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Previously on The Clean Fix, journalist Jackson Harlow answered a desperate call from Imelda Vasquez, whose teenage son Steve was arrested for the murder of wealthy rehab executive Julian Vane, with Steve’s gun and the victim’s property conveniently “found” as evidence against him. Convinced Steve was being framed, Jackson clashed with Steve’s volatile gang‑leader brother Hector “Hex” Vasquez, secured reluctant help from defense attorney Remy Bishop, and confided in antique‑shop owner Estelle Mason as the media rushed to brand Steve a teen kingpin. Jackson discovered that Vane was a star fundraiser for a high‑profile rehab outfit led by his alluring ex, Cassandra Rose, and accepted her invitation to their glitzy “Freedom Gala,” determined to dig past the polished image and find whoever really set Steve up.

I headed to The Bayou Chronicle after a few hours of restless sleep. I entered Mavis Carroll’s office and sat down in front of her desk.

She looked up from her computer. “Look what the cat dragged in. What are you doing here on this fine Saturday morning?”

“I was bored, so I figured I’d find a reason to bother my favorite editor-in-chief.”

“Ah. Sticking to what you’re good at, I see.”

I’d worked at The Bayou Chronicle my whole career. It was the only outlet I could find that wouldn’t force me to parrot government propaganda.

Mavis and I went way back. Yes, she was my boss. But we were also good friends. She had a tough exterior, but was soft as a feather deep down inside.

She opened a drawer and took out a Jolly Rancher. If there was one thing Mavis couldn’t resist, it was candy.

“You hear about the Julian Vane murder?” I asked.

“I have. It’s been all over the news. I’m surprised you didn’t jump on that story.”

“Well, about that—”

Mavis’ expression morphed into an “uh oh” expression.

“At least hear me out before you give me that look, boss lady,” I said, pasting on my winning smile.

She pointed at me and said, “See, when you get that smile on your face, I know I’m about to need gallons of Pepto Bismol. What’s going on with this case?”

“Imelda, Steve Vasquez’s mother, wants me to see if I can help her son. She knows he didn’t kill Julian Vane. I know it too.”

“You’ve seen the evidence the police have on him, haven’t you?”

“I’m well aware. I spoke to him yesterday. I also wasted a few minutes with his useless public defender.”

“And you still think he didn’t do it?”

“No. It has to be a frame job.”

Mavis rubbed the back of her neck and sighed. She knew where I was going with this.

“What holes have you found in the police’s story?”

“None yet.”

“What’s Steve’s alibi?”

“He was at home. But nobody else was with him.”

“How did his gun end up at the crime scene?”

“I have no idea.”

“Of course, you don’t.”

“I just started investigating yesterday. I’ll find something.”

“‘Something’ isn’t going to cut it, Jackson. You’re making a wild claim here — that this guy was framed. You’re going to need a Mt. Kilamanjaro of evidence.”

“I know it doesn’t look good, Mavis. But I’ve known Steve since he was little. He’d never do something like this.”

“People change.”

“Not Steve. Not like this. He doesn’t have it in him. He didn’t even know the guy.”

Mavis popped another Jolly Rancher in her mouth, probably wishing it was laced with arsenic. I couldn’t blame her for being skeptical. One, she’s a news lady. Two, the evidence did look damning.

“Are you sure you’re not letting your connection to the family cloud your thinking?”

“I won’t pretend it isn’t affecting me,” I said, leaning forward. “Like I said, I’ve known that family for years. They’re good people. But I can stay objective. If it turns out he actually did the murder, then I’ll have to deal with it.”

“And what happens if you find out he was framed?”

“How long have you known me, Mavis?”

“Long enough to know you’re going to place yourself in all kinds of danger to find out who really did it.”

I gave her a thumbs up. “Give the lady a cigar.”

“Jackson, I don’t want you getting hurt. I haven’t forgotten what happened with the Dolly Mercier case. If you’re right — and that’s a HUGE if — this could be more dangerous than that Weston kid.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You better. I’m keeping you on a short leash on this one. Go ahead and investigate. But the moment it gets too sticky, I’m taking you off the story and giving it to another reporter that won’t give me heartburn.”

“I’m not THAT bad, am I?”

“You don’t want me to answer that. If you’re going to look into this, you might consider talking to your former ‘acquaintance.’ Have you gotten in touch with her yet?”

“Yes. The Sanctuary Network is having a gala tonight. Cassandra invited me. I’m going to interview her there.”

“And that’s ALL you’re going to be doing, right?”

“Scout’s honor, boss lady.”

“I’m going to give you a word of advice. I found out through a series of little birds that the DA has taken quite an interest in this case.”

“That tracks. This is the perfect case to boost his political career.”

Lena Thorne’s boss would be leaning on her hard to get a conviction in Steve’s case. Julian was well-loved and high-profile. They needed to send someone up the river for his death –– even if it wasn’t the right person. I couldn’t even count the number of articles I’d written about overzealous prosecutors putting people behind bars even in the face of evidence showing they didn’t commit the crime.

“He wants Steve to go down, and he’s pulling out all the stops to make sure that happens,” Mavis said. “That’s why Thorne is on this case.”

“Anything to score some cheap political points. Even if it means throwing a kid behind bars for the rest of his life.”

“You know how he operates. He’s ruthless. Once he finds out you’re digging into this case, he’s going to be gunning for you.”

“He’d better hope his office is doing everything above board. Because if it’s not, it’s going to be on our website for all to see.”

“I can almost guarantee he’s not. One of those little birds suggested that he’s gearing up for a run against Mayor Lemaine in the next election.”

“Really? Lemaine’s only been mayor for a few months. Sounds like Bagwell’s starting early.”

“He’s targeted journalists before. He doesn’t like it when we get a little to close to finding finding their dirty laundry.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s got that Don Henley song on repeat in his car.”

“I’ll work some of my sources to see if I can find any information about the case and let you know what I find,” Mavis said.

“I’d appreciate that.”

Orleans Justice Center

Saturday: 10:00 a.m.

I met Remy Bishop at the jail. We stood outside as he finished his cigarette. He was wearing his usual non-court attire, white dress shirt, tan slacks, and a five o’clock shadow that refused to vacate the premises.

I couldn’t calm my beating heart, which felt a Xenomorph trying to burst out of my chest. I reminded myself about all the times I’d covered his cases. He always represented underdogs — and fought hard for them. This made Steve a prime client for Remy. I knew this, but my heart continued doing its jackhammer routine.

“I took a look at the affidavit. Their evidence is damning. But there’s some holes. I’ll wait until after we speak to make sure the police actually messed up.”

“The police actually made a mistake? Perish the thought,” I said. If I examined ten cases, nine of them would feature at least one glaring error on the part of NOPD’s finest. If everyone they arrested had a half-decent lawyer, they could rip the prosecution apart like a lion going after a zebra. It’s why they preferred to target low income targets. Bullies stay away from those who might fight back.

“But don’t get your hopes up. If I’m right, it still ain’t gonna be enough to prove Steve’s not guilty.”

“Every little bit counts.”

Remy dropped his cigarette into the ashtray and we stepped inside.

Steve looked gaunt, as if he had aged ten years since the last time I saw him. His shoulders slumped so low I thought his hands might touch the floor. He looked up at us, looking like he was carrying a whale on his shoulders. But small glint in his eyes told me the fight happened left him yet.

“Steve, this is Remy Bishop, a defense attorney. We go way back. He’d like to speak with you about your case,” I said.

Steve perked up. “Okay,” he said.

“Nice to meet you Steve. Jackson told me about your case.”

“Okay,” Steve said again.

“How are you holding up?” Remy asked.

Steve paused for a beat, as if he didn’t expect the question. “Not good, man. A few nights ago I was at home playing Call of Duty. Now I’m in this place. The food sucks. The people suck. Everything sucks,” he said. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second to dam the river of tears fighting to break through.

“I don’t doubt it, brother,” Remy said. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, but before I do, I need you to know something.”

Steve nodded..

“I need you to tell me the absolute truth. Don’t leave anything out — even if you think it’s irrelevant. Even if you think it makes you look bad. I can’t help you if I don’t know everything.”

Remy almost sounded like he was reciting a script. He must give this warning to all his clients.

“Okay. I can do that,” Steve said, folding his hands.

“Did you kill Julian Vane?”

Steve looked like he’d been slapped. “That’s what you’re asking me? I thought you were hear to help—”

Remy put up a hand. “I have to ask this, Steve. I need to hear it from you.”

“Fuck no, man. I didn’t kill that guy. I never even knew him. This is all bullshit—”

Remy interrupted, “I understand.”

Remy had an internal lie detector that would make the FBI’s machines look like a toy car. If he believed Steve, that made me even more confident.

“Walk me through what you did on the day of the murder,” Remy said.

“Man, it was like, over a week ago—I don’t know,” Steve said.

Remy nodded. “Please try. Tell me as much as you can remember.”

Steve rubbed his chin. “I woke up. Ate breakfast. Then I went to work. I’m training to become an electrician.”

“What time do you usually get off work?” Remy asked.

“We usually finish up about five or six o’clock,” Steve said.

“What did you do after that?” Remy said.

“I already told the police all this, man. Why do I gotta go over it all again?”

Steve wasn’t helping himself, so I chimed in. “Steve, this is serious. You’re facing a life sentence — if you’re lucky. I know it’s frustrating, but living in a cage for the rest of your life is much worse, you know what I mean?”

He opened his eyes wide, as if suddenly remembering he was being accused of murder.

“I know,” he murmured. “After work, I went to Landry’s—it’s a bar—and had a few drinks.”

“Can anyone confirm that you were there?” Remy asked.

“Yeah, I met a few friends there.”

“What time did you leave?

“I can’t remember. But I think it was a little after 10,” Steve said. “I went straight home after that.”

“Can anyone confirm you were at home?”

“No. My mom was at her friend’s house. She had my little sister with her.”

Remy typed some notes on his phone. “Have you ever met Julian Vane in any context? Work? Mutual friends?”

“No I—I never met the guy,” Steve said.

“You sure?” Remy asked.

“Yeah,” Steve said.

“Alright. Let’s talk about the gun. When was the last time you physically touched it?” Remy asked.

“I’ve had that gun for years. Kept it under my passenger seat, but never really used it. It’s been almost a year since I handled it. Kinda forgot it was there,” Steve said.

“Why did you get the gun in the first place?” Remy asked.

“I live in a bad area, man. Had it for protection.”

“Did anyone else know you kept it under the passenger seat?”

“Just my brother. He always said to make sure I have it on me.”

But Hex definitely wouldn’t have told him to keep it under the passenger seat. Even he wasn’t that reckless.

“Has anyone broken into your truck?” Remy asked.

“I don’t think so. I haven’t had anything stolen,” Steve answered.

“Over the past few weeks, have you noticed anything strange in your daily routine? Anything happen that doesn’t normally happen?” Remy asked.

Steve rubbed his chin again and looked at the ceiling.

“Nothing I can remember,” Steve said, finally.

“Do you remember seeing that gold chain in your truck?” Remy asked.

“No—I’ve never seen that thing in my life. I don’t know how it got there. Someone—someone had to have planted it,” Steve said.

Remy paused. The gears were turning in his head. I hid my anxiety. “I did find something Steve. Something that could help.”

Steve sat up straighter. “What did you find?”

“I took a look at the affidavit,” Remy said. “The doorman’s log shows nobody visited Vane on the night of the murder. In fact, nobody even entered the building between 9:30 and 11:30. Remember, the murder happened around 10:30 p.m.”

There was a hint of a smile at the corner of Steve’s mouth. His eyes flew up.

“See? I couldn’t have done it. Ain’t no way a doorman wouldn’t notice someone like me coming into that building,” Steve said.

Steve gestured excitedly, as if he were talking about a cool action scene in a Liam Neeson movie.

“If nobody saw me there, then that means I’m being set up,” Steve said.

Remy waited for Steve to calm down. “Steve, this inconsistency is positive for you. But it’s not enough,” he said.

“Why though?” Steve sounded like a child being told Santa Claus wasn’t coming this year.

“Because I guarantee the prosecution has already figured out how they will play this in court,” Remy explained. “It definitely helps. But we need more to convince a jury you didn’t do it.”

“It’s still better than nothing, Steve. We have to take every win we can get. Remy needs as much evidence as possible. That’s my department,” I said.

“Fuck,” Steve said.

“I do have some better news, though,” Remy said.

“What’s that?” Steve asked, hopeful.

“If they messed this part up, there are probably more mistakes I can use against them in court,” Remy said.

He paused a beat. “For that reason, I’m going to take your case. I think there’s a good chance you’re being railroaded here and I think we can prove it,” Remy said.

Steve let out a long breath, as if he had been holding it for hours. A smidgeon of hope crept onto his face.

“Thanks man. I feel like...nobody’s been in my corner except my family,” Steve said.

“Speaking of family, how’d it go with Hector yesterday?” I asked.

Steve’s eyes darkened. He folded his hands again.

“I ain’t gonna lie. He’s pissed, Jackson. I’m afraid. I told him not to do nothing and he said he wouldn’t. But the longer I’m in here, the more he’s gonna wanna do something, know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. I was concerned about that too. I had a talk with him at your mother’s house. We’re going to have to keep an eye on him. We don’t need him making anything harder for you, or himself.”

“I don’t know if I ever told you this,” Steve began. “But Hector’s the reason I never got busted for weed. Cops found my stash in my car a few years ago. Hector told them it was his.”

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, man. I told him not to do it. But he made me promise to stop slinging and find a real career. He knew it would break Mom’s heart to see me serve time,” Steve said.

“How long was he in?” Remy asked.

“Four years. He got out about two years ago,” Steve said.

Remy whistled. “That ain’t good, but it could have been worse. They can pop people for up to 10 years for possession with intent to sell.”

“You know what’s crazy?” Steve said. “He never even got mad at me. Even when he was locked up. He seemed like he was pissed at himself.”

That made sense. If there was one thing Hector valued above everything else, it was his family — especially his brother. Hector had told me ages ago that he never wanted his brother to follow in his footsteps. I made my choices, man. But I want my brother to make better ones. I’ll kick his ass if I see him becoming like me.

The door behind Steve opened and the guard came into the room.

“Looks like our time is up,” I said. “We’ll be back when we have more information.”

Steve’s shoulders slumped again as he slowly rose from the chair. Whoever did this to him was going to pay.

We were back outside the building. Remy lit a cigarette.

“Seems like a good kid,” Remy said.

“Yeah, perfect target for the government, if you ask me.”

“Their absolute favorite. So, what’s the next step?”

“I’m gonna dig into the court documents and police reports and see if I can’t find more mistakes,” Remy said. “But that ain’t gonna be enough. I need something definitive. Otherwise, Thorne’s gonna rip me to shreds.”

“I’ll get what you need, Remy.”

“Good. Because if I lose to that woman again, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Lagniappe Coffee Shop

Saturday: 3 p.m.

I usually work alone. It’s simpler that way. But if Steve was being framed, there was probably something big. Probably bigger than I could handle on my own.

I sat alone at the Lagniappe Coffee Shop, staring at my laptop screen like a rubbernecker at a train wreck.

Julian Vane lived a lifestyle far above his pay grade. I needed to know how. But the problem is that the person best suited for what I needed was on my shit list.

I could have enlisted one of The Bayou Chronicle’s tech guys. But I had a feeling I would need the best on this, and the best I knew was a guy named Charlie Liu.

I held my phone in my hand for what felt like hours. The last person I wanted to speak with was Charlie. We had some history.

When I worked the Dolly Mercier murder, he was paid to astroturf a social media campaign against me. But it wasn’t the usual “this reporter is biased” claptrap. I had pulled up social media and saw the history of my dead ex-wife and daughter staring back at me. That was Charlie Liu, someone who could rip your life apart with the click of a mouse.

It turned out that he was paid anonymously by Theo Guidry, fixer for Mayor Pierce Lemaine. Guidry manipulated Charlie into thinking he was functioning as a sort of watchdog exposing media bias.

But we were friends — at least casually. He should have known better.

To be fair, he was devastated when he realized he’d been duped. But I wasn’t ready to let it go — and I thought I’d never be.

I stared at my phone screen. Charlie’s contact information stared back.

I thought about Julian Vane. He lived a lifestyle far beyond his pay grade. I needed to know how.

I could have enlisted one of The Bayou Chronicle’s tech guys. They were competent enough for public records requests or scraping a few emails.

But I had a feeling I would need a virtuoso, and unfortunately, the best virtuoso in New Orleans was the guy whose phone number my thumb hovered over.

I took a deep breath. Then dialed Charlie’s number.

He picked up on the first ring. “Jackson?” His voice shot up an octave. “Hey, man. Hey. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Charlie. Listen, I’m looking into the Julian Vane murder.”

“Yeah, I saw. The Sanctuary thing. That’s all over the news. They found the gun, the prints, everything. Looks pretty cut and dry, honestly.”

Charlie was usually pretty amped up. When he had a few energy drinks in him, he would talk faster than a coked-up auctioneer.

“It’s not. The kid they arrested, Steve Vasquez? He didn’t do it,” I said.

“Oh.” There was a pause.

Then, quickly, “Okay. Okay, so what do you need? I mean...if you need something. I’m not saying you need something, but if you do, I’m... I’m totally available. I mean, I’m not busy. I’m available if you needed help. With the case. Or whatever.”

I cursed my mouth as it cracked a little smile. Charlie was a genius hacker with the interpersonal skills of a nervous jackrabbit.

“I need you to trace Julian Vane’s finances,” I said. “He was a counselor at Sanctuary, but he was living like a king. Expensive apartment, clothes, the works. I need to know where the money came from.”

“Okay, yeah. Yeah, I can do that. I can definitely do that.” He was talking faster now, the anxiety bleeding into excitement. “Bank accounts, credit cards, cash flow, everything. I’ll dig into his digital footprint. If he found a penny on the sidewalk, I’ll find it.”

“That’s exactly what I need.”

“This is... Jackson, this is really cool that you’re asking me. I know things have been weird between us, and I get it. I totally get it,” he said, without taking a breath. “What I did during the Mercier case was inexcusable. I’ve thought about that a lot, actually. Like, way too much. Therapy-level too much. Mental institution too much. But if this is a chance to—I mean, if you need help, I want to help. For Steve. For justice. For whatever.”

“Charlie.”

“Yeah?”

“Just focus on the money. Can you do that for me?”

“Oh, absolutely. One hundred percent. I’m on it.” I could hear the clicking of a keyboard already starting in the background. “Vane probably had a secondary account if he was trying to hide things. People always do. Credit union, maybe. Or peer-to-peer transfer apps. Let me poke around the dark web versions of his usual platforms.”

“How long will this take?”

“A few hours? Maybe less if he wasn’t careful. And honestly, Jackson, most people aren’t that careful. They think they’re clever because they use two different banks—”

I cut him off before he could settle into his rant. “Just call me the second you find something concrete.”

“I will. I’m already in. This is going to be good, Jackson. I can feel it. We’re gonna crack this thing.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “Thanks for calling me. For trusting me with this. I know I haven’t exactly earned it, but... thanks.”

“We’ll talk later.”

“On it. I’ll call you soon.”

I hung up and sat back in my chair, nursing cold coffee. I had no doubt Charlie Liu was going to find the answer I needed. That’s all that mattered.

The rest would sort itself out.

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The Shotgun Bar & Grill

Saturday: 2:30 p.m.

I hadn’t planned on involving Blaise Moriarty in this, but the truth was I needed someone who could move between the street world and my world without raising eyebrows. Blaise was that person.

I called him from my Jeep.

“What’s up?” he answered on the second ring, his Irish accent faint but present.

“I need a favor. I need you to come with me to meet someone. Street level.”

There was a pause. Blaise didn’t ask questions unless they mattered. “When?”

“Now. Pick you up in twenty minutes?”

“I’ll be outside,” he said, and hung up.

Blaise was already waiting when I pulled up to his apartment in the Seventh Ward—a modest shotgun house that he’d somehow made feel like a fortress. He was wearing jeans and a dark t-shirt, and even in casual clothes, he carried himself with the kind of quiet menace that made people instinctively not want to get on his bad side.

He was 6’4”, built lean and hard, with wavy dark red hair and pale blue eyes that could go from friendly to lethal quicker than lightning.

He got in the car without preamble.

“So what’s this about?” he asked.

I drove, and I talked. I told him about Steve Vasquez sitting in Orleans Justice Center, about the frame-up that was too easy, about how Imelda had come to me asking for help.

I told him about Remy taking the case, about the preliminary hearing that was coming, about the prosecution’s evidence that looked airtight but somehow felt wrong.

“And you’re investigating solo?” Blaise asked.

“For now. I’ve got Charlie Liu looking into Julian Vane’s finances. But I need to make sure Hector doesn’t do anything rash.”

“That won’t be easy,” Blaise said.

“If it were easy, we wouldn’t be having so much fun.”

Blaise was quiet a moment, staring out the window at the city passing by. When he spoke, his accent had thickened slightly. “Hector’s usually pretty level-headed. But when it comes to his family, all bets are off.”

“That’s why I need you to help me rein him in,” I said.

Blaise’s expression didn’t change, but I saw something flicker across his face—something like approval mixed with resignation. “Alright then. You know where he operates?”

“Lower Ninth Ward. There’s a bar called Shotgun.”

“I know it,” Blaise said. “Pull up here.”

We parked a block away and walked. The neighborhood was the kind of place where people learned not to ask questions about their neighbors’ business.

The buildings were weathered, the streets were quiet, and the eyes that watched us from windows were the eyes of people who’d learned to mind their own.

Shadows was a squat concrete building with a red neon sign that flickered intermittently. Blaise pushed open the door like he owned the place, and I followed him inside. Hip-hop beats hit us the moment we entered the building.

The bar was dim, lit by beer signs and the glow of a muted television showing a Saints game. The smell of sweat, booze, and despair dominated the room like an occupying force.

There were maybe six people inside, and every single one of them knew exactly who Blaise was. They nodded slightly but didn’t acknowledge us directly.

Hex was in the back, in a booth that gave him a view of the entire room. A few of his soldiers stood like statues behind the booth, glaring at us.

“Jackson, Blaise,” Hex said, nodding at the two of us. His voice was smooth and controlled, far different from when we last saw each other. “You find out who framed my brother yet?”

“Still working on it. Remember, I just started investigating,” I said, sitting across from him. Blaise slid into the booth beside me. “But I do have some information that leads me to believe he was framed. This isn’t just a misunderstanding.”

“No shit,” Hex said flatly. “We both know Steve ain’t capable of something like this. Tell me what you found.”

I laid it out. The gun with Steve’s prints. The GPS data showing his phone at the crime scene. The gold chain in his truck. The weak alibi. The doorman’s log that said nobody entered the building.

“That inconsistency,” Hex said, catching it immediately. “The doorman log. That’s real?”

“According to Remy Bishop—he’s Steve’s lawyer now—yes. Nobody entered between 9:30 and 11:30. The murder happened around 10:30.”

Hex sat back, processing. “So either the doorman’s lying, or Steve couldn’t have done it.”

“Also, he didn’t even know his handgun was gone. We’re going to have to find out how it went missing.”

Hector picked up his beer, sat back, and nodded.

“Someone wanted Steve to take the fall. Which means whoever actually killed Julian Vane had the resources to set this up. Frame him, plant evidence, make it stick.”

“What about the victim?” Hex asked. “Who was Julian Vane?”

“That’s what I’m working on. He was a counselor at the Sanctuary Network—an addiction treatment facility. Supposedly a recovery success story. Remy thinks if I can understand Julian’s actual life, understand who he was connected to and what he was involved in, I can find the real killer.”

“And what does your gut tell you?” Hex asked.

I thought about it. Something about reeked. The stack of evidence against Steve — it was too clean. Too easy.”My gut tells me it’s not random. The frame-up is too sophisticated. Too many layers. That takes resources, planning, institutional knowledge.”

Hex nodded slowly. He looked at Blaise, “You’re quiet.”

“I’m just taking it all in. Jackson updated me on the case on the way over,” Blaise said.

“Well, what do you think so far?” Hex asked.

“I don’t know your brother. But if Jackson says he’s innocent, he’s innocent. The question is: Who would be capable of such a sophisticated frame job?” Blaise said.

I jumped in, “Hector, who in the streets would be able to pull off something like this?”

Hector looked at the ceiling and scratched the back of his neck. “Nobody I know of,” he answered. “But I’ll start putting some feelers out on the street.”

“That would help,” I said. It would also keep his crew occupied with something productive instead of painting the streets with blood, but I didn’t mention this part.

As if reading my thoughts, Hector said, “I don’t have a problem looking into things for you. But I wasn’t playing about what I told you before.”

“I know you weren’t. I just need some time.”

“You don’t have much time. At some point, my boys are gonna expect action. You know how it is. I can’t look like no punk,” Hecter said.

“Steve’s preliminary hearing is in two weeks,” I said. “If I can find real evidence before then—”

“Then Steve walks,” Hex finished. “And nobody else has to get hurt—except the people who set up my brother.”

Blaise shifted slightly beside me, but he didn’t interrupt.

“Hector, when we find out who did this, we have to let the authorities handle it.” I said. “I hate the system as much as you do, but if you do something stupid, it’ll only be worse for you and Steve.”

“There’s gonna be consequences Jackson. We ain’t just gonna let this ride.” Hector’s eyes narrowed. “And I really hope you don’t get in our way.”

“And what happens if we do?” Blaise asked as if he were asking about the weather. He leaned forward, his face blank. I resisted the temptation to give him the “what the hell are you doing” look.

Hector raised an eyebrow. “You really wanna go there Blaise?”

“I’m just sayin’,” Blaise responded, his Irish accent making more of an appearance. “We all go back a long way. Be a shame to find ourselves at odds, mate.”

Hector looked at the two soldiers, who hadn’t moved an inch since we arrived. He gestured for them to go away. When they were out of earshot, he leaned forward. “Look man, you think I want this shit? I just want my brother free. But you both know how this game works,” he said.

“I understand,” I said. “But like I said, you don’t want the kind of attention that comes with what you’re saying.”

Hex didn’t argue. He took another sip of his beer.

“Let me put it this way. When you find out who did this, you better make sure you get to them before we do.”

I got the message. He knew I was right. But he couldn’t appear weak. If the authorities took care of the culprit, then it would mean he’s off the hook.

The last thing I needed was for his gang to complicate things while getting Hector in trouble. I would have to make sure I keep giving him something to do — a way to contribute.

“It looks like we’re on the same page,” I replied.

“Then we’re done here,” Hex said. “I’ll keep holding my guys back. Keep them busy. You find something concrete we stay in touch, but we stay distant.”

We fist bumped and stood.

Outside, walking back to the car, Blaise was quiet. When we reached the Jeep, he looked at me. “Well, that coulda been worse,” he said.

“It could have been better,” I said.

“Well, ya gotta look on the bright side, mate.”

“What side is that on?” I asked.

The Harlow Residence

Saturday: 3:45 p.m.

My phone buzzed. A text from Estelle: You alive?

I was working at home, checking emails, catching up on other articles I was working on. I remembered that tonight was the Sanctuary Network’s gala and I was supposed to ask Estelle to accompany me.

I called her.

“Hey,” she answered. “I was starting to think you’d gone full hermit.”

“I wish I could,” I said. “But this case is keeping me busy. Speaking of which, you free tonight?”

“Depends. Are you about to ask me to do something ridiculous?”

“Maybe,” I said. “There’s a fundraiser gala tonight. The Sanctuary Network. I got an invitation from Cassandra Rose.”

There was a pause. “Well look at you Mr. High Society,” she said.

“Keep messing with me and I’ll go out and buy myself a monocle and start calling people ‘dear boy,’” I said. Estelle laughed.

“She invited me to their big fundraising event,” I said. “I need to learn more about where Julian Vane worked, the people he knew, what his world looked like. I was thinking maybe you’d want to come with me.”

“Ah, so this is a work thing,” Estelle said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“My dear Estelle,” I said, affecting a horrible British accent. “Part of being a world-class journalist is hobnobbing with the aristocracy.”

