us?” Ann Marie asked quietly.

“I think his obsession with exposing Roberta’s secrets might outweigh his hatred for Veronica,” Riley replied. “Especially if we appeal to his expertise, his pride in the research. Make him feel like the authority he always wanted to be recognized as.”

Ann Marie glanced at her watch. “It’s almost seven. How long do you think it will take Hayes to set up the interview?”

“At least an hour,” Riley estimated. “Maybe longer, considering Hartley’s lawyer will need to be notified.”

“We should get something to eat then,” Ann Marie suggested. “Neither of us has had breakfast, and it’s going to be a long day.”

Riley nodded, feeling the hollowness in her stomach that she’d been ignoring since Hayes’ pre-dawn call.

“There’s a diner I noticed on the way here,” she said. “We can grab something quick before heading to the station.”

Hayes returned, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They’re setting up the interview. Hartley’s lawyer is throwing a fit about the early hour, but he’s on his way in. Should be ready in about ninety minutes.”

“We’re going to get some breakfast,” Riley informed him. “We’ll meet you at the station afterward.”

Hayes nodded. “I’ll finish up here, make sure we’ve documented everything properly.” He hesitated, then added, “Thanks for coming out so quickly this morning. Your insight…” He trailed off, seemingly uncomfortable with the admission that his own thinking had been woefully inadequate.

Riley spared him the need to continue. “We’re all after the same thing, Detective. Justice for the victims and an end to this killer’s activity.”

As the crime scene technicians prepared to remove Crystal Keene’s body, Riley and Ann Marie made their way out of the projection booth and down the narrow stairs. The theater below remained dimly lit, the screen no longer illuminated by the projector’s harsh white light. Their footsteps echoed in the empty space, a hollow sound that matched the grim reality of what they’d witnessed.

At the lobby, they paused to thank Ted Coonfield for his cooperation, promising to be in touch if they had further questions. The projectionist looked small and frail in the harsh morning light filtering through the glass doors, a man whose world had been irrevocably altered by violence that had nothing to do with him.

“I’ll drive,” Ann Marie offered as they stepped outside into the cool morning air. The sky had lightened to a pale blue, the sun just beginning to warm the streets of Atlanta. A few early commuters hurried past, oblivious to the horror contained within the old theater behind them.

Riley nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the early wake-up call and the emotional toll of immersing herself in the killer’s mindset. As they walked toward their car, she found herself wondering what this day might bring—and who else was already in this killer’s sights.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The café smelled of fresh coffee and warm pastry, a welcome contrast to the scent of burned film and death that still clung to Riley’s nostrils. She wrapped her hands around a steaming mug, drawing what comfort she could from its warmth. Across the laminate table, Ann Marie scrolled through her phone, hunting for connections between two films made decades ago. The breakfast crowd was sparse—a few early risers and night-shift workers heading home, allowing them a bubble of quiet in which to talk.

“You should eat something,” Ann Marie said without looking up from her phone, her free hand gesturing toward Riley’s untouched plate of scrambled eggs and toast.

Riley nodded absently, forcing herself to take a bite. Food was fuel, necessary even when appetite fled in the face of horror. The eggs were rubbery, the toast slightly burnt, but she chewed mechanically, knowing she needed the sustenance.

“Any luck finding connections between the films?” she asked. “Other than both featured scenes that our killer has recreated with meticulous attention to detail?”

Ann Marie’s brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m piecing it together, digging through a film history database, trying to find the common threads. The Night Walker was released in 1954, directed by Weston Black, famous for his film noir movies. The Broken Window came out three years later, in 1957, directed by someone named Chip Raines.” She scrolled further, her thumb flicking rapidly across the screen. “Both films were produced by the same studio—Herald Cry Productions.”

Riley watched her partner work, appreciating Ann Marie’s methodical approach. The younger agent had developed a reputation at the Academy for her research skills.

The waitress appeared beside their table, coffee pot in hand. “Refill?” she asked, her voice carrying the weariness of an overnight shift nearing its end.

Riley nodded gratefully, watching as the dark liquid streamed into her mug.

Riley finished her eggs, pushing the plate aside. “So we have two films, made by the same studio, both containing murder scenes that have now been recreated in real life.”

“And both were made during a period when Hollywood was being torn apart by the HUAC hearings,” Ann Marie added. “Careers destroyed, friendships betrayed, lives ruined by testimony like Roberta’s.”

“We need to know exactly who was involved in both productions.”

Ann Marie nodded, continuing her digital search. “I’m looking for cast and crew lists now. Here’s The Night Walker. Director: Weston Black. Cinematographer: Craig Belt. Art Director: Lucas Simpson. Music by Willis O’Neill. Starring Charles Darrow, Roberta Rimes, Cleo Anderson, and Theodore Kent.”

She swiped to a different page. “And for The Broken Window: Director: Chip Raines. Cinematographer: Craig Belt again. Same Art Director, Lucas Simpson. Music by Willis O’Neill again. Starring Charles Darrow, Cleo Anderson, and Theodore Kent again.”

“But not Roberta Rimes,” Riley observed.

“No. She testified to HUAC in 1955, right after The Night Walker made her famous, but before The Broken Window was produced. She wasn’t cast in The Broken Window, and it doesn’t look like she ever worked with its director, Chip Raines.”

“So the films had different directors, but largely the same stars and production staff,” Riley observed.

“That wasn’t uncommon during the studio system era,” Ann Marie said. “Studios had people under contract. They would use the same personnel across multiple productions.”

Riley sighed. “The trouble is, all that overlap doesn’t help us narrow things down.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the buzzing of Riley’s phone. Detective Hayes’ name flashed on the screen. Riley answered, putting it on speaker so Ann Marie could hear.

“Paige? Esmer? We’re all set up at headquarters,” Hayes said, with what sounded like reluctant acceptance. “Hartley and his lawyer, Marcus Ewing, are waiting in the interrogation room. Ewing’s making noise about cutting some kind of deal.”

“We’re on our way,” Riley replied. “Ten minutes, tops.”

“Make it five if you can,” Hayes said before disconnecting.

Riley tossed some bills on the table, enough to cover their meal and a generous tip. “Let’s go. I want to see what Hartley knows about these films and Roberta’s testimony.”

As they hurried to the car, Ann Marie continued scrolling through her phone. “There’s something else,” she said as Riley pulled away from the curb. “According to this article, The Broken Window’s most notorious scene—the murder in the projection booth—was considered unusually violent for its time. Some critics speculated it reflected the director’s personal bitterness about something.”

“Or someone,” Riley added, accelerating through a yellow light. 

The Atlanta Police Headquarters loomed ahead, its modern glass façade reflecting the morning sunlight. Riley parked in a space marked for official visitors, and they hurried inside, badges ready. The desk sergeant recognized them immediately, directing them to the interrogation room without the usual visitor protocols.

They found Hayes waiting outside the door, his posture tense, shoulders hunched. “Ewing’s demanding a deal before Hartley answers any questions about the murders,” he said by way of greeting. “Says his client will plead to the extortion charges in exchange for our recommendation for leniency.”

“And you’re considering it?” Ann Marie asked, sounding surprised.

Hayes ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw. “The way I see it, I don’t have much choice. Two murders in as many days, both staged like scenes from old movies. And there could be more if we don’t move quickly.” He looked directly at Riley. “You were right about the HUAC connection. If Hartley has information that could help us prevent another death, I’m willing to push for reduced charges on the extortion.”

Riley nodded, recognizing the professional cost this concession represented for Hayes. “Let’s hear what he has to say before committing to anything formal.”

Hayes pushed open the door into the interrogation room. Hartley sat at the bolted-down table, his scholarly appearance somewhat diminished by the standard-issue orange jumpsuit. Marcus sat beside him with the confident ease of an expensive defense attorney, his tailored suit and precisely knotted tie forming a stark contrast to his client’s institutional attire.

“Agent Paige, Agent Esmer,” Ewing greeted them with professional cordiality as they entered. “I understand you have questions for my client regarding matters unrelated to the charges currently pending against him.”

“That’s right,” Riley confirmed, taking a seat across from Hartley. Ann Marie settled beside her, pulling out a notebook. “In addition to the murder of Veronica Slate, we’re also investigating the murder of Crystal Keene late last night.”

Ewing chuckled. “Well, we can be sure he didn’t kill Crystal Keene. He was in his cell at the time.”

“That’s correct,” Hayes put in. “But we’ve got him cold on the extortion charges. And that’s where the deal comes into play.”

Ewing folded his hands on the table. “Before we proceed, I want to be clear about the terms. My client possesses information that may be relevant to your investigation. In exchange for this cooperation, we expect consideration regarding the severity of charges related to his other activities.”

Hayes leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “We can recommend leniency to the prosecutor, but I can’t make binding promises.”

“That’s not good enough,” Ewing countered smoothly. “We need written assurance that the extortion charges will be reduced to a lesser offense, with a sentencing recommendation of no more than five years.”

Riley watched Malcolm Hartley throughout this exchange. The man’s eyes, magnified slightly by his wire-rimmed glasses, darted between the speakers with an intensity that suggested more than mere self-interest. There was an eagerness there, perhaps a desire to share what he knew.

“Mr. Hartley,” she said, ignoring Ewing’s attempted interjection, “two women are dead. Murdered in ways that deliberately echo scenes from old films. I believe there will be more victims if we don’t stop this killer quickly.”

Hartley leaned forward, his restraints clinking against the table edge. “You think it’s connected to Roberta Rimes HUAC testimony, don’t you?” His voice carried the excited cadence of a researcher whose obscure subject has suddenly become relevant.

“Malcolm,” Ewing warned, placing a restraining hand on his client’s arm. “Don’t say anything more until we have an agreement.”

Hayes pushed away from the wall, his patience visibly thinning. “Fine. I’ll put in writing that we’ll recommend charges be reduced to a single count of wire fraud, with a sentencing recommendation of five years. But that’s contingent on the information your client provides actually helping us solve these murders.”

