Part of me wanted to drive straight to the airport and fly as far away from Franklin as I could get, farther than New York this time. Maybe I’d go to Vietnam, like Colt and I had discussed, and lie on those beautiful beaches, but I quickly dismissed the idea. It wouldn’t be the same without him . . . and he was still harboring secrets. Instead, I drove to Momma’s house and locked myself inside. Too bad it didn’t feel as safe as it had a month ago.

Then again, Tilly was right—I had secrets of my own. What if whatever had been in that safety deposit box had something to do with the woman Colt had loved and lost? The one who’d turned away from him after my father had arranged for his arrest. But how would Momma have found it?

I set up my laptop and started searching for the names on the list that contained limited information about each murder. I started with the case from twenty years ago—Stella Hargrove. The top reports were that her body had been found in Hendersonville, Tennessee. She’d been twenty-five, single, and a receptionist at a Baptist church. They’d suspected the church janitor for a short bit before ruling him out. Stella hadn’t had a boyfriend or enemies. The police had been stumped.

The next case was Margarie Turnwell, who’d been killed fourteen years ago. She was from Elizabethtown, Kentucky, and her body had been found a week after her disappearance. The news reports said her boyfriend had been a suspect, but he had an alibi and the police couldn’t arrest him. However, the family had been very vocal about their suspicions of him. She was an elementary school teacher, but she’d recently lost her job. The article didn’t say why, but it did have a quote from the boyfriend saying she’d gone to Nashville the week before to visit a friend and suggested something had happened there. The police said they had followed up his lead and found nothing.

The next case was Melanie, and I wondered why I’d never looked her up before. Because pretending she’d never really existed made it more tolerable somehow? Brady was right. She’d been a nurse at Vanderbilt, and her body had been found in Clarksville. News reports said the police had concentrated their efforts on finding a drifter who had supposedly been seen hanging around the hospital, but they’d never found him. Just like Tripp’s Tucker’s fiancée . . .

I wondered why no one had made a connection between the cases before given the distinctiveness of the cut, but the two close to Nashville had been a decade apart, and the one in Kentucky was far enough away to escape notice.

There was only one more name on the list—Amy’s. I didn’t bother looking up her information. I’d been searching the internet about her death ever since Brady had confirmed she was one of the serial killer’s victims.

Except something was missing. When I’d first looked at the files in Brady’s bathroom, I’d seen a report for the murder seventeen years ago. Why wasn’t there any mention of it on Owen’s list?

Had Tiffany Kessler been the second serial killer victim after all? She and Amy and, to some degree, Emily had all been connected to people who’d been part of the Jackson Project.

I sent Owen a text to his burner, asking if there had been a file for seventeen years ago, but when he didn’t respond right away, I did a search for Tiffany Kessler. News reports about her murder popped up. The one detail I remembered from the report was that the body had been found outside of Jackson. Sure enough, Tiffany’s body had been found in Jackson, Tennessee, which was about one hundred and thirty miles west of Nashville.

Tiffany had been found outside of Jackson. The Jackson Project. The blood left my head, and I took a moment to let my equilibrium settle.

That couldn’t be a coincidence. I needed to talk to Tripp Tucker.

I searched his name in connection with Tiffany’s, and reports popped up from the time of the murder, saying that the country star was grieving the loss of his fiancée. He’d offered a reward to anyone who came forward with information about her abduction and murder. There were other reports from the Jackson, Tennessee, police department saying they were working with the Brentwood Police—where Tiffany had lived with Tripp—and while they had a few persons of interest, they weren’t releasing any names. My father’s name wasn’t in any of the reports, but with people like Ava around, his name had surely made its way into the rumor mill.

The drifter both Tilly and Ava had mentioned had been arrested two years later, after he was caught trying to pawn her engagement ring at a store in Nashville. His trial had lasted only a few days, and he’d been sentenced to life in prison with no parole.

I doubted that the internet would give me Tripp Tucker’s contact information, but I searched anyway, surprised to see that he was the guest of honor at a dinner in Brentwood tonight—a dinner I knew Southern Belles was catering.

It was time for me to dust off my waitress uniform. I was going back to work.

---

Tilly worked up a protest when I walked in through the back door of the catering kitchen wearing my serving uniform. Her mouth dropped open and she put a hand on her hip. “I thought you were taking the night off, so why on God’s green earth are you dressed up like a server?”

“If I stay in her house for five more minutes, I’m gonna go batshit crazy,” I said, walking past everyone to see what they were up to. It looked like they were about to load the vans.

