“Your cousin?” I asked. “Why?”

“My uncle had a temper, and my father had seen enough of it that he refused to have anything to do with him. I hardly ever saw my cousin when we were growing up. But after Clint got his record deal, he wasn’t on speaking terms with his father either. Things got worse when Clint turned out to be a one-hit wonder. Like any good washed-up singer, he drank heavily to get through the days. The year my grandmother turned seventy, she guilted everyone into spending Christmas with her. She even convinced Uncle Eric and my father to come.”

I realized he hadn’t turned left to head to the police department, but I didn’t call him on it yet. I decided to see where he went.

“But tempers were short, and Uncle Eric and Clint got into it. Clint blurted out that if Uncle Eric pushed him hard enough, he’d meet the same end as ‘that girl’ last summer. My uncle shushed him, and everyone could tell that something weird had happened. Later, Clint was three sheets to the wind . . . again . . . and I was thirteen and too curious for my own good. So I asked him what he’d meant by that, and he said something about a dead girl outside of Jackson. His best friend’s girlfriend.”

“Tripp Tucker was your cousin’s best friend?”

“Yeah. Later, I realized he was talking about Tiffany Kessler. I wondered if he’d had something to do with it, but then they arrested someone else and I let it go. Seven years later, I ran into Clint in a restaurant bar. He was drunk off his ass, and he called me over and asked me if I was still curious about murders. He told me to check up in Clarksville a few months before. So I did . . . and that’s how I found out about Melanie Seaborn’s murder.”

“Did he admit to killing her?”

“No. Not even close to a confession. But the fact that he knew about a murder in Clarksville, which hadn’t made big headlines, made me curious. So I started digging into both cases and realized they were remarkably similar. I joined that cold-case club specifically to submit Melanie Seaborn’s case. The man arrested for Tiffany’s murder was still in jail, yet there were similarities that weren’t made public. I notified the FBI, but they weren’t interested because of the conviction in Tiffany’s murder. I decided I really liked investigating—when I told you that before, I wasn’t lying—so I went to the police academy.

“I did more digging in my spare time, and discovered the case twenty years ago, after the Jackson Project fell to pieces. And a case in Kentucky fourteen years ago. Then there was nothing after Melanie. I thought it was done until Amy.” He shook his head. “I had no idea I’d missed two.”

“How could you have known about those? I’m surprised you found out about the one in Kentucky.” I turned to scrutinize him. “Did you really call the FBI last week?”

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel, but he didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

I looked out the window, realizing we were heading toward my mother’s neighborhood. Fear shot up my spine. “Where are we going, Brady?”

“We have to go check out that house, Maggie.”

I shook my head adamantly. “No. I have to go talk to Detective Martinez.”

“This is more important. There’s a killer on the loose, whether it’s my cousin or not, and something out there might help us catch him.”

“But I told Martinez I was coming to see her. I need to tell her about Miss Ava’s granddaughter and all the victims’ connections to the Jackson Project.”

“We’ll go to the house first. Then we’ll tell her everything we know.”

I grabbed the armrest on the door as I started to panic. “No, Brady! I can’t go out there.”

He gently shook his head. “You’ve been full of excuses for over a week, Maggie. This is important.”

“Why? What do you hope to prove, Brady?” I asked, nearly hysterical. “That your cousin did it or that he didn’t?”

His face remained grim. “Just like you, Magnolia, I want the truth.”

“If you’re so interested in the truth, then why did you lie to me about Belinda after you followed Roy home the other night?”

“Why do you think it was a lie?” he asked, but he reeked of guilt.

I suspected my theory was correct—that he was trying to separate me from the people I trusted so I’d lean on him, but I wasn’t about to get into it with him. “What’s going on with Owen?” I needed to find out if Owen had contacted Clint Duncan. And I needed to tell him about Brady’s connection and theory.

“What do you mean?”

“I know he’s on leave.”

“Maggie, he’s not on leave. He quit.”

“Quit? That’s not what he told me.”

He did a double take. “You talked to Owen?”

“Yeah, about the report, and he definitely told me he was on leave. He was at the police department when I was there giving my statement on Wednesday.”

“He was there turning in his badge.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of that. If Brady was right, Owen had lied to me too. Was there anyone I could trust?

“It wasn’t because of you, Maggie,” Brady said, softening his tone. “He said he was tired of his uncle’s shadow hanging over him all the time.”

I’d sat with him at the diner . . . I’d told him my deep, dark secret . . . I’d broken into Brady’s apartment to get him a file he had no business having. Why? I took a second, then asked, “What did Gordon do after he quit the police force?”