Ewing considered this for a moment, then nodded sharply. “Acceptable. I’ll need that in writing before we leave this room.”

“I’ll have it drafted immediately,” Hayes agreed, gesturing to an officer standing by the door who nodded and left the room.

Riley returned her attention to Hartley. “Who did Roberta Rimes name in her testimony before HUAC in 1955?”

Malcolm’s eyes gleamed behind his glasses, his posture straightening as if he were about to deliver a long-awaited lecture. “She named ten people, all film industry professionals suspected of Communist sympathies or activities.” He recited the names as if he’d memorized them long ago. “Weston Black, director. Eleanor Caldwell, screenwriter. Franz Lazlo, cinematographer. Samuel Fremont, art director. Daniel Greenberg, producer. Edwin Hollister, composer. Patricia Keller, actress. Benjamin Rosen, writer. Harold Steinman, director. George Weiss, producer.”

Riley noticed that Hartley had recited them alphabetically, suggesting he’d studied this list extensively.

“Weston Black,” Ann Marie repeated, looking up from her notes. “He directed The Night Walker, the film where Roberta played the poisoned nightclub singer.”

Hartley nodded eagerly. “Yes. That film was released just before Roberta testified. After she named him to the committee, Black was blacklisted. His career was effectively over.”

“And the others?” Riley pressed. “What became of them?”

“Various fates,” Hartley replied, the words tumbling out faster now, as if he’d been waiting years for someone to ask these questions. “Some left the country. Some worked under pseudonyms. Some never worked in film again. A few committed suicide.” His voice took on a bitter edge. “But Roberta Rimes went on to become an even bigger star, carefully cultivating her image as America’s sweetheart.”

Hartley leaned back in the chair, his eyes bright with the satisfaction of sharing his expertise. “If you want to know more, you should talk to Lucy Morgan at The Atlanta Chronicle. She’s the arts and culture editor. About ten years ago, she wrote a series of feature articles called ‘Bad Blood Reckoning’ that exposed a lot of this history. She helped me obtain Roberta’s testimony list for my research.”

“Lucy Morgan,” Riley repeated, committing the name to memory.

Hartley nodded. “She might know more about who else might have had a grudge against Roberta—and by extension, Veronica.”

Ewing cleared his throat pointedly. “I believe my client has provided sufficient information to fulfill his part of our agreement.” He nodded toward Hayes. “Once we have the written assurance of reduced charges, we’ll be happy to continue this conversation at a later date.”

Hayes straightened from his position against the wall. “The officer should be back with the paperwork shortly. In the meantime—”

“In the meantime, my client has nothing further to say,” Ewing interrupted firmly.

Riley studied Malcolm Hartley’s face, sensing he wanted to say more despite his lawyer’s instructions.

“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Hartley,” she said, rising from her chair. “We’ll be in touch if we have further questions.”

Hayes gestured for Riley and Ann Marie to follow him out of the interrogation room. They crossed paths with the officer returning with the plea agreement. Hayes signed it, and the officer continued on his way to the interrogation room to deliver it to Hartley and his attorney.

“Do you think he’s given us anything useful?” Hayes asked. “Should we go back and drill him right now?”

“I think that list of names could be important,” Riley replied. “If we get started on those, we might spot something else to ask Hartley about.”

“So we’re looking for someone with a connection to these blacklisted film professionals?” Hayes asked. “After seventy years?”

“Or their descendants,” Riley added. “Someone carrying a grudge through generations.”

As they entered Hayes’ office, Riley’s mind was working in high gear. Two murders, decades of hidden history, and a killer whose next move remained obscured behind the flickering images of old films and buried grudges. Where did they go from here?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Detective Hayes pushed open his office door, revealing a space that reflected the life of a busy lawman. Coffee cups clustered on one corner of the desk, case files spread across the surface, a jacket hung haphazardly over the back of a chair. Riley settled into an empty chair, her mind still processing Malcolm Hartley’s alphabetized list of victims—ten names that had been buried for decades, now exhumed by murder.

Ann Marie remained standing, arms crossed, as she surveyed the cramped office with its institutional furniture and walls adorned with department commendations and a Georgia Bulldogs pennant.

Hayes circled his desk and dropped heavily into his own chair, the springs protesting beneath his weight. “So we have ten names,” he said, reaching for a legal pad. “Ten people that Roberta Rimes named to HUAC. And we think our killer is connected to one of them.”

Riley nodded. “We should prioritize the people directly involved in making both The Night Walker and The Broken Window. Weston Black directed the first one, but not the second.”

Before Hayes could respond, his desk phone rang. He snatched it up with an abrupt “Hayes.” His expression shifted as he listened, eyes narrowing with interest. “Send it over right now. I’ve got Agents Paige and Esmer with me.”

He hung up and turned to his computer. “That was Officer Simmons. He’s been checking surveillance footage from businesses near The Velvet Screen. There’s a convenience store across the street with an exterior camera that caught someone entering the alley beside the theater last night, around 6:30 PM.”

Riley and Ann Marie moved to stand behind Hayes’ desk, flanking him as he pulled up the email. A new message appeared at the top of his inbox with a video attachment. Hayes double-clicked, and the grainy black-and-white footage filled the screen.

The time stamp in the corner read 6:28 PM. The camera angle showed the sidewalk and part of the alley beside The Velvet Screen. At first, only empty pavement appeared in the frame. Then a figure entered from the bottom of the screen, walking toward the alley.

“There,” Hayes said, pointing unnecessarily.

The figure moved with caution, glancing around before slipping into the alley. The quality was poor and grainy, revealing little more than a murky silhouette.

“Can we enhance this?” Ann Marie asked.

Hayes shook his head. “This is as good as it gets. Convenience store camera, probably hasn’t been upgraded in a decade.”

Riley leaned closer, studying the indistinct shape. “Medium height, athletic build. Can’t tell if it’s a man or woman.” She pointed to the way the figure moved. “See how they check for witnesses before entering the alley? And that deliberate pace? They knew exactly where they were going.”

Hayes nodded. “No fumbling, no hesitation.”

The camera caught the figure reaching the theater’s side door, one that was not used for deliveries, not public access. There was a pause as they person worked on the lock—bent slightly forward, hands moving in skillful motions. After perhaps thirty seconds, the door swung open, and the figure slipped inside. The entire process was clinical, efficient.

“Just as you suggested, Riley,” Ann Marie said. “The killer picked the lock. No forced entry, no broken glass. Professional.”

Hayes closed the video with a click. “So our killer has skills beyond film knowledge. Lock-picking, garrote use—these aren’t casual hobbies.”

“We need to identify the connection between the victims and the films,” Riley said, straightening. “Ann Marie, now that Malcolm has given us that list of people that Roberta Rimes named, can you look them up? See what you can find about their careers, especially around the time of the HUAC hearings.”

“Here, use my computer.” Hayes stood up and vacated his chair to allow Ann Marie access.

“On it,” she said, slipping into his chair, her fingers already flying across the keyboard. “This isn’t complicated. They’ll probably all be in Wikipedia. I’ll start with Weston Black, since we know he directed The Night Walker.”

While Ann Marie worked, Riley returned to her chair. She gazed out the office window, staring out at downtown Atlanta without really seeing it. Her thoughts drifted briefly to April—to whether Bill had managed to find anything more about Leo Dillard’s whereabouts. She checked her phone but found no missed calls or messages. The silence was both reassuring and disquieting. She forced her attention back to the present case, compartmentalizing her worry as she’d learned to do over years of balancing motherhood with her FBI work.

“Here we go,” Ann Marie announced quickly. “Weston Black, born Jacob Weisman in 1904. Jewish immigrant who came to America as a child. Started as a cinematographer in the 1930s, became a director in the 1940s. Specialized in film noir.”

Hayes had begun pacing his small office. “What happened to him after HUAC?”

Ann Marie scrolled down the Wikipedia page. “He was blacklisted in 1955, immediately after the release of The Night Walker. It was the film made Roberta Rimes a star—she had a small but memorable role as a singer who’s poisoned in a nightclub.”

“The same death scene that was recreated for Veronica Slate’s murder,” Riley noted.

“Wait,” Ann Marie said suddenly, her voice rising with excitement. “This is interesting. According to this article, after he was blacklisted, Black managed to direct two more films under the pseudonym ‘Chip Raines.’“

Riley froze, recognizing the name. “Chip Raines?”

“Yes. The two films were—” Ann Marie’s eyes widened as she read the titles. “The Broken Window in 1957 and Shadows at Dusk in 1958.”

“So was Chip Raines actually Weston Black?” Riley said. “The same man who directed The Night Walker also directed The Broken Window? The film that our killer recreated for Crystal Keene’s murder?”

“Yes,” Ann Marie confirmed, her expression mirroring Riley’s shock.

Hayes stopped his pacing. “So both murder scenes were from films directed by the same person?”

“The same person directing under different names,” Riley said. “That can’t be a coincidence. Weston Black is our connection, under any of his names.”

Ann Marie continued reading, her brow furrowing. “It says his pseudonym was exposed by gossip columnist Myrtle Carroway in late 1958. After that, he couldn’t get work under any name. He died in poverty in 1965, completely forgotten by the industry that once celebrated him.”

“So Roberta names him to HUAC,” Riley said, “ending his legitimate career. He tries to continue working under a pseudonym, but Myrtle Carroway exposes him, ending even that avenue of escape.”

“A double betrayal,” Hayes murmured. “First by Roberta, then by this Carroway woman.”

“Malcolm mentioned that we should talk to Lucy Morgan,” Riley recalled. “He said she wrote articles about this period called ‘Bad Blood Reckoning.’ Can we find those online?”

Hayes nodded. “The Atlanta Chronicle has a digital archive. I have a subscription.” He leaned over Ann Marie to access a different browser tab, quickly navigating to the newspaper’s website. After logging in, he searched for “Lucy Morgan Bad Blood Reckoning.”

