Dead.
But there was something else that seemed familiar.
Or maybe I just saw pieces of myself in all the victims. A once vivacious woman whose life was ruined the instant they met Nick. Or whomever was doing this.
“A student at Emory. Volunteered with Homes for the Homeless.”
I inhaled a sharp gasp, heat washing over me as I snatched the photo, scrutinizing it.
“What is it?” Nikko pressed.
“Homes for the Homeless…” I tried to pull a memory to the surface, but none would come. “That’s my brother’s charity.”
“And your brother is?”
“Weston Bradford.”
Nikko jotted something down in his notebook. Then he looked back at me.
“How can I reach him?”
“He lives in Atlanta. He—” I stopped short at the mounting curiosity and suspicion radiating off him. “Wait. You don’t think he’s responsible, do you?” I tossed the photo back onto the coffee table.
“I’m not sure what to think right now. In my mind, everyone’s a potential suspect. Especially someone with ties to your husband.”
“Ex-husband,” I corrected.
“I apologize. Someone with ties to your ex-husband.”
“I’ll give you his number, but it’s a waste of time. There’s no way Wes is even remotely involved.”
“She’s right,” Ethan added, coming to my defense.
Nikko cocked his head. “Care to elaborate?”
Ethan grabbed his pile of files and flipped through them once more. Then he threw a photo of a familiar woman onto the table.
“Because of her. Londyn Bennett. Now Bradford. Weston’s wife. Before Nick graduated to being a serial killer and was simply a stalker and rapist, Ms. Bennett was one of his earlier victims. Tried to attack her again when they crossed paths about seven years ago, at which time Ms. Bennett defended herself by shooting him. But since her skin isn’t exactly white, the cops arrested her. She nearly went to prison while Nick remained free.” Ethan turned his attention to me. “Until Ms. Prescott discovered Nick’s…souvenirs.”
“I appreciate the information,” Nikko said. “But that still doesn’t—”
“Trust me,” I insisted. “Wes was the only one who ever questioned me about Nick. Who was ever suspicious of him. Everyone else saw a charismatic pillar of the community. Plus, if Wes were somehow involved, he wouldn’t be trying to convince me all these gifts I’ve received are more than just due to a true crime fanatic, as the FBI agent I’ve been in contact with said appeared to be the case, considering the absence of any evidence to the contrary. At least until now.”
“What’s the name of your FBI contact?” Nikko brought his pen back to his notepad.
“Agent John Curran. Out of the Atlanta office.”
“I’ll reach out to him. See what light he can shine on this. This doesn’t mean Claire’s theory is right. These gifts you received could simply be from a true crime fanatic. It’s public knowledge that giving you a piece of the victim’s jewelry was part of your ex-husband’s signature. All these packages were sent to your bakeries, not your home. It truly could be anyone.”
“But it is suspicious,” Lachlan interjected. “Don’t you think, cousin?”
Nikko blew out a breath. “I won’t deny that. But until we can unequivocally connect each piece of jewelry to each one of these women, it’s merely circumstantial. In order to prove or disprove, we’d have to reach out to the family members of twenty victims, according to Claire’s research. The FBI will have to coordinate with local authorities. There’s a lot of bureaucratic red tape that slows things like this down, especially if some outside law enforcement agency comes in and tries to convince the local PD that they got it wrong. That a death they ruled a suicide might actually be a homicide.”
“Then we have to cut through the red tape,” I insisted.
“And how do you propose we do that? There are procedures for a reason. We—”
“I understand that. But maybe there’s a way to ascertain if we’re on the right path or not. If Claire’s theory holds any merit at all.”