“Uh-huh,” Estelle said. “Well, I’d love to see Patricia again. Maybe I can meet Cassandra too? She’s kinda a hero of mine.”

“Oh lord,” I said. “Are you gonna be fangirling the whole time?”

“I’ll try to keep it to a minimum, but I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“And you’re definitely not awkward about seeing your ex in a social setting,” Estelle said, dripping with smugness.

“I’m completely fine,” I said.

“You’re terrible at lying,” Estelle said. “But okay. What time do we need to be there?”

“It starts at eight o’lock, but Cassandra knows I run on CPT, so there’s no rush.”

“You told her about colored people time?” Estelle laughed.

“Well, I had to have an excuse for why I’m always late, didn’t I?”

“I’ll start getting ready. You wanna pick me up at seven?” Estelle said. “We should eat before we go. And Jackson?”

“Yeah?”

“Wear the blue suit.”

“Your wish is my command, ma’am.”

After I hung up, I stood at my closet and found the blue suit. It was the one I’d bought three years ago for a wedding I never made it to. It still fit, which was something.

Cousin Boudreaux’s Restaurant

Saturday: 6:30 p.m.

Estelle sat across from me, picking at a chicken salad. She wore a sleek black cocktail dress that fit her like she was born in it. Her locs was tied back into a simple ponytail.

I updated Estelle on what I had learned so far and my conversation with Hector.

“So you have to figure out who framed Steve and have them arrested before Hector gets to them?”

I nodded, taking a bite of my catfish po’ boy sandwich. The flavor made me feel at home.

“But this is only if you can hold him and his gang back long enough to catch the bad guys?”

I nodded again.

“And you also have to prove Steve’s innocence, even with all the evidence against him?”

“Yep. That about sums it up.”

She sighed. I took another bite.

“Well, if there’s anyone who could do it, it’s you,” she said, picking at her salad.

“I hope you’re right. But I don’t know. The evidence against Steve is so damning, that if I didn’t know him, I’d think he’s guilty.”

“Yes, it’s not looking good.”

“Also, I don’t know how long I can keep Hex and his gang from going all helter skelter.”

“You’re probably right. But one thing I’ve learned about you over the past six months is that you work these types of cases like a pitbull.”

My phone rang. I answered.

“Yo, I found something,” Charlie Liu said. His keyboard was clicking in the background, rapid-fire. “And I mean really found something.”

“Talk to me,” I said, bracing myself for Charlie’s verbal barrage.

“Okay, so Julian’s finances are weird. Not like, normal-weird. Weird-weird. I got into his secondary accounts—the stuff he was hiding—and there’s a pattern. A very specific pattern.” He sped up, the words coming out staccato, like a machine gun. “We’re talking deposits and withdrawals, cyclical, rhythmic. Five grand in Tuesday, seven grand out Thursday. Ten grand in Monday, twelve grand out Wednesday. The amounts are too precise to be living expenses.”

My chest tightened. “Gambling?”

“Gambling,” Charlie confirmed. “And I’m not talking about fantasy football or casual poker nights. I’m talking about serious money, serious losses. I found a digital notepad he kept—just rough notes, nothing official—tracking his debt to someone.”

“To who?”

“That’s where it gets interesting,” Charlie said. “There’s a name. Multiple variations of it. Dom. Sometimes Dice. The notes are fragmented, but they all reference the same person. And the amounts owed are escalating. By the time Julian died, he was carrying almost one hundred twenty thousand in debt.”

I leaned against the wall. That was serious money. The kind of debt that got people hurt.

“There’s more,” Charlie said. “I found a draft text message that he never sent. Two weeks before he died. It just says: ‘Please, I just need more time.’“

That sounded like the plea of a man who desperately wanted to keep his kneecaps intact.

“This is helpful,” I said. It was actually brilliant, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that.

“Wait until you hear the rest,” Charlie said. “Whoever this ‘Dice’ character is, he’s not some small-time operator. The way he’s tracking the debt, the way he’s collecting—this is organized. This is the kind of person who doesn’t lose money.”

“Can you find a last name? A location? Anything I can actually work with?”

“I’m digging,” Charlie said. “If Julian owed this much money to someone this organized, and if Julian ended up dead, those two facts are probably connected. We’re talking bigger than street-level crime.”

“I know,” I said.

“There’s a lot here. But I’m still working on it.”

“Just keep digging,” I said. “I need answers.”

“You’ll get them,” Charlie said. “But be careful, okay? Be actually careful. Not Jackson-Harlow-diving-into-dangerous-situations careful.”

I hung up. Estelle looked at me.

“That was Charlie?” she asked.

“Yes. I needed a tech wizard. He’s the best I know.”

“After what he did to you?” she asked.

“I’m still pissed. But this is about Steve. I’m putting my personal feelings aside.”

Estelle looked at me as if she were trying to figure out a jigsaw puzzle.

“I haven’t forgiven him,” I said. “I don’t think I ever will.”

“Never say never.”

The Sanctuary Network Headquarters

Saturday: 9:00 p.m.

By the time we turned off St. Charles, the streetcar bells were a memory and the city had gone quiet in that particular Uptown way—old an new money insulating itself from noise of the plebes.

I eased my Jeep through the open iron gates of The Sanctuary Network. Live oaks lined the drive on both sides, massive things with trunks like marble cathedral columns and Spanish moss hanging down in gray-green curtains. Uplights at their bases threw the branches into sharp relief against the dark, so it felt like we were driving under the ribs of something ancient and expensive.

“Subtle,” I said.

Estelle sat beside me. Her black dress was devoid of wrinkles and hit the exact line between elegant and dangerous. Heads were going to turn, and not just because of the car that sounded like it needed a nicotine patch.

“You’re making me feel like James Bond with that dress,” I said.

“If only you were Daniel Craig. Or Idris Elba.”

“Is that your way of mocking my British impersonation?”

“I mean, it’s not as bad as Keanu Reeves’ in Dracula.”

“I’ll take it.”

The campus rose ahead of us, framed by a brick perimeter wall. The main building looked like it had been a convent in a previous life—three stories of pale stucco and weathered brick, tall arched windows glowing warm behind old iron balconies, a dark slate roof cutting a clean line against the sky.

Somebody had spent a lot of money making sure the place said legacy and respectability from the street.

Just to the right, a newer wing broke the illusion—a glass-and-steel box grafted onto the historic shell, all sharp angles and floor‑to‑ceiling windows. The lobby inside was lit up like an aquarium, silhouettes moving behind frosted glass.

I pulled up toward the circular drive where valets in Sanctuary-blue jackets were already jogging to intercept cars that cost more than my student loans ever had. My Jeep coughed once as I put it in park, like it, too, knew it didn’t belong between a black Escalade and a silver Mercedes.

One of the valets opened Estelle’s door before I could. She stepped out, and the kid’s professional smile stuttered for half a second. Couldn’t blame him.

I came around and handed over the keys to a young man whose name tag said, “Patrick.” The valet gave my Jeep the kind of look one would give a vegan dish at a BBQ.

“She’s a classic,” I told him. “Talk to her nice, she’ll behave.”

He laughed politely and drove off very carefully.

Estelle and I climbed the front steps together. Up close, the main building was even more deliberate. The brick had been repainted, the stucco refreshed, but not so much that it lost its age.

The iron railings on the double doors were original or very good liars. To the left of the entrance, a stone monument sign sat in a bed of manicured shrubs: THE SANCTUARY NETWORK in brushed metal, and beneath it in smaller letters, Where Recovery Becomes Life.

“That’s not bad,” Estelle said, nodding at the tagline. “A little on the nose, but it works.”

“They probably paid a branding firm six figures to come up with it,” I said. “Somewhere there’s a guy in Brooklyn telling people he saved lives with a font choice.”

She bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. “Try not to be a complete cynic for one night, okay? They do help people, Jackson. Patricia’s not the only one.”

“Ready?” Estelle asked.

“After you,” I said.

She took my arm, and together we stepped through the doors into the light.

Stepping into the building felt like walking through the wardrobe that leads to Narnia.

The lobby of The Sanctuary Network hit you all at once.

The space was soaring—thirty feet of vertical silence with a ceiling of exposed dark wood that made you feel small and powerful at the same time. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light across pale Italian tile.

To the right, a marble reception desk curved like a wave, staffed by women in navy blazers who looked like they’d been trained at some finishing school that taught hospitality as a weapon.

But it was the walls that made the statement. They were covered in photographs—client testimonials in shrine-like fashion. Before and after pictures.

A woman who’d been gaunt and hollowed out smiling with weight back in her face. A man with his arm around a prodigal son he thought he’d lost forever. Names and recovery dates in elegant typography. Marcus—347 days sober. Jennifer—1,005 days clean. DeShawn—recovery and three college credits.

The message was inescapable: We save lives here.

To the left, a corridor opened up toward the ballroom proper, and from that direction came the sound of a string quartet playing Vivaldi, the warm murmur of expensive conversation, the clink of glasses. Waiters in white gloves drifted past like phantoms, carrying champagne and canapés on handcrafted trays.

A young woman in a Sanctuary blazer appeared at my elbow before I’d had time to take it all in. “Mr. Harlow? Ms. Mason? Welcome. The ballroom is this way.” She gave us a programmed smile and led us into the ballroom.

Estelle squeezed my arm—a tiny message that said play nice—and together we let ourselves be guided toward the light.

“Oh, there’s Patricia,” Estelle quipped like an excited schoolgirl. “Come and let me introduce you.”

We walked over to a young woman, mid-20s, slender, and ready to socialize. Her long, dirty blonde hair stretched to the middle of her back. She wore a yellow dress and a hint of mischief in her smile. She reminded me of a a ‘70s “Flower Power” hippie chick. All she needed was a daisy in her hair.

Patricia saw Estelle as we approached, and her face morphed into a smile that reached the blue of her eyes.

“Stellie!” Patricia squealed.

“Trishie!” Estelle squealed back.

I didn’t squeal at all.

They embraced like they were sisters who hadn’t seen each other in years. Patricia looked at me and asked, “Is this Jackson Harlow, the illustrious journalist?”

It was then that I knew Patricia and I were going to get along just fine.

Estelle gave Patricia a playful slap on her hand. “Please. His head is big enough. If you go on like that, he’ll look like a hot-air balloon.”

“I’ll have you know my head is exactly the right size, ma’am,” I said, shaking Patricia’s hand.

“Stellie has told me a lot about you,” Patricia said, winking.

“And it’s all true — except the bad stuff,” I said.

She laughed.

“That Mercier murder. That was just awful. I’m so glad that guy is in prison,” Patricia said.

“Me too,” I said. “I’m going to let y’all catch up. I have some journalisming to do.”

“Okay,” Estelle said. “Good luck with Cassandra.”

I tipped the hat I wasn’t wearing and explored the ballroom. A lady in a blue blazer approached me, holding a tray of pigs in a blanket, and asked if I cared to indulge.

I did.

“Jackson!” I knew who it was before I even saw her. I turned around to see Cassandra Rose, wearing a bright crimson dress that gripped her curves like a latex glove.

“There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” I said.

She scoffed. “You’re a bad liar, Jackson Harlow. I know you just got here. CPT, right?”

I held out my fists as if she were about to handcuff me. “Take me in, officer.”

Cassandra laughed and we hugged. Her jet black hair smelled like a mix of jasmine and citrus. We broke the hug, but she didn’t move back. She stood close and looked up at me, her brown eyes glimmering.

“It’s so good to see you again,” Cassandra whispered. “You look good Jackson.”

“Not as good as you, Cass,” I said, using weapons-grade willpower to focus on her face instead of her plunging neckline.

“We need to talk, yes?” she said.

“If you have time.”

“For you? Always. Follow me.”

Cassandra Rose’s Office

Saturday Evening

She led me down a hall and into an elevator that went to the second floor. I followed her down another hall into an office that was probably bigger than my house.

Fancy paintings adorned the walls, leading us further into the room. A large oak desk stood toward the back of the office, in front of columns of floor-to-ceiling windows. A clear vase perched on the desk, holding a bouquet of red roses, Cassandra’s namesake.

She took my hand and led me to a large couch placed between the door and desk. “I’ll make us some drinks,” she said.

As she fixed our drinks, I texted Estelle, “I’m in Cassandra’s office. Will be back down soon.”

“K try not to fall in love. I think Patricia has a crush on you.”

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Cassandra asked as she set down my drink. She sat down next to me, close enough that I could smell the jasmine again.

“Just an inside joke,” I said.

“And who’s that beautiful young lady I saw on your arm?”

Her smile remained on her face, but looked forced.

“A friend. We met during the Dolly Mercier case. She worked for the victim,” I said.

I thought I saw a hint of relief pass over Cassandra’s face. Or maybe I was imagining things. I picked up the glass and took a sip.

“Kamikaze on the rocks,” I said. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

I took another sip and took in the room and its owner. It had been years since I’d had drinks with Cassandra. But it felt like it had only been a few days. I yearned for this more than I even realized.

“Believe it or not, I’ve missed you, Jackson.”

“I missed you too, Cass. It’s been way too long. Judging from the look of this place, y’all are doing pretty well here.”

She took a sip of blood red wine that was probably bottled while Napoleon Bonaparte walked the Earth.

Cassandra sighed. “Yes, it hasn’t been easy. But I like to think we’ve saved lives.”

“I’ve heard nothing but good things about The Sanctuary Network.”

She gave a weary smile and took another sip.

“I’m glad. Seems like every time I turn around, there’s another talking head or politician talking about how our program is a waste of time.”

“Ah, the ‘tough on crime’ crowd?”

“The very same. They complain about us all the time. They say we’re making things easier for criminals, soft on crime, all that nonsense.”

Her face turned about as red as her dress, and I knew it wasn’t just the wine.

“These people—they don’t care about suffering,” she said, her voice rising. “They just want to lock people up.”

“Locking people up makes people feel safer—even if they aren’t. It also doesn’t help when politicians constantly make addicts out to be criminals.”

Cassandra nodded. “They complain about judges sending people to The Sanctuary instead of just throwing them behind bars.”

I took a sip. The drink was excellent. Cassandra hadn’t lost her touch. Her shoulders relaxed, and she gave a sigh that seemed to last five minutes.

“I’m sorry for getting so amped up,” she said. “Sometimes it gets to me.”

We used to talk about this often. How the system preys on those who have a hard time defending themselves. How the government used drug prohibition to expand its reach. Cassandra started The Sanctuary Network after she lost her brother to an overdose. His death devastated her family, but she managed to use it to build something beautiful in his honor.

“Cassandra, you know you don’t have to apologize. I remember how passionate you are about this. I’ve always admired you for it.”

She smiled as our eyes met. “I remember you being pretty passionate too, Jackson Harlow.”

Cassandra had a certain charm. She could make any statement sound intimate, like you were the most important thing to her at the moment. It’s why her employees and supporters were so loyal to her. Many of those who worked at the Sanctuary had been with her from the beginning. Some were former clients who Cassandra saved when they were at their lowest point.

It was also why my heart was beating so hard, I thought it would explode.

“So, about Julian Vane,” I managed to say.

Her eyebrows perked up, as if she just remembered why we were sitting alone in her office.

“Yes, Julian,” she said, her eyes suddenly downcast. “What do you want to know?”

“If my information is correct, he’d been working for you for almost a decade. What was his role here?”

“He was our chief marketing officer. He handled all our social media, our website, and a bunch of other things that are over my head.”

“Was he good at his job?”

“Very. That man could raise funds at the drop of a hat. He more than tripled our following online. Almost like he was born for the job.”

“He used to be a client, right?”

“Yes. He was addicted to fentanyl. Almost overdosed twice before the judge sent him to the Sanctuary.”

“Wow, twice?”

“It’s more common than you think. He was lucky to survive—” her voice trailed off. Her eyes glistened as she fought back tears.

I took her hand. “I know this is hard on you. You already have a lot on your shoulders, and you just lost someone you care about.”

She sniffed, but managed to maintain her composure. She gave my hand a squeeze, then took another sip.

“It’s a lot. But you know me. I manage,” she said.

“I have some more questions, is that okay?”

She straightened her dress and crossed her legs.

“Yes, of course.”

“From what I know about Julian, he seemed to live pretty well for someone who works for a nonprofit — even as an executive. Do I need to switch careers or did he have another source of income?”

She giggled, which is exactly what I wanted.

“Well, if we ever have an opening for our public relations department, I’ll keep you in mind,” she laughed again before answering my question.

“I don’t know where Julian got his money from.” She shrugged and took another sip. “I think someone told me he came from money. I’m not sure how true that is. I never asked him.”

“What about his relationships? Was he close to any of his co-workers?”

She leaned forward and placed her chin in her hand. “He would go out for drinks with some of the other employees sometimes. He got along pretty well with Shelley LeBlanc. She’s one of our counselors.”

“Were they dating?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. I doubt she was his type.”

“What’s his type?”

“Flashy. Wealthy. He liked women of a certain…pedigree,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Said he had an image to maintain.”

“I guess Julian and I have something in common,” I said with a sly grin.

She chuckled. “Oh really? Is that your way of flirting, Jackson Harlow?”

“Not at all. You’ve ruined me for other flashy and wealthy women.”

She paused, staring at me with a look that told me she knew I was full of it.

“Okay, maybe I’m flirting a little,” I said.

There was that smile again. Her cheeks flushed slightly.

“Maybe you should flirt a lot,” she said. “Should we have another drink?”

“We’d be fools not to.”

She stood up and floated over to the bar. My phone buzzed. It was Estelle.

“You still alive?” she wrote.

“Yes.”

“You still clothed?”

“You jealous?”

“🤮🤮🤮,” she replied.

“I’ll be back down soon. Just a few more questions.”

“K. I need to talk to you about Patricia.”

“Sounds good.”

“You talking to your girlfriend?” Cassandra was coming back toward the couch, two drinks in her hands. A flash of annoyance swept quickly over her face.

“She’s just a friend. And yes.”

That made her smile again, which was contagious.

“Good.” She sat back down and handed me my drink. We clinked glasses and took a sip.

“Where were we?” she asked.

“I was about to ask if Julian might have had a gambling problem.”

She was about to take another sip, but paused. She put her glass down and crossed her legs.

“That was a long time ago,” she said.

Cassandra played with one of the gaudy rings on her finger and ran a hand through her hair.

“Do you think it might have something to do with the murder?” She asked.

“I don’t know. But I’m trying to get a better picture of who he was.”

“I really don’t want to make him look bad, Jackson.”

“I don’t either. We all have our vices. Nobody will think he deserved to die for being human.”

She sighed. “Well, I suppose it’ll come out eventually if it’s true. He did have a gambling problem, along with his other addictions.”

I didn’t respond.

“Some of the other employees were talking about it. Said he’d been gambling again. I thought it was just gossip. But he swore he wasn’t hooked again.”

“Did you believe him?”

“No.”

“Did he spend a lot of time at the casino?”

Cassandra looked away, as if me being out of her sight would make the questions go away.

“No. He wasn’t that type of gambler.”

“What does that mean?”

She turned back to me, her eyes downcast. “He was more of the underground type, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do.”

“But I don’t know where or who he was gambling with.”

“I see. I only have a few more questions, Cass. I know you need to get back to the party.”

“It’s fine. I need a break from it anyway and you’re the perfect distraction.” She smiled.

“How was he acting before his death? Did you notice anything strange?”

She thought for a moment.

“I don’t know if this is relevant. But about two months ago, I noticed he was taking notes in a little notebook,” she said. “He had it with him everywhere — always scribbling. About meetings, patient stories, all kinds of stuff.”

I nodded.

“I asked him about it. He said he was taking notes on our operations to hone his marketing strategy. Gathering stories he could tell on social media.”

“I see. Were you concerned?”

“About what?”

“Well, that he might accidentally — or deliberately — publish sensitive information?”

“N-no, of course not,” she said a little too quickly. “He would...he would never do anything that would hurt The Sanctuary. He believed in our work.”

“You sure?”

Her grip tightened on her glass. I was afraid she would break it. “I’m sure,” she said, her eyebrows arching.

“Cass, I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to make sure I get the facts right.”

Her face relaxed. “I know Jackson. I’m sorry. I’m just under a lot of pressure right now, you know?”

“I know,” I said. “Is there anything else you remember?”

She stopped to think for a moment. “Not really. But there was one thing—” her voice trailed off.

“What was that?” I leaned forward.

“I don’t know. It’s probably not even related.”

I smiled. “Let me be the judge of that.”

“One of my employees mentioned seeing Julian meeting with someone at Café Du Monde about a month ago.”

“Man? Woman?”

“Woman. But Jace, my employee, said he didn’t get a good look at her. It loooked like they were trying to be discreet, sitting in the corner, that kind of thing.”

“One of his wealthy, fancy girlfriends?”

“Could be. But like I said, I doubt it’s even relevant.”

“Okay. Can you let me know if you learn anything else?”

“Of course, Jackson. It’ll give me an excuse to see you again.”

Against my better judgment I said, “Maybe we could get together sometime soon, when I don’t have to interrogate you like a cop.”

Cassandra laughed as we stood up, preparing to go back downstairs. We faced each other, standing close enough that I could smell her hair again. Her eyes hypnotized me, drawing me in like a siren at sea.

This wasn’t the time. “We’d better get back to the party.”

She took my hand, still looking up at me. “Yes, we probably should…or….” She let the question hang in the air.

My phone buzzed. A text message. From Remy. He had great timing. Or crappy timing. I hadn’t made up my mind yet.

“Yo. Call me tomorrow. Something I want to run by you,” he wrote.

I responded with a thumbs up.

Cassandra didn’t let go of my hand. We walked back into the hallway toward the elevator.

She pressed the button with a well-manicured finger and turned toward me. “You better not be lying to me, Jackson,” she said like a schoolmarm disciplining a student.

“About what?”

“About us getting together again soon.”

“Scout’s honor, ma’am.”

“And if you ever call me ‘ma’am’ again, I’ll put arsenic in your kamikaze next time.”

“Fair enough.”

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The Sanctuary Network Lobby

Saturday Evening

I splashed cold water on my face. I could still smell the jasmine and citrus lingering like a spurned lover.

I stared at my reflection in the restroom mirror. I’d just spent an hour with one of the most powerful people in New Orleans and left with more questions than answers. And a knot in my chest that had nothing to do with the investigation.

Cassandra and I had parted ways years ago, but being with her just then, it felt like it had only been a day.

And I wanted more.

But I couldn’t focus on that. I had a murder to solve and a prisoner to free. I wondered whether Julian’s gambling problem was related to his death. From what Charlie told me, he owed quite a bit of cash — but to whom?

There was also Julian’s notebook. It could be exactly what Cassandra believed it was, but something nagged at the back of my mind. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I dried my face with a paper towel and reminded myself to take a long, cold shower when I got home.

I made my way back to the lobby where the party was. There was a short hallway leading to a door, which piqued my curiosity. Normal people would have kept going. But my journalist brain wouldn’t allow me. I opened the door to what appeared to be an office area. Desks spread out across the wide room holding up laptops and other items.

This was clearly not a guest area. There was no reason to be snooping around there. But that never stopped me before.

I was about to go deeper into the room when voices reached my ears from a smaller office across the room. One voice was low and measured clearly male. The other was young, female, and nervous.

I didn’t want to get caught in a restricted area. I turned to leave when the office door opened.

A man the size of an elephant walked through, followed by a wide-eyed blonde who looked as if she would rather be anywhere else.

I locked eyes with the sasquatch. He was about six-foot five, two inches taller than me, and as wide as a silverback gorilla. He wore a white dress shirt with a black vest. He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms as large as tree trunks. A dragon tattoo emblazoned the side of his neck.

“Mr. Harlow,” the sasquatch said, his voice flat. He strode leisurely across the room — faster than he looked. I looked up at him as he shook my hand, which felt like a vise grip threatening to crush my fingers.

I’m not used to having to look up to see someone’s face. But here I was.

“Hey there Mr…?”

“Vargas.”

“Just Vargas?”

“Just Vargas.”

“Like Madonna.”

His eyebrows lifted, confused.

“You know, just one name?” I said. “Like Cher?”

He didn’t laugh, but a thin smile appeared on his face. Why didn’t anyone appreciate my sense of humor?

“The main ballroom is back that way,” he said.

“Yeah? Sorry, haven’t been here in awhile. Got lost.”

He looked at me as if I’d just told him I have some prime oceanfront property in Wyoming to sell him on the cheap.

He wasn’t threatening, but there was something in his eyes. Or maybe the lack of something. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I could tell this was not a man I wanted to piss off.

The blonde gave me a concerned look before she skittered out of the room in the opposite direction.

“So what do you do here, Vargas?”

“Head of security. I make sure everyone is safe. And I make sure people don’t accidentally wind up in places they don’t belong.”

There was that thin smile again.

“Right. Well, sorry about that.”

“It happens,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll head back to the party. Nice meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

***

I wandered through the ballroom looking for Estelle amidst a sea of designer suits, fancy dresses, and expensive champagne.

“Jackson Harlow!” a deep booming voice sounded behind me. A ball of rage grew in the pit of my chest.

I turned around to see Mayor Pierce Lemaine’s smiling face heading my way. My shoulders tensed, as if ready for a fight.

But this was not a man you fought with fists.

“Long time no see,” he said as if we were childhood friends. “You don’t call, you don’t write.”

“I knew I smelled something sleazy. Should have known it’d be you, mayor.”

Lemaine affected a wounded expression. “Oh come on. You’re not happy to see me?”

“I’d be happier if I were talking to you behind bars.”

Lemaine laughed, and meant it. “Don’t be like that Jackson. You still mad about that woman? What was her name…Delia?”

He must have seen the rage flashing across my eyes because he took a step back and put up his hands in mock surrender.

“It was Dolly,” I said.

“Whoa there, tiger,” he said, with that grin. “We’re in public, remember?”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Pierce.” He flinched when I used his first name instead of his title. “I’ve got something worse planned for you.”

I met Lemaine when he was still a councilmember and mayoral candidate about seven months ago, when I was investigating the murder of Dolly Mercier, owner of Memory House Antique shop.

After a weeks long investigation and another murder, I discovered that the killer was Kyle Weston, who worked as Lemaine’s intern. He also killed a young activist named Sadie Broussard. It turned out that Lemaine had subtly used his influence over the young man to manipulate him into killing Dolly because she was selling historical racist relics at her shop.

Then he tried to have Kyle killed before he could talk. A corrupt police officer shot him three times after I found him out, but he’d survived.

Still, Lemaine was slick as an oil leak. He never actually ordered Kyle to kill anyone, so he was insulated from consequences — for now.

“I get you’re still mad about,” he said. “But one day, you will understand why it had to happen.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

He straightened his tie. “Me? I’m a firm supporter of The Sanctuary Network. Cassandra was very kind — and generous — to me during my campaign,” he said.

“That’s because she doesn’t know what you are,” he said. “Maybe I’ll change that.”

Lemaine’s face drooped into a scowl. Now he was the one who looked like he wanted violence — a wish I would gladly grant..

To my disappointment, he restrained himself.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m already mayor, right?” he laughed again.

I longed for the moment when I would wipe that fucking smile off his face. But I remained calm.

Lemaine looked confident. Powerful. Untouchable. “Are you covering the gala for The Bayou Chronicle?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re forgetting who I am, Jackson. I already know you’re looking into the Julian Vane murder. You’re here trying to gather information, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

“I admire your dedication to justice,” Lemaine said, like a father giving advice to his son. “But I have to say, I’m a little concerned.”

“A kid’s in jail for a crime he didn’t commit,” I said. “I’m not gonna let that stand. You don’t plan on trying to stop me, do you?”

He looked at me like I was a child who just fell off his bike. “Jackson, of course not. But you’ve seen the evidence against him, right? It is what it is.”

I didn’t respond.

“But I’m more worried about you stirring up trouble for no good reason,” he said.

“Oh really? Are you afraid I’m going to find something...inconvenient?”

“Not at all. Believe it or not, I want justice just as much as you do.”

“Like you did for Dolly and Sadie?”