“That still doesn’t explain the uniform.”

“We all know that’s where my true strength lies—in serving. I’ll still help out in the back, but I want to help serve too.”

Colt hadn’t been in the room, but he came walking down the stairs and did a double take when he saw me. “I thought you were taking the night off.”

“Changed my mind.”

He took a few steps toward me and placed his hand on my uninjured arm. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it?”

“Yeah,” I said softly, staring up into his worried eyes. “I need to keep busy.”

“Mags, about this afternoon . . .” He stopped and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing several times. When he spoke, his voice broke. “I want to tell you, but I can’t.”

“I know,” I said. I’d thought about it off and on all day. If the contents of the safety deposit box had something to do with the woman he’d lost—the only reason I could think of for him to stay silent—I understood his need to protect her. Just like I’d protected him from Owen. I still didn’t one hundred percent trust him, but I understood.

He gave me a small nod. “I don’t want to lose you, Maggie. After I see this through, I’ll tell you everything.”

He started to pull away, but I grabbed his wrist. “After you see what through? You’re not talking about this mess with Daddy, are you?”

I was sure he wasn’t going to answer, so I was surprised by the slight shake of his head. “No.”

“I think I understand,” I said, “but we won’t work if you have some huge secret hanging over you.”

Defeat filled his eyes, and he started to pull away, but I dug my fingers deeper into his flesh.

“But I’m willing to wait. I’m willing to give you some time to see it through, but I won’t wait forever, Colt.”

“That’s more than I can ask for.”

“Until then, we need to just be friends. We make pretty good friends, don’t you think?”

A sad smile lifted his lips. “Yeah. We do. Now let’s get to work.”

It was a good thing I’d decided to come in—a couple people who were supposed to help from the culinary school had come down with food poisoning after making a bad batch of oysters earlier that morning, so now Tilly was short-staffed.

We got everything loaded into the vans, and Tilly filled me in on the menu for the night—a three-course meal consisting of a house salad, roasted rosemary potatoes and chicken with asparagus, and cheesecake for dessert.

“Are you sure you’re up to serving tonight?” Tilly asked with a worried glance.

“Are you worried I’ll stir up trouble?” I asked with a sly grin.

“Well . . .” She shook her head, and I already knew she’d cave. “Your momma would be having a fit right about now.”

I laughed. “All the more reason to do it, don’t you think?”

“That’s my girl.”

We didn’t have to drive far. The dinner was being held in one of the banquet rooms at The Factory. Our task was to make the industrial-looking space cozier and more inviting. Once we reached the location, we quickly got the tables set up and decorated with cut flower centerpieces and candles. Then Colt and another part-time employee began setting up bars at opposite ends of the hall.

A half hour before the event, I told Tilly I was going to light candles. Instead, I made a beeline for Colt.

“I’m surprised you didn’t mention the new alarm system,” he said.

“What alarm system?”

“Me and a buddy of mine set up an alarm system at your momma’s house this afternoon.” He gave me a sheepish look. “I know I should have asked permission first, but you were upset and needed space . . .”

“I was pretty preoccupied,” I managed to choke out. “I guess I didn’t notice. Wouldn’t I have set off the alarm?”

“No. It’s not turned on yet.” He pulled out his phone and opened an app. “Everything’s digital. There are sensors on the doors and motion detectors inside. Here. I’ll turn it on now.” He pushed some numbers on the key pad and showed me the screen. “When we finish, I’ll download the app onto your phone and show you how to work it.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat, nearly speechless. “Thank you.”

A warm expression filled his eyes. “Gotta keep you safe, Mags.”

“Tell me what you know about Tripp Tucker,” I said.

He glanced up in surprise. “Tripp Tucker?” A knowing look washed over his face. “He’s gonna be here tonight, isn’t he? That’s why you really came.”

“What do you know about him?”

Colt pulled two bottles of vodka from a box. “I know he had a hit album, or more accurately three hits on his album, and his second album sold like dog shit. He didn’t take it well and blamed your father when he lost his money.”

“Did you know about his fiancée’s murder before Tilly mentioned it?”

“I’d heard rumors, but I don’t know the details. I know Tilly said she was stabbed.”

“Colt. I think she was killed by the serial killer.”

“I considered it too, but what about the arrest?”

“What if he was falsely accused? You of all people know that’s possible. They caught a man who tried to hawk her engagement ring at a Nashville pawn shop two years after she died. It doesn’t mean he killed her.”