The search returned a series of articles from ten years earlier. Hayes clicked on the first one, titled “The Poison Pen: How Myrtle Carroway Destroyed Lives During the Red Scare.”

“This is definitely it,” Ann Marie said as they skimmed the lengthy article. “Lucy Morgan writes about how Carroway used her gossip column to support the blacklist, specifically targeting those who tried to work around it.”

Riley read aloud from the screen: “‘Perhaps Carroway’s most devastating revelation came when she exposed director Weston Black’s attempt to continue working under the pseudonym Chip Raines. Her column detailed how Black—whose real name was Jacob Weisman—had directed The Broken Window and Shadows at Dusk using the fake identity. Studio executives, fearful of being associated with a blacklisted director, immediately severed all ties with him. Black never directed again.’“

Hayes scrolled down further, reaching the author’s bio at the end of the article. “Lucy Morgan is the Arts and Culture Editor for The Atlanta Chronicle. Her interest in the McCarthy era stems in part from a family connection—she is the great-great-great granddaughter of Myrtle Carroway.”

The office fell silent as the three of them absorbed this revelation.

“Lucy Morgan is Myrtle Carroway’s descendant,” Riley said slowly. “And she wrote articles exposing her ancestor’s role in destroying Weston Black’s career.”

“That puts her in our killer’s crosshairs,” Hayes said grimly. “If they’re targeting people connected to Roberta Rimes and Myrtle Carroway—the two women who effectively ended Weston Black’s career…”

“We need to contact her immediately,” Riley insisted. “She could be in danger.”

Hayes was already reaching for his phone. He dialed quickly, putting the call on speaker. After three rings, a woman’s voice answered.

“Atlanta Chronicle, Arts and Culture department.”

“This is Detective Marcus Hayes with Atlanta PD. I need to speak with Lucy Morgan urgently.”

A pause. “I’m sorry, Detective. Lucy isn’t in yet.”

Hayes frowned at the phone. “What time does she usually arrive?”

“Seven sharp, every morning,” the woman replied, a note of concern entering her voice. “She’s always the first one here. That’s why it’s strange—she hasn’t called, and she’s not answering her cell or home phone. It’s not like her at all to be late without letting someone know.”

Riley felt a cold knot form in her stomach. She glanced at her watch: 9:17 AM.

“Has anyone gone to check on her?” Hayes asked.

“Our managing editor called her super to check her apartment about twenty minutes ago. No one answered the door. But her car was still parked in the apartment building’s garage.”

“Thank you,” Hayes said. “Please have her call this number immediately if she shows up or makes contact.” He provided his direct line before ending the call.

The three of them exchanged grim looks. A theatrical killer was working through a list, recreating scenes from films directed by a man whose career and life had been destroyed.

“Lucy Morgan isn’t just late for work,” Riley said. “She’s the next victim.”

***

Pain erupted behind Lucy Morgan’s eyelids as consciousness returned in cruel waves. The throbbing at her temple sent fresh agony through her skull. She tried to lift her hand to the wound, but her arms refused to obey. She realized they were bound behind her back, a coarse rope biting into her wrists.

Lucy’s eyes flew open, seeking light, finding none. She tried to call out, but something filled her mouth—fabric, wedged between her teeth and secured behind her head, reducing her voice to muffled vibrations in her throat. Panic fluttered against her ribs.

Where am I?

The air around her felt vast, empty. Her labored breathing echoed slightly, suggesting high ceilings, wide spaces. A chill seeped through her jogging clothes, the dampness of the floor bleeding through her thin leggings. The scent of dust filled her nostrils, mixed with the metallic tang of her own blood.

Lucy strained against her bonds, testing their strength. The rope held firm, expertly tied. Her ankles were similarly secured, allowing only inches of movement. She rolled to her side, the motion sending fresh pain lancing through her head. As she shifted, a draft whispered across her face—cold air flowing from somewhere above or beyond, carrying the promise of a world outside this prison.

How did I get here?

Memory returned in jagged fragments. Her morning ritual—lacing up her running shoes in the pre-dawn darkness of her apartment. The familiar weight of her house key tucked into the small pocket of her leggings. Stretching her calves against the bottom step of her building. The empty streets, still sleeping as she began her daily five AM run.

Then, there had been that movement in her peripheral vision. Something wrong. A figure lunging from behind the tall hedge bordering the park. The shocking impact. Darkness descending.

The sudden creak of hinges split through Lucy’s thoughts. A door opened somewhere to her right, flooding the space with harsh light that stabbed at her eyes after so long in darkness. She squinted against the glare, catching only the silhouette of a figure before the door swung shut again, plunging the room back into impenetrable blackness.

Footsteps approached—measured, unhurried. Lucy’s heart hammered against her ribs. She twisted on the floor, instinct driving her to escape despite the futility of the attempt. A desperate sound tore from her throat, the gag reducing her scream to a guttural groan that echoed in the empty space.

The footsteps stopped. Somewhere in the darkness, her captor stood, invisible yet palpably present. Lucy strained her eyes against the black void, seeing nothing.

A woman’s voice broke the silence, calm and eerily pleasant.

“You’re awake. That’s good.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Hayes’ mouth dropped open at Riley’s sudden announcement.

“Lucy Morgan—the next victim?” he echoed.

“That’s right,” Riley told him.

Hayes’ chair scraped against the floor as he shot to his feet, any skepticism about Riley’s theory vanishing in the face of a potential third victim. He snatched his cellphone from the desk, already punching in a number as he strode toward the door.

“I’m assembling a team now,” Hayes called over his shoulder. “Go ahead and use whatever resources you need here in the office. I’ll be back once I have officers mobilized.”

The door swung shut behind him, his voice carrying down the hallway as he barked orders into his phone. Riley and Ann Marie exchanged a look. They understood that minutes might be the difference between finding Lucy Morgan alive or adding her name to their victim list.

“We have to assume we’re already behind,” Riley said. “Our killer has been methodical, precise, and is moving fast.”

Ann Marie nodded, moving to Hayes’ abandoned computer and sitting down at the keyboard. “I’ve been thinking about the pattern. Veronica Slate was killed in a re-creation of a scene from The Night Walker, directed by Weston Black in 1954. Crystal Keene’s killing was like a scene from The Broken Window, directed by Chip Raines in 1957, who we now know was actually Weston Black working under a pseudonym.”

“There’s a chronology,” Riley agreed. “The killer is working through Black’s filmography in order.”

“Which means the next murder scene…” Ann Marie paused.

“Would come from Black’s next film after The Broken Window,” Riley said, finishing Ann Marie’s thought.

“Yes—Shadows at Dusk, released in 1958.” Ann Marie said, peering at the screen as she typed. “Directed by Weston Black under the name of Chip Raines. It was his last film before being permanently blacklisted.”

Ann Marie quickly navigated to a film database, searching for “Shadows at Dusk, 1958.” The page loaded, revealing a black and white poster showing a silhouetted figure standing in what appeared to be a church doorway, a shaft of light cutting across the darkness.

“Film noir with religious overtones,” Riley murmured, reading over Ann Marie’s shoulder as she scrolled through the synopsis. “A detective investigating a series of murders in a small town discovers corruption within the local church.”

Her eyes skimmed the text, searching for any scene that might serve as inspiration for their killer.

Ann Marie tapped on the screen and read aloud: “Most controversial was the film’s climactic scene, in which the female lead—played by Patricia Nelson—is strangled on the altar of the church sanctuary by the corrupt minister. The brutal sequence, with its sacrilegious setting, caused outrage among religious groups and was partially censored in some markets.”

“The altar of a church sanctuary,” Riley repeated, a chill settling in her stomach. She glanced at Ann Marie. “That’s where our killer is taking Lucy Morgan—if she isn’t already dead.”

“But which church?” Ann Marie asked the practical question. “Atlanta has hundreds of churches.”

Riley’s mind was racing now. “It would need to fit specific criteria. It needs to resemble the church in the film. It needs to be accessible, but private enough that the killer could bring Lucy inside without being seen.”

“We should pull up images from the film,” Ann Marie suggested. “See if we can match the church interior to any local churches.”

“Good idea, but that could take hours,” Riley said, running a hand through her hair. “We’ll need Hayes to help us narrow our search of churches, but he’s got his hands full at the moment. In the meantime, we need to check out another important angle.”

Ann Marie tilted her head. “Weston Black’s descendants.”

“Exactly,” Riley nodded. “This revenge is personal—recreating scenes from Black’s films to punish those connected to the people who destroyed his career. If we find his descendants…”

“We might find our killer,” Ann Marie finished. She turned back to the computer, working at the keyboard. “I’ll see what I can find.”

Riley watched as Ann Marie navigated through various databases, her skills as a researcher evident in the way she quickly accessed records and cross-referenced information. Riley felt a jolt of hope. While Hayes was busy organizing his search team, she and Ann Marie might be able to identify their suspect.

“Weston Black died in 1965,” Ann Marie murmured, eyes fixed on the screen. “He had one child—a daughter named Myra, born in 1950.” She continued typing, pulling up additional records. “Myra Brooks, née Black. Married Clyde Brooks in 1985. They had one child, a daughter named Sarah, born in 1990.”

Riley felt a flicker of recognition at the name. “Sarah Brooks?”

“Yes,” Ann Marie confirmed, still scanning the information. “Clyde Brooks died in 1995. Myra Brooks died in 2010, which leaves Sarah Brooks as Weston Black’s only living descendant. Why does that name sound familiar?”

Riley snapped her fingers with realization. “Yesterday, when Gillian Sinclair was showing us around the studio…”

Ann Marie looked up from the screen, her expression shifting as realization dawned. “That’s right …”

“Sarah Brooks was the director of production design,” Riley said, the connection crystallizing. “She would have access to the film studio where Veronica Slate was poisoned.”

“I guess the name could be a coincidence,” Ann Marie said, though her tone suggested she didn’t believe it.