“Look, Cassandra does fine work here. One of her employees was viciously murdered in his own home,” he said as if going into a campaign speech. “Whatever your problems are with me, you poking around here might cause some to get the wrong idea. That’s the last thing I would want”

“That sounds like a threat,” Jackson said.

“It’s friendly advice,” Lemaine said. His voice remained smooth, almost sympathetic. Like a doctor explaining a terminal diagnosis. “I know you mean well. But sometimes good intentions can lead us into dangerous places. Places where we don’t belong.”

“In my experience, places I don’t belong are just places people like you would rather leave hidden,” I said.

“Well, I need to get back to it. It was nice seeing you again, Jackson,” Lemaine said, shrugging. “Keep up the good work. I’m still a fan.”

I smiled like a shark. “I appreciate it. Maybe one day I’ll write something that changes your life — permanently.”

The smile remained on his face, but his quickly blinking eyes gave him away. Was that a hint a fear?

Good.

***

As Lemaine walked away, I felt an arm loop itself through mine.

“I’m impressed,” Estelle said.

“Yeah?”

“I was watching you two across the room. I was surprised you managed not to break his jaw.”

“It was tempting. But I resisted,” I said. “How did it go with Patricia?”

Estelle’s face fell. More than troubled—concerned. She guided me away from the crowd to a quiet nook at one of the corners of the room.

“She was perfect. Too perfect. Like she was performing recovery instead of living it.”

“What do you mean?”

“She kept saying things like, ‘I owe Cassandra everything’ and ‘Sanctuary saved my life.’”

“Sounds about right. Didn’t you tell me this place saved her life?”

“Yes...but there was...something about how she said it. It was like a script. A word-for-word script,” Estelle said. “And when I asked her about how she spends her days—like, what does she actually do—she got real vague. Said she does ‘community work’ but wouldn’t give details.”

I studied Estelle’s face. She wasn’t the type to imagine things or misread social interactions.

“Maybe she’s just nervous?” I said.

“Maybe,” Estelle said. “But I remember Patricia from before all this. She was funny, messy, real. Tonight, she felt...curated. Like she’d memorized a part in a play and she was performing it perfectly. Every emotion in the right place. Every word exactly right. It’s hard to explain...I guess you’d have to see for yourself.”

“She might be going through something that she didn’t feel comfortable telling you with all these people around. One of her co-workers was just murdered. She might have been close to him.”

“You might be right. Maybe I’ll give her a call later, see if she wants to grab some coffee.”

We stood together in silence, watching the minglers mingle. Guests moved between conversations like a game of musical chairs. Waiters drifted around the room with plates full of champagne, canapés, and just the proper level of deference.

The string quartet was playing “Por Una Cabeza.”

“Isn’t this the song from True Lies?” Estelle giggled.

“Yes, it is the song from True Lies,” I said, affecting my best Arnold Schwarzenegger accent.

“Good thing Cassandra isn’t here. You’d probably reenact that ballroom dance seen. Or maybe that part when Jamie Lee Curtis does the strip tease?”

“You hush your mouth, woman,” I said, trying my best to pretend I wasn’t thinking that exact thing.

Estelle made a zipping motion across her mouth.

***

Estelle and I continued our rich people watching. A tall, freshly polished man with a reddish beard locked eyes with me. He almost sprinted over to us.

As he got closer, a smile jumped onto his face. “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but are you Jackson Harlow? The journalist?”

“Depends. Are you from the IRS or Amway?”

Estelle rolled her eyes, but I knew she thought it was funny. Everyone thinks I’m funny. The man gave a hearty laugh.

I put on the most smug expression I could muster and looked at Estelle as if to say, “See?”

He was delicately gripping a champagne flute, looking immaculate in his tailored blue suit. His shoulder-length hair was about as red as his beard.

“Fortunately, I’m not here to rob or scam you. But I read your work all the time. I never thought I’d get to meet you.”

“I appreciate that Mr…?”

The man flinched, as if he just remembered he left his pants at home. “I’m so sorry about that. My name is Simon Ash.”

“Simon Ash?” Estelle said, her voice rising. “Aren’t you on that podcast? I knew your voice sounded familiar.”

“Podcast?” I said.

“Yes. The Loose Ends podcast,” Simon said.

“I think I’ve heard of that,” I said. “True crime? That kind of deal?”

“You got it,” Simon smiled. “I loved your work on the Dolly Mercier case. That was some wild shit, man.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“You know what I found fascinating about that case?” Ash continued, his eyes shifting between Estelle and I. “How predators work. Not the obvious kind—not the ones who hunt in the open. But the subtle ones. The ones who hide in plain sight. The intelligent ones. Like Kyle Weston.”

Something cold slide down my spine.

“The best predators,” Ash continued, sounding like we were recording a podcast episode, “are the ones who understand human psychology. They understand that people want to believe the performance. They want to believe that the beautiful facade is real. The hero narrative. So predators give people what they want. They perform so convincingly that everyone—and I mean everyone—starts to believe their own story.”

He took a sip of champagne, letting the words hang in the air, making me wonder how many glasses he had consumed. Estelle looked at me, her expression bemused.

I didn’t respond. I just waited, aware that Ash wasn’t finished.

“Just like Kyle,” Simon continued before stopping abruptly. “Oh man, I’m sorry. I just get excited about this kind of thing.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be a successful podcaster if you didn’t,” Estelle said.

His face reddened, embarrased, but also flattered.

“So what brings you to this party?” Estelle asked.

“Oh, Cassandra invited me.” He leaned closer, as if telling us a secret. “Apparently, she’s a fan of the podcast.”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, I think that’s how I heard your podcast,” I said. “She wouldn’t stop playing it.”

Simon nodded. “She mentioned you would be here.”

He paused, and then lit up as if he just thought of an idea. “Hey, would you be interested in coming on the podcast to talk about the Mercier case?” You’d be a perfect guest,” he said.

I knew he didn’t just think of the idea. But I played along. “That might be cool,” I said.

“Let’s exchange numbers.”

We did.

Simon flashed another smile. Something behind me grabbed his gaze.

“Hey, there’s Beverly Hayes with her husband,” he said. “They’re major donors to The Sanctuary. Let me introduce you.”

Before I could decline he led us over to the couple.

***

I watched the couple as we made our way across the ballroom. They stood there, like statues.

Beverly stood beside her husband, the perfect accessory. Beautiful. Composed. Present but not present. Her hand rested lightly on his arm, the gesture of a dutiful wife. Her smile was professional. Her eyes were somewhere else entirely.

Then something happened across the room.

Cassandra laughed at something someone said. It was a genuine laugh, warm and unguarded.

Beverly’s entire body went rigid.

For a fraction of a second—her face did something. Pain flickered across her features like lightning. Longing. Grief. Raw emotion. The unguarded moment of someone who’s just realized they can’t have something they want more than anything.

Simon guided us toward the Hayes couple with the ease of a tour guide.

The man was standing with his wife Beverly, looking at the wall of client testimonials. Before and after photographs. Recovery stories. The visual proof of Sanctuary’s work.

“Judge Hayes, Mrs. Hayes,” Simon said warmly. “I’d like you to meet Jackson Harlow and Estelle Mason. Jackson is a journalist with The Bayou Chronicle. Estelle works in antiques.”

The judge extended his hand with a smile that coverd his whole face. “Always happy to meet people interested in the Sanctuary’s work. Call me Robert.”

Beverly smiled politely, but Jackson noticed her grip on the Judge’s arm tightened slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

“Your work here is impressive,” I said, shaking the Judge’s hand.

“Thank you,” the judge said. “Cassandra has built something really special. Really transformative. There’s no telling how many people she has saved.”

Simon excused himself almost immediately. “I’m going to grab something to eat. They have some exceptional vegan options tonight. Please, enjoy the rest of the evening.”

He wandered away, leaving us with the Hayes couple.

***

“How long have you been involved with Sanctuary?” I asked the judge.

“Cassandra and I go back several years,” he said. “I’ve been fortunate to see the work firsthand. It’s remarkable what she’s accomplished,” he said.

Beverly remained silent, her eyes still on the photographs. Her gaze lingered on a picture of a beaming Julian posing with some famous actor.

I stepped toward the wall of testimonials. “The success rate seems exceptional,” I said, nodding at the before-and-afters. “Are these real transformations?”

“Absolutely,” the judge said, moving to stand beside me. “These are our success stories. People who came in broken and left rebuilt. It’s one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever been part of.”

“What about the ones who don’t make it?” I asked. “The people who come and don’t get better?”

The judge’s expression shifted slightly. A flicker of something—discomfort? Defensiveness? It was there and then gone in an instant.

“Everyone’s journey is different, I suppose” he said carefully. “Some people need more time. Some people aren’t ready for the work it takes to change.”

Beverly’s grip tightened on his arm again.

“Julian Vane was one of Sanctuary’s success stories, wasn’t he?” I asked, watching Beverly’s face carefully.

“Yes,” the judge said. “A remarkable young man. His passing was a tragedy.”

Beverly’s jaw clenched. She looked away from the photographs toward the ballroom, toward where Cassandra was standing near the orchestra.

“Did you know him well?” Estelle asked.

“Professionally,” the judge said. “Through Sanctuary business.”

“Mrs. Hayes?” I turned to Beverly. “Did you know Julian?”

Beverly’s hesitation was barely perceptible, but it was there. A moment where she had to decide what to say.

“I...I knew of him,” she stammered. Her voice was steady, but there was something underneath it. A tremor. “He was a kind person. Very kind.”

“It must have been difficult,” Estelle said, sensing the shift in Beverly’s energy. “To lose someone connected to The Sanctuary. Someone who mattered.”

Beverly’s eyes shifted to Estelle for just a moment. There was something like gratitude in that look.

“It was,” Beverly said. Her eyes were still fixed on the ballroom, on Cassandra. “It’s difficult to lose anyone. But especially someone who...who helped you. Who understood you.”

Cassandra was standing near the orchestra, accepting compliments from a city councilman. She looked radiant. Powerful. Completely in control of every person in this room.

“We should probably let you get back to your guests,” I said.

“Of course,” the Judge said, already preparing to move back into the social morass of the gala. “It was wonderful meeting you both.”

***

Estelle and I were both exhausted from all the social interaction. We headed toward the exit when Cassandra intercepted us.

She was smiling, but I could see she was also tired. Running a gala must be tough, especially when you were orchestrating every conversation, every relationship, every moment. The Sanctuary’s cash flow depended on many of the people in the room.

“You’re leaving?” she asked, a note of disappointment in her voice.

“Early morning tomorrow,” I said. “Work calls.”

“I’m glad you came,” Cassandra said. She hugged Estelle briefly, professional but warm. “It was so lovely meeting you Estelle. I might swing by your shop one day.”

Then she turned to me.

The hug lasted just slightly longer than it should have, but not as long as I would have liked. I smelled the jasmine again. Felt her warmth and the pull of history and chemistry and everything that had passed between us.

When we broke apart, she held my arms for a moment, looking up at me.

“Call me,” she said quietly.

“Will do” Jackson said.

“And be careful, Jackson.” She turned to Estelle. “Make sure he’s careful. I’m sure you know how he is.”

Estelle flashed a knowing grin. “Oh, I’m aware.”

“I mean it,” Cassandra said, turning back to me. Her expression had shifted. Something more worried. “There are a lot of people in this city who don’t appreciate questions being asked about things that matter to them.”

I understood.

“I’ll be careful,” I said. “I promise.”

She released his arms and stepped back, and the public persona slid back into place like armor.

In the car, Estelle was quiet for a moment as I pulled out into the night.

“Just say it,” I said.

“Caaaall me,” Estelle said, imitating Cassandra’s breathy alto.

“What?” I said, though I knew exactly what she meant.

“The way she looked at you,” Estelle said. “The way you looked at her. Even Stevie Wonder could see there is history there.”

“Ancient history,” I said, navigating the streets with practiced ease.

“Didn’t look so ancient to me.”

I didn’t respond. Just drove in silence, replaying the entire evening in his head. Vargas’ tattoo and empty eyes. Lemaine’s smile and his threat. Patricia’s performance. Beverly’s grief. Simon’s bizarre observations about predators.

And Cassandra. Always Cassandra. At the center of everything. A twinge of longing grew in my chest.

My phone buzzed. I checked it at a red light. A text from Blaise: “Call me. Got something on Jernigan. Street sources confirmed. It’s solid.”

Jackson looked at Estelle, then back at the road ahead.

“Change of plans,” he said. “We need to make a stop before heading home.”

“Where are we going?”

“To find out what Blaise knows about Julian’s gambling problem,” I said. “The game is afoot, Mason,” I added in the worst British accent I could muster.

“Nerd,” Estelle said.

The Vasquez Residence

Friday: 9:00 a.m.

I thought the rest of the paint would chip off as I knocked on the front door of the Vasquez residence. The double shotgun house had seen better days, but still managed to survive in Mid-City New Orleans.

I’d known the Vasquez family since high school, and the yellow and teal paneled home hadn’t changed much in over two decades. The bars on the front window mirrored those of the rest of the neighborhood, denying entry to the bad crowd and quietly showing visitors what kind of neighborhood they were in.

Imelda answered the door. She was a handsome woman. Hispanic, stout, with a smile that felt like a warm fireplace in the winter. But today was different.

Her eyes were bloodshot and the puffiness told me she had been crying. “Jackson. I’m so glad to see you. Thanks for coming.” she hugged me tight and didn’t let go.

I could feel her sobs before I heard them.

She broke the hug after a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. Please come in,” she said, choking down more sobs.

“No, it’s okay. I got here as soon as I could,” I said.

The inside of the home fared much better than the outside. Imelda always took pride in creating a warm atmosphere. It smelled faintly of spices, which provided any visitor with a preview of what to expect if they were lucky enough to have one of her home-cooked meals.

Imelda had called a half hour ago, frantic. She was so upset she struggled to tell me what had happened, only that her son Steve Vasquez was in trouble.

“Please, have a seat. Do you want anything to drink?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

I sat down on a worn brown couch. Imelda sat next to me. She was in her early 50s, but looked like she was barely turning 40. Still, the worry lines on her face revealed her struggles — and her toughness.

“Jackson,” she began in accented English. “Steve is in jail. They say he killed someone.”

The stress inflated in my chest like a hot-air balloon.

“What happened?”

“Police showed up last night...I think there were ten men with rifles and body armor...I didn’t hear them knock, just boom!”

Having reported on corrupt policing for over a decade, I could easily predict what Imelda would tell me next.

“They broke through the door and came in screaming,” Imelda said, fighting the tears back. “Two of them pinned me to the ground while the others looked for Steve.”

I imagined the scene, screaming officers holding Imelda down. The stress balloon in my chest turned into fury.

“Where was Bianca?” I asked. She was the youngest child, about 11 years old.

“She was sitting where you are now, reading,” Imelda said. “They left her alone. They wanted Steve.”

At least the officers didn’t give Bianca the same treatment they gave her mother. Still, the sight of armed men bursting into her home would traumatize adults. I couldn’t imagine how it affected Bianca.

“Okay. What happened next?”

“They...they brought my son out of the kitchen and threw him to the ground. They searched him and said he was under arrest for murder.”

Imelda’s breathing quickened to the point I was concerned she was hyperventilating.

“Did they say who the supposed victim was?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember his name.”

“I’ll check with the police. Do you know where they are holding him?”

“Orleans Justice Center.” Her voice was raw, as if she’d been screaming nonstop for hours. I took her hands in mine.

“Have you spoken to the police since they arrested Steve?”

“I..,I tried to tell them he was a good boy,” Imelda replied trying to keep her breathing in control “He would never kill anyone...he was getting his life back together—” she couldn’t finish the sentence.

The tears came again, but she still kept what was left of her composure.

I knew why she had called me. Of course, the police wouldn’t take her seriously. Their job was only to arrest who they were told to arrest. That’s how the system works.

“I didn’t know who else to turn to. You know more about this stuff than I do. We can’t afford a lawyer.”

“I’m glad you called me, Imelda. I will do everything I can to figure this out. Does Hector know?”

Hector “Hex” Vasquez was Imelda’s oldest child. He was in his mid 20s now. To say he ran with a bad crowd would be like calling Mt. Everest a hill.

“He’s on his way.” Imelda’s brow furrowed. “Can you talk to him? He was so angry, I’m afraid of what he might do.”

I understood. I waited with Imelda until we heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Seconds later, Hector opened the door, which was easy since the police had broken it during the raid.

“Mom, what the fuck happened? What did—”

Hector stopped when he saw me.

“Jackson? What are you doing here?” he asked.

Imelda answered for me, “I called him after I talked to you. He’s going to help Steve.”

Hector nodded. “I appreciate that brother, I really do. But I got this handled.”

He wore a blue flannel and khaki work pants. He was about six feet tall and lanky. Tattoos covered his arms.

“Handled?” I asked. I knew exactly what he meant, but I figured I’d ask anyway.

“Yeah, me and my boys are gonna figure out who did this shit to Steve and we’re gonna deal with them.”

That’s what I was afraid of. Hector was the leader of the 509ers street gang. They dealt in low-level drugs. They weren’t the biggest gang in New Orleans, but they were active enough to be considered dangerous.

“Hector, I know you’re pissed,” I said. “I am too. But whatever you’re planning is only going to make it worse.”

“Well, what the fuck are you gonna do, write an op-ed?” Hector snapped.

“Mijo!” Imelda yelled. “Please...Listen to him.”

I knew it wasn’t personal — and I also knew what Hector could become when he was angry. I tutored him and Steve when they were still in elementary school. They had looked up to me in a way.

“There are better ways to go about this,” I said. “We know Steve couldn’t have killed anyone. The key is proving it.”

“Fuck that,” Hector said. He dropped into an easy chair. He stood again and started pacing. “All these pendejos will see is a Mexican killer. You’re a black man, Jackson. You know how they see us.”

“I don’t disagree,” I said. “But the safest way for Steve — and you — is to beat them at their own game. I’ve seen it happen. They aren’t all powerful.”

“Fuck you, Harlow. You ain’t seen what I seen in these streets. It’s easy for you to say in your nice cushy office.”

That was it.

I stood. It only took me three steps before I was in Hector’s face. He flinched slightly, but didn’t back away.

“Fuck me? That’s how you wanna play it Hex?” I growled. “I’m here trying to keep your sorry ass out of jail. It’s bad enough that your brother is getting railroaded. You think your mother wants to see you behind bars too dumbass? Or are you only thinking about yourself?”

Imelda let out a sob, but composed herself.

Hector didn’t respond, but the gears in his head were turning.

Finally, he said, “Fine. We’ll try it your way. But if it doesn’t work, I can’t make any promises.”

“That’s all I ask,” I said. My eyes never left his.

Hector walked past me and sat down next to Imelda, who had begun crying again. He put his arms around her.

“It’s ok mom. It’s gonna be ok,” he said.

He looked at me. “I didn’t mean all that shit I said,” he said. “You know I respect you.”

“I get it. But it’s still raw. I get it. But we have to do this in a way that keeps everyone out of the system.”

“I hope you can do something. I know you got connections,” Hector said.

“I’m going to visit Steve. You want to come?”

“I’m going to stay with mom. Tell Steve I’ll be by later. Let me walk you out.”

I said goodbye to Imelda and assured her I would be in touch. Hector followed me to my Jeep.

“Hey man, I didn’t want to say this in front of mom. I’m gonna do this your way. But the streets are already talking,” he said. “When they find out Steve got popped for some shit he didn’t do, I don’t know how long I can hold them back.”

“Just do your best. We still have no idea what happened. For all we know, their case is weak and Steve could be out sooner than later,” I said.

“I hope so. But if you need my help on anything, you got my number.”

“I do. I’ll talk to you later.”

We shook hands and did the bro hug and I climbed into my Jeep.

Orleans Justice Center

Friday: 11:42 a.m.

It took a little over an hour sitting on a plastic chair under bad fluorescent lights, but eventually a deputy called Steve’s name and walked him to the booth and lowered him into the chair behind the glass.

He looked about as I’d expected. His eyes widened as he walked into the room and saw me sitting on the other side. They were red, which told me he hadn’t slept. He ran a hand through his dark curly hair. At 19 years old, Steve looked like any other kid with his whole life ahead of him. But now, his future was uncertain.

Steve picked up the phone on the other end. “Jackson? I haven’t seen you in a minute. What are you doing here?”

“Your mom called me. Told me what happened. How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know man, I confused.” He straightened a little in the chair. “But I’m hanging in there, y’know?”

After being friends with Steve and his family for years, it was obvious to me he was trying to put up a strong front. But his quivering hands told me a different story.

“Hector told me to tell you he will come visit later today.”

Steve nodded.

“Steve, I want to help. Tell me what happened.”

“Jackson, you’ve known me since I was ten. You know I didn’t shoot nobody I—”

I put up a hand. “You don’t have to convince me Steve. But you might have to convince a jury. If I’m going to help, I need you to tell me everything you know.”

He sat back in his chair, trying to collect his thoughts. His shoulders slumped as if he were carrying St. Louis Cathedral on his back.

“They interrogated you last night, right? What did they say?”

“Those cabrones think I shot some guy named Julian...Julian Vane?”

“Who is Julian Vane?”

“I dunno man. I think he work at a rehab facility or something.”

I filed the name away for future reference.

“They said I killed him in some drug deal gone wrong,” Steve said.

“I have to ask. Was this a drug deal?”

Steve recoiled, as I’d just insulted his mother. His face darkened and redness formed under his skin.

“Fuck no, man. I ain’t in that shit no more. I didn’t kill him.”

I put up a hand again. “Steve, I’m not interrogating you. I’m just getting the facts.”

He let out a long breath and folded his hands on his lap.

“Sorry. It’s just...I never even met the guy, y’know?”

“I get it. Did they tell you what evidence they have?”

His eyes turned toward the table in front of him, which told me I wasn’t going to like what he said next.

“They found my gun in his apartment. With my fingerprints on it.”

I nodded, maintaining my poker face. “Go on,” I said.

“They also found his gold chain and wallet in my car.”

A knot began forming in my stomach. This already wasn’t looking good. Still, I knew he wasn’t guilty.

“The police said my truck was caught on surveillance footage near his apartment.”

“Was your truck stolen?”

“No.”

I paused, which Steve interpreted as doubt.

“I didn’t do it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Steve, I know you didn’t do it,” I said. “I’m on your side—but is there anything you’re not telling me? I can’t help you unless you tell me everything.”

“That’s it. There’s nothing else — at least not that I can remember.”

I paused to think. Steve’s gun was found at the crime scene with his fingerprints on it. Most killers would have at least tried to hide the murder weapon somewhere. But sometimes people panic, drop the weapon, and the flee the scene.

But something wasn’t right.

“Steve, could someone have stolen your firearm?”

“Maybe. But I don’t think anyone broke into my truck — that’s where I keep my piece.”

“When did you notice it was stolen?”

A sheepish look crept onto Steve’s face. I knew what it meant.

“You didn’t notice it was gone, did you?”

“Look man, I kept it under the passenger seat. I never use it so I forgot it was there for awhile. I have it for protection, y’know?”

I resisted the urge to lecture him on responsible gun ownership. I thought I’d drilled that lesson into him when he first started carrying.

“When did the murder happen?”

“About a week ago, I think.”

“So, if someone stole your gun, it would have been at least a week ago. You keep your truck locked, right?”

“Yeah, man.” He looked at me as if I’d asked if he knew how to tie his shoes.

“What about the gold chain?”

“I didn’t know it was even in my truck. I bet someone planted it there.”

As far-fetched as it sounded, I thought so too. But how? When?

I knew time was running out, so I asked, “We will probably have to pick this up later. Have you spoken with an attorney yet?”

He snorted. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“What’s his name?”

“Carl Brady. But he’s useless. He’s already telling me to take a plea deal. He thinks I did it.”

I wasn’t surprised. Most public defenders are overworked, with cases piled ceiling high on their desks. They didn’t have the time to mount a viable defense. And many might as well be prosecutors for all the good they do their clients.

“I’ll talk to him. See what I can find out and if I can get him to take this seriously.”

The door opened and a guard stepped in. Time was up.

“I gotta go. Please tell mom I’m okay,” Steve said.

“I will. Hang in there. I may have some tricks up my sleeve.”

He flashed a weak smile and drifted out of the room.

Public Defender’s Office

Friday, 12:30 p.m.

I sat across from Carl Brady, his worn faux wood desk separating us. I was waiting for him to finish up a phone call. He slouched in his chair and gazed at his desk, listening to the caller. The bags under his eyes could have carried enough water to fill the Grand Canyon.

The call finally ended. He looked at me. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Jackson Harlow. I’m a journalist with The Bayou Chronicle. I want to ask you some questions about the Vasquez case.”

He leaned forward in his chair. “If you’re a reporter, then you understand I can’t tell you much. Confidentiality and all that.”

His face was the color of an apple, which told me he’d consumed copious amounts of bourbon in his lifetime.

“I know. Just tell me what you can, if you don’t mind. Steve’s a friend.”

“Well, he’s not doing himself any favors, I’ll tell you that.”

“What do you mean?”

“His gun was in the victim’s house. The victim’s gold chain was found in his truck. The investigators say his truck was near the crime scene.”

“He told me.”

“Then you know about as much as I can tell you.”

“What do you know about the victim?”

Brady shuffled some papers around on his desk. He picked one up and read from it as if he were reading the charges to a jury.

“Julian Vane. Age 39. Lived in the Garden District.”

“He had money, then.”

“Apparently. He works for The Sanctuary Network. It’s a drug rehabilitation center.”

The Sanctuary Network had a stellar reputation. It’s founder, Cassandra Rose, and I had a two year-long fling a long time ago. We had bonded over our opposition to the war on drugs. Her organization embodied the notion that addiction should be treated as a health condition, not a crime.

I decided not to let on what I knew about the place.

“The Sanctuary Network? I asked.

“Yeah. That’s where they send all the druggies. I’ve heard some good things about it.”

“Steve said he didn’t know the victim.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“You think he’s guilty, don’t you?”

“You—you know I can’t tell you that.” he hesitated. “The DA’s office is already talking plea deals. I told Steve he should take it. He might be released by the time he’s 45.”

I was less than shocked. This guy wasn’t going to fight for Steve. He’d already written him off. I didn’t think I could get anything useful out of him. I thanked him for nothing and left.

I walked across the parking lot to my vehicle. As I approached my Jeep, I heard the sound of footsteps hitting gravel behind me.

“Jackson Harlow?”

I turned around and saw a man wearing a grey blazer, white dress shirt, and grey slacks. But he might as well have been wearing a uniform, because his entire manner screamed police officer.

“Yes, that’s me.”

He was gnawing on gum like a beaver on a piece of wood. He was mid-height, probably late 40s, his dark hair greying at the temples. His clothes were at least one size too big for him.

“I read your stuff sometimes. Its not bad, even though I think you could go easier on law enforcement,” he said.

“Is this where you tell me there’s only a few bad apples and I shouldn’t imply that they represent all police?”

He gave a short laugh and put his hands up like he was guilty. “Nah, not this time.” He spit the gum onto the ground and retrieved another piece from his pocket.

“I’m Ray Dufresne. NOPD. I work narcotics.”

I had heard of Ray “Razor” Dufresne. He was something of a star to the “tough on crime” crowd. He won several awards for bringing in drug dealers and users. It was almost like he had a sixth sense when it came to finding and busting those who ran afoul of the law.

“How can I help you, detective?”

“I was curious. It’s not every day we get a visit from a journalist of your caliber.”

“Well, someone has to keep y’all on your toes.”

Dufresne’s laugh sounded like air traveling through lungs lined with sand. His yellow teeth told me he was a heavy smoker.

“I suppose so. But if I had to guess, you were here to visit the Vasquez kid, right?”

This wasn’t a guess. Dufresne could have easily found out who I spoke with. I let him continue.

“I knew that kid from when he was slinging dope down in Mid City. I saw the evidence against him. He’s going down, partner.”

Dufresne rubbed his chin, looking like he’d place my king in checkmate.

“For starters, it’s been five years since he was selling weed — and only weed,” I said.