A grim look washed over his face.

“I think she was victim number two,” I pressed. “Seventeen years ago. Found outside of Jackson, Tennessee.” I moved closer. “Jackson.”

His eyes flew wide. “The Jackson Project.” He glanced toward the still-empty guests-of-honor table. “What do you hope to do tonight?”

“Talk to Tripp. Find out what he knows.”

He started to protest, then stopped. “For God’s sake, Maggie, be careful.”

“Tripp didn’t kill her.”

“You don’t know that. He hated your father for losing his money and for sleeping with his fiancée. What if you’re waking a sleeping bear?”

I leaned closer and whispered, “If Tripp Tucker is the serial killer, then the sleeping bear has already been awakened. Besides, we’re in a public place. He won’t do anything here.”

“No. But he might do something horrible later.” He turned even more serious. “This isn’t a game, Maggie. When was the last time you heard from the killer?”

“Monday. Just the necklace and flower. No texts. Nothing since.”

He studied me for a moment. “Just be careful. Please.”

I nodded, then flicked the lighter in my hand. “I told Tilly I was lighting candles. I need to get to work.”

Tonight’s dinner was being held to honor people who’d helped a popular children’s music charity over the previous year. Tripp wasn’t the only one who was being honored, which would hopefully make it easier to talk to him.

Once all the candles had been lit, I headed to the kitchen and helped Tilly and the others plate the salads.

I convinced one of the servers to let me serve the section that included the table for the guests of honor, and she was more than willing to comply since one of the honorees was notoriously cranky.

Tonight, Melisandre Bowers, the widow of country music legend Rock Bowers, was in top form. “The lettuce in this salad is wilted,” she said as I set the bowl in front of her.

The lettuce wasn’t wilted—Tilly would rather die than serve salad with wilted lettuce. But I plastered on a smile and said in the sweetest voice I could muster, “Let me take care of that, Ms. Bowers.”

Since I’d given her the last bowl, I made my way to the kitchen to refill my tray. Before heading back to her table, I fluffed up her salad, leaving it in the same bowl, and added it to the tray. I made sure she got the just-fluffed salad.

She gave me a withering glare. “You should have served this salad to begin with.”

It was a struggle to keep a straight face. Tripp Tucker was sitting several place settings to her right. He had been cautiously eyeing me since I’d first approached the table with drinks. I suspected he knew who I was, given that I’d been in the media, and he probably kept on top of those things. I was certain his apprehension was over whether I recognized him, and if so, he might be worried I wouldn’t be too friendly after his major public falling-out with my father.

But he caught my eyes and grinned as I handed him a salad from my tray.

I grinned back and made a point of dramatically rolling my eyes. I needed to get into his good graces, and she had been ridiculous.

He chuckled as I moved on.

Melisandre was just as cantankerous when I served her the second course, claiming her chicken was cold even though it was steaming on her plate.

I served everyone else at the table, then took her plate back to the serving kitchen and stuck her chicken in the microwave.

Tilly gasped in horror. “What on earth are you doin’, child?”

“Ms. Bowers claims her chicken is cold. I’m heating it up.”

“Her chicken is cold?”

“No, Tilly,” I said, offering her an apologetic smile. “Ms. Bowers is just a bitch.”

“Magnolia!”

The microwave dinged, and I grabbed the chicken breast with a pair of tongs and set it back on the plate. “Don’t worry, Tilly. I won’t embarrass you or the Belles.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she muttered.

“I didn’t overheat it. I promise.”

She just shook her head and turned back to her plating job.

As I expected, Melisandre accepted the new chicken, and Tripp flashed me another grin.

After I served everyone in my section, I headed over to Colt and stood next to him, watching the table of honorees.

“How’s it going over there?” Colt asked.

“I’d love to wring Melisandre Bowers’s neck,” I said with a sweet smile.

Colt laughed, the sound warming something inside me. For some reason, an image popped into my head: me and Colt sitting on a sofa watching TV—nothing exciting—his arm curled around me and the two of us laughing. The peace and happiness I felt at the thought scared me. I’d never thought of a future with anyone else before, not a real one. Sure, I’d thought about what life would be like with Brady, but it had never seemed real. It had seemed like an escape. A fairy tale with a guaranteed happily ever after. This felt real, but what were the chances that Colt and I would actually get to have that happy future? Slim to none.

His smile fell. “Maggie? You okay?”

I shook off my moodiness. It wouldn’t help anything. “I’m fine. It’s been a long day.”