“A woman with the same name as Weston Black’s only granddaughter works at the studio where our first victim was killed?” Riley shook her head. “I doubt that it’s a coincidence.”

“And we actually spoke with her,” Ann Marie commented wryly. “She offered to help with the investigation in any way she could.”

“If it’s really her, she’s good at maintaining her cover. That’s how she could have already gotten by with two murders.” Riley pulled out her phone, quickly finding the number for Magnolia Gateway Films. After two rings, a receptionist answered.

“Magnolia Gateway Films, how may I direct your call?”

“This is Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI. I need to speak with Sarah Brooks immediately.”

A brief pause. “I’m sorry, Agent Paige. Ms. Brooks hasn’t come in today.”

Riley’s pulse quickened. “Is that unusual?”

“Very,” the receptionist confirmed. “She’s typically here by seven-thirty. She’s missed a production meeting that was scheduled for nine o’clock. We’ve been trying to reach her, but her phone goes straight to voicemail.”

“Please connect me with Gillian Sinclair.”

“One moment.”

As they waited for the transfer, Riley and Ann Marie exchanged tense glances.

“Agent Paige?” Gillian Sinclair’s voice came through the line, surprise evident in her tone. “What can I do for you?”

“Ms. Sinclair, I’m calling about Sarah Brooks. I understand she hasn’t come to work today.”

“That’s right,” Gillian replied, concern coloring her voice. “It’s not like her at all. Sarah is nothing if not reliable. Is this related to Veronica’s murder?”

Riley chose her words carefully. “We’re following several leads. Can I ask you something that might seem unusual? Is Sarah Brooks related to Weston Black, the film director?”

A silence followed. “Yes,” Gillian finally said, her voice quieter now. “She’s his granddaughter. It’s not something she advertises, but it’s not exactly a secret either. How did you know?”

“Professional research,” Riley deflected. “Does Sarah ever talk about her grandfather’s films?”

“Occasionally,” Gillian said, wariness creeping into her tone. “She has a special interest in preserving his legacy. Agent Paige, what’s this about? Is Sarah in danger?”

“I don’t think so, but I can’t say more at this point,” Riley replied. “When was the last time you spoke with her?”

“Yesterday afternoon, before she left the studio. She mentioned she was working on something special—a personal project. She seemed… intense about it. More than usual.”

“If she contacts you, please call me immediately,” Riley instructed, providing her direct number. “And Gillian? Don’t tell her we’re looking for her.”

“You’re frightening me,” Gillian said softly. “Is Sarah in some kind of trouble?”

“Just call if you hear from her,” Riley insisted, avoiding the question. “Thank you for your help.”

She ended the call just as the office door swung open. Hayes strode back in, his face drawn with the gravity of coordinating a potential third victim search.

“Team’s assembled,” he reported. “We’ve got officers at Lucy Morgan’s apartment and workplace. I’ve authorized an emergency cell phone trace. Now, what were you two—”

Riley cut him off, rising from the chair with new urgency. “Detective Hayes, we’ve got a lot to discuss.”

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

As Riley laid out their discovery, the Detective’s posture shifted from exhaustion to alertness. Hayes pushed away from his desk, chair wheels squeaking against the worn linoleum. His voice carried the shock of realization.

“So Sarah Brooks would have both the professional skills and the personal motivation for revenge.”

“That’s our theory,” Riley said. “It’s likely that she would have grown up hearing about how her grandfather’s career was destroyed by Roberta Rimes’ testimony and Myrtle Carroway’s exposé. Why she targeted Crystal Keene, we don’t yet know. But it surely has something to do with her grandfather.”

“She’s been hiding in plain sight,” Ann Marie added. “Working at the studio, building a reputation, gaining access to everything she would need.”

“And you think she’s working through her grandfather’s films chronologically?” Hayes asked.

Riley confirmed the chronology. “Veronica Slate was poisoned like the nightclub singer in The Night Walker, from 1954. Crystal Keene was strangled and chained to a projector like the film critic in The Broken Window, from 1957. The next film was “Shadows at Dusk, released in 1958. There’s a scene where the female lead is strangled on the altar of a church sanctuary.”

Hayes straightened suddenly. “A church altar,” he repeated. “St. Barnabas on Peachtree Street. It’s been deconsecrated and is scheduled for demolition next month. The building’s been empty for weeks.”

Riley felt a surge of adrenaline. “That could be it. Isolated, accessible, no regular visitors.”

“Perfect setting for a staged murder,” Ann Marie agreed.

Hayes was already reaching for his phone. “I’ve got a patrol officer three blocks from there. Let’s see if anything looks suspicious.” He punched in a number, holding the phone to his ear with one hand while the other tapped impatiently on the desk.

“Officer Mendez? Hayes here. I need you to do a quick check of St. Barnabas Church on Peachtree. Approach with caution—possible abduction situation.” He paused, listening. “That’s right. Focus on the sanctuary. Just look for signs of activity, but don’t enter if you see anything suspicious. Call for backup.” Another pause. “I’ll hold.”

The office fell silent as they waited, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant ring of phones from the bullpen outside.

“I’m listening, Mendez,” Hayes finally said, his voice cutting through the tense silence. He listened for several moments, his expression shifting from hope to disappointment. “You’re sure? Nothing disturbed in the sanctuary?” Another pause. “Alright. Stay in the area. I’ll have additional units joining you shortly.” He ended the call, setting the phone down.

“Nothing,” he reported. “Officer Mendez did a walkthrough of the sanctuary. No signs of disturbance, no indication that anyone’s been there recently.”

“It could be the wrong place,” Riley said. “Or it could be that Sarah Brooks hasn’t transported Lucy there yet.”

“Either way, we need to keep St. Barnabas under surveillance,” Hayes said, rising from his chair again. “It still fits the profile too well to ignore. I’ll have officers maintain a discreet watch on the building. If Sarah Brooks shows up with Lucy Morgan, we’ll be ready.”

He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “I’ll head there now to coordinate. I’m texting you the address,” he added. “Meet me there in ten.”

Riley felt her phone vibrate with the incoming message as Hayes headed for the door. “We’ll be right behind you,” she assured him.

As the two BAU agents made their way through the station toward the parking garage, Riley’s instincts were pulling in different directions. The evidence pointed to St. Barnabas as the logical location for Sarah Brooks to stage her third murder, yet the officer’s report suggested otherwise.

“What’s bothering you?” Ann Marie asked as they reached the car.

Riley unlocked the doors with a click of the key fob. “I’m not sure. Something feels off.”

They slid into their seats, and Riley started the engine, pulling out of the parking space to follow the route Hayes had taken. The midday Atlanta traffic flowed around them, ordinary people going about ordinary lives, oblivious to this race against time unfolding in their city.

“I’ve got that same feeling,” Ann Marie admitted as they waited at a red light. “Like we’re missing something obvious.”

“The pattern seems so clear. But if Sarah Brooks is following that pattern so precisely, why wasn’t Lucy at St. Barnabas?”

Ann Marie was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on the traffic ahead. Then she turned to Riley, her expression thoughtful. “Remember what you said earlier? In the projection booth when you were getting into the killer’s mindset?”

Riley frowned slightly, trying to recall her exact words. “About the killer loving how movies make their magic?”

“Yes. You said the killer loves the way movies make their magic, the same way a stage magician makes his audience believe his tricks are real.” Ann Marie’s voice grew more animated as she continued. “And that the killer loves turning make-believe into something that seems realer than real.”

The light changed, and Riley accelerated through the intersection, the pieces beginning to click together in her mind. “I said that? I wasn’t even sure what I meant at the time. It just… came out.”

“I think you were onto something,” Ann Marie insisted. “Think about it. The first murder—Veronica Slate poisoned in a nightclub that wasn’t a real nightclub at all. It was a set, constructed specifically for the purpose.”

“But Crystal Keene was killed in an actual projection booth,” Riley countered.

“Yes, but maybe that’s because the killer had no alternative. Where else could you find a vintage projection booth except in an old theater? She didn’t have a make-believe projection booth. She had to use the real thing.”

Riley felt a sudden chill as the implications crystallized. “You’re saying that Sarah Brooks might not be planning to commit her next murder in an actual church, but rather—”

“In a make-believe church,” Ann Marie finished. “A set designed to look like a church sanctuary.”

“A film set. At Magnolia Gateway Films.” Riley’s pulse quickened as the pieces locked into place. “Where Sarah Brooks works as the head of production design. Where she would have access, knowledge, control. Call Gillian Sinclair again. Now.”

Ann Marie already had her phone out, scrolling to find the number they’d called earlier. She put it on speaker as it rang.

“Gillian Sinclair,” the woman’s voice answered.

“Ms. Sinclair, this is Agent Esmer again, with Agent Paige. You’re on speaker.”

“Has there been any sign of Sarah?” Gillian asked immediately.

“No,” Riley replied, “but we have another question. Do any of the soundstages at Magnolia Gateway Films currently have a set for a church sanctuary?”

There was a moment of silence on the line. Then Gillian’s voice carried a note of surprise. “Yes, actually. Stage Six has a church interior that was built for the period drama we wrapped last week. It hasn’t been struck yet.” A pause. “Agent Paige, what’s going on? These questions—”

“Is anyone working on that stage today?” Riley interrupted.

“No, it’s dark. We’re not scheduled to use it again until next week.”

“I need you to have one of your security personnel check what’s happening on that soundstage,” Riley instructed, cutting her off again. “But tell them to be extremely careful. Don’t enter, just check if there’s any activity. Can you do that now, while we’re on the line?”

“Of course,” Gillian replied, the rustle of movement audible through the speaker. They heard her voice, slightly muffled as she apparently covered the phone to speak to someone else. “Jerry, I need you to check Stage Six right away. Just see if there’s any activity, but don’t go inside. Be careful.”

Riley and Ann Marie exchanged tense glances as they waited. The traffic light ahead turned yellow, and Riley slowed to a stop, fighting the urge to run it.