“Yeah but—”

“Secondly,” I interrupted. “I’ve known Steve since he was in elementary school. You got the wrong guy.”

“You know we found his gun in the victim’s apartment, right?”

“Yes. And I know about the gold chain too.”

Dufresne’s spread his arms as if to say, “See? I told you so.”

“But,” I said before he could cut in. “This is New Orleans, where the boys in blue don’t always play things by the book. That alone is enough for me to question whether there is more to this story.”

Blood rushed to Dufresne’s face. I don’t normally like to antagonize cops. But this man’s undeserved swagger annoyed me.

He swallowed his anger and said, “I’m pretty sure everything was done properly in this case — unless you have evidence?”

“Well, I just got started,” I said. “So if there is something to find, you better believe I’ll find it. If I had to tell you how many times I caught your department in scandals, we’d be here until next month.”

“Look, if there’s some funny business here.” HIs face softened. “I want to know about it. I know you don’t believe me, but we’re not all corrupt around here.”

Dufresne reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a business card, and handed it to me. “If you find anything out of the ordinary, you give me a call, partner” he said.

I took the card and nodded. “I’ll do that,” I said, not sure if I actually meant it.

“I mean it,” he said. “I think he’s guilty. But if you find out something different, I’ll do anything I can to help.”

There was something off about this guy. But to be fair, I felt that way about most cops. Most on the force didn’t appreciate my reports about their malfeasance. But they usually didn’t approach me about it. Perhaps this guy was only an overeager detective.

“I appreciate it. By the way,” I began. “What can you tell me about the victim?”

“I didn’t work the case, but I know a few people on the team that did. He was shot three times, center mass. He worked for The Sanctuary Network — Chief Marketing Officer or something fancy like that.”

“How long had he worked there?”

“Almost a decade. He’s well known in certain circles.”

“Certain circles?”

“You know, the rich folks.” He gave a smile. “The ones whose murders tend to make a splash. Drove a Bugatti. Wore expensive suits. That kind of thing.”

“How could someone working for a rehab center afford all that?”

Dufresne shrugged. “I dunno. But he was loaded, for sure.”

“Who else have you looked at for the murder? Any other suspects?”

“Wait—is this on the record?”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

“I don’t need my name in the papers over this,” Dufresne said. “Like I said, I’m narcotics, not homicide. I doubt they looked at anyone else though. His gun was at the crime scene with Vasquez’s fingerprints.”

“I get it. I’ll call you if I find anything that might pique your interest.”

“Thanks for the talk. But I’m telling you, this kid did the deed, partner.”

Bishop & Associates

Friday, 2:05 p.m.

Lafayette Square was my next stop. Before I left the jail, I sat in my Jeep and looked up Julian Vane, the victim. Dufresne’s take was accurate — this man moved in high circles.

Vane had posted a smorgasbord of pictures with prominent figures among the New Orleans elite on social media. He was flashy. Often wore white suits, his blonde hair tied into a ponytail without even a hint of frizz.

There was a video of an interview with another local news outlet that was reporting on The Sanctuary Network. “At the Sanctuary, we like to take a holistic approach to addiction,” he told the interviewer. “Addicts aren’t criminals. They are sick, and they need treatment, not prison.”

He spoke with the fervor of an activist and the practiced speech of a politician. Definitely not someone who Steve would have come into contact with — at least not knowingly.

The shotgun house on Iberville Street was a relic—one room wide and four rooms deep, painted a fading sage green that looked like it had been chosen during the Clinton administration and never touched again.

The front porch sagged slightly under the weight of a plastic patio chair and a wrought-iron bench that had given up the fight against rust years ago.

I parked my Jeep at the curb and killed the engine. A sign—hand-painted and peeling—hung from a chain near the door: R. BISHOP & ASSOCIATES, CRIMINAL DEFENSE. The “& Associates” part was a lie. It was only Remy Bishop and his paralegal, Mercedes Salinger. But he always told me it made him sound more sophisticated.

The front door was open, propped by a cinder block, and I could hear the low hum of a window unit air conditioner valiantly battling against the afternoon heat. I stepped onto a wooden porch that creaked like it was begging for mercy with each step.

I walked through the door into what had once been the house’s living room.

It was the waiting area. Two metal folding chairs, the kind you’d see at a church basement fundraiser, faced a small desk where a phone sat ringing unanswered.

The walls were cream-colored and bare except for a framed Tulane Law diploma and a black-and-white photograph of the 1992 civil rights march on Rampart Street. The floor was original hardwood, worn smooth in the center, and well used by frantic clients.

The air smelled like old paper and burnt coffee.

“I dunno what to tell you, Frank,” a Cajun-accented voice came from the room further to the back. “I told you, yeah? You can’t tell the judge he’s a douchebag and think he ain’t gonna hold you in contempt.”

Remy’s accent became thicker the further he got from the courthouse or any place where suits and ties aren’t required.

I walked deeper into the office. Remy leaned against his old oak desk. It looked like it once held a quill and parchment. He saw me enter and motioned for me to come in.

“You only got one more day, then you’ll be back on the streets,” Remy said into his phone. “Look, I gotta go. Try not to piss off anyone else while you’re in there.”

He hung up.

“Well I’ll be, it’s Jackson Harlow, super journalist.” He had a mischievous smile on his face as he shook my hand. “How long has it been?”

“It’s been way too long, Gambit,” I said. “I needed to see my favorite defense attorney.”

“Man, they make one cajun character and now I’m stuck with that nickname for life.”

I laughed. “You prefer The Avengers over the X-Men anyway.”

“So what brings you to my humble abode?”

Remy was about 5’11, lanky, and about as Creole a pot full of etouffee and gumbo. He wore light blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, with black slacks. His eyes were weary, like he hadn’t slept in two days. In fact, that was how he always looked.

He sat down behind his desk and gestured for me to have a seat. “You hungry, brother? I made these po’ boys that’ll change your life.”

I believed him. Remy was one of the best cooks I’d ever met.

“You hear about Steve Vasquez?”

“Vasquez? That kid in Mid-City?”

“Yeah.”

“I heard a little something about it, yeah.”

“I tutored him when he was little. Known the family for years.”

Remy picked up a white coffee mug and took a sip.

“He got popped for murder, yeah? The rich dude in the Garden District?”

“Yes, Julian Vane. Worked at The Sanctuary Network.”

“They gonna throw the book at that kid.” Remy shook his head.

“That’s actually why I’m here.” It was time for the sales pitch. “I spoke with Steve earlier today. It’s bad, Remy. His public defender doesn’t seem interested in giving him an actual defense.”

“Figures. These public defenders are more like prosecutor’s assistants these days.”

“I wanted to see if you could look into it. Maybe represent him?”

“Aww shit, I should have known.” Remy put the coffee cup down and pushed back his dark, curly hair. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing tan forearms.

“How bad is it?”

The look on my face told him everything he needed to know.

“That bad?” Remy asked.

I explained the evidence the police collected. The gun. The gold chain. The location of his truck. Remy sat back in his chair and started at the ceiling.

“Jackson, I love ya like a brother, but this kid ain’t gonna make it, no matter who’s defending him.”

“I know Steve. He wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“He got a record?”

This was going about as well as the Vietnam War.

“He got busted for selling weed five years ago,” I said. “But since then, he’s been straight. Last I heard he was working as an electrician’s apprentice. Wanted to start his own business someday.”

“Tale as old as time,” Remy said. “He got railroaded for some shit that shouldn’t be illegal in the first place. But the DA’s office don’t care.”

“Sounds like the DA wants him for this murder.”

“And they will probably get him, Jackson. I can’t help here. I wish I could.”

“Bro, he has nobody,” I said. “His mom is a wreck. She reached out to me to see if I could help. I gave her my word that I would do whatever I could.”

“I understand, but—”

“Remy, I know it looks bad. But there’s got to be more to this story. I know it.”

“There might be. But the system don’t care. You know that.”

“Could you at least take a look at it? Maybe speak with him? They’re holding him at Orleans.”

Remy sighed. He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with a cloth. I waited. If Remy wasn’t willing to help Steve, I didn’t know what else to do. But I’d been friends with him for years. This was the type of case he loved—those where the government picked on people who couldn’t fight for themselves. It’s one of the reasons we bonded when we met.

“What if he really didn’t do it?” I said. “It means the government will claim another victim.”

Remy said, “Look, I get you’re friends with the guy. But I have other clients who also need my attention.”

The look on my face must have given me away again because he added, “Okay, maybe not many. But still. I need a win. And this ain’t a winning case, no.”

I decided now was the time to drop the bomb. “Then I guess Lena Thorne will take another scalp.”

Remy’s eyebrows shot up so quickly I thought they were about to leap off his face. Then they settled into the rest of his scowl. He looked like he’d caught a guy beating an old woman half to death.

“Lena Thorne is prosecuting the case?” he asked.

I knew this would woprk. Leslie Thorne was the new up-and-coming star in the district attorney’s office. She and Remy had a history, but I was a bit murky on the details. It would be accurate to say he wasn’t a fan of hers.

“You should have led with that. I’ll talk to him.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I’m not making no promises. Just a conversation so I can feel this out, okay?”

“That’s all I ask. I should tell you up front, the family probably won’t be able to pay.”

“I figured.”

“But I’m sure we could convince Imelda to make some of her world-famous tamales for you.”

He laughed. “You know Mexican food is my kryptonite.”

Lagniappe Coffee Shop

Friday, 4 p.m.

Estelle Mason sat across from me at the Lagniappe Coffee Shop across the street from Memory House Antiques. We became friends during the Case of the Grinning Golly.

The shop’s owner, Dolly Mercier, had been bludgeoned to death by a young left-wing activist named Kyle Weston, who is now serving a life sentence.

Mercier had bequeathed the shop to Estelle, who managed her shop for years before her death.

I filled her in on the Vasquez case.

Estelle went quiet, taking it all in. She leaned forward.

“And you think he didn’t do it? Even with all the evidence?” Estelle said.

“He didn’t do it.”

Estelle pulled one of her dreadlocks behind her ear and adjusted her yellow blouse, which gave a nice contrast with her pecan-colored skin.

“But what about the evidence, Jackson? It seems so damning.”

“Yeah it does. But I’ve seen cases like this before. There has to be something else going on.”

“How can you be so sure?”

I took a sip of coffee and settled into my chair. It was hard to explain. I understood that my friendship with Steve and his family could be coloring my perspective. Usually I would account for that. But it wasn’t easy to communicate the kind of person Steve was to those who didn’t know him. I tried anyway.

“I’ll tell you a story. It happened when Steve was about fourteen, fifteen years old. His died had just been killed in an accident on a job site.”

Estelle’s eyes widened. “That must have been hard on them.”

“It was. There was no settlement. No money coming in. His mom had to work double shifts leaning houses in the Garden District to keep the lights on.”

I paused to take another sip, already thinking about my next cup.

“Steve’s little sister Bianca—she was in sixth grade at the time. Her school was doing this field trip. But her family couldn’t afford to pay for her to go, which means she would have been left behind while her friends got to have fun.”

“That happened to me when I was that age. It was humiliating. The other kids teased me for months,” Estelle said.

“Exactly. Steve didn’t want that to happen to Bianca. So he began doing some odd jobs for a contractor—under the table, cash, dangerous shit for a kid that age,” I said. “Electrical work, construction cleanup, anything he could get. He did this for four weeks straight. After school, weekends. All the money went to his mom so his sister could go on the trip. That smile never left her face.”

I sat back in my chair. Estelle waited.

“Bianca went to Colonial Williamsburg or wherever it was. And Steve went back to being broke. That’s not the kind of thing a killer does, Estelle. That’s the kind of person Steve has always been — even when he got into trouble for selling weed.”

“You mentioned that.”

“He started dealing shortly after to help him mother keep things afloat. This was after Hector, his older brother, got involved with the wrong crowd. But Steve hasn’t gotten in trouble since. He made a promise to his mother that he would look for other ways to make money.”

“And now he’s in jail for murder.” Estelle shook her head, her jaw clenched.

“Yes. At least, for now. I plan to find out what’s really going on.”

“I’m glad he has someone like you on his side.”

“I hope it’ll be enough. I know a defense attorney. He promised to speak with Steve, but didn’t commit to representing him yet.”

“I hope he changes his mind.”

“Me too.”

Estelle pulled out her phone. “I’ve been looking at the news about the case. The headlines aren’t great.” She handed me her phone.

DEVELOPING: Executive Brutally Murdered By Teenage Drug Dealer

Julian Vane Tragically Slain, Suspect’s Gun Found In His Home

Teenage Drug Kingpin Brutally Kills Beloved Rehab Exec

This is what I hated about media. Too many outlets pretending to speak truth to power are all too willing to promote the system’s propaganda.

“Typical. They are already convicting him on the airwaves and interwebs. I can’t even imagine what they’re saying on cable news,” I said.

“It makes sense. Julian Vane was a quasi-local celebrity with The Sanctuary Network. Are you familiar with them?”

“Yes, I’ve known Cassandra Rose for a long time. I did a report on them a few years back. They do good work.”

“Really? Small world. One of my best friends works with them too. Patricia Langley. She struggled with drugs since she was a teenager,” Estelle said. “But when she linked up with The Sanctuary, it turned her life around. Like night and day.”

“I believe it. I’m going to reach out to Cassandra tonight, see what she can tell me about Julian.”

Estelle nodded. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him. I mean, I didn’t know him. But I wouldn’t imagine he’d have any enemies.”

“One thing I learned in this business, you never know what someone might be hiding.”

The Harlow Residence

Friday, 7 p.m.

I was at my home, tearing into a New York strip like a starving Rottweiler. But even a rare steak couldn’t distract me from the Vasquez family.

I was frustrated. I managed to persuade Remy to speak with Steve and had even gathered some information relevant to the case. But I still felt I wasn’t making progress.

It was still early in the process. But I couldn’t get the image of Steve’s weary face behind the glass out of my mind.

It was time to call Cassandra Rose. It had been over a year since I last spoke with her. I covered The Sanctuary Network awhile back. Our relationship ended amicably — we had drifted apart because of our careers. My article went viral, with thousands of dollars in donations pouring into the organization.

If Vane worked for her, then she might be able to offer some insight the police missed.

“Jackson Harlow. This is a lovely surprise,” she answered the phone. “Where have you been?”

“Well, right now I just got done devouring the best steak I ever made.”

“Rare?”

“You know how I feel about communists who burn their steaks.”

“Oh, I remember a lot of things,” she said, giggling. I could almost hear her wink at me through the phone.

“How have you been, Cass?”

“Things were going great until a week ago.”

Her voice was a soothing alto that would put the sirens to shame. But the weariness –– and grief –– wasn’t easy to hide.

“Yeah, I heard about what happened to Julian Vane. It’s actually why I called.”

Cassandra said something unintelligible to another person. I could hear a cacophony of voices tittering on the other end. It almost sounded like a football game.

“Sorry about that. Are you planning to cover this story?” she said, her voice slightly rising.

“I am. I know other outlets have already reported on the murder. But I’d like to dig deeper.”

I didn’t tell her about my mission to clear Steve’s name yet. Depending on how this went, that might have come later.

“Does this mean we get to do another interview? It would be so nice to see you again, Jackson.” Cassandra had the uncanny ability to make any sentence sound seductive. She could read the dictionary aloud and still have men fighting over her like they were trying to win a gold medal.

“Yes. I figured you’d know more than anyone.”

“Well, I don’t have much time right now—things are so busy over here. But I have a few minutes.”

“I appreciate it. Did he have any enemies? Anyone who would want him dead?”

She paused. Someone was speaking to her again.

“Sorry again, Jackson. We’re preparing for our annual Freedom Gala tomorrow night so everything is a bit hectic here.”

“You and your parties.”

“I’ve never heard you complain about our little parties.” I heard her smile through the phone.

“Well, you have a point.”

“So, you asked about enemies.” I was always amazed at how she could go from flirtatious to business in less than a nanosecond. “He had none that I know of. He was very respected in high society. But when you run in these circles, you never see who’s waiting to plunge a dagger into your back.”

“I see.”

“I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt him though. He did so much good here. But the police seem to have a pretty good case against that young man.”

“Let me ask you this. What kind of work did Julian do for The Sanctuary?”

“Julian ran our marketing team. Social media. Radio spots. That kind of thing. He was a magician when it came to speaking to donors––brought in floods of donations.”

“How long had he been working for you?”

“About nine or ten years. He was actually a client here before he joined the team. He struggled with opioids and turned his life around through our program.”

If I’d had a quarter for every success story I’d heard about The Sanctuary, I could buy more private jets than a televangelist.

“Sounds like he was your poster boy.”

“I think that’s accurate.”

“Did Steve Vasquez ever come into contact with Julian before the murder?”

Another pause. But this time I didn’t hear anyone else speaking to her.

“Sorry, Jackson. They need me in the office to put the finishing touches on the gala.”

“Okay, no problem. Maybe we could set up another time for an interview?”

“Actually, I have a better idea. Why don’t you come join the party tomorrow? I’ll put you on the list. I should be able to pull myself away long enough for a more...intimate conversation.” There it was again. That soft tone that used to drive me crazy.

“That would be a great idea. It would be nice to see you again.”

“Alright,” she chirped. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. Gala starts at 7 p.m. Feel free to bring a date if you want.”

“I’m not dating anyone right now, but I appreciate it.”

“Awwwww,” she cooed in a voice that sounded more enthusiastic than sad. “Well maybe we can fix that tomorrow.”

We hung up. I wasn’t happy about the circumstances surrounding our reunion. But I was looking forward to seeing her again.

Thank you so much for reading The Case of the Grinning Golly.

I’m deeply grateful for every read, every comment, and every bit of encouragement, and I’m especially thankful that so many of you connected with the story’s mood, its emotional core, and the chase for the truth beneath the surface.

The next case, The Clean Fix, is coming soon, and I expect to begin sharing it within the next two weeks.

This time, Jackson finds himself trying to help a friend who has been framed for murder, only to discover that the case is tied to something much bigger than it first appears.

I won’t give away any major turns, but I can say this: the stakes are personal, the danger grows fast, and Jackson will be forced to make decisions that could redefine who he is.

I’m very excited to bring you this one, and I hope you’ll join me for the next ride.

This episode may be too long for email. Read the full episode here.

Previously on The Grinning Golly:

Jackson finally flushed out Kyle Weston, chasing him from Pierce Lemaine’s campaign office to a warehouse rooftop, where he talked the shaken young killer out of both suicide and further violence, only for Detective Julius Brennan to shoot Kyle during his surrender in what looks more like a silencing than a mistake.

Chaos erupted. Officers swarmed. Someone tackled me—I think they thought I was involved, thought I posed a threat. My face hit the roof hard. Hands cuffed my wrists behind my back.

“He already dropped his gun!” I shouted. “He was surrendering!”

But the officers weren’t listening. They were securing the scene. EMS was already on the way up. Kyle was bleeding out on the roof, with three bullet wounds to his torso.

Fontenot stood over Brennan. He’d seen it too: an unarmed suspect, hands raised, complying, shot without provocation.

“Brennan,” Fontenot said quietly.

Brennan’s face was pale. His hands shook. “He was reaching. He was—”

“He wasn’t reaching for anything,” Fontenot growled. “The gun was on the ground.”

Brennan was either too jumpy to wear a badge or he was lying.

EMS arrived. They worked on Kyle, stabilizing him, loading him onto a stretcher. He was unconscious. Bleeding. Critical.

They took him down the stairs and loaded him into an ambulance.

New Orleans Police Department

Friday, 6:24 p.m.

I sat in an interrogation room.

They’d taken my statement three times. Why was I on the roof? How did I know Kyle would be there? Why was I alone with him? What did he say to me?

I answered everything. Truthfully. Carefully. I was a journalist. I was following a lead. Kyle had fled to the warehouse after the confrontation at Lemaine’s office. I’d tracked him there. I’d called Fontenot. I’d been trying to talk him down when police arrived.

The detectives weren’t satisfied, but they knew I would lawyer up if they pushed further. Also, they had nothing to hold me on. Eventually, they let me go.

It was past midnight when Fontenot found me in the hallway.

“Kyle’s in surgery,” he said. “They don’t know if he’ll make it.”

I nodded.

“I saw what happened up there,” Fontenot said quietly. “Kyle was surrendering. Brennan shot him anyway.”

“I know,” I said.

“Brennan’s on administrative leave. Internal Affairs is investigating. But his story is that Kyle reached for something. That he perceived a threat.”

“That’s a lie,” I said.

“I know,” Fontenot said. “But proving it is going to be hard. It’s his word against ours. And he’s a twelve-year veteran with a clean record.”

I looked at Fontenot. “Why did he do it?”

“I don’t know,” Fontenot said. “But I’m going to find out.”

Charlie Liu’s Apartment

Sunday, 12 p.m.

I pulled into Charlie’s apartment complex. I had taken Saturday off. I needed some time to myself after catching Kyle, who was still in the hospital in critical condition. If there were no unexpected complications, he was expected to recover.

But I couldn’t visit him yet. So I did the next best thing and showed up at Charlie’s apartment. He had confessed, but there were still questions that needed answering.

And Charlie was the one to answer them — whether he wanted to or not.

I knocked.

After ten seconds, I knocked again.

Charlie opened the door and flinched when he saw me. I hadn’t let him know I was coming. His eyes widened, and he put his hands up, palms facing me, as if he expected me to give him the beating he deserved.

But I wasn’t here for that.

“Relax. I’m not going to hurt you. But you owe me after what you did. I need some information and you’re going to give it to me,” I said.

He didn’t say anything, but nodded and beckoned for me to come in. He opened his mouth to speak, but I didn’t let him.

“I want everything,” I said. “Passwords. Access logs. The encrypted messages. All of it. Now.”

He didn’t say a word. He walked to his desk, collapsed into his chair, and fired up his laptop. He walked me through the whole operation again. The CMS backdoor he’d installed. The keystroke logger. The fake analysis he’d run when Mavis brought him in to investigate the “data breach.”

He showed me the encrypted messages from TruthKeeper_74, the cryptocurrency payments he’d received, the burner accounts he’d created to amplify harassment campaigns against me.

It was methodical. Professional. Designed to be subtle enough that it would take someone looking hard to catch.

He’d been good at it.

“Do you have any way to trace this TruthKeeper_74?” I asked.

“I tried,” Charlie said. “After Sadie died, I tried to trace them back. The crypto payments came through shell companies. The IP addresses bounced through proxies. But there was one thing...”

He pulled up a chat log.

“Here,” he said, pointing. “This message came from a device that wasn’t using a proxy. Took me hours to find it, but if you run it through a geolocation service...”

I leaned in. The IP address came back to a location in New Orleans. A very specific location.

An office building on Poydras Street. “Look up the businesses that are in that building.”

Charlie did as I commanded.

I looked at him. “Did you know? Did you know who you were working for?”

“Not until now,” Charlie said. “I swear, I didn’t know until I started looking into it after Sadie died and realized what I’d done. And by then I was too scared to—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

One of the businesses belonged to Theo Guidry, one of Lemaine’s staffers. The one who tried to stop me from speaking with the councilman after his press conference in front of Memory House.

I snorted. “You said you wanted to take down the system — but you didn’t even know you were working for the system. Some revolutionary.”

“Jackson, I know it doesn’t matter. But I really am sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter. I could deal with the leaks. But what you did with my family was personal. You went way too far.”

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck and slumped in his chair.

“I know I did. I have no excuse. I fucked up. I let this guy manipulate me, and—”

“You hurt people. Not just me. Did you even think about the bigger picture?”

He looked up.

“Don’t you see what you did? You became exactly like every one of those influencers who profits from outrage. People harassed Sadie because of what you did. You have no idea what that’s like.”

He nodded, as if he were finally understanding the full scope of what he had done.

“You became just another person using your talents to push hatred. The exact type of person who I fight against. You know who actually benefits from this? The people you say you hate.”

“I’m sorry I—” Charlie stammered.

“Save it. I don’t want your apologies anymore. Stop being sorry. Start being better,” I snapped. “You’re lucky Mavis hasn’t gone to the police with this. If it were me, it might be different story. You might want to take this opportunity to do some soul searching.”

I stood up to leave and headed for the door.

“Jackson wait,” Charlie said.

I stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“I’m going to make this up to you. I promise. Whatever I have to do.”

“I don’t know if you can,” I said before opening the door and walking back to my car.

Hospital - Kyle’s room
Thursday, 4:00 p.m.

Kyle had survived the surgery. Barely.

It was almost a week later. He was in the ICU, handcuffed to the bed, with two uniformed officers posted outside his door. Fontenot arranged for me to see him. Officially, I was there as a witness providing additional information. Unofficially, Fontenot wanted me to hear what Kyle had to say.

I spent the past few days checking in on Estelle, working on my final report on the golliwog murders, and spending time with my dad and grandmother.

The case was finished. But there was something still nagging at the back of my mind. That’s why I needed to see Kyle.

He looked small in the hospital bed. Pale. Broken. Tubes and wires everywhere. But he wasn’t dead.

His eyes opened when I sat down.

“You’re alive,” I said.

“Barely,” Kyle whispered. His voice was weak. “That officer... he tried to kill me.”

“I know,” I said.

Kyle’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t understand. I was surrendering. I had my hands up.”

“I know,” I said. “We’re going to figure out why he did that. But first, I need to understand something else. I need to understand how you got to this point.”

Kyle was quiet for a long moment.

“I know you’ve been betrayed,” I said. “But I’m a journalist, not a cop. And I’m going to tell this story with or without your help. You have a choice about how your story gets told.”

Kyle nodded slowly, as if the effort to move his head was like lifting a boulder.

“I’m trying to understand the truth,” I said. “The public deserves to know.”

Kyle looked at me. His expression shifted—something between hope and resignation.

“There isn’t much to tell, Jackson. I thought I was doing what needed to be done.”

“Humor me. Start from the beginning. I want to understand your political evolution.”

He nodded, but looked confused.

I pulled my chair closer to the bed. “How did you meet Lemaine?”

“About eight months ago,” Kyle said. “I was volunteering at a protest. Lemaine was there, speaking to the crowd. After the speech, he came up to me. He knew my name. He’d read something I wrote on social media about climate activism. He said I was special. That I understood things most people didn’t.”

“What did he say exactly?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Kyle, I’ve been watching the movement, and I see a lot of people talking. A lot of noise. But there are very few people who are actually willing to think critically. To go deeper. To ask hard questions about what real change requires.’ And then he asked if I wanted to intern for his campaign.”

I wrote it down. The language was careful. Flattering. Designed to appeal to a young idealist. Lemaine is the consummate politician.

“What happened next?” I asked.

“He became a mentor to me,” Kyle said. His voice was distant, like he was reliving it. “He’d call me into his office. We’d talk about politics, activism, the state of the country. He’d recommend books. He’d share articles. I felt like I was part of something bigger.”

“What kind of things?” I pressed.

Kyle hesitated. “He’d say things like, ‘The system is designed to make people feel powerless. The media, the institutions—they all work together to prevent real change.’ And, ‘Most activists get co-opted. They accept symbolism and the crumbs the system throws them and call it victory.’”

That’s the thing about politicians. They know all the right things to say. Lemaine was right, of course, but I wasn’t convinced he was going to do anything about it.

“Did he say what the alternative was?” I asked. “What real change looked like?”

Kyle’s jaw tightened. “He said real change required people willing to cross lines. To do things that made them uncomfortable. To understand that sometimes the system only responds to disruption, not debate.”

Something shifted in my chest, but I wasn’t quite sure why. I decided to follow this line of thought.

“Go on,” I said quietly.

“Then one day, he showed me an article,” Kyle continued. “It was about Dolly’s shop. About how she was selling golliwogs. He asked me what I thought about it. I gave the standard answer—that it was offensive, that it should be removed from the community, that she was perpetuating racism.”

“And he said?” I prompted.

“He said I was right. But then he asked me a question that stuck with me. He asked, ‘But what happens if you just talk about it? What happens if you just protest? Does Mercier change? Does the community move forward?’”

“What did you answer?”