“He got a job at a hardware store.”

“What will Owen do now?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, we’re not getting along right now.”

So I’d heard, but I wasn’t eager to get in the middle of that. “I’m not going out to that house, Brady. I’m going to the police station to talk to Detective Martinez before she decides I’m the murderer.” I held out my phone in my hand. “If you don’t turn around right now, I’ll call her back and tell her you’re holding me hostage.”

“Maggie. Why won’t you take me out there?”

“Because I lived through a real-life nightmare in that house. The thought of even walking into those woods puts me on the edge of a panic attack. I know I have to go out there, but not now. I can’t do it.”

“You can do whatever you put your mind to. You’re a strong woman. I’ll be there, and you still have the gun I gave you, right?”

I nodded.

“Not to mention we’ll be going in the daylight. Now’s the perfect time to go.”

He had a point, but I didn’t like the way he was trying to force me into it. Still, I was wavering a little when my phone rang with a call from a familiar number.

“Hello, Detective Martinez,” I answered.

Brady shot me a dark look as he turned into my mother’s neighborhood.

“Where are you?” his partner demanded.

“I just left, and I’m on my way now. I should be there in five to ten minutes.”

“That’s what you said ten minutes ago.”

“What can I say about this crazy Franklin traffic?” I hung up and turned to Brady. “Take me home so I can get my car and drive myself.”

“Maggie . . .”

“I didn’t rat you out, but I can if you don’t let me get into my car and drive to the police station.”

He was silent until he pulled into the driveway next to my car. “I know I sound like I’m on a loop, but we really need to go out to that house.”

“Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow, but now I’m going to the police station.” When he didn’t argue, I said, “I’ll call you later.”

He stayed in the driveway until I backed out of the space and headed to the police station.

---

An hour later, I walked out of the police station just as frustrated as before I’d walked in. Detective Martinez had been belligerent and suspicious of where I’d gotten my information. I’d told her about the victims’ connections to the members of the Jackson group, including what I’d learned about Walter Frey’s and Steve Morrissey’s nieces, and gave her Ava Milton as my source. I’d also mentioned that I suspected Clint Duncan’s involvement in the women’s deaths, but I was careful not to bring any mention of Brady into it.

Colt had tried to call me five times while I’d been talking to Martinez, so I called him back right away as I walked out to my car.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just walked out of the police station after giving them more information. This is the first chance I’ve had to call you back.”

“I’ve been freaking out for the last half hour, Maggie. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Where are you?” I asked.

“We’re almost done here at the luncheon. Then we’re heading back to the kitchen. Did you tell her about the camera?”

“No. I told her everything I know about the victims so they can try to find the killer. Miss Ava gave me more information, but I don’t want to get into it on the phone. I’ll fill you in on all the details later, but they have some good leads, and Clint Duncan is one of them.”

“Thank God.” He took a second before he asked, “Did you tell her about witnessing Melanie Seaborn’s murder?”

“No,” I said quietly. “I don’t trust her enough for that. But there is some good news. The Brentwood police have reopened Amy’s case. They’re looking at the comparisons between her and Emily’s deaths.”

“While that is good news, I suspect the serial killer isn’t going to like it. Have you heard anything from him since this morning?”

“No.”

“Well, to be safe, maybe you should wait at the police station until I leave here. Or better yet, go back in there and demand police protection.”

“Martinez doesn’t trust me for having all this information. If she could have found a reason for locking me up, she would have done it in a heartbeat. She’s not giving me a guard.”

“I’m scared for you, Mags.”

I was scared too, but I wasn’t hanging out in the police station lobby until Colt picked me up. I could only imagine what Martinez would do if she found me out there. “I’ll be fine, Colt. I think I’ll just head back to Momma’s house. I have a gun and I’ll lock myself in with the security system until you get there.”

“Maggie . . .”

“I’m sure as hell not staying here at the police station a minute longer. I’m heading home.”

“Okay, but Tilly knows something’s up. Don’t worry—” he interjected before I could protest, “—she doesn’t know what’s going on, just that you’re upset. She wants me to take you away for the weekend.” When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Just think about it, okay?”

I was tired and weak, and to my surprise, I found myself saying, “Okay.”

“Text me as soon as you’re safe inside the house, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I headed home, locked myself inside. After I texted Colt, I heated up leftovers for lunch. I carried the plate downstairs to the basement and studied the fireplace, trying to see where the bricks had been replaced. Whoever had repaired it had done a good job, but I could distinguish five newer looking bricks. That was where I’d start.