The muffled sounds of conversation continued on the other end of the line. Then Gillian’s voice returned, clearer now. “Jerry’s calling the security desk nearest Stage Six. They should be able to do a quick check.”

The silence stretched, marked only by the soft hum of the car’s engine and the barely audible sounds of Gillian’s office. Riley checked the time on the dashboard—10:15 AM. Lucy Morgan had been missing all morning. How much time did she have left?

“Agent Paige?” Gillian’s voice suddenly returned. “Jerry just heard back from security. The locks on Stage Six have been changed. They can’t gain access with their keys.”

“Ms. Sinclair, I need you to make sure everyone stays clear of that soundstage,” Riley instructed. “Don’t let anyone approach it. We and other law enforcement personnel are on our way there now.”

“Of course,” Gillian agreed, her voice strained. “I’ll make sure security keeps the area clear. Should I evacuate the rest of the studio?”

Riley considered the question. “No, that might alert our suspect. Just keep everyone away from Stage Six, specifically.”

“Please tell me what’s going on,” Gillian pleaded.

“I will when we get there,” Riley said.

After ending the call, Riley immediately told Ann Marie. “Call Hayes. Tell him what we’ve figured out.”

Ann Marie quickly dialed, putting the call on speaker just as Hayes answered with a curt, “Hayes.”

“Detective, it’s Agent Esmer. You’re on speaker with Agent Paige and me. We think we’ve identified where Sarah Brooks is holding Lucy Morgan.”

“I’m listening,” Hayes replied.

“We have reason to believe she’s not using an actual church,” Riley said, taking over. “She’s using a church set on Stage Six at Magnolia Gateway Films. We just confirmed with Gillian Sinclair that there is indeed a church sanctuary set there, and someone changed the locks.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“As sure as we can be without visual confirmation,” Riley replied. “The pattern fits. Sarah Brooks is a production designer. She works with sets every day. The first murder was staged on a set, not in a real nightclub.”

There was a brief silence as Hayes processed this information. “I’m still ten minutes from St. Barnabas,” he finally said. “I’ll continue here in case we’re wrong, but I’ll dispatch units to the studio immediately. How far away are you?”

Riley glanced at the GPS. “About fifteen minutes in this traffic.”

“I’ll make sure officers meet you there. Be careful, Paige.”

“Understood,” Riley acknowledged before Ann Marie ended the call.

Riley made a sharp turn at the next intersection, the tires squealing slightly as she changed course toward Magnolia Gateway Films.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Sarah Brooks stood motionless in the darkness of the soundstage, her body still as sculpture while her mind raced. The muffled voices outside—security personnel, no doubt, their confusion evident in their rising tones—confirmed what she had suspected: her carefully constructed plan was encountering its first true complication. But she refused to surrender to panic. Decades of familial rage couldn’t be undone by a few rattling doorknobs and raised voices.

She tilted her head, listening as the sounds faded. They would return, of course. With greater numbers. With proper tools. With police, perhaps. But Stage Six housed the setting she needed.

Let them come. By then, her work would be complete.

A whimper broke the silence.

Sarah could just make out the vague shape of Lucy Morgan on the altar, illuminated only by thin strips of emergency lighting that outlined the stage doors. Lucy had stopped screaming behind her gag hours ago, her voice giving out after futile efforts heard by no one who could help.

“Patience,” Sarah whispered, her voice silken in the darkness. “Art can’t be rushed.”

She reached into her pocket for her phone, activating the flashlight. The harsh beam cut through the blackness as she swept it across the meticulously arranged set. Every detail had been considered, positioned exactly as it appeared in Shadows at Dusk. The gothic arches. The ornate wooden pews. The faux stained glass windows that would never catch real sunlight. And at the center, elevated on three shallow steps, the altar where Lucy Morgan lay bound.

Sarah moved with confidence through the darkness toward the light board nestled against the far wall. She selected the switches with the expertise of someone who had spent countless hours in these spaces, bringing imaginary worlds to life.

With a soft electrical hum, the work lights flickered on overhead, washing the entire set in harsh, unflattering illumination. The church set stood before her in all its gothic splendor, far more elaborate than strictly necessary for the period drama it had originally served. She had personally lobbied for its construction, had altered the designs to include specific architectural elements from Shadows at Dusk, had overseen every detail with a passion that her colleagues had mistaken for professional dedication.

And there, upon the altar, Lucy Morgan stared back at her with wide, terror-filled eyes. The arts and culture editor of The Atlanta Chronicle, whose hands had typed those damning articles a decade ago, now lay securely bound with rope, hand and foot. Her auburn hair was damp with perspiration. The gag across her mouth was stained with saliva and blood where she had bitten her lip in her earlier struggles.

Sarah approached slowly. In her right hand, she caressed a length of thin, flexible wire—the same garrote she had used on Crystal Keene. Sharp enough to slice through flesh. Its weight familiar, comforting in her grip.

“Do you appreciate the irony, Ms. Morgan?” Sarah asked, her voice echoing slightly in the vast space. “‘Bad Blood Reckoning.’ That was the title of your series, wasn’t it? Such a fitting phrase.” She reached the altar, looking down at her captive with clinical detachment. “Though I wonder if you truly understood the concept when you wrote those articles.”

Lucy made a muffled sound behind her gag, her eyes darting frantically between Sarah’s face and the wire in her hand.

“I read them all, you know. Every word. Your exposé of Myrtle Carroway’s activities during the McCarthy era. How she used her gossip column to destroy lives. How she took particular pleasure in revealing my grandfather’s pseudonym, ensuring he would never work again.” Sarah’s voice remained conversational, as if they were discussing the weather over coffee rather than in the midst of a premeditated murder.

Sarah circled the altar slowly, trailing her fingers along its polished edge. “Yet here you are, alive and thriving, your career built on the back of her infamy—profiting from the very destruction she caused. While my grandfather, Weston Black, died penniless, forgotten, his brilliance snuffed out by the venomous pens of women like your great-great-grandmother.”

She flexed the garrote between her hands, the wire catching the harsh overhead lights. “Bad blood, Ms. Morgan. It flows in your veins. The same blood that pumped through Myrtle Carroway’s heart as she wrote the words that finished what Roberta Rimes started. And now, that blood will spill on this altar—the final scene in a trilogy decades in the making.”

Lucy’s struggle renewed against her bonds, her body jerking against the unyielding ropes. Sarah watched dispassionately, unmoved by the display of terror.

Sarah knelt down next to Lucy.

“You’re wondering about the others, I imagine. Veronica Slate and Crystal Keene. Why them? Why now?” Sarah leaned closer, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper. “Because the time was finally right. Because the pieces were finally in place. Because justice delayed is still justice deserved.

“It took me years to piece it all together, the betrayals my grandfather endured. Three women, three treacheries, destroying a genius who deserved so much more. Roberta Rimes was the first betrayal, naming him to HUAC to save her own rising career. But Myrtle Carroway delivered the killing blow when she exposed his pseudonym. Between them, they ensured he would never direct again.”

She smiled, cold satisfaction glittering in her eyes. “As for Crystal Keene—well, she was simpler. A film critic, just like the victim in The Broken Window. And not just any film critic, but one who finished the process of erasing my grandfather, by not including him in her prized list of ‘pantheon directors.’ My grandfather was relegated to oblivion on account of her, once and for all.”

She straightened and resumed her pacing, still playing with the garrote wire.

Sarah’s voice took on a passionate intensity. “Do you know what it means, to be erased? My grandfather’s final two masterpieces—The Broken Window and Shadows at Dusk—aren’t even properly attributed to him in most film histories. They remain credited to a nonexistent man named Chip Raines.”

Sarah caressed the garrote lovingly.

“I knew what I needed to do long ago. But it took years of planning. I moved to Atlanta. I worked my way into the film industry, became invaluable as a production designer. I learned how to create perfect simulacra of reality—sets indistinguishable from the real world. I studied the original set designs from my grandfather’s films. I waited for the perfect moment when all the elements aligned.”

Lucy struggled again, making desperate sounds behind her gag. Sarah reached down, brushing a strand of hair from her captive’s sweaty forehead with unsettling tenderness.

“Veronica was first, of course. Roberta’s daughter, carrying the blood of the initial betrayal. The poison was a bit difficult to obtain, but there are always resources available if you know where to look.”

“The old theater was perfect for Crystal—a true projection booth, with real film that could catch and burn exactly as it did in my grandfather’s day. And now you, the descendant of Myrtle Carroway, the gossip columnist who delivered the final blow to my grandfather’s career. Strangled on a church altar, just like in Shadows at Dusk.”

Sarah’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “Three films. Three deaths. A trilogy of justice that will force the world to remember Weston Black’s name. To recognize the genius that was stolen from cinema history.”

The sound of voices outside grew louder—more insistent now.

“They’re coming for you, of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “Your colleagues at the newspaper reported you missing. The police have made the connection to me by now. But they won’t stop what’s already in motion.”

She leaned down, bringing her face close to Lucy’s. “You’ve been quite the captive audience, Ms. Morgan. So much more attentive than Veronica or Crystal. They had no context for their deaths—just confusion and terror. But you… you understand. You know exactly why this is happening.”

The sounds of voices continued.

“I had hoped for more time with you,” she said, genuine regret coloring her voice as she stretched the garrote wire between her hands. “A longer final act for our little drama. A chance to truly make you understand the depth of what was taken from my family.”

She laid the wire gently across Lucy’s throat, not yet applying pressure, just letting her feel its presence against her skin. Lucy’s pulse visibly raced beneath the thin metal.

“But perhaps this is fitting,” Sarah mused, her head tilting slightly as she studied her captive’s terrified expression. “Art is often at its most powerful when it leaves the audience wanting more.”

Sarah smiled down at Lucy, serene amid the mounting chaos.

“It seems a shame, though,” she said softly, “that I’ll have to end your suffering so soon.”