“I said no,” Kyle said. “I said that sometimes people don’t change until they feel consequences. And Pierce nodded like I’d said something profound. Like I’d unlocked some secret truth.”

I wrote it down. There was something compelling about this. Was it more than just simple political conversation?

Lemaine was making Kyle feel like he was discovering it himself.

“How did you come across that fake story about Dolly and the Aryan Patriots?” I asked.

Kyle’s eyes widened slightly. “How did you know it was fake?”

“I’ve been investigating,” I said. “I know the evidence connecting Dolly to the Aryan Nation doesn’t exist. So it was fabricated. It was deliberate disinformation.”

Kyle was quiet for a long moment, processing this.

“About four weeks ago,” he said finally. “He called me into his office late one night. He said he’d been doing research. That he’d uncovered something disturbing. He showed me screenshots. Text messages between Dolly and Ryan Daltrey, the hate group leader. They were talking about coordinating a rally in Jackson Square. About using it as an opportunity to intimidate black people.”

“Did you verify any of this?” I asked.

“No,” Kyle said. “Why would I? I trusted him. He’s a city councilman. I thought he had access to information the public doesn’t.”

“What did he say when he showed you the evidence?”

Kyle closed his eyes. “He said, ‘Kyle, this is exactly what I was talking about. This is why our conversations matter. Most people would never see this. They’d never understand the real threat we’re facing. But you do. You understand what’s at stake.’”

I leaned back. Was I hearing what I thought I was hearing? Lemaine had isolated Kyle—made him feel like they shared a special understanding. Like they were in a conspiracy of enlightenment together.

“What did your parents think?”

Kyle scoffed. “Dad’s too busy making deals and mom’s too busy spending his money. They never paid much attention to me—especially when it came to politics. I was more of an ornament than a person to them,” he fumed.

“And then what?” I asked.

“Then he said something that I think about every day now,” Kyle said. His voice cracked. “He said, ‘The thing about people like Mercier is that they don’t believe words matter. They don’t believe protests matter. They only understand power. They only understand consequences.’”

“Did he say what kind of consequences?” I asked carefully.

Kyle didn’t answer immediately. He stared at the ceiling, at the fluorescent lights, at nothing.

“Kyle, did he tell you to kill Dolly?”

“No, he never said that. After he showed me how dangerous she was I made up my own mind.”

I looked at him. He could read my facial expression perfectly. He paused. Then, it hit him. His mouth dropped.

“Wait…no,” he said. “I mean—”

I waited.

His head fell back into his pillow. He stared at the ceiling. “Fuck. This can’t be happening.”

He paused for what felt like an hour.

“He didn’t say it directly,” Kyle said finally. “But the implication was clear. He was saying that Mercier wouldn’t stop selling those statues until she faced a consequence that frightened her. That made her understand the weight of what she was doing.”

“And you believed he meant—” I started.

“I believed he meant fear,” Kyle interrupted. “I thought maybe there would be more protests. More confrontation. More pressure. I didn’t think he meant...”

He trailed off. But I understood. He’d convinced himself it would stop short of murder. Until it didn’t.

“Kyle,” I said, “did Lemaine ever use specific language about taking action? About crossing lines?”

Kyle nodded slowly. “He had this phrase he’d use. He’d say, ‘The question isn’t whether we’re willing to fight. The question is whether we’re willing to be effective.’ And when I’d ask what he meant, he’d say things like, ‘Some battles are won in the court of public opinion. Some are won in the streets. And some... some are won by people willing to do what others won’t.’”

“Like John Brown?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said excitedly. “He talked about John Brown all the time.”

I felt my pulse quicken. That was it. That was the language of manipulation. Vague enough to deny later. Powerful enough to plant the seed.

“Let me ask you something,” I said. “After you killed Dolly, what was his reaction?”

Kyle’s eyes filled with tears. “I called him. The day after. I was terrified. I didn’t know what I’d done. I couldn’t believe it had happened. But I didn’t tell him. I was too afraid.”

“But he knew Dolly was dead, right?”

“He did. All he said was that her death was unfortunate. But for people like Dolly, the chickens come home to roost.”

I sat back. The picture was becoming clear. Lemaine had groomed Kyle, filled his head with ideology, shown him fake evidence, planted the seeds of violence—and then, when Kyle acted, Lemaine had validated it, indirectly. He’d reinforced the belief that Kyle had done something noble.

“Kyle,” I said quietly, “I need you to understand something. Lemaine didn’t accidentally radicalize you. This wasn’t happenstance. He was strategic. He was working toward a specific outcome.”

Kyle looked at me. “What are you talking about? You think he hated her enough to want her dead?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s more than that. I’m talking about the fact that Lemaine needed a distraction,” I said. “He had a scandal about to break. A reporter was about to expose that he’d been sleeping with a seventeen-year-old girl. The daughter of one of his staffers. She dropped the article two days after you killed Dolly.”

Kyle’s eyes widened. “Wait…what?”

“You didn’t know? You didn’t see it in the news?”

“I didn’t. Everything online was about what I did. I remember hearing some staffers talk about it, but I assumed it was a rumor.”

I said, “It wasn’t. He slept with a 17-year-old girl, got her pregnant, and forced her to get an abortion. It’s a scandal that would have ended his political career.”

Kyle’s head dropped into his hands. He looked like he was about to cry again. The man he’d idolized was a monster.

I continued, “And then suddenly, two murders happen. Murders that spark a citywide debate about political violence and activism and racism. Suddenly, Lemaine is the voice of reason. The healing leader. The one who can bring people together.”

“That’s...” Kyle started.

“That’s exactly what Lemaine needed,” I finished. “That’s why he groomed you. That’s why he showed you fake evidence. He may not have been planning to manipulate you into killing Dolly six months ago. But he knew an impressionable young man could be useful at some point. That’s why he kept reinforcing the idea that you were special and brave and doing what was necessary. He was programming you.”

Kyle’s hands shook. The machines around him beeped erratically, responding to his elevated heart rate.

“No,” he said. “No, he wouldn’t... he believed in the same things I believed in. He cared about social justice. He cared about—”

“He cared about power,” I said. My voice was hard. “Everything else was secondary. He used your idealism against you. He took your genuine passion for justice and twisted it into violence. And when you became a liability, when Sadie died and the whole thing started to fall apart—”

“Don’t say it.” Kyle stared at me.

“Kyle, why do you think that officer shot you?”

“I dunno why — I was surrendering.”

“Yes, you weren’t a threat. Your gun was on the ground. You complied. And he shot you three times anyway.”

“Think about it Kyle. Who benefits from you dying before your trial?”

“That’s...” Kyle’s voice broke. “That’s not possible. Pierce wouldn’t—”

Kyle closed his eyes again. A tear ran down his cheek.

“What do I do?” Kyle whispered.

“You tell the truth,” I said. “You tell Fontenot everything. Every conversation with Lemaine. Every article he showed you. Every phrase he used.”

“Will that help?” Kyle asked.

“It might,” I said. “It might not. It seems Lemaine did just enough to push you to murder while giving himself a level of deniability. But you have to try.”

Kyle was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell them everything.”

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Lagniappe Coffee Shop
Friday, 12 p.m.

Fontenot called me around noon the next day.

“We need to talk about Brennan,” he said. No preamble. No small talk. Just business.

I met him at Lagniappe Coffee Shop three blocks from the police station. Neutral ground. The kind of place where cops and journalists could sit without drawing too much attention.

Fontenot looked tired. The kind of tired that comes from not sleeping because your brain won’t stop.

“Internal Affairs is investigating the shooting,” he said, sliding a folder across the table. “But they’re moving slow. Union pressure. Brennan’s got a clean record. Twelve years on the force, no complaints, commendations for bravery.”

“He shot an unarmed suspect,” I said.

“I know,” Fontenot said. “I was there. I saw it. But his story is that Kyle made a threatening move. That he perceived imminent danger. And unless we can prove otherwise, it’s his word against ours.”

“What do you need from me?” I asked.

“I need you to dig,” Fontenot said. “He won’t talk to us. Find out if Brennan had a reason to want Kyle dead. Find out if someone paid him. Find out if there’s a connection between Brennan and anyone involved in this case. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

I opened the folder. Inside were basic details: Julius Brennan, 49, married, one daughter, home address in Metairie.

“I’ll start with his finances,” I said.

The Bayou Chronicle

Friday, 2:00 p.m.

I went back to the Chronicle and started pulling everything I could find on Julius Brennan.

Public records. Property records. Court filings. Credit reports. Social media. Everything.

What I found was a man drowning in debt.

Brennan had a second mortgage on his house. Credit card debt approaching $80,000. Multiple hospital bills in collections. And then, buried in the medical records—a name. Emma Brennan. Age seven. Diagnosis: acute lymphoblastic leukemia.

I called a contact at Tulane Medical Center. She owed me a favor from a story I’d killed two years ago when her department had a data breach.

“Emma Brennan,” I said. “Can you tell me anything about her treatment?”

There was a pause. “I can’t give you patient information, Jackson. You know that.”

“I’m not asking for medical details,” I said. “I’m asking about payment. Specifically, whether anyone made a large payment on her behalf in the last month.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“There was a payment,” she said finally. “Two weeks ago. Anonymous donor. Quarter million dollars. Covered the entire experimental treatment protocol.”

My blood went cold.

“Do you have any idea where it came from?” I asked.

“Shell company,” she said. “Routed through three different accounts. Whoever paid didn’t want to be traced.”

I thanked her and hung up. Then I called Charlie Liu.

“I need your help,” I said.

Charlie Liu’s Apartment

Saturday, 3:45 p.m.

I was at Charlie’s apartment. His hands shook slightly. He was still trying to atone for his sabotage. And he was probably afraid I’d slug him. I was still angry. But I also knew he was the only one who could help me.

I showed him the shell company information.

“Can you trace it?” I asked.

Charlie pulled out his laptop and got to work. His fingers flew across the keyboard as he navigated through layers of cryptocurrency transactions, corporate registrations, IP addresses.

“It’s sophisticated,” he said. “Whoever set this up knew what they were doing. Multiple shell companies, routed through different exchanges, proxied through foreign servers.”

“But can you trace it?” I pressed.

“Maybe,” Charlie said. “If I can find a pattern. If they reused anything.”

He typed for another twenty minutes. Then he stopped.

“Here,” he said, pointing at the screen. “This is interesting.”

The shell company that paid for Emma Brennan’s treatment was registered through the same cryptocurrency exchange that had been used to pay Charlie for his sabotage work. The same one who paid him to post the most devastating chapter of my life online for all to see.

“That’s not proof of anything,” Charlie said. “Lots of people use these exchanges.”

“But look at this,” I said. I pulled up the messages Fontenot had recovered from Brennan’s burner phone. The encrypted conversations with “Resolver.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “That’s the same handle. The same account. It’s using the same signature in the metadata. The way the messages are timestamped, the server routes—it’s the same person.”

My pulse quickened. “Can you trace the actual identity behind the account?”

Charlie shook his head. “Not definitively. But I can trace the location where the messages were sent from. Look at this—these timestamps coincide with office hours. And the server pings are coming from the same IP address.”

He pulled up a geolocation map.

“That IP,” he said, pointing, “is registered to a business address on Poydras Street.”

Our eyes met. That address again. The same person who paid Charlie to sabotage me was also paying Brennan’s daughter’s medical bills.

“I don’t know if that’s enough for a warrant,” Charlie said. “But it’s enough to know we’re looking in the right place.”

I called Fontenot immediately.

“I think I’ve found something,” I said. “Can you meet me at my place?”

Brennan Residence

Saturday, 6:09 p.m.

I found Brennan outside his house that evening. He was sitting on his porch, staring at nothing, smoking a cigarette. His wife and daughter were inside. I could see them through the window—his daughter watching TV, bald from chemotherapy, wrapped in a blanket.

I sat down next to him without asking.

“You don’t have to talk to me,” I said. “But I’m going to talk to you.”

Brennan took a drag from his cancer stick.

“Your daughter’s name is Emma,” I said. “She has leukemia. You couldn’t afford the treatment. And someone offered to pay for it if you did one thing.”

Brennan’s jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed.

“I’m not judging you,” I said. “I lost my four-year-old daughter about ten years ago. I know what it’s like to want to save your child. To be willing to do anything.”

Brennan exercised his right to remain silent.

“You had a choice,” I said. “You chose your daughter over Kyle Weston. I understand that. But Kyle was unarmed. He was surrendering. And you shot him anyway.”

Brennan’s hands shook. “He was a murderer,” he said as if he had rehearsed this. “I thought he was reaching for the gun.”

“He was in custody,” I said. “And someone told you to kill him before he could testify. Who?”

Brennan didn’t answer.

“Was it Guidry?” I asked. “Did Theo Guidry reach out to you?”

Brennan looked at me for the first time. His eyes were red.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to give you anything you can use,” he said, dryly.

“How did he contact you?” I asked.

“I don’t know who it was,” he said. “Used a fake name. Everything came through him. The messages. The instructions. The money. The guy used an encrypted app. Said he was acting on behalf of someone who needed the situation resolved. Said if I made sure Kyle didn’t make it to trial, Emma would get her treatment.”

“Did he tell you anything about himself?” I pressed.

“No,” Brennan said.

“Did he ever say who he was working for?” I asked.

Brennan shook his head. “I’m not stupid. I knew what was happening. A murder happens, I’m ordered to eliminate the suspect, and suddenly my daughter’s treatment is paid for. I knew someone powerful was involved.”

I stood up. “I’m going to the police with this. And when I do, you have a choice: you can cooperate and maybe save yourself, or you can stay quiet and go down for murder.”

Brennan shook his head. “If the police ask me about this, I’ll pretend this conversation never happened. They won’t find anything. It’ll be your word against mine. Who do you think they will believe? A nosy reporter or a 12-year veteran?”

Brennan looked at his house. At his daughter.

“You don’t have to do this, Brennan. You’re going to let another criminal get away.”

“If I testify,” he said, “they’ll come after Emma. They’ll make sure the payments stop.”

“If you testify, the people who put you up to this will go to prison,” I said. “Once they’re locked up, they can’t touch anyone. But if you don’t testify, they walk free. And they’ll keep doing this to other people. To other cops. To other desperate people who need help.”

Brennan was quiet for a long time. He seemed to be on the verge of breaking.

“It can’t be easy to be in the debt of someone who would have you possibly throw away your career,” I prodded.

“Jackson. I appreciate you, but I can’t. You’re a father. You know exactly where I’m coming from.”

I did. But I didn’t like it.

I realized he wasn’t going to break. “You do realize that if I manage to put this all together some other way, it could make things worse for you, right?”

“I’ll have to take that chance.

I wanted to keep pressing. Ask him what his daughter would think of him almost killing an unarmed suspect. But there was no point.

I walked away, leaving Brennan sitting on his porch.

It was a little after six o’clock p.m. I was in my car on the way to the office. I called Fontenot.

“Jackson. What’d you find out?”

“Brennan all but confirmed it,” I said. “But he won’t tell you about it. He’s keeping his mouth shut.”

Fontenot’s expression hardened. “He probably already destroyed evidence of his communications with Guidry. If he doesn’t talk, we got nothing, Harlow.”

He was right.

The Bayou Chronicle
Monday, 10:00 a.m.

Mavis was waiting for me when I got back to the newsroom.

“Tell me everything,” she said, closing her office door.

I walked her through it: Brennan’s daughter’s medical bills. The anonymous payment. Charlie’s cryptocurrency trace. The matching handles between Guidry’s communications with Brennan and his communications with Charlie. The geolocation data pointing to Guidry’s office.

Mavis listened without interrupting. When I finished, she leaned back in her chair.

“This proves Guidry paid Brennan,” she said. “It proves Guidry ordered Kyle’s execution. But it doesn’t matter because we can’t make it stick.”

Mavis exhaled. She reached into her drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon.

She didn’t ask whether I wanted some. She poured two glasses and pushed mine over to me.

It was a bourbon kind of day.

“We know Lemaine had Guidry pay Charlie to infiltrate the Chronicle. He paid Brennan to kill Kyle. And they were careful enough to conceal themselves,” I said. “They’re gonna get away with it, Mavis.”

“Even worse, Lemaine’s gonna win that election. He’s ahead by 20 points in the polls and the election is tomorrow,” Mavis said.

She poured two more drinks.

“Even if we could prove it was Guidry,” Mavis said. “Lemaine can claim he had no idea what Guidry was up to. He can say Guidry acted independently. He can say Guidry was trying to protect Lemaine’s campaign by eliminating a dangerous suspect. And without direct evidence linking Lemaine to the order, there’s not a damn thing we can prove.”

I felt the weight of it settling on me. Lemaine had been too careful. He’d used Guidry as a buffer. He’d used intermediaries and encrypted messages and coded language. He’d built a wall between himself and the actual crime.

But at least the bourbon was good.

Lemaine’s Campaign Office
Tuesday, 9:00 p.m.

The Crescent City Ballroom was packed.

Supporters and donors crowded around the stage where Mayor-elect Pierce Lemaine stood, his wife beside him, waving to the crowd. The returns were in. He’d won in a landslide. Sixty-three percent of the vote. A mandate, his campaign and the media would call it.

I watched from the back of the room. Hundreds of people were there. Soaking in a victory that wasn’t theirs.

Lemaine gave his victory speech. All the right words. Healing. Unity. Moving forward together. He acknowledged the difficult times the city had faced—the murders, the violence, the division. He positioned himself as the bridge between warring factions. The voice of reason in a fractured community.

The mayor-elect called a moment of silence. For Dolly Mercier and Sadie Broussard. A ball of fire exploded in my chest.

“Tonight,” he said, his voice carrying through the ballroom, “New Orleans chose hope over fear. We chose to build, not to tear down. We chose a future where all of us—regardless of our politics, our beliefs, our backgrounds—can come together and create something meaningful.”

The crowd erupted in applause.

I waited until after his wife had embraced him, until after the first wave of congratulations had passed. Then I moved.

I caught his eye across the room and gave him a look that said: we’re gonna talk.

Lemaine’s expression shifted for just a moment—a flicker of something that might have been concern. Then he excused himself from a conversation with the outgoing mayor and made his way toward me.

“Jackson,” he said, extending his hand. “Great to see you. Covering the victory?”

“Something like that,” I said, a little more loudly than he would have liked. I didn’t shake his hand. “How does it feel to get away with murder, mayor-elect?”

He studied my face. I could see him calculating. Trying to figure out what I knew and how much danger I represented.

“We should find a place with a little more privacy,” he said smoothly. “Let’s head upstairs. We can talk there.”

The private room was on the second floor of the ballroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. A desk. A leather couch. The trappings of power.

He closed the door behind us and turned to face me.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“Theo Guidry. Kyle Weston. Dolly Mercier. Sadie Broussard. Estelle Mason,” I said, keeping my voice more calm and collected than I felt on the inside.

“What about them, Mr. Harlow?”

“You played Kyle. Turned him into a killer. He told me everything.”

“You print a word of that and your news outlet will be facing a lawsuit.” Lemaine had the uncanny ability to accompany a threat with a smile that made him look like he was doing you a favor.

“I won’t print it. But I know it. And I want you to know I know it.”

“You don’t know shit,” Lemaine sneered.

“I know you manipulated Kyle so well that he didn’t even realize what you’d done until he was in a hospital bed with three bullet holes in him. He’s expected to live, by the way. That crooked cop you and Guidry paid to kill him failed.”

If Lemaine was nervous, he didn’t show it. That damn smile remained plastered on his face.

He replied, “What does this have to do with me? Do you have any proof I had something to do with this?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t. You see Jackson,” he began, taking the fatherly tone he probably used with Kyle. “This city needs an overhaul. It needs me.”

He straightened his tie. “You see, I’ve given decades to this city. Blood, sweat, and tears. I love New Orleans and New Orleans loves me. I plan to save this city, and I won’t let anything, or anyone get in my way.”

“Why did you have Kyle kill Dolly?”

“There you go with the accusations—”

I cut him off. “Don’t bother,” I said. “You had two reasons. You slept with your staffer’s daughter. She was only seventeen. You probably groomed her, too.”

“Harlow, I’m warning you—”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m talking,” I snapped. “You knew you were about to be exposed. So you set things in motion to blunt the damage with a sensational distraction. Then, after Dolly was dead, you exploited her death to position yourself as a uniter, thereby boosting your polling numbers.”

“I AM a uniter, you—”

“You’re a piece of shit,” I said, talking over him. “You groomed Kyle. You radicalized him. You showed him fake evidence that Dolly was connected to hate groups. You filled his head with ideology until he believed that murder was justified. And then when he became a liability, when he was about to talk, you had him shot.”

“That’s a very compelling theory,” Lemaine said. He walked to the desk and sat down, relaxed and composed. “But it’s just a theory. And theories aren’t facts.”

“Kyle will testify,” I said. “He’ll tell us exactly what you said to him. Exactly how you manipulated him.”

“Kyle is a mentally unstable young man who committed terrible crimes,” Lemaine said. “His testimony will be scrutinized heavily by any defense attorney. And anything he says about me will be filtered through his own guilt and confusion. A halfway decent lawyer would rip him apart like a piece of tissue. And I have the best lawyers.”

Lemaine smiled, “This is, of course, if he lives to make these unfounded accusations.”

There it was. A flash of menace in that toothy smile. It appeared in half a second and dissipated half a second later. A slip of the mask. He hadn’t admitted anything. He was just speculating — at least that’s what he’d say if anyone asked.

My fingers balled up into a tight fist.

“Sadie Broussard is dead,” I said. “Dolores Mercier is dead. Because of you.”

“Because of Kyle Weston,” Lemaine corrected. “Kyle killed those women. Kyle made those choices. I can’t be held responsible if he took my words as justification for violence. I never told him to kill anyone.”

“You might as well have,” I said.

Lemaine leaned back in his chair. He looked at me with something like pity.

“Jackson, do you know what I’ve learned in thirty years in this game?” he asked. “I’ve learned that the world is divided into people who take action and people who talk about action. You’re a talker. You write articles. You expose corruption. You think that somehow, through words, you’re going to change things.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I take action,” Lemaine said. “I identify problems and I solve them. Sometimes those solutions are messy. We both want the same thing. We want better for our city. The difference is that I’m doing something about it while you type on a keyboard.”

“I’m a talker. You know who else said that to me?”

“Like I said, it’s not my fault he misinterpreted my words.”

“And two people are dead because of you.”

“Two dangerous people, Mr. Harlow,” Lemaine said. “Dolly Mercier was poisoning the community with her hatred. Sadie Broussard was a radical who glorified violence, then changed her mind and said we should unite with white supremacy.”

I stared at him. I’d known he was evil, but hearing him say it out loud—hearing him justify it so calmly—hit different.

“You think you’re the first person who’s figured out how the game works, Jackson?” Lemaine said. “I’ve been playing it for years, and I’ve been quite good at it. You? You’re still learning the rules.”

“See, that’s it right there,” I said. “That’s going to be your downfall. Eventually, you’re going to slip up because your arrogance has you thinking you can’t make mistakes.”

Lemaine smiled. It was a sad smile, like he was talking to a homeless child.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t get to where I am by making mistakes. Also you don’t have anything. I’ve done nothing wrong. Kyle Weston will say whatever he says.”

He stood up and walked to the window again.

“I’m the mayor of New Orleans,” he continued, buttoning his jacket. “I just won a landslide election. I have the support of this city. And I have the best lawyers money can buy. You have a laptop.” He scoffed. “So go ahead, Harlow. Write your articles. Make your accusations. But you and I both know how this ends.”

He was obviously drunk with power. It didn’t even occur to him that he might lose. This is how I would beat him—eventually.

“How does it end?” I asked.

“With me in office,” Lemaine said. “Serving my city. Building my legacy. And with you, still writing stories that nobody cares about.”

I wanted to argue. But it was pointless.

“Now, get out,” Lemaine said. He didn’t look at me. He just stared out at the city, like Nebuchadnezzar admiring his kingdom.

I didn’t move. I’d leave when I was ready.

“I’ll be watching you. Everything you do, everything you say. I have my reputation for a reason.”

He turned around, his eyes smoldering.

“You will make a mistake,” I continued. “It might be tomorrow. It might be three years from now. But it’ll happen. And when it does, mine will be the last face you see before you get what’s coming to you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Let’s call it advance notice, as a courtesy.”

I turned around, opened the door, and strolled out of the room.

Outside the Ballroom (10:15 PM)

I stood on the street outside the Crescent City Ballroom, watching the celebration continue through the windows. Lemaine stood in the center of the room, accepting congratulations, smiling for photographers.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mavis: “How’d it go?”

I typed back: “He’s going to get away with it. But not forever.”

The response came quickly: “I’d tell you not to go to war with the new mayor. But I know you wouldn’t listen.”

As I walked to my car, I thought about something Lemaine had said: the world is divided into people who take action and people who talk about action.

He thought I was just a talker. But he had no idea who I am. He would find out soon enough.

EPILOGUE: AFTERMATH

Somewhere in the Marigny, 7:47 PM

Two weeks after confronting Lemaine, I was sitting at the bar nursing a whiskey and scrolling through social media. The news feed was the usual soup of political rage and memes.

The president had done something half the country hates and the other half loves. Congress’ approval ratings are in the toilet. The usual stuff.

A did story catch my eye.

BREAKING: Steakhouse Owner Found Dead in Kitchen—Police Seeking Suspects

The article was from WVUE, updated two hours ago. The victim: Thomas Garon, 52, owner of The Cypress Room on Magazine Street. Found in his restaurant’s kitchen. Pronounced dead at the scene. It was a follow-up on the report I’d read while I was working on the Mercier case.

I clicked deeper.

“Garon was discovered by staff arriving for the evening shift. Initial autopsy reports suggest multiple stab wounds. Police are currently investigating.”

The article mentioned the victim was stabbed 37 times. It sounded like overkill to me.

I filed it away. New Orleans is a violent city, and this wasn’t my case anyway.

My phone buzzed. Estelle: “I’m here.”

I looked up from my drink. She was standing in the doorway of Snug Harbor, backlit by the neon glow of the venue’s sign. She moved slowly—the neurologist had cleared her, but her body was still remembering the trauma. Still healing.

I stood up and waved at her, catching her attention. She smiled when she saw me.

I gave her a bear hug, and for the first time in weeks, the weight on my chest lifted just enough for me to breathe.

We sat at a table in the back, away from the crowd. A jazz quartet was setting up on stage.

“You look good,” I said.

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck, but thank you,” she replied, signaling the bartender for a drink. “How are you?”

I shrugged. “Waiting. Watching.”

She knew what I meant. Lemaine.

“He’s not going to slip up, Jackson.”

“Of course he will,” I said. “They always slip up, eventually. That’s why I have a job.”

Estelle studied me for a moment, then changed the subject.

“I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“Dolly’s will was read yesterday,” she said carefully. “I’m... I own Memory House now.”

I blinked. “You’re serious?”

“Completely serious. Marie—Dolly’s sister—she didn’t want it. She told Dolly to leave it to someone who actually cares about history. About people. Dolly put me in the will.”

I didn’t know what to say. Estelle, who’d survived a killer’s hands. Estelle, who’d been beaten and left for dead. Now owned the place where Dolly had died.

There was poetry in that. Dark poetry, but poetry nonetheless.

“That’s incredible, Estelle.”

“It’s terrifying,” she said. But she was smiling. “But yeah. I’m going to run it. I’m going to make it something Dolly would be proud of.”

The jazz quartet started playing—something smooth and mournful. We sat in silence for a moment, listening.

“How’s your investigation going?” she asked. “Besides Lemaine?”

“There’s a steakhouse owner. Dead. Thirty-seven stab wounds. Police have nothing.”

“That’s... a lot of rage.”

“Yeah.”

“You thinking about taking it on?”

I shook my head. “Nah. Murder and New Orleans go together like sand and beaches. Probably some nutjob.”

She nodded as if she understood.

As the night wound down and the jazz got slower, I told Estelle about the confrontation in Lemaine’s office—the things he’d said, the way he’d dismissed the idea that he could ever slip.