“Did you have to go back to the police station?”

“No.” I scowled, watching the honoree table. Melisandre was frowning. “But I wouldn’t be surprised to find Detective Martinez around the corner waiting for me, which might be a nice reprieve at the moment.”

I headed to the table and smiled down at the grumpy woman. “Can I do something for you, Ms. Bowers?”

“The asparagus is limp.”

The asparagus was stiff as a board on her plate. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said in a grim voice. “Would you like me to get you a new serving?”

“No. Just take the plate away if you’re going to serve cafeteria-quality food.” Then she waved her hand in a flourish.

I picked up the plate as Tripp turned his attention to the surly woman. “You must dine with kings and queens in extravagance, Melisandre,” he said in a teasing tone. “I found the chicken to be tender and juicy and the asparagus cooked perfectly.” He looked up at me. “Please give my compliments to the chef.”

I nodded, thankful for his intervention. “Tilly will be pleased to hear it.”

The other guests murmured about how much they were enjoying their meals, but Melisandre shot daggers at me. I hadn’t been the one to object to her assessment, but I’d made an enemy nonetheless. I couldn’t bring myself to care.

After I cleared all the plates away, I served the strawberry cheesecake, and Melisandre surprised me by not complaining. Then again, my mother’s recipe for cheesecake left little room for complaint. A memory popped into my head of the first time my momma had tried to teach me how to make this cheesecake—and failed miserably. A burning lump filled my throat.

I still had my tray, although now empty, but I headed down the hallway toward the bathrooms instead of the serving kitchen. After I rested the tray against the wall, I began to pace. Would it always be like this? Would the thought of her always bring me to tears?

“Are you okay?” a man asked.

I spun around to face him, expecting to see Colt even though it didn’t sound like him. Instead, I found myself face to face with Tripp Tucker.

I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Uh . . . yeah. I’m fine.”

“Don’t take it personally,” he said, moving a couple of steps closer. “I’ve known Melisandre for fifteen years now, and she’s never nice to anyone.”

I forced a smile. “I don’t care about that old goat.” Realizing what I’d said, I covered my mouth with my fingertips. “Crap. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He laughed. “My philosophy is to always tell the truth.”

I nodded. “And do you follow your own advice?”

“For the most part.”

“And how many women have you pissed off that way?”

He rubbed his cheek as he fought a grin. “We won’t talk about that part.” The amusement left his eyes. “Seriously, Melisandre’s been miserable for years. Complaining is her only happiness in life, so you’ve given her plenty of joy tonight. It seems wrong for you to be crying.”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “I’m not crying over her, you fool.”

His eyes widened, but he laughed. “I should be more careful about dispensing advice. If you’re not upset about her, then why are you crying in the hallway?”

I realized he felt a little familiar, like a forgotten pair of shoes in the back of your closet. I couldn’t remember anything specific about him, but I was certain he’d been at our house when I was a kid—and not just because I’d been told as much.

He was watching me, waiting for an answer, so I said, “My mother died this past weekend. While I was serving the cheesecake, I remembered it was one of the first things she tried to teach me to bake. I failed miserably at it.”

His smile fell. “Is your mother Lila Steele?” He grimaced. “Sorry. Was.”

So he did know who I was.

“She still is,” I said with a half-shrug. She would always be my momma even if she was no longer with me.

A war of emotions played out on his face before he finally said, “Do you remember me?”

“No. But I know you’re Tripp Tucker. And I know you used to come over to our house when I was a kid. If I’m honest, something feels really familiar about you.”

“You really don’t remember me?” he asked in surprise.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

He studied me for a moment as though assessing me. “You used to love taunting me,” he said with a sad grin. “You were smart as a whip even back then. Joking around with you was one of the many reasons I loved going to your house.”

“I’m sorry that I don’t remember you,” I said, meaning it.

“It’s probably for the best.” He glanced over his shoulder at the room behind him, then back at me. “You were on Broadway. What are you doing serving bitches like Melisandre lukewarm chicken?”

I pointed my finger at him with a grin. “First of all, that chicken wasn’t lukewarm. Tilly would rather die than serve lukewarm chicken. And second, my mother was a partner in the catering business. Maybe I’m claiming my inheritance.”

“Not likely. Not about the chicken, but the claiming your inheritance part. You were always meant for great things, Magnolia Steele.”

I shrugged. “For my mother, owning a catering business was a great thing.”