By the time I finished my lunch, I had convinced myself I didn’t need to wait for Colt to start smashing bricks. I found a hammer in the garage, carried it downstairs, and started bashing. However, the bricks were a lot harder to tear out than I had expected.

The doorbell rang and I stopped mid-swing, my heart leaping into my throat. Then I realized the serial killer was hardly likely to ring my doorbell and politely ask to murder me.

I headed back upstairs, holding the hammer in my free hand as I turned off the alarm and opened the door. I was surprised to see Owen on my porch.

“Why are you sharing information with Maria Martinez and not with me?” he asked. “I thought we had a deal.”

I put my free hand on my hip and dialed up the attitude. “And rumor has it that you’re no longer a Franklin police officer.”

“I can still help you find the truth.”

“Then you really should talk to your best friend,” I said. “He thinks he knows the identity of the serial killer.”

“Who?”

I dropped my hand from my hip and lifted the hammer to rest upright on my shoulder blade. “The same person you told me you were investigating this morning. His cousin, Clint Duncan.”

He froze and his face went slack with shock. Finally, he said, “Clint Duncan is Brady’s cousin?”

“Go figure.”

Owen frowned. “What’s with the hammer? Self-protection?”

“A little home redecorating.” But I was sure the brick dust on my jeans was a dead giveaway that I was up to something. “If you quit the force, then why are you still so interested in all of this?”

The corners of his eyes wrinkled with irritation. “You know why. Uncle Gordon.”

“My father was corrupt. He admitted to killing people. It’s only a matter of time before it trickles down to your uncle and clears him . . . or confirms his guilt.”

Owen’s scowl deepened.

“All that’s left is the identity of the serial killer, and Brady thinks it’s his cousin. So let me ask you one more time, Owen: Why are you here?”

He pushed out a groan. “Because I’ve got a head start on all of them, and whether I quit or not, investigating is in my blood. I’ve already interviewed Duncan, and now I’ve probably scared him. Ten to one he bolts. You’re in the thick of this. Did you tell everything to Martinez?”

I frowned and dropped the hammer to my side. “No. I kept my own personal involvement to myself.”

“So that means you don’t trust her either.”

I cocked my head. “What do you mean by either?”

“In addition to talking to Clint Duncan, I talked to Uncle Gordon about the officer who arrested the musician.”

“You mean Colt?”

He curled his lip. “Yeah. Him. Uncle Gordon said Mahoney, the arresting officer, was in thick with Martinez. If Mahoney was dirty, what if she is too?”

Dread doused over me like a cold shower. “And she’s the one I told everything to . . .”

“She might use it all, or she might suppress some of it.” An earnest look filled his eyes. “If she’s dirty, I want to nail her too.”

“Too? Did you have anything to do with Mahoney’s hit-and-run?”

His eyes flew wide in shock. “I can’t believe you asked me that question.”

“And yet, it’s still sitting between us like a stinky turd—did you have anything to do with it?”

His face hardened. “No. And if you distrust me that much, maybe we should end this joint effort right now. I was talking about your father.”

He’d talked to Clint Duncan, and I wanted information—especially if he was right and there was a chance the guy was going to bolt. I backed up and stepped into the entryway, giving him room to pass me.

He walked in and glanced around as he headed toward the living room. “What were you doing with the hammer?”

I shut the door behind him and turned on the alarm system. “Trying to find a camera.”

He glanced over his shoulder and gave me a blank stare.

“I’ve got a lot to fill you in on, but first I want to hear about Clint Duncan.”

He sat down in a chair while I sat on the sofa, sitting sideways and crossing my legs in front of me.

“Duncan was a suspect in Tiffany Kessler’s murder, but he had an alibi, albeit a flimsy one. He and a friend were at a bar the night of her disappearance, but no one else could corroborate their story, and there was nothing tying him to the case. This morning I pinned him down, and he confessed he hadn’t gone out to the bar.”

My mouth dropped open. “How did you get him to admit that?”

“Probably by catching him by surprise years later. He swore up and down that he had nothing to do with her murder, but he was nervous.”

“I’d probably be nervous if Martinez showed up on my doorstep seventeen years from now, asking me questions about my alibi the night Max Goodwin was murdered. And we both know I didn’t do it.”

He pressed his lips together. “Fair.”

“What else did he say?”

“I asked him where he was ten years ago at the end of May, and he fumbled with an answer. It seemed like a better idea to focus on the more recent murders.”