“Do you believe him?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “He believes himself. That’s different. That’s worse.”

“How are you going to get him?”

“The same way I always do,” I said. “The truth. Document it. Expose it. Let the chips fall.”

“He’s the mayor of New Orleans.”

“Not forever.”

She raised her glass. “To the long game, then.”

I raised mine. “To the long game.”

We clinked, and for a moment, the weight lifted again. Just a moment. But it was enough.

Estelle: “Did you hear Kyle took a plea deal?”

Jackson: “Yeah. Life without parole. At least the jury won’t have to decide.”

Estelle: “You think he would’ve talked if he’d gone to trial?”

Jackson: “No. He would’ve lawyered up and said nothing. Lemaine made sure of that.”

I ordered another drink. Kamikaze on the rocks. Estelle still hadn’t finished hers.

“Speaking of lawyering up, Detective Brennan’s still on the force, can you believe that?”

“Internal Affairs cleared him?”

“Officially, there’s ‘insufficient evidence’ of misconduct. Unofficially, he’s got union backing and a captain who doesn’t want the headache. His daughter’s doing well though. That part’s good.”

“Blood money doesn’t cure leukemia, Jackson.”

“No. But it bought her a life. That’s what he’ll tell himself when he can’t sleep. But at least Colin Reddick isn’t getting a reprieve.”

Estelle raised an eyebrow. “Finally. How many people did he swindle?”

“Dozens. Once I wrote about the fraud, it opened the floodgates. Other victims came forward. NOPD’s building a case. I don’t see how his business — or his reputation — survives this.”

“Think he’ll do time?”

“If there’s any justice, yeah. But he’s got money for lawyers. So...I guess we’ll see.”

“Whatever happened with that heritage guy? Floyd?”

“Turns out he was protecting someone. Some guy from his heritage group. They’re... close, if you know what I mean. Which is why he wouldn’t give up the alibi.”

Estelle nodded. “Yeah, I don’t think that would go over well with the group he runs with.”

Jackson: “Not even a little bit. I’m thinking he might be reconsidering some of his views.”

“What about the guy at the Chronicle who doxxed you? Anything happen to him?

“Charlie. Mavis didn’t press charges, but she couldn’t keep him on staff. Too much damage.”

“Is he okay?”

I took a sip and shrugged.

“I haven’t talked to him. I’m still... working through that one.”

“You should. He was manipulated too.”

“He was. But that doesn’t justify it. He went way too far. I don’t think I can forgive that.”

Estelle fixed her hair and finished her drink.

“But, on a happier note, tell me what you plan to do now that you’re the owner of an antique shop,” I said.

“I’ve been thinking about what to do with the shop. Some people want me to turn it into a civil rights museum. Others want me to keep it as-is.”

Jackson: “What do you want?”

“I want to keep selling antiques. But do it better. Have real conversations about history instead of just moving merchandise,” she said. “Be like Dolly was—tell the story, not just the artifact. Maybe I’ll finally use my history degree.”

“She’d like that.”

“I know she would.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the band. The trumpet blared mournfully, making me think of Sadie.

“Sadie’s family is still a wreck. I haven’t had any time to process what happened to her,” I said.

“I know,” Estelle said, moisture forming in her eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about what she would have went on to do if she hadn’t—” her voice trailed off.

“Did you know her blog hit a million shares?”

“Even after?”

“ Yes. Even after. Sometimes that’s when people finally listen. Her words are doing more now than she ever could have done in person.”

I paused as Estelle ordered another drink.

“You think there might be change?” she asked. “Like, where people will finally start talking with each other instead of all this nastiness?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did. I really hope so. I’ve gotten so many emails and DMs telling me how much Sadie’s courage meant to them,” I said. “She might not have changed the country, but there’s no telling how many people she has touched.”

“That’s sad and beautiful at the same time.”

“Yeah. That’s life in New Orleans.”

Previously on The Case of the Grinning Golly:

After Estelle survives the killer’s attack, Jackson clears most early suspects and zeroes in on activist Kyle Weston, publishing a baiting article that goads the murderer into a furious call revealing details only the attacker could know; tailing Kyle through his work for Councilman Lemaine and into a protest at Jackson Square, Jackson watches his rhetoric mirror the killer’s ideology and, with a series of burner texts and a disguised phone call, flushes him out of the crowd and into a face-to-face confrontation.

Estelle’s hospital room
Thursday, 8:27 AM

The morning light pierced through the hospital window at an angle that made everything look sterile and hopeful at the same time. Estelle was sitting up when I arrived, which was a relief. Two days ago she’d been barely conscious. Now her eyes tracked mine as I came through the door.

“You look better,” I said.

“I still look like someone who got hit in the head,” she said. She smiled a little. “The doctors say I can probably go home tomorrow if the neuro signs stay clear.”

I pulled a chair up to her bed and sat. The machines around her beeped softly, marking time in a way that felt intrusive yet comforting.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Better. Angry. Confused. But better.”

I nodded. “I’m working on the confusion part. For all of us.”

She looked at me for a moment, then her expression shifted as if a long-lost memory had just resurfaced.

“That young activist,” she said. “Kyle. I remember him.”

I leaned forward.

“He came in a few times over the past couple months. I thought he was just interested in the shop, you know? Curious about the business, about where Dolly got her inventory. He’d ask questions about suppliers, about whether she worked late, whether anyone else had keys to the place.”

I felt something settle in my chest. Confirmation of something I’d already suspected but needed to hear out loud.

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“The usual things. I talked about Dolly’s routines—that she liked to work late on Wednesdays, that the shop was usually quiet on Monday afternoons. He asked if there were other employees with keys. He seemed... I don’t know. Interested. Focused.”

“Did he seem hostile?” I asked. “Angry?”

Estelle shook her head. “Not angry. But he was really curious. Like he cared deeply about something, and Dolly was connected to it.”

It made sense. It made too much sense.

“Did he ever ask about Dolly specifically? Her beliefs? Her politics?”

“All the time,” Estelle said. “He wanted to know what she believed in. Who she associated with. Whether she was involved in anything...controversial. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to understand her stance better, or gathering dirt.”

I sat back, processing.

“He was methodical,” Estelle continued, like she was working through her own realization. “Now that I think about it, he was asking questions like someone who was building a profile. He even asked if she had connections to the Aryan Patriots.”

“Did he ever ask about the spare key?” I asked gently.

Estelle’s eyes widened. She shook her head slowly. “No. But now that you ask... I talked about the shop’s security once. Or lack of it. I mentioned that Dolly was always so trusting about—” She stopped.

“About the key in the plant,” I finished for her.

“Yeah,” Estelle whispered. “The key in the plant.”

I let that sit for a moment. The young man who’d come into her shop, asking questions, gathering intelligence. The young man who’d learned where the spare key was kept. The young man who’d used that information to get inside after hours.

“There was no way you could have known what he planned to do,” I said.

“Doesn’t feel that way,” Estelle said quietly.

“I know,” I said. “But it’s true.”

I looked at her for a moment longer, then made a decision.

“Estelle, I need to ask you something, and I need you to think carefully before you answer.”

She nodded.

“This young man—Kyle—did he seem like he was acting alone? Or did he seem like someone else was... directing him? Encouraging him?”

Estelle was quiet for a long time.

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “But there was something about the way he talked about politics. Like he was repeating something someone else had taught him. It felt like he was reciting a script. Does that make sense?”

Yes, it did.

I opened my laptop to do some work while keeping Estelle company. I planned to dig up some more information on Kyle.

My phone rang. It was Danielle Tran.

“Hey Danielle,” I answered.

“Jackson. Did you see my piece from two weeks ago? The one on Lemaine’s background?”

I paused, trying to remember. Two weeks ago I’d been drowning in Dolly’s murder, Floyd’s alibi, the Aryan Nation disinformation. “I... honestly, I might have skimmed it. Why?”

“Because you just confronted Kyle Weston—Lemaine’s intern—and I think there’s something you need to know about the man Kyle’s been working for.”

“Wait a minute, how did you know about Kyle Weston?”

“You think you’re the only journalist Fontenot talks to?”

“No, but I thought I was his favorite. Now I’m hurt.”

Danielle laughed. “Well, maybe what I have to tell you might make you feel better.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

“Pull up the article. ‘Councilman Lemaine’s Secret Affair With a Teenage Girl.’ I published it right after Dolly’s murder when I was doing background on all the major political figures involved in the controversy.”

I opened my laptop and searched for it. The article loaded.

Councilman Lemaine’s Secret Affair With a Teenage Girl

By Danielle Tran, WVUE

Councilman Pierce Lemaine projects an image of unity and progressive values, but sealed court documents and confidential sources paint a more troubling picture.*

Three years ago, Ted Whitman, a mid-level staffer on Lemaine’s city council campaign, left abruptly with no explanation. Multiple attempts to reach Whitman for comment were unsuccessful until this week, when he agreed to speak.

According to Whitman, his seventeen-year-old daughter volunteered at campaign events during her senior year of high school. Lemaine, then 38, took what Whitman described as “inappropriate interest” in the teenager—private meetings, late-night strategy sessions, mentorship that crossed boundaries.

“I came home early one day and found them together,” Whitman said. “I pulled Lemaine away from my daughter and told him to get out. Two days later, I was fired. They called it budget cuts.”*

Whitman filed a complaint with campaign leadership, but the matter was handled internally. No police report was filed at the time, and by the time Whitman’s daughter was ready to cooperate with authorities, statutes of limitation had expired on several potential charges.

But that’s not the end of the story. The teenager later told her father that she had become pregnant, and that the child was Lemaine’s. “He forced her to have an abortion,” Whitman told me. “He paid for it and everything. I had no idea.”

A settlement was reached—sources indicate the amount was substantial, in the mid-six figures—and routed through shell companies to avoid campaign finance scrutiny.

Lemaine’s office declined to comment for this story, citing “ongoing legal confidentiality agreements.”

I sat back in my chair, the pieces clicking together.

“Well, damn,” I said quietly.

“Yeah,” Danielle said. “So when I saw you were chasing Kyle Weston, and that he’s been Lemaine’s protégé for what, two years? I thought you should know what kind of mentor we’re talking about.”

“Does Kyle know?”

“No idea. But if he does, it means he stayed loyal anyway. Based on my investigation, Lemaine certainly knows how to groom young people...” She left the implication hanging.

“Danielle, this is—thank you. This might change things.”

“Be careful, Jackson. Lemaine’s got lawyers, money, and political protection. He’s very good at making problems disappear.”

After we hung up, I read the article twice more.

Lemaine groomed a seventeen-year-old. Paid the family to stay quiet. Built his reputation on unity and progressive values while abusing his power behind closed doors.

I needed to get back to the office. But before I left, I updated Estelle on the revelation.

“What a piece of shit,” Estelle said, her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Do you think he had anything to do with the murders?”

“I doubt it. But you never know. These politicians are capable of anything. But I don’t think it’s likely that someone like Pierce Lemaine would take that big of a risk when he’s already favored to win the election. I mean, what would he get out of it?”

“Maybe he just hated Dolly.”

“It’s possible. But I’ve seen his type. He’s cautious. Doesn’t let his emotions control him. We’ll find out soon enough.”

The Bayou Chronicle
Thursday, 9:12 a.m.

I’d been up all night.

I was so focused on the murders that I hadn’t asked Charlie about the leaks lately. I’d been so caught up in trying to find the killer.

After Sadie died, the leaks had stopped, as did the attacks on my personal life.

Yet, there were still no answers.

The CMS logs didn’t lie. Access times, maintenance windows, keystroke patterns—it all painted a picture if you were willing to look at it hard enough. And I’d been looking.

I thought the individual responsible had been external. But maybe we were wrong. I needed to get to the bottom of this before I dealt with the Kyle situation. If not, this saboteur might get up to his old tricks after Kyle was arrested.

Someone inside the Chronicle had been sabotaging my work. Systematically. Carefully. The kind of careful that suggested they knew exactly what they were doing and had the technical skill to do it without getting caught.

Almost without getting caught.

I decided to hit up Charlie again. He was at his desk with his earbuds in, probably listening to Blink 182 or some other nonsense.

“Hey Charlie,” I said.

He jumped. I’d startled him.

“That’s what happens when you have that music up so loud,” I said.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said, forcing a smile. Those bags under his eyes hadn’t budged since the last time I’d seen him.

“I haven’t had much time to check in with you lately, but what have you found out about the leaks?”

“Still looking bro,” he said, gazing at his keyboard. “Mavis has had me working on other stuff so it’s been hard to find time.”

“Yeah, especially after what happened to Sadie. Things have been crazy. I’m still concerned about my personal information getting out there — the CPS records and all that.”

“I get it. It’s fucked up, Harlow. I had no idea you had been through all that. I can see why Dr. Evans was so worried about you harming yourself,” he said. “I’d probably be the same way.”

“It was tough. But I like to think I’ve made progress since then. I guess we’re not going to find out who is behind this anytime soon.”

“I’ll still keep digging when I have time.”

“Thanks.”

I stepped away from Charlie’s desk and headed to Mavis’ office to give her an update on the murders. She was on the phone so I headed to the couch to wait.

I froze. It slammed into my brain like a baseball bat.

It couldn’t be, could it?

“Mavis. I need to talk to you right now.”

Mavis looked at me. She said into the phone “Ray? I need to go. Something just came up.”

She hung up the phone.

“Call Charlie in here right now,” I said.

“Why?”

“You’ll see. Just call him in here.”

Mavis stepped out of her office and waved Charlie into her office.

Charlie drifted into the room looking weary — and resigned.

“What’s up?” he said, weakly.

I felt the fire building in my chest. My fingers curled into fists. I took a second to collect myself. “Why’d you do it, Charlie?”

“What do you mean?” Charlie said, trying — and failing — to muster some defiance.

“My therapist’s records were not shared on social media. Nobody has seen them except me, my therapist, and now you. Nobody knows her name was Evans.”

Charlie paused. “Yes it was. I saw it.”

“Where did you see it, Charlie? Show us,” Mavis said evenly.

“I don’t remember where,” he said.

“You’re lying,” I replied. “What did you do Charlie?”

Silence. Charlie gripped his arm at the elbow. “I saw it on social media, I swear. I don’t remember where.”

“Charlie!” Mavis barked. “You need to start talking now.”

“I don’t know what to say, boss. I know what I saw,” he said as if he didn’t really mean it.

I tried a different tack. “So, if I pull up X right now and run a search of Dr. Pauline Evans and my name, I should be able to get some results, right?”

Charlie’s head faced down, as if he were examining his shoes. I pulled out my phone. “You really want me to waste time searching when we already know there’s nothing there? You’re prolonging the inevitable.”

“No, you don’t understand—”

I jumped in. “What would happen if I called our IT forensics guy to look into this? What will he find, Charlie?”

“Jackson—”

“What will we find?” I yelled.

“Jackson, that’s enough,” Mavis held up her hand.

“It was me,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

His confession sucked the air out of the room.

“How long?” Mavis asked.

“Since I started,” Charlie said quietly. “Three months.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Someone hired me to do it.” Charlie looked up. “I don’t know their real name. They came to me online. Said they were part of some dark watchdog group. Said they were monitoring media outlets for bias and exposing them. At first I thought... I thought it was legitimate.”

“Who were they?” Mavis pressed.

“Username was TruthKeeper_74. Everything was encrypted. We communicated through an app, not email. They told me your coverage was biased, Jackson. They said the Chronicle was pushing narratives for the government instead of reporting facts. They said they were misleading the public and someone needed to expose them—you.”

Something hot rose in my chest. “And you believed them? With everything you know about me?”

“I wanted to believe them,” Charlie said. His voice was hollow. “I was new. I wanted to feel like I was part of something. Like I was doing something important. He said part of dismantling the system is holding the media accountable.”

My jaws tightened. He’d ripped my life apart. Delayed my investigation. Contributed to the political atmosphere that got Sadie killed.

“You were sabotaging my investigation into a murder,” I said. “And you released my personal information for it to be weaponized against me.”

“I know,” Charlie whispered.

I wanted to hit him. If Mavis hadn’t been standing right there, I actually might have.

Mavis’ voice was ice. “You leaked Jackson’s notes, made it look like he was specifically targeting left-wing activists over politics. But you did more than that, didn’t you?”

I knew what Mavis meant. “That social media campaign against me, that wasn’t organic, was it?”

“No.” Charlie said. “I used sock puppet accounts to get it started. It took on a life of its own from there.”

“And Sadie. You made her a target for harassment,” Mavis replied.

Charlie’s hands trembled. “I didn’t know that would happen. I didn’t know anyone would—”

“You didn’t care,” I said.

He flinched like I’d actually hit him. “That’s not true. I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Charlie looked like he wanted to sink into the floor and never be seen again. If the circumstances were different, I would pity him.

Mavis stood up. “You’re fired. Effective immediately. You don’t come back to this office. You don’t touch any equipment. You don’t talk to anyone about this until I tell you to.”

“Am I going to jail?” Charlie asked quietly.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Mavis said.

Charlie nodded. He looked destroyed. Whether that was genuine remorse or just the shock of being caught, I couldn’t tell.

“One more thing,” I said. “Why’d you send the confession email?”

Charlie looked at me for a long moment.

“Because I realized what I’d done,” he said finally. “And I realized I couldn’t live with it. Because Sadie is dead. And I helped. Even if I didn’t mean to.”

Mavis called security to escort Charlie out of the building. I sat alone in the conference room for a few minutes, staring at the geolocation data for Guidry’s office.

Guidry was the money. Guidry was the handler. Did Lemaine know? Was this done at his behest? Or did Guidry have his own agenda?

Lemaine’s Campaign Office
Thursday, 12:00 p.m.

Pierce Lemaine’s campaign office was exactly what you’d expect: exposed brick, standing desks, young volunteers in t-shirts with his face on them. The energy was frenetic—phones ringing, people moving between rooms, the smell of coffee and ambition.

I wanted to discuss Guidry with Lemaine, but now wasn’t the time. I still had a killer to catch, which was much higher on my priority list.

I had a plan, and I didn’t want Fontenot to know about it until it worked. If it worked, that is.

His assistant tried to stop me at the door to his private office. I didn’t slow down.

“He’ll want to see me,” I said. “Tell him it’s about Kyle Weston.”

Lemaine was on the phone when I walked in. He held up a finger—one minute—and finished his conversation. Something about voter turnout in the Third Ward. When he hung up, he turned to me with the kind of smile that made you believe he’d been thinking about you all morning.

“Jackson Harlow,” he said, standing to shake my hand. “It’s been a minute. Please, sit.”

I sat. The look on his face said, “what can I do for you?”

“I’m here about Kyle Weston,” I said.

Lemaine’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his posture. Just slightly.

“The young activist who killed those women?” he said carefully. “I heard he’s still at large.”

“He is,” I said. “And I think you can help us find him.”

Lemaine leaned back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

“Kyle idolizes you,” I said. “I interviewed him months ago when I was working on the golliwog story. He talked about you like you were the only honest politician in the city. Like you understood something everyone else was missing.”

Lemaine didn’t comment. Just listened.

“He’s radicalized,” I continued. “Someone online has been feeding him false information, poisoning his mind, convincing him that violence is the only way to create change. He’s dangerous. And right now, he’s scared.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Lemaine asked.

“Because you know him better than most. And because scared people do stupid things,” I said. “Kyle respects you enough that if you publicly disavow him—if you make it clear you won’t protect anyone involved in these murders—it might break through. It might be the thing that brings him out of hiding.”

Lemaine was quiet for a long moment. He tapped his fingers on the desk.

“You want me to use my relationship with him to draw him out,” he said finally.

“I want you to help me end this,” I said. “Kyle is a threat. He’s killed two people and tried to kill a third. The longer he’s out there, the more likely he is to hurt someone else. You can help stop that.”

Lemaine stood and walked to the window. The city spread out below—cars, buildings, people going about their lives, unaware of the violence spinning beneath the surface.

“If I do this,” Lemaine said, “I’m saying publicly that I have no knowledge of his involvement. That I will cooperate with NOPD. That I won’t tolerate violence.”

“That’s what I need,” I said. “The truth.”

He turned back to me. His expression was unreadable.

“It’s also good politics,” I said. “It makes you look like someone who won’t protect criminals. Like someone who puts law and order first.”

Lemaine bristled slightly, as if offended. “You still think that’s all I care about? Yes, I want to be mayor. But I also don’t want a murderer running loose in the streets.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you, councilman,” I put up my hand. “I’m just pointing out the facts.”

He sat back down. Tapped his fingers again. Checked his watch.

“Okay,” he said, straightening his tie. “I’ll do it. I’ll hold a press conference this afternoon. I’ll say what you want me to say.”

“Thank you,” I said.

I stood to leave. As I reached the door, Lemaine called after me.

“Jackson—you really think this will bring him out?”

I turned back. “I think it will break him. And when he’s broken, he’ll make a mistake. He’ll reach out. He’ll try to contact you. He’ll do something that gives the police a way to find him.”

Lemaine nodded. He looked like a man who’d just made a decision and wasn’t entirely sure it was the right one.

The Press Conference

Thursday, 4:30 p.m.

I watched from the back of the crowd outside Lemaine’s campaign office. Lemaine stood at a podium in front of a dozen reporters. His tie was perfectly knotted. His expression was grave.

“Two innocent people have been murdered,” he said. “Dolores Mercier. Sadie Broussard. And an attempted murder of Estelle Mason. These were tragic, senseless crimes. And I want to be absolutely clear: I will not protect anyone involved in them. I completely disavow them. Not because they worked for me. Not because they volunteered for my campaign. Not because they believed in the causes I believe in.”

He paused. Good politicians always know when to pause. They probably take classes on effective pausing.

“If any member of my staff, any volunteer, any supporter of this campaign was involved in these murders, they will face justice. Full stop. I am cooperating completely with the New Orleans Police Department. I will provide any and all information that might help bring this perpetrator to justice. We have zero tolerance for violence in any form. I call on anyone with information to come forward immediately.”

The reporters started shouting questions. Lemaine answered a few—standard politician stuff about how violence undermines the causes he championed, how it betrays the very communities he was trying to help, how real change comes through advocacy and activism, not through crime.

Then he stepped away from the podium and the press conference was over.

That should do it.

Your move, Kyle.

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Pierce Lemaine’s Campaign Office
Friday, 12:30 p.m.

I’d been parked across the street from Lemaine’s campaign office since 8 AM.

I didn’t tell Fontenot. I didn’t tell Mavis. I didn’t tell anyone. Because if I had, they would have told me to stop.

They would have said it was too dangerous, too speculative, too much of a risk to use Lemaine as bait without his knowledge of what I was really doing.

I would be lying if I said this wasn’t personal. It certainly was. I don’t make friends easily, and when I do, I don’t take kindly to those threatening them.

Estelle was my friend. Sadie was becoming my friend. Dolly would have been my friend.

But it was also true that Kyle had evaded police for two days now. He had made many mistakes, but he wasn’t stupid.

The only way to get him to mess up again was to play on his emotions, his need to be recognized. That’s why I knew the Lemaine gambit would work.

I knew—with the kind of certainty that doesn’t need proof—that Kyle would react to Lemaine’s betrayal. A young man who’d been groomed by his hero would need confrontation. Would need answers.

So I sat in my car and I waited.

The coffee was cold in my cup and my back ached from sitting there for over four hours when he arrived.

Kyle came from the south, moving at a brisk pace but not running. He wore a hoodie pulled low and his right hand was in his jacket pocket. The way someone holds a gun when they’re trying to keep it hidden.

I didn’t expect him to have a gun. But it made sense.

Kyle stepped straight into the building.

I was out of my car before I could second-guess myself.

The campaign office was on the third floor. The elevator moved like molasses. I took the stairs two at a time, my mind already racing through scenarios, already preparing for what came next.

The stairwell door opened onto a hallway. Lemaine’s office was fifty feet away. Through the glass doors, I could see the chaos.

Kyle was there. Gun in hand. Pointed at Lemaine, who was standing very still behind his desk, hands visible, speaking in low, calm tones. A dozen staffers were frozen at their desks, eyes locked on the gun like it might go off if they looked away.

He was talking. I could hear his voice through the glass—high, desperate, angry.

“You said you believed in me! You said I was special! You said—”

Kyle was so flustered he couldn’t even finish his thought.

“Kyle,” Lemaine said, his voice steady. The voice of a man used to controlling rooms. “Let’s talk about this. Just you and me. Not here.”

I had to admire his ability to remain poised when a handgun barrel was pointed at him.

“Here is perfect,” Kyle said. His hands shook. The pistol wavered slightly. “You betrayed me in public. Now we settle it in public.”

I made a decision.

I quietly pushed through the double doors, my Smith & Wesson gripped tightly in my hands.

Kyle’s head whipped toward me. For a second, confusion registered on his face. Then recognition. Then something worse—understanding that I was a problem. His face twisted into that menacing snarl I’d seen at the protest.

“Kyle,” I said, walking forward slowly, hands visible. “Put the gun down.”

I didn’t want to shoot him in this office. I could easily hit Lemaine or one of the other bystanders.

“Stay back,” he said. The gun swung toward me.

“You need to think this through,” I said. I kept walking. Slow. Steady. “You’re not going to shoot me. Because if you shoot me, this becomes a murder-suicide. Is that really how you want to go out? It would destroy your legacy. Nobody would remember the statement you made with Dolly and Sadie. They will only remember that you took yourself out.”

Kyle’s face went red with panic. He knew he was cornered. His focus shifted—just for a second—from me to Lemaine.

That second was all I needed.

I darted forward and grabbed his gun hand. Kyle was stronger than he looked, but surprise was on my side.

We fell hard, his pistol clattering across the floor. Kyle scrambled for it but I was already moving, already pinning his arm, already bringing my weight down on his ribs. But he managed to grasp the pistol.

Someone screamed. The shot was deafening. Kyle tried to point the barrel at me, but I was quicker. I wrapped my fingers around his hands and slammed them repeatedly on the floor.

Everyone was screaming now.

Lemaine backed away, hands still up.

Kyle thrashed. For a moment I thought I had him. Then he twisted—actually twisted his whole body like an earthworm—and rolled out from under me.

He grabbed the gun and was on his feet before I could grab him again. He scrambled to the door and looked back at me. I raised my pistol.

His eyes met mine. In that moment, it was all over his face, the calculation. The decision. The realization that this was over.

Then he ran.

I looked over at Lemaine, who resembled a granite statue. “You ok?” I asked.

“I think so,” he answered breathlessly.

I turned and ran out the door.

Kyle was fast, but he was also panicked. Panicked people make mistakes.

He burst out of the building and onto the street. I was maybe twenty feet behind him, and I was not letting go. My phone was already out, but I didn’t call Fontenot yet. Not until I knew where this was going. Not until it was unavoidable.

Kyle cut left, down a side street. The afternoon crowd gave him some cover, but not enough. I kept him in sight, kept the distance steady. He wasn’t losing me. Not today. This was going to end now, no matter what.

I chased him through a marketplace. Kyle knocked over a vendor’s cart, creating chaos, trying to slow me down. It didn’t work. I jumped over the debris like a movie action hero and kept going.

I continued the chase. Tourists and vendors leaped out of the way. A woman screamed. I vaulted over a produce stand and kept going.

He was heading toward the warehouse district. I could feel it in the way he moved, the way he was making decisions—he was going somewhere he knew. Somewhere he felt safe.

My lungs burned. My legs screamed. But I stayed with him.

He ducked into an alley. I followed. The alley opened onto a wider street and suddenly there it was—the old warehouse. Massive. Abandoned. The kind of place that echoed with emptiness.

Kyle didn’t slow down. He ran straight through the open loading dock door.

I was maybe ten feet behind him when I hit the pavement, still running. Now I called.

“Fontenot,” I said, gasping. “It’s Jackson. Kyle Weston just ran into the old textile warehouse on Magazine and Tchoupitoulas. He’s armed. I’m pursuing.”

“What?” Fontenot’s voice was sharp. “Jackson, where the hell are you? How did you—”

“He went after Lemaine,” I said. I was already moving, already into the warehouse. “I was at the campaign office following up on the story. I’m going in.”