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The police cruisers converged on Magnolia Gateway Films, their light bars dark to avoid drawing attention. Riley brought the sedan to an abrupt halt behind them.

When four officers emerged from their vehicles, Riley recognized the lead—Rodriguez, she thought his name was—from the station.

“Agent Paige, Agent Esmer,” he acknowledged. “Detective Hayes briefed us. You believe the suspect is inside Stage Six with a hostage?”

“That’s our working theory,” Riley confirmed as she and her partner got out of their car.

The buildings in front of them were like mismatched blocks—some vintage redbrick structures from the 1970s, others sleek and modern. Stage Six was windowless, giving no hint of the horror that might be unfolding inside.

“We need to approach with extreme caution,” Riley said. “Sarah Brooks has killed twice already.”

Before Rodriguez could respond, the main doors of the complex burst open, and Gillian Sinclair hurried toward them. Her usual polished appearance had frayed at the edges—her blouse partially untucked, her hair escaping its careful styling.

“Agent Paige,” she called, slightly breathless. “Thank God you’re here. Security’s confirmed that all the exterior doors to Stage Six are either locked or barricaded from the inside. They can’t get in without heavy equipment, which they’re reluctant to use without your authorization.”

Riley gestured for the officers to follow as she moved to meet Gillian halfway. “Ms. Sinclair, thank you for meeting us. We have to move quickly. I need to get into to Stage Six. Can we use any of the adjacent buildings?”

“The production office for Stage Five,” Gillian suggested, already turning to lead the way.

They moved swiftly into the studio complex, past curious employees who paused in their work to watch the procession of law enforcement. Once through another door, they came to a halt in a room dominated by scheduling boards and production stills. Gillian closed the door behind them, shutting out the murmurs from the hallway.

“I need you to understand something that may be difficult to hear,” Riley began. “We have strong reason to believe that Sarah Brooks is responsible for the murders of both Veronica Slate and Crystal Keene. We also believe she’s currently holding Lucy Morgan captive inside Stage Six, with the intention of killing her.”

Gillian’s face drained of color. She gripped the edge of a nearby desk. “Sarah? That’s… that’s impossible. I’ve known her for years. She’s brilliant, dedicated—”

“And the granddaughter of Weston Black,” Ann Marie interjected gently. “The film director who also used the name Chip Raines. He was blacklisted after Roberta Rimes named him to HUAC in 1955.”

“The murders are re-creations of scenes from her grandfather’s films,” Riley explained. “Veronica Slate was poisoned like a character in The Night Walker. Crystal Keene was strangled and chained to a projector like a scene from The Broken Window. And now, Lucy Morgan…”

“Is going to be killed in a way that mirrors a scene from Shadows at Dusk,” Ann Marie finished. “Strangled on a church altar.”

Gillian’s hand moved to her mouth. “The church set on Stage Six…”

Riley nodded grimly. “That’s why we believe she’s there. But how did she get Lucy onto the soundstage without being noticed?”

“The back of Stage Six faces the old auxiliary lot,” Gillian explained. “It’s not part of our main security circuit. There’s a loading dock for larger set pieces and equipment, with a personnel door beside it. It’s rarely used now that we handle most deliveries through the main gates.”

“Would Sarah have access to that door?”

“As production designer? Absolutely. She’d have keys to every stage and most storage facilities.” Gillian paused, her brow furrowing. “Actually, she was the one who oversaw the construction of the church set in the first place. She pushed for it to be built with extraordinary attention to detail, far beyond what the script called for.”

Ann Marie exchanged a meaningful look with Riley. “She was planning this all along.”

Riley turned to Officer Rodriguez, who had been silently absorbing the conversation. “We need to get eyes on that back entrance immediately, but with absolute discretion. If Sarah realizes we’re surrounding the building, she might accelerate her timeline.”

Rodriguez nodded sharply and stepped outside to dispatch two of his officers to the location Gillian described.

“Is there any way we can communicate with whoever’s inside Stage Six?” Riley asked Gillian. “Some kind of intercom system or audio connection?”

Gillian considered for a moment. “There’s a communication system installed in all the soundstages. It’s essentially a sophisticated PA system with two-way capability.”

“Can it be activated from outside the stage?”

“Yes, from the sound booth here in the production office.” Gillian moved toward a glass-enclosed booth in a corner of the room. “It might take me a minute to get it set up.”

“Do it,” Riley instructed, following her. Ann Marie and the remaining officers trailed behind.

Inside the sound booth, Gillian began flipping switches on a complicated-looking console. The equipment hummed to life, lights blinking across the control panel. She adjusted several dials before speaking into a desktop microphone.

“Stage Six audio check, this is Gillian Sinclair. Do you copy?” Her voice echoed slightly over the speakers.

Silence stretched for several long seconds. Riley held her breath, watching Gillian hover over the controls. Then, unexpectedly clear, a voice replied.

“Ms. Sinclair. What an unexpected interruption.” Sarah Brooks’s voice came through the speakers, eerily calm and controlled. “I’m rather busy at the moment. Perhaps we could reschedule this conversation?”

“Sarah,” Gillian began, her voice faltering slightly. “What’s happening? The police are here—they’re saying—”

Riley gently moved Gillian aside, taking position at the microphone. “Sarah Brooks, this is Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI. We know you’re holding Lucy Morgan, and we know why.”

A soft chuckle filtered through the speakers. “Of course you do, Agent Paige. I imagined it wouldn’t take the FBI long to piece it together. My grandfather’s films, Roberta Rimes’s testimony, Myrtle Carroway’s betrayal—it all forms such a clear pattern, doesn’t it? The kind of narrative symmetry my grandfather would have appreciated.”

They needed to keep Sarah talking, needed to buy time. Riley stepped away from the microphone, letting Ann Marie take her place.

“Sarah, this is Agent Ann Marie Esmer,” Ann Marie began, her voice carrying the carefully calibrated tone of a hostage negotiator. “I understand you feel your grandfather was wronged. Would you tell me more about that?”

As Sarah began to respond—her voice taking on a lecturing quality as she expounded on the injustices her grandfather had suffered—Riley pulled Rodriguez aside.

“I need to get to that back entrance,” she whispered, ensuring her voice wouldn’t carry to the microphone. “If Ann Marie can keep her engaged in conversation, I might be able to get inside before she realizes what’s happening.”

Rodriguez frowned. “That’s extremely risky, Agent Paige. We don’t know what’s waiting inside. She could have booby-trapped the entrances.”

“I don’t think she’d have had time,” Riley countered. “Lucy Morgan disappeared this morning. Sarah had to abduct her, transport her to the studio, and set up her scene. She’s good, but she’s not superhuman.”

The officer still looked unconvinced. Riley continued, her voice low. “Sarah Brooks is recreating scenes from her grandfather’s films. Every minute we wait brings Lucy Morgan closer to that fate.”

Rodriguez held her gaze for a long moment before giving a reluctant nod. “I’ll have one of my officers escort you to the back entrance, but I want it on record that I advised against this approach.”

“Noted,” Riley agreed. “Your officer should remain outside as backup.”

Riley returned to Ann Marie’s side. Sarah’s voice continued to flow through the speakers, engaged in what sounded weirdly like a film studies lecture about the innovative cinematography in her grandfather’s work.

“I’m going in through the back,” Riley murmured, her mouth close to Ann Marie’s ear. “Keep her talking as long as you can. Ask about specific scenes, technical details—anything that might appeal to her pride in her grandfather’s work. Or … well, anything else you can think of.”

Then with a smile, Riley added, “Use your people skills.”

“But how are you going to get through the door?” Gillian asked.

Riley reached into her handbag for a familiar leather case—a lock pick kit.

“Funny,” she murmured. “The same way the killer got into The Velvet Screen to kill Crystal Keene.”

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Ann Marie watched Riley disappear through the door, Officer Rodriguez following close behind. She turned back to the microphone, acutely aware that a woman’s life now hung in the balance of her ability to maintain Sarah Brooks’ attention.

Sarah’s voice was flowing through the speakers in a passionate monologue about her grandfather’s innovative use of darkness and light. “Critics at the time dismissed it as mere stylization, but it was pure visual poetry.”

“That’s fascinating, Sarah,” Ann Marie interjected when Sarah paused for breath. “Did your grandfather discuss his techniques with you, or did you learn about them through studying his films?”

“Both, in a way,” Sarah replied. “My mother showed me his films. Later, I found his personal journals. His thoughts on visual storytelling. It was like having conversations with him.”

The conversation was nothing short of surreal—all about cinematic aesthetics while a woman’s life was in danger. But Ann Marie understood Sarah’s mindset. She was hungry to the point of desperation for anyone to talk to about her grandfather’s work, a topic that must have been a driving obsession since childhood.

She was also so frantic in her desire for revenge that she was easily distracted. Though mentally competent in her day-to-day life, right now Sarah was not in her right mind. Ann Marie had witnessed similar behavior in people deranged with grief in her father’s mortuary.

Ann Marie glanced at her watch. Riley had been gone less than five minutes. How long would it take to pick that lock? How much more time did Lucy Morgan have?

“That’s remarkable,” Ann Marie said, injecting warmth into her voice. “To have that kind of connection with your grandfather’s artistic vision. His work seems to transcend simple entertainment—there’s something almost… sacred about the way you describe his approach.”

“Sacred is precisely the right word, Agent Esmer.” Sarah’s voice took on a reverent quality. “Cinema at its best is a religious experience. It transforms the mundane into the profound. My grandfather understood that.”

Ann Marie wondered how long she could keep this conversation going before Sarah’s craving for vengeance reared its head again. It was a dangerous game, and the stakes were life and death.

***

Crouched before the weathered service door, Riley unrolled her small leather case to reveal the collection of slender metal tools nestled in their individual pockets.

“I need absolute silence,” she whispered to Rodriguez, who nodded and stepped farther back.