“Again . . . if someone asked me . . .”

“Agreed, but his nervousness was suspicious.”

“What was his answer?”

“He said he didn’t know for certain, that he often goes to his Alabama lake house over Memorial Day weekend, so he might have been there.”

“And what about Amy’s and Emily’s murders?”

“No alibi. He said he was likely at home, writing music.” When I gave him a questioning look, he added, “He’s a songwriter. A pretty good one from what I hear. He might not be performing them anymore, but others are. He’s still making good money.”

“So why would he screw that up by murdering women who had connections to the Jackson Project partners?” I asked.

“What connections?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. Finish your story first.”

Owen narrowed his eyes at that, but he continued. “He claims he doesn’t hold a grudge against your father. He says he let it go years ago, but his body language said differently. I can guarantee he hates Brian Steele.” He paused, then said in a softer voice, “And he has no great fondness for you.”

“Me?”

“He didn’t come right out and say it, but when I asked him if he knew you, his body stiffened and he gave a flat answer that he didn’t know you. It definitely suggested he didn’t like you.”

I resisted the urge to react, but it was strange to hear a man I didn’t remember, one I hadn’t seen since I was a kid, hated me for no good reason. “Anything else?”

“No, and there’s nothing to hold him or charge him, but he’s suspicious as hell. If I were working this case, I’d be asking all of his old friends about Tiffany Kessler’s murder. I’d definitely be digging deeper.”

“Why her case?”

“Because her cuts were more random and deeper than in the other cases. Her death was personal.”

“In that case, it sounds more like Tripp would be a suspect,” I said, shivering. I’d been alone with him the night before.

Owen shook his head. “Tripp had an alibi. He was on a radio show later that night, and the next morning he left for a business trip. But Clint spent a lot of time with Tripp and Tiffany, and the original report says he admitted to being in love with her.”

“So if he hated my father and found out she’d slept with him . . .”

“The original report also says Tripp called Clint and told him about Tiffany’s affair, then asked if he knew where she was. He denied seeing or talking to her.” A cold look filled his eyes. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet the serial killer is Clint Duncan.”

“I might be able to help confirm it,” I said softly.

“What?” Then understanding filled his eyes. “You mentioned a camera.”

First I told him what I’d learned from Miss Ava and Brady. Then I told him everything I knew about what my brother had seen and done that night. About the pictures on the camera, and how he’d bricked the camera up into the fireplace.

“Why would he do that?” Owen asked, puzzled.

“To hide it,” I said. “He says he kept it as insurance, but it’s odd that he put it someplace practically irretrievable.”

“Agreed.” He stood and looked at the fireplace. “Is this the fireplace? I can help dig it out.”

“No, it’s in the basement.” I pointed to the hammer on the coffee table. “But that’s pretty worthless.”

He grinned. “I know better than to suggest that it’s your lack of upper body strength. Maybe a flathead screwdriver would help chisel it out. Do you have one?”

“Yeah, in the garage.”

I headed toward the door in the kitchen, and he called out, “A flathead is the one with the straight end, not the prong-looking one.”

“I know what a flathead screwdriver is,” I called back sarcastically as I grabbed one out of the toolbox. “I know a thing or two about tools.”

Owen stood in the open doorway, watching me with a smart-ass grin and holding the hammer in his hand.

I gave him a sassy look. “I’ve dated a tool or two.”

“It’s no wonder Brady likes you,” he said. “You’re not his usual type.”

My heart nearly stopped. “And what type is that?” I asked carefully.

“I don’t know . . . easygoing, go with the flow. He calls the shots and they go along.” He noticed my subdued expression. “Are you thinking he dated you because of this case?”

I didn’t answer, but I held his gaze in a challenge.

“I can assure you that Brady lost his usual chill when he met you. He did not want to date you because of this case. It may have complicated things and made him more intense, but Brady is totally into you.” He scowled. “Even with the musician in the picture. I think he’s waiting for that guy to dump you.”

“Wow. That’s lovely,” I said, walking back into the kitchen.

I started to close the door, but Owen grabbed the edge and stopped the swing. “Are these really Christopher Merritt Jr.’s things?” His interest seemed piqued.

I scanned the contents of the garage and pushed out a sigh. “They are. If you want to take a stab at finding something, go for it. Apparently my brother has already looked for the elusive evidence Chris supposedly found.”

He looked like he’d rather head out into the garage than rip apart my fireplace, but to his credit, he shut the garage door.

Maybe I could trust him yet.