I was lying. He knew I was lying. But there was no time for that.

“Stand down,” Fontenot said. “I’m dispatching units. Do not pursue a suspect with a weapon.”

“I have him in sight. I’m going in.”

“Jackson—” Fontenot started.

I hung up.

Kyle was up the stairs. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the cavernous space. I followed. Up one flight. Up two flights. The stairs were metal and they rang with every step like we were both announcing where we were.

What was he thinking? Why would he go to the roof, where he would have no escape route?

He wasn’t hiding. He was running toward something. Up three flights. The door to the roof was ahead of him. He hit it hard and kept going.

I was right behind him, pistol in hand. I pushed through the door.

The roof opened up. Massive. Industrial. Edged with a low wall and empty sky beyond. Kyle stood at the edge of the building, breathing hard, looking at me.

“Kyle,” I said, still breathing hard from the run. “It’s over.”

He looked at the edge of the roof. Four stories up. A long way down.

“Don’t do this,” I said. He held his handgun, but did not point it at me.

“You don’t understand,” Kyle said. His voice was hollow. “You don’t understand anything.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said. I took a step closer. “Help me understand.”

Kyle stepped closer to the edge.

“Kyle—” I started forward.

“Stay back,” he said. He looked at me with something like desperation. “Just... stay back.”

“We can stand here as long as you need. But you’re not jumping.”

“How do you know?” Kyle asked.

“Because you’re still talking,” I said. “And people who’ve decided to die stop talking. They stop explaining. You’re explaining. Which means part of you still wants to be understood.”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters.”

Kyle’s hands shook. He was crying, I realized. Angry tears. Betrayed tears. They streamed down his face like a spilled glass of water.

“He said I was going to make a difference,” Kyle whispered. “He said I understood things other people didn’t. We were going to change everything.”

He stopped himself.

I didn’t push. I just stood there, letting him breathe.

“He said the system was broken,” Kyle continued. “That normal people couldn’t fix it. That sometimes you had to be willing to do hard things. That real activists weren’t afraid of getting their hands dirty.”

“And you believed him,” I said.

“I believed him,” Kyle confirmed. His voice cracked. “I thought he believed in me.”

“What changed?” I asked.

Kyle looked at me like I was stupid. “He disavowed me on live TV. He made it sound like I was some random thug, not someone who—”

He stopped again.

“Not someone who what?” I asked gently.

But Kyle just shook his head. He wasn’t going to say it. He wasn’t going to admit—to himself or to me—that he’d done those things. That he’d killed two people. That he’d tried to kill a third.

In the distance, I could hear sirens. Getting closer. Still blocks away, but coming.

“Kyle,” I said. “The police are coming. When they get here, you can either talk to me, or you can talk to them. But you’re going to talk to someone. And what you say matters. It matters for what happens next.”

Kyle looked at the edge of the roof again. Then he looked back at me. He put the gun to his right temple.

“No!” I yelled. “This isn’t going to solve anything.”

“If I don’t,” he said slowly, “I go to prison. For life.”

“Probably,” I said. “But you will still be alive. You might still have a chance to do some actual good.”

Kyle’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean someone had to have radicalized you,” I said carefully. “Someone fed you false information. Someone made you believe things that led you to do what you did. If you help us understand who that was, if you help us prove it—that could change the story I tell about you.”

“Bullshit. You’re just trying to talk me out of it.”

My mind was frantic, trying to figure out how to stop him. “What about Sadie?” I blurted out.

Kyle stopped. “What do you mean? What about her?”

“If she were standing here right now, what would she tell you?”

“I dunno.”

“You knew her. You know what kind of person she is—was. Can you imagine her telling you to kill yourself?”

The doubt formed on his face. A good sign.

“She could have gone down the same road as you. She didn’t. She changed. And she changed others,” I said.

Kyle was shaking now. But his hand drifted off the trigger.

“What’s the point? I killed her. I killed Dolly. I tried to kill Estelle. There’s no going back.” Something changed in his voice. Not panicked. Sad.

“I know, Kyle. But you can still go forward. Two people are already dead. Sadie wouldn’t want there to be a third.”

“I don’t know—there’s nothing more for me now,” he said. “I can’t live with this.”

“You can. For her. There was a reason she trusted you—why she was your friend. You have to live with what you’ve done. But your story doesn’t have to end here.”

Kyle stood there as if he didn’t know what to do. The pistol moved from his temple. His foot moved from the ledge and toward me. One step after the other.

“Good. Now can you do me a favor?”

“What?” he sounded like he was in a trance.

“Can you put that gun down?”

He looked at the weapon as if it were his first time seeing it. “Oh,” he said absently. The look of defeat on his face could have drawn tears from a stone, if he wasn’t a killer.

He knelt down slowly and placed the gun in front of him on the ground.

“We’re gonna figure this out, Kyle.”

Warehouse Rooftop
Friday, 4:23 p.m.

“Kyle,” I said. “The police are coming. When they get here, you need to surrender. You need to do this right.”

He looked at me. His eyes were hollow. “What does ‘right’ even mean anymore?”

“It means you face what you did,” I said. “It means you don’t run. It means you tell the truth.”

He didn’t answer.

The sirens got louder. Then they stopped. I could hear voices below. Officers entering the building.

“Keep your hands visible. When they come through that door, you don’t move. You don’t reach for anything. You just stand there.”

Kyle nodded.

The roof door burst open. Officers in tactical gear flooded through. Fontenot was with them, and behind him, a dozen more uniforms.

“Hands up!” someone shouted.

Kyle’s hands shot into the air.

“On your knees!”

Kyle dropped to his knees.

I stepped back, hands visible too. “He’s unarmed,” I called out. “He’s surrendering.”

One of the officers—Detective Julius Brennan, someone I’d seen around the department—moved forward. He was tense. Too tense. His hand was on his weapon.

“Kyle Weston,” Fontenot said, moving closer. “You’re under arrest for the murders of Dolores Mercier and Sadie Broussard.”

That’s when Brennan drew his weapon. “Gun!” he yelled.

It happened fast. Too fast.

Brennan fired three shots. Kyle’s body jerked with each impact and he collapsed forward onto the roof.

“What the fuck did you just do, Brennan?” Fontenot’s voice cut through the air like a machete.

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Previously on The Grinning Golly:

Jackson found Sadie’s killer turning his sights on the living, racing to Estelle’s apartment just in time to find her brutalized but barely alive after a vicious attack that echoed Dolly and Sadie’s murders. Reeling from guilt but fueled by Estelle and his father’s pep talk, he became the hunter instead of a victim.

New Orleans East Hospital, Neuro Floor
Monday, 8:30 a.m.

Hospitals always smelled like bleach and disease. This one added a hint of cheap coffee and despair.

Estelle lay in the bed, sleeping against the white sheets, a thin bandage near her hairline and a tangle of wires running from her chest to a monitor that beeped a slow, marching rhythm. One eye was swollen and red.

The dark marks around her neck made it look like invisible hands were still trying to strangle her.

But she was alive.

A neurologist had given me the rundown an hour earlier in the hallway, speaking the way people do when they’ve already repeated the same speech three times in the same day.

“Ms. Mason has a moderate traumatic brain injury,” he’d said. “Concussion with a brief loss of consciousness and a small, non-displaced skull fracture. The CT shows some bruising on the brain, but no large bleed. That’s a good sign.”

He’d held up a hand before I could ask a question.

“But the first 24–48 hours are critical. We have to watch for swelling, delayed bleeding, changes in her neurological status. Headaches, vomiting, confusion, seizures—any of those, and things can get serious fast.”

Translation: she was out of immediate danger, but still had a Mt. Everest to climb.

I sat in the chair by her bed, elbows on my knees, watching the monitor like it was a Marvel flick.

Estelle’s eyes fluttered, then opened halfway.

“Hey,” I said softly. “Welcome back.”

She blinked, trying to focus. “Jackson?” Her voice was rough, like someone had taken a cheese grater to her vocal cords.

“It’s me. You’re in the hospital.”

She winced, lifting a hand halfway to her head before thinking better of it. “Feels like I lost a fight.”

“But you’re alive.

“You should see the other guy,” She said. “I carved him up and set his eyes on fire with my pepper spray.”

A phantom of a smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Good.”

She was awake, oriented, knew who I was, and where she was. That was something. The doctor had called it “promising.” I called it a miracle.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“Concussion. Crack in your skull. Bruised brain, bruised neck.” I kept my tone light, like we were talking about a sportsball game. “They’re keeping you here to watch for swelling. Couple of days at least.”

She nodded slowly, then winced again. “Hurts to move.”

“That’s your body telling you to sit your ass down,” I said. “You should listen to it.”

She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them again. “Did they get him?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But he didn’t walk away clean. You scratched him. Hard. Got DNA under your nails and pepper spray in his eyes. Anyone walking around New Orleans today with a burned face and cat scratches is going to have a tough time pretending he’s innocent.”

“Good,” she whispered. “I wanted… I wanted to make him hurt.”

“You did,” I said.

She looked past me toward the ceiling. “He said I was part of the problem. That I helped Dolly even though I’m a black woman. Like that made it okay.”

Her eyes flashed with rage, communicating what the rest of her body couldn’t. She looked like she wanted another shot at him.

“He’s wrong,” I said. “About you. About Dolly. About everything. And I’m going to prove it.”

Her gaze found mine again. “You sure?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s time for him to find out what it feels like to be the prey.”

She studied my face for a long moment, like she was doing her own neurological exam.

“Promise me something,” she said.

“Name it.”

“Make it worth it.” Her voice was fading. “All of this.”

I wanted to tell her it already was. That her fighting back, her surviving this far, had changed the story.

Instead, I just nodded. “I will.”

Her eyelids drooped. The doctor had said fatigue, nausea, and light sensitivity were all expected—her brain was basically throwing a tantrum and needed dark and quiet to calm down.

“Get some sleep,” I said. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Jackson?” she murmured.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I’m a journalist. Stupid is in my job description.”

She let out a small, painful-sounding laugh and drifted back under, the monitor still marking time.

I sat there another minute, watching her chest rise and fall.

Dolly was dead. Sadie was dead. Estelle was hanging on because she’d fought like hell and because paramedics had gotten there fast enough. That was it. That was the line, and this asshole had crossed it.

And he was going to regret it.

The killer had taken his shot at someone who believed in me. Now I had three names on my list—Floyd, Reddick, Weston—and one promise in my chest.

Make it worth it.

I stood up, took one last look at Estelle, and walked out of the room.

The hunt was on. And the killer was going to find out what it’s like to be the prey.

Harrison Floyd’s Shop
Monday: 10:11 a.m.

The bell above Harrison Floyd’s door chimed as I stepped back into the smell of tobacco and old wood.

Floyd was behind the counter, flipping through a dog-eared catalog. He looked up when the bell chimed.

“Again? What brings you back this time?” he asked, setting down the catalog.

“Morning to you too,” I said. “Got something you’re going to want to see.”

“That a fact?”

I unfolded a printout and set it on the counter between us.

“Item: Confederate officer’s pistol, circa 1862,” I read. “Purported provenance: Floyd family estate, St. Bernard Parish. Sale price: eighty-five thousand. Buyer: D. Mercier, Memory House Antiques.”

His eyes tracked the line. His jaw tightened.

“Dolly bought that pistol from Colin Reddick,” I said. “Not from you. Not from your family. From him. He used your story to jack up the price.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, this pistol is worth less than a water gun. And Colin Reddick used your family name to make some extra bucks.”

Floyd’s nostrils flared. “She told me it was fake,” he said slowly. “Said the metal was wrong. The weight. I told her she was full of it. Called her a liar.”

“She wasn’t,” I said. “After that, she started digging into Reddick. Cross-checking his sales, talking to other buyers. She had receipts, photos, notes. You were one line in a long line of poor saps Reddick grifted.”

He stared at the page as if he were looking at his own death certificate.

“All that time,” he said, “I’m blowing up her phone, showing up at her shop, calling her every name I can think of… and she was trying to help me.”

“Looks that way,” I said.

He let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and a choke. His phone rang, but he didn’t answer.

“You come here to tell me I’m a damn fool?” he asked.

“I came to tell you three things,” I said. “One: Colin Reddick played both of you. Two: the guy who killed Dolly and Sadie likes to get his own hands bloody. He doesn’t strike me as the type to obsess over provenance and Civil War price guides.”

“And the third thing?”

“You’re a damn fool.”

Floyd’s eyes burned like a furnace, but I had a feeling his rage wasn’t directed at me this time — at least not entirely.

He looked back down at the page. His right hand curled slowly into a fist.

“That son of a bitch,” he muttered.

“I’m guessing he’s not on your Christmas card list anymore,” I said.

“I can’t believe I fell for it,” Floyd said.

I nodded toward the paper. “What you do with that is your business,” I said. “But Dolly wasn’t your enemy, Harrison. And if you didn’t commit these murders, neither am I.”

He swallowed hard, then gave me a short nod without looking up.

I left him marinating on that and drove to see Reddick.

Floyd was looking less and less like the culprit. But I still hadn’t crossed him off my list. Part of me pitied him. I wondered what it was like to live in the past, chasing after old glory that wasn’t all that glorious.

Reddick & Company Antiques

Monday, 11:13 a.m.

Colin Reddick’s shop looked the same as it had when I last visited, like a well-lit Ponzi scheme. Glass cases. Velvet-lined displays. Little printed cards telling big stories that were probably about as true as Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

Reddick hovered behind the counter, straightening a row of pistols that didn’t need straightening. He pasted on a smile when I strolled in.

“Mr. Harlow,” he said. “Back again. I do hope this isn’t another attempt to slander my good name.”

“Relax,” I said. “Your name was never that good.”

The smile twitched like a clock hand. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

I laid the same printout on his counter and tapped the line.

“Confederate officer’s pistol,” I said. “Floyd family provenance. Eighty-five grand. Sold to Dolly Mercier.”

He glanced at it. “Yes. One of my more distinguished sales. Completely above board.”

That last line was telling. He was used to having to defend his integrity.

“Dolly didn’t think so,” I said. “She told Harrison Floyd it was fake. Then she started pulling at the threads on everything you’ve ever sold. Receipts. Photos. Names. You became her project, Reddick.”

He bristled. “Are you implying—”

“No, I’m saying,” I said. “You lie. A lot. And Dolly was about to make that public. And you knew it.”

He looked past me at the front window, then back. “She had opinions,” he said carefully. “That doesn’t make me a criminal.”

“It does make you someone with motive,” I said. “Dolly was building a case that could have tanked your business and what’s left of your reputation. Then she ended up bludgeoned to death in her office. That’s the kind of coincidence that keeps me up at night.”

His eyes flashed. “I had nothing to do with that woman’s death.”

I looked at his hands. No bandages. Not that this exonerated him. He still had motive and opportunity.

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe you’re just the kind of guy who lets other people get their hands dirty while you pretend to sell ‘history.’ Maybe you didn’t pick up a blunt object yourself. Maybe you just made sure people like Dolly and Floyd were too busy fighting each other to look at you.”

“That’s an ugly accusation,” he said.

“If I wanted to accuse you, you’d be speaking with Fontenot instead of me,” I said. “I’m not there yet. But I’m also not crossing you off my list.”

“So what now?” he asked.

“Now I keep looking at everyone who had something to gain from Dolly’s death,” I said. “And at the guy who actually swung the weapon.”

I picked up the printout, folded it, and slid it back into my notebook.

“For what it’s worth,” I added, “Harrison Floyd knows the pistol was fake now. And he knows you’re the one who told the story.”

Reddick’s eyes widened and bulged about an inch out of his face.

“What’d you tell him?” he asked.

“I told him the truth,” I said. “You might want to invest in some bubble wrap. For your nose.”

I headed for the door.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Harlow,” he called after me.

“Not as dangerous as the one you’ve been playing. Good luck.”

Out on the sidewalk, the air felt a fraction cleaner.

But neither Floyd nor Reddick had pepper spray in their eyes and fresh scratches on their face. Still, it didn’t take them off the list.

But I was going to find out whether that honor belonged to someone else.

Time to start poking the bear.

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The Bayou Chronicle
Monday, 1:00 PM

Typing felt different when someone you cared about was in a hospital bed. I stared at the blinking cursor, then at the headline draft at the top of the screen: BREAKING: Golliwog Killer Fails to Claim Another Victim.

Too on the nose? Perhaps. But this wasn’t for the readers.

It was for an audience of one.

The article wasn’t about gore or fear. No breathless play-by-play of the attack. No pornographic crime scene details.

Instead, I painted a picture of a very specific type of man.

I called him “our city’s most fragile wannabe serial killer,” and a “poser who targets women because he’s afraid of a real challenge.”

I wrote about Dolly and Sadie as people first—Dolly, the former nurse who patched up protesters who hated her, and Sadie, the activist who promoted unity instead of animosity.

I wrote about Estelle as the connective tissue between them. The black woman who took flak for keeping Dolly’s shop running. Who knew everyone on the block by name, who fought back with pepper spray and fingernails when most people would have just frozen.

I made Dolly and Sadie the heroes and the killer a feckless coward.

It was bait.

I ended with a line I knew would land like a punch:

“Real courage is sitting across from someone who disagrees with you and staying in the conversation. Weak little boys bludgeon women to death because they aren’t getting their way.”

I filed the draft and walked it into Mavis’s office.

She read in silence, eyes moving fast. She looked at me with that poker face of hers.

“You’re trying to piss him off,” she said when she finished.

“Absolutely,” I said.

“Jackson—”

“I’m not naming him,” I cut in. “No details that compromise the investigation. No speculation. Just… an accurate description of a certain type of man.”

She studied me for a moment and leaned back in her chair.

“You know this could work,” she said. “You also know it could backfire.”

“He’s already trying to kill people around me,” I said. “He’s not going to stop if we’re nice to him.”

She sighed. “You’re sure you’re not just doing this because you feel guilty about Estelle?”

“Of course I am,” I said. “I’m also pissed off.”

She almost smiled at that. Almost.

“I’ll run it,” she said. “But if Fontenot calls me screaming, I’m sending him to you.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The article went live at 4:15 PM.

I went home, grabbed a beer, and sat in the dark with my phone face-up on the coffee table, notification chime turned up.

The piece started doing what pieces do—shares, quotes, angry comments, people accusing me of “glorifying” or “downplaying” or “politicizing” depending on which sentence they stopped reading at.

None of that mattered.

I was writing for a special call.

It came at 6:42 PM.

Unknown number. Same as always.

I answered on the fourth ring. “Well hello there,” I answered.

“Mr. Harlow,” the distorted voice said. “You seem… confident.”

“Good evening,” I said. “Enjoy the article?”

“You think you’re clever,” he said. “You think you can create a fake narrative about me.”

“Fake? I was telling the truth.”

“What are you playing at, Harlow?”

“Just doing my job,” I said. “Besides, you’ve already had your say. Walls, floors, people’s faces. I figured it was time for a counterpoint.”

“You called me weak,” he said. There was a slight tremor in the modulated voice. Not sadness. Anger.

“The shoe fits,” I said.

Silence crackled on the line.

“You really believe that?” he asked. “You think what I’ve done is cowardice?”

“I think sneaking into women’s homes and hitting them from behind is what you do when you’re scared to look someone in the eye,” I said. “I think if you had even a modicum of intelligence, you’d argue them instead of turning people’s skulls into chalk. So yes, you are a coward.”

“You don’t understand,” he snapped. “They were part of the machine. Mercier, Broussard, Mason. They helped sell lies. They propped up a system that grinds people down and calls it the American dream.”

“And you fixed that by making sure they couldn’t talk back,” I said. I clapped loud enough for him to hear it. “So bold. So brave.”

His breathing was louder now, a harsh rasp under the artificial filter.

“I gave them meaning,” he said. “Their deaths woke people up. They made people listen.”

“Funny,” I said. “From where I’m sitting, all you did was prove you’re terrified of women who don’t do what you want. Doesn’t sound very ‘woke,’ does it?”

“You’re the coward, Harlow. You sit behind a keyboard and type all day. You’re too afraid to take action. I’m the one who has the whole city talking.”

“And how many of them are on your side?

“It doesn’t matter. People hated Martin Luther King Jr. when he died.”

I laughed — not to get under his skin, but because it was hilarious.

“What’s so funny?” the voice demanded.

“Not only are you a coward, you actually think you’re on par with MLK,” I said between laughs. “Of all the braindead things you’ve said so far, this takes the cake.”

“I’m not a coward, you asshole. You don’t know anything about me,” he said.

“Sure, I do,” I said. “I know you were close enough to Estelle to feel her pepper spray hit your eyes. I know you were close enough to Sadie for the knife to catch your hand when she grabbed it. I know you like watching your work afterward, which means you’ve read that article at least twice by now. And now, I know you have a dream.”

He was silent for a few seconds. When he spoke again, the bravado was back, but thinner.

“You’re trying to provoke me,” he said. “You want me to slip.”

“Honestly?” I said. “You’ve already done that.”

He paused, as if trying to figure out where he’d made a mistake. I knew he was worried.

“By the way,” I said. “How does it feel knowing you failed? Estelle is still alive. She’s gonna recover. You got lucky with the first two. I think it’s time for you to hang it up. You’re no good at this.”

“Shut up,” he hissed.

“Touched a nerve,” I said. “Must be irritating. Like pepper spray.”

He hung up.

I sat there for a moment, listening to the dead line, heart pounding.

I immediately dialed Fontenot.

“Yeah?” he answered.

“He called,” I said. “He read the article. He’s not happy.”

“What did he say?”

“He thinks Estelle should be dead,” I said. “He didn’t like hearing she’s not. He as good as admitted he was at her apartment, and that he got hit with the spray. We’ve got him reacting to specific details only the attacker would know.”

“You record it?” Fontenot asked.

“Yep,” I said.

“Send it over,” he said. “If he’s mad enough to start calling, he’s mad enough to slip. Keep doing whatever you’re doing.”

I looked at the phone in my hand.

Whatever I was doing, it was working.

The bear was awake.

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New Orleans East Hospital, Neuro Floor
Monday, 6:15 p.m.

The neuro floor was quieter at night. Machines hummed softly. Shoes squeaked on polished linoleum. Somewhere down the hall, a TV murmured the latest doom and gloom news under its breath.

Estelle’s room light was dimmed when I slipped in. Her monitor still beeped its stubborn, steady rhythm. The bandage at her hairline was a small island of white in a sea of auburn.

Her eyes flickered open when she heard the door.

“You’re supposed to be resting,” I said.

“You’re supposed to be working,” she rasped. Her voice was rough but a little stronger than that morning.

“Good news,” I said. “I can do both at the same time.”

I took the chair by her bed.

“The article’s up,” I added. “About you. About him.”

She managed a half-smile before grabbing her phone and reading the piece. “He’s gonna be pissed.”

“That’s the point.”

Her eyes sharpened, despite the fatigue.

“He call you?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “He read it. He’s no longer a fan of mine. I’m crushed.”

“He’s also not a fan of me being alive,” she whispered.

“He doesn’t know you’re here,” I said. “He doesn’t know how bad it was. As far as he knows, you’re sitting up in bed giving Fontenot chapter and verse.”

The truth was more complicated. The doctors wanted minimal stimulation—short visits, low light, no marathon interviews. Her brain needed quiet to heal.

“Fontenot came by earlier,” she said. “Asked what I remembered. I told him mask, window, hands, spray. Couldn’t give him more.”

“That was enough,” I said. “He knows you fought. That matters.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

“You look different,” she said. “Less… wrecked. More… dangerous.”

“Flattering,” I said. “I call it ‘running on caffeine and rage.’”

She swallowed.

“So you’re going to keep poking him until he comes out?” she asked.

“Something like that,” I said. “I’m going to follow him. Call him. Corner him where cameras can see and microphones can hear. Get him talking until he forgets which parts he’s supposed to keep secret.”

She shut her eyes briefly, then opened them again. “Be careful, Jackson. I don’t want to—” her voice trailed off.

“Want to what?”

“Lose you.”

“You won’t. I’m always careful.”

She gave me a look that said we both knew it was a lie.

A nurse appeared in the doorway, gave me a polite but firm smile.

“Five more minutes,” she said. “Then she needs to rest.”

“Guess that’s my cue,” I said.

Estelle caught my hand.

“Hey,” she said. “Jackson.”

“Yeah?”

“Make him pay,” she said.

“I will,” I said, giving her hand a little squeeze.

I left her with the nurse and walked back out into the night.

In the parking lot, I sat in my car for a minute, forehead against the steering wheel.

Dolly. Sadie. Estelle.

He’d tried to turn them into symbols. Martyrs for a cause they never signed up for. My job now was to drag this story back to where it belonged: one scared man with blood on his hands and a puppet master who thought he’d never get caught.

My phone buzzed with a notification: the article had been picked up by a couple of local TV stations, quoted by the national desk, and turned into content.

Good. Let him read it again. Let him stew.

I started the car.

It was time to look into Kyle Weston.

The Bayou Chronicle

Tuesday, 7:00 a.m.

Kyle Weston wasn’t a theory anymore. He was a target. I was determined to find out whether he was truly the killer.

Fontenot and I met in the Chronicle parking lot early Tuesday, coffee in hand, exhaustion baked into both our faces like a permanent stain.

“We’re running your recording through our audio guy, comparing it against interviews. But Jackson—you need to understand something. If this blows up, if he figures out we know, if he decides to run or escalate...”

“He won’t,” I said. “He’s too invested in the narrative. He thinks he’s winning.”

“If Kyle is the guy, that means he tried to strangle a woman to death two nights ago,” Fontenot said quietly. “That’s not a guy who’s running a careful game.”

He was right. But I wasn’t going to say that out loud.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Lemaine’s campaign office,” Fontenot said. “Been there all morning. But we can’t touch him without more than a voice match and traffic cams. You know how this works. Politician’s intern, his word against a phone call we can’t legally prove came from him, and boom—we’re the ones getting sued for harassment.”

“So we get more,” I said.

“How?” Fontenot asked.

“I follow him,” I said. “See what he does when he thinks nobody’s looking. See if he goes back to any of the scenes. See if he tries to finish what he started with Estelle.”

Fontenot stared at me.

“You’re not a cop,” he said. “You’re a civilian.”

“Exactly,” I said. “But you need a reason to bring him in. Right now you’ve got traffic and cell towers. That’s not enough. My eyewitness account of his behavior, his movements, his state of mind—that gets you somewhere. Also, I don’t have to get a warrant.”

“Or he might kill you,” Fontenot said flatly.

“He won’t,” I said. “If he’s the guy, helpless women are more his speed. Not someone like me.”

Fontenot finished his coffee in one long swallow, as if it were a drug and he needed the hit.

“You keep your phone on,” he said. “You see escalation of any kind, you call me. You see him heading toward Estelle’s building, toward the hospital, toward anywhere near you—you call me. And if he approaches you, if he even makes eye contact in a way that feels wrong, you get to a public place and call me.”

“Or maybe I could web him up all nice for you and then swing away like Peter Parker,” I said.

“I mean it,” he added. “This isn’t a newspaper game. This is a man who’s beaten two women to death and tried to strangle a third. You’re not interviewing him. You’re not confronting him. You’re observing. That’s it.”

“Observing,” I repeated, putting my hand in the air like I was swearing an oath.

“Yeah. From far enough away that he doesn’t know you’re there.”

I didn’t promise that. We both knew I wouldn’t.

Following Kyle

New Orleans, 8:23 a.m.

Kyle’s schedule was almost military in its precision: Lemaine’s office at 8 AM, greeting volunteers with that practiced earnestness. Every few minutes, his hand would drift toward his face—his eyes, his cheeks. I wasn’t quite sure, but I thought there was some redness there. From pepper spray?

Around 2 PM, he left the office alone.

I was three cars back when he pulled into a pharmacy parking lot. I watched him go in, waited, then followed.

He was in the back aisle, peroxide and bandages in his hands, staring at them like they were evidence. I got a closer look. He no longer had the bandage on his hand. His wound had healed.

I turned away and pretended to read labels on various products. When he checked out, I was far enough back that he wouldn’t notice.