Riley inserted a tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole, applying gentle pressure as she eased the hook pick into the upper portion. The lock was a heavy-duty deadbolt. Its newness made it both more complex in mechanism and harder to manipulate, the internal components stiff and unyielding.

The first pin clicked into place, a subtle vibration Riley felt more than heard. She adjusted the tension slightly, probing for the next pin. Sweat beaded along her hairline. Each second that passed was another moment Lucy Morgan spent in terror, another moment Sarah Brooks came closer to completing her third act.

The second pin resisted, then yielded. Then the third. But the old lock still fought her—decades of grime and corrosion making the pins sluggish.

“Come on,” she murmured, barely audible even to herself.

The fourth pin clicked into place, followed quickly by the fifth. Riley held her breath as she felt the cylinder begin to turn. She rotated the tension wrench gently, and the deadbolt slid back with a dull thunk.

She eased the door open a fraction of an inch, pausing to listen for any reaction from inside. Nothing. Just the distant, muffled sound of voices that had to be Ann Marie and Sarah over the PA system.

Riley drew her service weapon and held it at the ready position. She gestured for Rodriguez to maintain his position outside, then eased through the narrow opening.

She found herself in a dimly lit storage area at the rear of the soundstage. Props and partial set pieces loomed all around her. Ann Marie’s voice—calm, conversational—came through speakers mounted high on the walls. Sarah’s responses echoed with the slight distortion of the PA system.

Riley moved forward silently, navigating through the backstage maze. Ahead, a gap between two large set pieces revealed an area of brighter light. When she reached the gap and peered cautiously around the edge, the sight stole her breath.

The church set was magnificent in its detail—gothic arches soaring toward the soundstage ceiling, faux stained glass illuminated from behind to create the illusion of daylight, wooden pews arranged in perfect rows leading to an ornate altar. Work lights hung from the ceiling, bathing the scene in harsh, unforgiving illumination.

And there, on the altar, lay Lucy Morgan, bound hand and foot with a gag stretched across her mouth, her eyes wide with terror above it. She was still alive—still breathing. Sarah Brooks stood with her back turned toward Riley.

Riley assessed the situation. She didn’t want to shoot if she didn’t have to. Then Lucy’s eyes shifted, spotting movement at the edge of the set. When she saw Riley, her body tensed, a muffled sound escaping around the gag. Riley raised a finger to her lips—a silent plea for silence—but it was too late. Sarah had noticed her captive’s reaction.

“I wondered when you’d arrive, Agent Paige,” Sarah said without turning, her voice eerily calm. “Your partner is quite skilled at conversation. Almost had me forgetting why we’re all here.”

Riley raised her weapon in a two-handed grip. She moved forward quickly. “Sarah Brooks,” she called, “FBI. Drop the wire and step away from Lucy Morgan.”

Sarah turned slowly, revealing that the garrote wire was already held against Lucy’s neck. Thin, nearly invisible, that wire was capable of slicing through flesh with terrifying efficiency if applied with pressure.

“You know I can’t do that, Agent Paige. Not when I’ve come this far. My grandfather’s trilogy requires completion.”

Riley was twenty feet away now, close enough to see the gleam of tears in Sarah’s eyes. Lucy Morgan’s chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.

Riley steadied her aim, centering the sights on Sarah’s torso. “Do you value your revenge more than you do your own life?”

Sarah froze. For a moment Riley thought she might try to complete her mission even at the cost of her own life. Her finger tightened on the trigger of her gun.

“That really is your choice, Sarah,” Riley said. “Do you want to die? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you kill this woman.”

Then Sarah’s shoulders slumped. The garrote wire slackened in her grip. A sob tore from her throat—raw, primal.

“I’m so sorry, Mother,” she whispered, her face contorting with grief. “You were right. You were always right. I’m too weak.”

Sarah sank to her knees as she continued to sob.

Riley felt strangely staggered by Sarah’s words. She moved forward quickly, retrieving the garrote wire and throwing it well out of reach. She pulled Sarah’s wrists behind her back and secured them with handcuffs.

“Sarah Brooks, you’re under arrest for the murders of Veronica Slate and Crystal Keene, and the attempted murder of Lucy Morgan.”

***

Soon there was the controlled chaos of first responders, the mechanical efficiency of evidence technicians photographing the elaborate church set, and beneath it all, the invisible current of relief that pulsed through everyone present. This time, they had arrived before death could claim its intended prize.

Sarah Brooks stood flanked by uniformed officers, her wrists still secured in cuffs, her face a blank mask as she stared at some middle distance only she could see. She offered no resistance as the officers guided her toward the exit.

Detective Hayes approached Riley. “We’ll need your full statement, of course, but that can wait until we’re back at headquarters.” He nodded toward where Sarah was being led away. “Remarkable work, Agent Paige. If you hadn’t figured out she was using the church set rather than a real church…”

He left the sentence unfinished, both of them all too aware of the alternative outcome.

“And if Ann Marie hadn’t kept her talking,” Riley added. “She gave me the time I needed.”

As if summoned by her name, Ann Marie appeared beside them. “Lucy’s stabilizing,” she reported. “Physically, she’s going to be fine. Mentally…” She shrugged slightly. “Time will tell.”

Hayes excused himself to coordinate with the evidence technicians, leaving Riley and Ann Marie standing in the meticulously constructed church set.

“I can drive us to the station,” Ann Marie offered. “We should finalize our reports while everything’s still fresh.”

Riley’s gaze drifted toward the exit where officers were preparing to load Sarah into a police transport van. “You go ahead. I’m going to ride with Sarah.”

Ann Marie followed her gaze, understanding dawning in her eyes. “The thing she said about her mother. About being too weak. That really troubled you.”

Riley nodded.

“Of course,” Ann Marie agreed. “I’ll meet you at the station.”

Riley slid into the police van, taking the seat across from Sarah Brooks. The doors closed with a hollow thunk, sealing them into a confined space, its interior divided by a metal grate that separated the prisoner compartment from the officers’ section.

As the vehicle pulled away from Magnolia Gateway Films, Sarah kept her gaze fixed on her lap, her shoulders hunched forward in a posture of defeat.

“What did you mean?” Riley asked, her voice soft. “When you surrendered, you apologized to your mother. Said you were too weak.”

Sarah didn’t respond immediately. “My earliest memories,” she finally said, “are of sitting in front of a television while my mother played Weston Black’s films. Three, four, five times a day. ‘Watch how he frames this shot,’ she’d say. ‘See how he uses light and contrast here.’ I was five years old, and she’d slap me if my attention wandered.”

She looked up at Riley, her eyes haunted. “By the time I was seven, I could recite every line of dialogue from his films. My mother would test me, and each mistake earned punishment. A missed line might mean no dinner. A forgotten camera angle could mean being locked in the closet until I could describe the scene correctly.”

“Your mother was Myra Brooks—Weston Black’s daughter.”

“The guardian of his legacy. The keeper of his grudges. I never knew my grandfather—he died long before I was born—but my mother made sure his ghost occupied every corner of our home. His genius. His suffering. The injustice of his erasure from film history.”

She shifted in her seat, the handcuffs clinking softly. “When I was twelve, my mother started talking about ‘the plan.’ How we would avenge my grandfather someday. She’d describe it while brushing my hair at night, these elaborate scenarios of revenge, her voice so sweet and tender, like other mothers might use for bedtime stories.”

“You were a child,” Riley said softly. “That’s a terrible burden to place on a child.”

“It wasn’t a burden,” Sarah countered, her voice suddenly fierce. “It was a sacred trust. My purpose. My inheritance.” The intensity faded as quickly as it had flared. “At least, that’s what my mother taught me to believe.”

She fell silent for several blocks, watching the city slide past the window. When she spoke again, her voice had acquired a distant quality, as if she were reciting.

“After my mother died, I found her journals. Decades of entries, all focused the revenge she never managed to execute. Pages and pages of detailed plans, some dating back to before I was born. And then, toward the end, entries about me.”

Sarah’s eyes met Riley’s. “She wrote that I was weak. That she feared I lacked the necessary resolve to carry out the plan. That I was too soft, too easily distracted by ordinary pursuits. She was disappointed in me, even as she was dying.”

“So you set out to prove her wrong.”

“I spent ten years preparing,” Sarah confirmed. “Perfecting my skills as a production designer. Studying the murders in my grandfather’s films. Gathering information. I told myself I was fulfilling my destiny, honoring my grandfather’s memory and my mother’s wishes.”

She glanced down at her cuffed wrists. “But when it came to the final moment with Lucy Morgan, I couldn’t do it. Not with your gun aimed at me.”

The van slowed as it approached the police headquarters. Sarah spoke softly. “I was too weak, just as my mother feared. And the most terrible part?” Her voice broke slightly. “Part of me is relieved. What does that make me?”

Before Riley could respond, the van came to a stop. The back doors opened, flooding the interior with daylight. Officers appeared and escorted Sarah away.

Riley got out of the van slowly, thinking of her own daughters. April, still vulnerable to Leo Dillard’s obsession. Jilly, watching her sister and mother navigate dangers she was only beginning to understand. What legacies was Riley herself passing down to them, knowingly or unknowingly? What might haunt them long after she was gone?

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Riley cradled the coffee mug between her palms as she finished telling Bill about the final moments of the Atlanta case. Even the sun spilling into their family room couldn’t dispel the images that Sarah Brooks’ confession had left in her mind. Three murders—two completed, one attempted—all because a mother had twisted her daughter into an instrument of decades-old vengeance.

“So Sarah just… gave up?” Bill asked as he processed the story. “After all that planning, all those years of preparation, she couldn’t go through with the third murder?”

Riley nodded, setting her mug down on the table. “When I had her in the police van afterward, she said she had failed her mother, but that part of her felt relieved. The whole time she was talking, all I could think about was what it must have been like to grow up in that house. To be a child whose only value was as a weapon in someone else’s war.”

Bill reached out, his hand warm as it covered hers. “That got to you.”