“That was her. This is you.” He leaned his back against the wall. “Do you know the greatest lesson I learned from your father?”

“To trust no one?” I asked sarcastically. “Or to keep your friends close and your enemies closer?”

“Surprisingly, I don’t think that was pointed at me,” he said. “When you were younger, your father could do no wrong.”

“I was a child,” I said bitterly. “I was an idiot.”

He grimaced. “I take it you’ve heard some of the hard truths about your father.”

I didn’t respond. It was obvious enough.

“No, surprisingly, the greatest lesson he taught me was to be true to myself.” He rolled his eyes. “It seems crazy now, especially after it all crashed and burned. But your truth is yours, Magnolia. You shouldn’t follow someone else’s, or you’ll only end up unhappy.”

I gave him a skeptical look. “My father taught you that?”

“In the beginning, before he became jaded.” His mouth twisted as he focused on the wall behind me. “Or maybe he was always jaded, but he used to be better at hiding it.”

“Do you think he killed Tiffany Kessler?” I asked, trying to gauge his reaction. I needed to know what he thought of my father.

He looked startled, then said, “I didn’t see that question coming.”

I knew I should have worked my way up to that, but I was tired of tiptoeing around the truth. “I’m sorry, but my father lied to me, and it sounds like he lied to you too. I want the truth.”

“I loved Tiffany,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I had no idea she was sleeping with your father.”

“Are you sure he was?” I asked. “I know he had affairs, but I’ve since found out that he didn’t sleep with Shannon Morrissey. Maybe he didn’t sleep with your fiancée.”

He made a face. “Oh, they slept together. Trust me on that.”

“But do you think he killed her?”

“Not directly.”

“What does that mean?”

“I found out about their affair because I came home and heard Tiffany on the phone, begging your father to leave your mother for her. He refused and Tiffany threatened to tell Lila about their affair. Brian threatened to destroy her if she did.”

I felt like I was going to throw up. “So why don’t you think he killed her?”

“Because I don’t think he was capable of such a thing.”

“Then how . . . ?”

“Tiffany and I got into a fight and she left. She never came back. They found her body several days later.” His voice broke. “Of course, your father and I were both suspects, and we were both eventually cleared, but I blamed myself, and I blamed your father. She was the love of my life, and I’ve never gotten over her.”

I nearly protested that he always had a new woman on his arm in the pictures that ended up in the tabloids. Shoot, he had one here tonight, a woman who looked younger than me, and Tripp had to be over forty, even if he didn’t look it. But I knew better—people tried to fill loss in all kinds of ways. The fact that he was photographed with multiple women only drove his statement home. “I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t have anything to do with her death.”

“But I reminded you of it.”

“It happened a long time ago.” Only, the look on his face suggested a hundred years wouldn’t heal his wounds.

“I’m not sure the guy who was arrested for her murder actually did it.”

He looked taken aback. “Why do you say that?”

I hated to press the issue since I’d clearly upset him, but wasn’t pressing the issue the point of being here? “Because I don’t think she was the only one.”

The color left his face. “What does that mean?”

“Other women have been murdered. The same way Tiffany was killed.”

He looked shaken, and it took him a moment to form a response. “The police never told me that.”

“I don’t know if they’ve made the connection. Until this month, the deaths have been years apart. Miles apart.”

Tripp shook his head. “No. You’re wrong. The police were certain they had the right guy.”

“I think there’s a connection to my father. She was found outside of Jackson. You lost money with the Jackson Project.”

A vacant look filled his eyes and he sat on his butt, his legs stretched out in front of him. “The others?” he said, reaching up and grabbing my arm. “What’s their connection?”

I squatted next to him, feeling guilty for dredging this all up for him again. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t checked.”

“Maggie?” Colt’s worried voice caught my attention.

I looked up to see his panicked face, only then realizing how strange Tripp and I looked. We were both sitting on the floor, and he was holding my arm. “I’m okay.”

I started to stand, but Colt strode over and reached out a hand to help me up. When I was on my feet, he wrapped an arm around me and put himself between Tripp and me. “What’s going on here?” he asked, his full attention on Tripp.

Tripp got to his feet and stared at Colt’s arm around my back. His gaze lifted to my face. “I need to get back. It was great catching up, Magnolia. Let me know if you want to talk again.”

Tripp walked back into the hall, and Colt turned his attention to me, studying me with worried eyes.

“I don’t think Tripp did it.”

“Tell me about it later. We’ve got bigger problems, Mags. Detective Martinez is here looking for you.”