“It did,” Riley admitted. “More than usual. The way Sarah described her childhood—her mother forcing her to memorize her grandfather’s films, punishing her for forgetting camera angles, locking her in closets…” She shook her head. “Children aren’t supposed to carry that kind of burden.”

“No, they’re not,” Bill agreed softly.

Riley stared into the depths of her coffee. “It makes me think about our girls. About the things they’ve been through, what it could be doing to them even now.”

“April and Jilly are resilient,” Bill said. “And they have something Sarah Brooks never had—people who love them for who they are, not what they can be used for.”

“I know that.” Riley’s voice caught slightly. “But resilience has its limits. April was kidnapped. She watched me kill a man. And Jilly—God, the things that happened to her before I found her…. And now they both have to live with the knowledge that Leo Dillard is out there somewhere, fixated on our family.”

Bill’s jaw tightened at the mention of Leo’s name. He withdrew his hand, wrapping it around his own mug. “I’ve tried everything I can think of to locate him. Called in every favor. But he’s gone completely dark. No credit card activity, no cell phone pings, nothing.”

“That’s almost worse than knowing where he is,” Riley said. “At least then we’d have something concrete to guard against. This way…” She gestured vaguely at the air between them. “Every stranger on the street could be him in disguise. Every car that drives by too slowly could be him watching. Every hang-up call could be him checking to see if we’re home.”

“We’re doing a lot to protect them,” Bill reminded her. “April has security at Jefferson Bell. I’m picking Jilly up from school every day. We’ve changed our routines, varied our schedules.”

“For how long, though?” Riley asked. “Campus security won’t maintain those extra measures indefinitely if nothing happens. The budget won’t allow it. What if his plan is simply to wait us out, knowing we can’t maintain this level of vigilance forever?”

“Then we adapt,” Bill said simply. “We find a way that keeps everyone safe without burning ourselves out.”

Riley wanted to believe him—wanted to believe that there was a sustainable solution that would protect her family while still allowing them to live something resembling normal lives. But what might someone like Leo Dillard, with his brilliant but twisted mind, be capable of?

“You’re a good mother, Riley,” Bill said, breaking into her thoughts. “April and Jilly know that. They feel secure despite everything that’s happened, because they know we’re both here for them—not just to protect them, but to love them unconditionally.”

Riley managed a small smile. “When did you get so wise about parenting?”

“I learned from watching you,” he replied, the sincerity in his eyes momentarily easing the knot of anxiety in her chest.

A comfortable silence settled between them. This is what normal feels like, Riley thought. These quiet moments of connection were outside the chaos that hounded their lives.

Bill glanced at his watch and sighed. “I should get going. Jilly’s school lets out in thirty minutes, and I want to be there early.” Leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, he added, “You should try to get some rest. You look exhausted.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I don’t think I slept more than an hour or two last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing Sarah Brooks beside that altar, the garrote wire in her hands.” She didn’t add that in some of those half-dreaming moments, the faces had shifted—Sarah becoming Leo, the victim transforming into April or Jilly.

Bill’s expression softened with understanding. “I’ll be back with Jilly soon. Maybe having her home safe will help.”

Riley nodded, though she doubted anything would quiet her mind enough for true rest. Not while Leo lurked at the edges of their lives, his intentions unknown, his whereabouts a mystery.

***

Leo Dillard adjusted the baseball cap lower over his eyes, his fingertips brushing against the unfamiliar beard that now covered the lower half of his face. The rental car—a forgettable gray sedan with tinted windows—was parked beneath the sprawling branches of an oak tree, affording him both shade and an unobstructed view of the main entrance to Westridge High School. From this distance, no one would recognize him, but he could observe everything with perfect clarity. The digital clock on the dashboard read 3:07 PM. Twenty-three minutes until the final bell.

He shifted in his seat, reaching for the travel mug of coffee in the cupholder. It had gone cold hours ago, but he sipped anyway, savoring the bitter taste. Unlike lesser predators who rushed their hunt, Leo understood the value of extended observation, of learning patterns, of waiting for precisely the right moment.

He was studying the Paige family’s new security routines. Always from a distance, always in disguise, always in a different vehicle. Special Agent Bill Jeffreys is picking up Jilly from school every day at 3:30. Campus security is escorting April between classes at Jefferson Bell University.

Such predictable unpredictability, Leo thought with a small smile. Their protective measures were transparent to anyone willing to invest the time to understand them.

The school’s exterior doors swung open as a few students with early dismissal slips emerged, laughing and shoving each other as they headed toward the parking lot. Leo’s gaze flicked over them dispassionately. None were Jilly. He knew from previous observations that she always exited through the main doors, usually accompanied by two friends who meant nothing to him beyond their connection to his target.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He withdrew it, glancing at the screen. A text from his landlord about a leaky faucet in the apartment he’d rented under a false identity three towns over. He ignored it. The apartment was merely one of five temporary residences he maintained in the area, none of them traceable to his real name. The money his grandfather had left him made such arrangements trivial.

A familiar dark SUV pulled into the school’s semicircular driveway, parking in the visitors’ zone. Right on schedule. Bill Jeffreys stepped out, his posture alert despite the casual clothing he wore. Even in plainclothes, the man carried himself like the federal agent he was—eyes constantly scanning, body positioned to maintain maximum situational awareness.

Leo studied him through the tinted windows of his sedan. The man was competent, Leo would grant him that. Thorough in his protective duties. But even the most vigilant guardian couldn’t maintain perfect awareness indefinitely.

The school bell rang, its distant peal carrying across the parking lot. Within moments, the doors burst open and students poured out, a river of teenagers suddenly free from the day’s constraints. Leo sat perfectly still, his breathing steady as he waited. Seven minutes. That was Jilly’s pattern.

And there she was, right on schedule. Jilly Paige emerged from the main doors flanked by two friends, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her slight frame carrying a backpack that seemed too heavy for her. Leo’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. She was laughing at something one of her friends had said, but he could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her gaze constantly swept the area around her. The girl had street instincts. She sensed danger even when she couldn’t see it.

Leo watched as Bill approached the group. Jilly’s posture relaxed slightly at the sight of him. The friends said their goodbyes, separating toward different sections of the parking lot as Bill escorted Jilly to his SUV.

Leo took another sip of cold coffee, considering the psychological impact of his staying out of sight. He knew that biding his time would affect Riley Paige in one of two things: either eventually lull her into a false sense of security as the immediate threat seemed to recede, or—far more likely—intensify her anxiety. The constant vigilance would wear on her. And if her anxiety increased, it could destabilize her judgment.

Leo started the car as Bill’s SUV pulled away from the school, Jilly safely inside. He wouldn’t follow them today. He already knew their route home, knew the security measures at the house, knew the blind spots in their vigilance.

He guided the sedan out of the parking spot and onto the street, heading in the opposite direction from Bill and Jilly. As he drove, a sense of satisfaction settled over him. When the moment was right—and only he would know when that was—he would be ready. And neither Riley nor her precious family would see him coming until it was too late.

NOW AVAILABLE!

ONCE FEARED

(A Riley Paige Mystery—Book 21)

When the elite are found lifeless in lavish wine cellars, FBI Agent Riley Paige is tasked with decoding a murderous message hidden in the choice of vintage. Can she sift through the sediment of secrets before the social register becomes a hit list?

 “A masterpiece of thriller and mystery.”

—Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Once Gone)

ONCE FEARED is book #21 in the bestselling Riley Paige mystery series, which begins with the #1 bestseller ONCE GONE (Book #1)—a free download with over 1,000 five star reviews!

A gripping and intense psychological suspense thriller featuring an astute yet anguished female protagonist, the RILEY PAIGE series is a compelling mystery filled with continuous action, edge-of-your-seat suspense, unexpected plot twists, and shocking discoveries. Its rapid-fire tempo ensures an addictive read that’s hard to put down, inviting readers to immerse themselves well past bedtime. Fans of Lee Child, Robert Dugoni, and Rachel Caine are sure to fall in love.

Future books in this series are now available!

“An edge of your seat thriller in a new series that keeps you turning pages! …So many twists, turns and red herrings… I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A strong, complex story about two FBI agents trying to stop a serial killer. If you want an author to capture your attention and have you guessing, yet trying to put the pieces together, Pierce is your author!”

—Reader review (Her Last Wish)

“A typical Blake Pierce twisting, turning, roller coaster ride suspense thriller. Will have you turning the pages to the last sentence of the last chapter!!!”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Right from the start we have an unusual protagonist that I haven’t seen done in this genre before. The action is nonstop… A very atmospheric novel that will keep you turning pages well into the wee hours.”

—Reader review (City of Prey)

“Everything that I look for in a book… a great plot, interesting characters, and grabs your interest right away. The book moves along at a breakneck pace and stays that way until the end. Now on go I to book two!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

“Exciting, heart pounding, edge of your seat book… a must read for mystery and suspense readers!”

—Reader review (Girl, Alone)

ONCE FEARED

(A Riley Paige Mystery—Book 21)

SERIES BY BLAKE PIERCE

KATE VALENTINE

KARI BLACKHORSE

ISLA RIVERS

ALISON PAYNE

JENNA GRAVES

THE GOVERNESS

RACHEL BLACKWOOD

SHEILA STONE

FINN WRIGHT

MORGAN CROSS

JULIETTE HART

FAITH BOLD

FIONA RED

DAISY FORTUNE

AMBER YOUNG

CAMI LARK

NICKY LYONS

CORA SHIELDS

MAY MOORE

PAIGE KING

VALERIE LAW

RACHEL GIFT

AVA GOLD

A YEAR IN EUROPE

ELLA DARK

LAURA FROST

EUROPEAN VOYAGE

ADELE SHARP

THE AU PAIR

ZOE PRIME

JESSIE HUNT

CHLOE FINE

KATE WISE

THE MAKING OF RILEY PAIGE

RILEY PAIGE

MACKENZIE WHITE

AVERY BLACK

KERI LOCKE