He left. I followed.

By five, he was heading toward Jackson Square. A notification had popped up on my phone an hour earlier: a pop-up protest, organized by the mutual aid group Kyle volunteered with. About police brutality, about community protection, about “the predator walking free while women die.”

It was bait. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the protest was real, and he just needed to be where people were, where chants drowned out his thoughts, where he could feel like he was still in control of the narrative.

I got there minutes after he did.

The crowd was already thick—maybe three hundred people carrying signs and outrage. I hung back under a streetlamp, camera around my neck, mask on, ball cap low. Just another tourist. Just another observer.

Kyle was in the middle of it all, not at the megaphone but one step behind it. Talking to clusters of people. Gesturing hard. His voice carried enough that I could catch fragments:

“…media narrative…” “…system fails to protect…” “…justice means accountability…”

Every few seconds, his hand would touch his face again. Touch, flinch, drop. He picked at his bandage like it was a sore scab.

A woman on the mic started reading from my article. The one about cowards. About men who attack from behind. About the specific kind of weakness it takes to hide behind a mask.

I watched Kyle’s reaction.

His neck flushed first. Then his jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle working from twenty feet away. His shoulders went rigid. He stopped mid-gesture, stopped mid-word, and just stood there while his brain processed the fact that someone had described him—specifically, precisely him—as weak.

As afraid.

As a coward.

His eyes swept the crowd.

For a second, I thought he’d look at me. For a second, the geometry of the moment suggested his gaze would land exactly where I was standing under the streetlamp.

It didn’t. But it came close.

I sent Fontenot a text: He’s here. Reacting badly to my article. Keep your phone charged.

Fontenot replied: Don’t do anything stupid.

I put my phone away and kept watching.

Kyle left the main crowd and drifted toward the edge of the protest, where things were quieter. Where he could breathe. Where he could stand alone and let his face show what he was actually feeling under the performance.

Anger. Fear. A desperate, fracturing need to prove he wasn’t what people were calling him.

That’s when I had a choice.

Stay here. Keep observing. Let Fontenot do his job.

Or close the distance. Put myself in his sightline. Make it clear that I was the one hunting him now, not the other way around.

I took a step toward him.

Then another.

Then my phone buzzed. Fontenot. Not a text. A call.

I answered quietly.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Still at the protest.”

“Do you have anything yet?”

“Nothing conclusive. But he does have some redness on his face. From pepper spray?

Kyle was about to speak. He stood next to a hippy-looking woman who was currently shrieking into a bullhorn like a banshee.

“That’s not good enough, Harlow. The brass wants me to lay off Weston. Without any hard evidence, we’re risking a lawsuit. We might be barking up the wrong tree.”

“I don’t think so, Leo. There’s something going on here.”

“Well, I can’t stop you from looking into him. But you’re on your own unless you can dig something up.”

“I’ve got an idea. I’ll call you back.”

“Wait, what’s your idea?”

I hung up.

Jackson Square
Tuesday, 1:15 p.m.

Kyle took the bullhorn and shouted, “No justice, no peace!”

The crowd shouted back, “No justice no peace!”

He did this three more times before getting into his speech.

“Some think we’re just a bunch of rabble rousers. They say we’re just loudmouths!” he yelled.

“But the truth is that they hate us because we make them uncomfortable. We’re making them afraid,” he said. “We’re not cowards. We are warriors. And we won’t stop until the oppression stops.”

The crowd roared, cheering him on.

“It’s time for a new era. Corrupt politicians are no longer welcome in this city. Crooked police are no longer welcome in this city. The one percenters are no longer welcome in this city. Change is coming whether they like it or not.”

Kyle raised his fist. “They think they can scare us. But we’re not weak. We’re not cowards. But they are. The powerful never listen until their comfort turns to terror.”

There it was. The phrase. I was sure Kyle was the culprit even if I couldn’t prove it.

Or could I?

I did it. I sent him a text message from one of the Google Voice numbers I sometimes use: Man, did that article upset you so much that you’re low-key trying to refute it at this protest? Bitch move, Kyle.”

As the crowd cheered, he checked his phone. Then he looked up and stiffened. His head turned in every direction before putting the bullhorn to his lips again.

“We’re going to take back this city by any means necessary. Some people think this is a joke. It’s not. The time for talking is over.”

I sent another text message: I know it was you. You killed Dolly. You killed Sadie. You tried to kill Estelle.

Kyle checked his phone again as the crowd waited for his next words. His eyes widened. He looked around again, but I was hidden well enough. He put the bullhorn to his mouth again.

I called him using Google Voice, so I would be anonymous. He needed to see how it felt.

I watched as his phone lit up. He glanced at the screen, frowned—unknown number—and answered.

“Who’s this?” he said, loud enough to be heard over the chants.

“Don’t you ever get tired of just watching?” I said quietly into my phone. He froze. The bullhorn slid from his hands and hit the ground.

His head whipped around, scanning the crowd.

“Who is this?” he repeated, sharper now.

“How’s that bandage healing up?” I asked. “Do your eyes still feel like someone set them on fire?”

He stopped moving. His free hand drifted toward his face, touched near his eyes reflexively, then jerked away like he’d been caught. Now he knew who it was. The rallygoers wore confused expressions on their faces.

He walked quickly away from the crowd to a quiet area so nobody could hear our conversation. Another activist picked up the bullhorn and began speaking. The crowd turned to the new speaker.

“Kyle Weston,” I continued, “You don’t look so good. Did the pharmacy have anything for your face?”

Kyle turned slowly, trying to trace the voice to a location. His eyes swept across the square—over people’s heads, past the signs, searching.

“What do you want, Harlow?” he hissed into the phone.

“I want the truth,” I said. “And you’re going to give it to me, you slimy son of a bitch.”

He kept looking around, trying to find me.

“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice shaking.

I ended the call and started walking toward him.

By the time Kyle realized someone was behind him, I was already there.

“Hello there, killer,” I said.

He spun around, dropping his phone.

For a second, neither of us moved. The protest continued behind us—chants, drums, the crackle of a megaphone—but all of it seemed to evaporate into background noise as Kyle and I stood facing each other.

“Jackson Harlow,” he said, voice tight.

“Kyle Weston,” I said. “You look nervous. Am I making you nervous?”

He straightened and tried to look nonchalant. “Why would I be nervous?”

“You’ve been lying to everyone. Especially yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Let me lay it out for you,” I said. “Traffic cameras put your car near Dolly’s shop the night she died. Cell towers put your phone near Sadie’s apartment when she was killed. And Estelle?” I stepped closer. “She scratched your face and sprayed your eyes. That’s why they’re still red. That’s why you keep touching them.”

His jaw clenched. “You don’t know anything.”

“I know you used the phrase ‘comfort turns to terror’ on camera,” I said. “Same phrase that was written in Sadie’s blood. I know you had a bandaged hand after her murder. I know witnesses saw a blond guy in his twenties leaving her building that night.”

“That doesn’t prove—”

“It proves you’re not as clever as you think,” I said. “You wanted recognition. That’s why you called me. That’s why you sent me that picture of Sadie. That’s why you can’t stop yourself from being seen.”

His breathing quickened. He took furtive glances at the crowd.

“You want to talk about courage?” I asked. “Let’s hear your reasons. Let’s hear what made you cross that line.”

“Jackson, I don’t know what you’re doing, but you’ve got the wrong guy. I told you, I don’t believe in violence.”

“You told me a lot of things. Especially during our phone calls. Admit it Kyle. The police already know, anyway,” I lied.

“Are you sure you want to go this route? You’re just a reporter. If you keep making these false allegations, Lemaine will sue The Bayou Chronicle into oblivion.”

“How does it feel knowing that you killed two people and nothing has changed? How does it feel knowing that you put everything on the line and all you’re going to get is a prison sentence for your troubles?”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Yeah, you told me earlier, during our phone call. By the way, NOPD managed to get through that silly filter you used on your voice. They know it’s you, Kyle. You might make it better on yourself if you turn yourself in.”

Kyle looked around, as if he were thinking about running.

“Of course, you could run. It’s what cowards do when facing someone who isn’t a woman with her back turned.”

“You think you’re better than me?” he snapped. “You talk about change. I take action toward change. Dolly was a racist. Sadie was a traitor. Estelle helped enable it all.”

There it was. Not a full confession, but close.

“So you decided to play executioner,” I said.

Kyle’s face twisted into something that little resembled the reasonable but passionate young activist I had interviewed weeks ago. He looked more like a cornered badger than a meerkat.

“I did what needed to be done,” he said, louder now. “While people like you sat around debating and writing think pieces, I actually—”

He stopped himself, realizing he’d said too much.

“You actually what?” I pressed. “Beat them to death? Strangled Estelle until she stopped moving? Wrote messages in blood to make yourself feel important?”

“She was supposed to—” He cut himself off again, hands curling into fists.

“Supposed to what?” I asked. “Die?”

He paused. His face reddened, and his eyebrows arched.

He lunged at me.

His fist came fast, wild, driven by rage. I blocked it—and my left fist crashed into his jaw. He stumbled back. I threw a right hook that connected with his left eye. He dropped, hitting the pavement like a boulder.

Nearby protesters heard the commotion and turned. A few started moving toward us.

“What the hell?” someone shouted.

Kyle looked around, realizing how exposed he was. His eyes found mine one more time, and I saw it—panic. Pure, animal panic.

“Help! Help! He’s crazy!” Kyle screamed.

More protesters were on us now, holding me back. “What the hell?” one said.

“Aren’t you that thug reporter who attacked Manny and Henry?” another said.

Kyle picked himself up and ran.

He bolted through the crowd, shoving past people, using the mass of bodies as cover. Protesters yelled, thinking he was being chased by police or attacked. Some moved to shield him, others scooted out of his way. The confusion gave him just enough time to disappear into the side streets off Jackson Square.

I moved to follow, but hands grabbed my shoulders—protesters who thought I was the threat. “You leave him alone,” one of the protesters screeched.

“It’s fine,” I said, pulling away. “Let me go. That man is—”

But he was already gone.

I yanked out my phone and hit the voice memo app. Still recording. I’d started it before I even made the call.

The entire conversation. Kyle admitting to the locations. Admitting to Estelle. Saying “she was supposed to—” before catching himself.

Not a full confession. But damn close.

I called Fontenot.

“He ran,” I said. “Kyle Weston. At the protest. I confronted him, got him talking, he came at me, then bolted.”

“Where?” Fontenot’s voice was sharp.

“Into the Quarter, south from Jackson Square.”

“You get anything?” he asked.

“Recorded the whole thing,” I said. “He as good as admitted he was at Estelle’s apartment. Said she ‘was supposed to’ stop moving. Mentioned Dolly and Sadie by name, called them a racist and a traitor.”

“That’s good,” Fontenot said. “That’s enough to bring him in. I’m dispatching units now. Stay where you are.”

I hung up and stood there, heart pounding, adrenaline still singing in my veins.

My phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number:

“This isn’t over.”

I smiled and typed back: “I’ll see you soon, Kyle.”

I emailed the recording to Fontenot.

Then I waited for the sirens.

Read Episode 7: A Killer on the Edge

This is a long episode, and it will be shortened by some email servers. If you aren’t reading in the Substack app, please open this in your browser to see the whole episode.

Previously on The Grinning Golly:

Jackson staggered through the fallout of being doxxed, his dead daughter’s photo turned into a weapon against him. While he was patching himself together, Sadie rocketed from suspect to symbol: her confession and article went viral, she became the new face of the movement, and she and Jackson shared a fragile, hopeful dinner that finally felt like a win. Then the threats escalated, the phrase “comfort turns to terror” slithered back into the conversation and a final text dropped into his phone—a photo of Sadie on a kitchen floor, blood blooming around her and that jade necklace catching the light.

The Harlow Residence
Tuesday, 6:47 PM

I stood staring at my phone. My body wouldn’t move. But my mind was spinning like an angry tornado. Was it real? Was I really looking at Sadie Broussard’s dead body?

It couldn’t be. But I knew it was.

I broke out of the trance and snapped into action. I had to know.

I jumped in my car and set my phone’s GPS to Sadie’s address. My heart was a jackhammer pounding on the inside of my chest like a machine gun.

I probably broke a record number of traffic laws on my way to the apartment. I ran at least one red light. Every minute felt like an hour.

Sadie Broussard’s Apartment
Wednesday, 7:15 PM

I finally arrived. I turned off my car and sprinted up the stairs. The door was slightly ajar. Not a good sign. I entered the apartment, trudged to the end of the hall, looked to the kitchen on the right, and my heart turned to ice. A metallic scent assaulted my nose as if to rub the tragedy in my face.

Sadie lay on the kitchen floor, just like Dolly had, face up. Except this time, there were wounds on her face. The killer hadn’t snuck up on her as he did with Dolly. In an act of futility, I placed two fingers on Sadie’s wrist. There was no chance that there would be a pulse — but I had to be sure.

I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “There’s a body. It’s a murder,” I told the dispatcher before giving her the address. I hung up.

The police would be there in a few minutes. I had to examine the scene as quickly as possible. I looked at the body and its surroundings. The killer had struck Sadie multiple times in the head and face with a blunt object. There were no stab wounds.

A glint of metal just under the dishwasher snatched my attention. I got down on my knees. I knew better than to grab it, but I could clearly see the kitchen knife — covered in blood. But whose blood?

I looked around the living room. A lamp lay in pieces on the floor. Red splotches covered the couch like a Rorschach test. One of the kitchen chairs lay on its side beside the couch. What used to be a glass dining table was in small shards of glass on the carpet.

There had been a struggle. Sadie fought back.

I walked back to the kitchen when I saw it. My blood froze and the lump in my throat returned. On the counter, the killer had written a message in Sadie’s blood: COMFORT →TERROR.

That sounded familiar.

Sirens blared in the distance — inching closer with every second. The police would be there soon. I couldn’t stop looking at Sadie, lying there covered in blood. Her hair was matted. Her arms and legs splayed out at unnatural angles.

“I’m sorry Sadie,” I muttered.

Sadie Broussard’s Apartment
Tuesday 7:30 PM

Fontenot was the first through the door. Uniformed officers and forensics techs filed in and immediately began examining the scene.

Fontenot’s face told me all I needed to know. His eyebrows were drawn tight. His pupils burned. He looked at me.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Harlow?”

“I’m the one who called it in.”

“I know that. I’m asking, what the fuck you are doing here.”

“I received a message. From the killer. With a photo. I came to—”

“You came to what? Contaminate my crime scene? Play hero? This is your fault, Jackson. You wrote that damn article. You put a target on her back. You made her visible, and now she’s dead.”

I said nothing because deep down inside, I knew it was true.

“Get out of here. Go home. I’ll call you tomorrow. And for the love of God, stay out of my way.”

The Harlow Residence
Tuesday, 8:55 p.m.

By the time I got home, the news of Sadie’s death had already hit the news. This was one scoop I was okay with losing. I couldn’t bring myself to write about what happened to Sadie.

I kept the lights off. My phone was the only source of light in my living room as I sat on the couch.

A bottle of tequila sat on my coffee table — I had already drained half of it, and I wasn’t even done yet.

My phone was buzzing nonstop. Text messages from my co-workers. Mavis. My inbox on X was full of DMs from people I didn’t know. Most expressed their condolences. Others blamed me.

“If you hadn’t targeted her in the first place, she’d still be alive, asshole,” one user wrote.

I ignored them. All of them.

My phone rang. My dad’s number popped up on the screen. I didn’t answer. I don’t know when I would be ready to talk. But that time wasn’t now.

Fontenot was an ass. But he wasn’t wrong. I did write the article. I helped her get a platform. I made her visible. And I painted the target.

I poured another drink.

The Bayou Chronicle
Wednesday, 9:30 a.m.

I woke up feeling like someone had repeatedly dropped an anvil on my head and then attached it to my chest. My stomach felt like it was about to erupt like Mt. Vesuvius.

And it did.

Luckily, I managed to make it to the toilet. I regurgitated enough liquor to make my toilet drunk.

I didn’t bother to shave. I put on some clothes and made my way to the office. I walked into the building feeling like I was carrying a yacht on my back.

“Jackson,” Charlie stood off to the side. He walked closer. His eyes were downcast, as if he were trying to strike up a conversation with his shoes.

“Look man—I’m so sorry about Sadie,” he said. “This whole thing, it got so out of hand. I didn’t think—”

“Yeah. Me neither. Thanks, Charlie.”

I kept walking. I wasn’t in the mood for a conversation.

Mavis stood in front of her office door and waved me into her office. She sat down. Her face muscles strained, as if trying to build a dam to prevent the tears from flowing.

“How are you holding up?” Mavis asked.

“I’m pulling myself off the story.” My voice sounded monotone in my head — like a robot.

“Jackson—”

“I’m done, Mavis. I made her a target. If I hadn’t written that article—”

“Stop,” Mavis interjected. “You gave her a voice. You didn’t kill her.”

“I might as well have. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I do. You were thinking that her story could inspire people — and you were right. I know you’ve seen how people are responding to her.”

“Yes, and I also saw her lying battered and bloody on her kitchen floor.”

Mavis leaned back in her chair.

“Jackson, if you want off the story, I won’t stop you. But you’re making a mistake.”

“Yeah. Like getting people killed because they want to do better.”

I walked out of the office, drifted to my car, and drove home.

The Harlow Residence

Wednesday, ????

I spent the rest of the day in bed and on the couch. I figured sleep and booze was the best way to escape. It wasn’t.

I couldn’t get Sadie’s face out of my head. I wanted to drive my fist through my bedroom wall. The killer had won. I couldn’t catch him. Neither could law enforcement.

He had won.

My phone rang again. It was my dad. I texted him, “I’m ok. Just taking some time off.”

He wrote back: “Cut the bullshit and call me.”

I didn’t. Instead, I went back on social media. I wanted to see if the police had found any new leads on the case. They hadn’t.

Online, the reactions to Sadie’s death were predictable. “This is what happens when the left eats its own,” one user wrote.”

Another user claimed that Sadie’s death was retaliation from a right-winger who “wanted revenge for what happened to Dolly Mercier.”

“Sadie Broussard inspired me to reach out to my sister after 3 years of not speaking,” one user wrote. “We’re going to dinner next week. I owe her everything.”

I closed the app and poured another drink.

My inbox pinged. I almost ignored it.

The subject line: I’m sorry

No sender name. Just a Gmail account: GhostHack123@gmail.com

I opened it.

Mr. Harlow,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t know if it matters. But I need to say it anyway.

I’m the one who leaked your information. Not the killer. Not some random troll. Me.

I had access to things I shouldn’t have had access to. I used that access in ways I can’t justify. I told myself it was for a good reason—that exposing certain truths would help people see what’s really happening. But all I did was hurt you. I weaponized your grief. I used your daughter.

*I’m not asking for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I want you to know that I never meant for it to go this far. I thought I was helping. I thought I was doing the right thing.

I was wrong.

I’m stopping. No more leaks. No more attacks. But I can’t undo what I’ve already done. And I can’t tell you who I am—not yet. Maybe not ever.

*I’m sorry, Mr. Harlow. For what it’s worth, you’re a better journalist than I’ll ever be. And a better person than I’ve proven to be.*

—A Coward

I read it twice.

Then I closed my laptop and poured another drink.

It didn’t matter who sent it. It didn’t change anything.

The damage was done.

The Harlow Residence
Friday, 9:31 a.m.

I spent my morning on the couch binge-watching Breaking Bad. I hadn’t left my home for two days. My phone rang.

Estelle Mason’s name appeared on the screen. I ignored it. My phone buzzed.

“Jackson, it’s Estelle. Please pick up. I need to talk to you.”

I debated calling her back for a few minutes. I didn’t want her to see me like this. But what if it was important?

I called her back.

“Jackson, thank God. How are you?” she said after answering on the first ring.

“I’m fine.” I sounded like a frog whose vocal cords were massaged with sandpaper.

“You sound like hell. I’m coming over.”

“Estelle, I don’t—”

“What’s your address?”

“I’m not in the mood for visitors, Estelle.”

“You hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“The sound of me not caring what mood you’re in. Give me the address or I’ll get it from Fontenot. I still have his card.”

I wasn’t going to win this one. So I sent her my address and waited.

I started to clean up the empty bottles. I was about halfway through before I heard the knock on the door.

Harlow Residence
Friday, 10:00 AM

“You look like shit,” Estelle greeted me.

“Thanks.”

She walked right by me. Her eyes took in my living room like a general assessing the battlefield.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know.”

Estelle went to the kitchen and started making coffee. The aroma was enticing. I hadn’t had a cup in days. She placed the cup on the coffee table and began finishing my cleaning job.

“Estelle, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up and drink that coffee,” she smiled.

I was too tired to protest. I had to admit, it was nice seeing her. She floated around the room like Mary Poppins, picking up beer cans and leftover pizza boxes full of pizza that was so stale, even a starving rat wouldn’t touch it.

When she finished, she sat down next to me on the couch with a plate of eggs and bacon. She set it down in front of me.

“Now, isn’t that better?”

“You didn’t need to do that, Estelle. But I appreciate it.”

I took a bite of eggs. Scrambled with cheddar. She must have also been a Jedi, because there was no other way she could know that was how I liked them.

“I’ll send you a bill in the morning.”

I tried to stop it, but my mouth turned up into a smile on its own.

“So what did you want to talk about? I know you didn’t just come here to start a maid business.”

“Well, I wanted to see you. I heard about Sadie and couldn’t stop thinking about her—and you.”

“I’m hanging in there.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“Ok, maybe I’m not.”

“Dolly told me something once. After her husband died. She said she spent a month in bed, convinced the world was better off without her in it. You know what finally got her up?”

“What?”

“Her sister Marie came over, opened all the curtains, and said, ‘You don’t get to quit. Too many people need you.’”

I took another sip of coffee. It tasted just right.

“Sadie needed you, and you showed up for her,” Estelle said. “You gave her the courage to tell her story. What happened to her isn’t your fault.”

I told her what Fontenot said at the crime scene. I expected her to tell me Leo was an asshole. She didn’t.

“Fontenot was angry and scared,” Estelle said. “He’s watching this city tear itself apart and he can’t stop it. So he lashed out at you. But you know what? Dolly believed in you even though she had just met you. Sadie also believed in you.”

She paused.

“I believe in you.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t believe in myself. But it felt good that someone else did.

“Oh—I just remembered something,” Estelle broke the silence. “When I was helping to set up for the vigil yesterday, someone mentioned they saw a young guy hanging around Sadie’s building the night before she died. Blond guy, twenties, looked nervous. They said he was walking swiftly toward his car when they saw him leave. It looked like he had a bandage on his arm.”

“That’s interesting. But I’m off the story now.”

Estelle gave me a look that said, “yeah right” and kept going.

“They didn’t know him so they don’t have a name. But it sounds kinda suspicious, doesn’t it?”

“Did they say anything else?”

“No. Just that his hand appeared to be bandaged. Like, freshly wrapped.”

Something stirred inside me. I was getting the itch when a new piece of information begs me to investigate it. I shoved it down. I didn’t want to scratch that particular itch anymore.

Before I could respond, there was a heavy knock at the door. Authoritative. Estelle and I exchanged a glance. Sounded like a police knock.

“Jackson Harlow, open this damn door before I kick it in!”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I opened the door, and six foot four, 200 pounds of concerned father stood at the door.

“Hey dad.”

He looked at me. Then he looked at Estelle, who had just stepped toward my door.

Dad smiled, “Hello there. I’m Marcus Harlow, Jackson’s dad.”

Estelle’s smile could have lit up the pit of Hades as she shook his hand. “I’m Estelle Mason. A friend.”

Pops smiled back and gave me a knowing glance. “A friend. Sure. You been looking after this knucklehead?”

“Well, someone had to do it.” She had a mischievous look on her smile.

“I appreciate it,” Pops said.

“But I should go. Let y’all talk.”

She squeezes my arm on her way out. As she passed dad, he gave me an approving nod.

“She seems nice.” Pops was smiling.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying. You could do worse, boy.”

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? Negro, I been calling you for two days. You wouldn’t answer. I saw the news. I know my son. So I drove down here.”

My dad came in and made himself comfortable. I offered him some coffee, which he graciously accepted. He eyed the eggs and bacon Estelle had left in the pan in the kitchen.

Reading his mind, I made him a plate. “Help yourself,” I said. And he did. When he finished, he wiped his mouth and said, “Yeah, that girl’s a keeper. I know you didn’t make this.”

“We’re just friends, Pops. She worked for Dolly.”

“Uh huh.”

He cleaned up his plate and sat back down on the couch.

“Alright. Talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” I sat down on the couch next to him.

Pops sniffed the room like a German Shepherd.

“Yep, that’s what I smell. Grade A bullshit.” He sounded like a wine connoisseur sniffing a fine glass. “You’re sittin’ here drowning in guilt because you think you got that girl killed aren’t you?”

“I did get her killed.”

“Like hell you did. A killer got her killed, son. You gave her a voice. There’s a difference.”

“If I hadn’t written that article—”

“If you hadn’t written that article, she’d still be hiding who she really was. She wouldn’t have inspired all those people. Just because I ain’t tech savvy don’t mean I don’t know how to read the news,” he said. “Didn’t I teach you livin’ in fear is better than dyin’ with purpose?”

I had nothing to say so I exercised my right to remain silent.

He leaned forward.

“When I was overseas, I lost men. Good men. Men who had families, dreams, futures. And every time, I asked myself if I could’ve done something different. Could I have seen it coming? Could I have stopped it?”

He paused. He took a large gulp of coffee.

“You know what I learned? Evil doesn’t need your permission. It doesn’t need your help. All it needs is for you to stand aside and do nothing.”

“I’m not a soldier, Dad.”

“No. You’re better. You don’t kill people overseas because sociopaths in DC want you to. You’re a truth-teller. And that scares the hell out of people who profit from lies.”

I nodded, but wasn’t convinced.

“Your grandmother’s been following this case in the news. When I told her I was coming down here, she had a message for you.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said, ‘Tell that boy to get his ass up and go get that son of a bitch.’”

I could almost hear her saying it. Except that if she were with me, that sentence would have been punctuated by a slap to my head.

My dad gave me a playful slap to the head.

“Your grandmother also said don’t let someone else’s evil become your burden.”

I stood up. “I need a shower.”

“Yes you do. It wasn’t just bullshit I was smelling earlier.”

The hot water felt like heaven. I stood there thinking.

Deep down, I knew Sadie’s death wasn’t my fault. At some point, she would have told her story. She wanted to tell her story. More importantly, people needed to hear it. I knew she wouldn’t want me to give up.

Nobody wanted me to give up.

I felt the water caressing my skin. It was a if the shower was rinsing off my doubts, my anger at myself, and the fear that I might not find out who killed Dolly and Sadie. I almost felt like a voice at the back of my consciousness was telling me, “see this through.”

I walked out of my room. I had changed from my sweat-soaked gym shorts and t-shirt. Now I was wearing my regular clothes.

My dad looked me over approvingly.

He laughed. “Now THAT’S what I’m talkin’ about boy! I’ll get outta here and let you get to work.”

I smiled. “Thanks, pops.”

The Bayou Chronicle
Friday, 12 p.m.

I strode into Mavis’ office. She looked at me as she stood next to her desk.

“It’s about time,” she said with a wink.

“I need everything we have on the case. Every note, every lead, every piece of footage. And I need to talk to Fontenot.”

“It’s already in your inbox, Mr. Harlow. I never got around to reassigning the story.” She shrugged. “I guess I forgot.”

I put my arms around her and gave her the biggest hug I could muster.

“Alright alright, get off me and get back to work,” she laughed.

I gave Charlie a nod as I walked by his desk. I couldn’t place the expression on his face. He looked relieved and worried at the same time.

“I’m glad you’re back on the case, Jackson,” he said. He looked like he wanted to tell me something, but my phone rang.

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“Harlow. You got a minute?” Fontenot asked.

I could hear it in his voice. “Yeah,” I said.

“I owe you an apology. What I said at Sadie’s apartment—I was out of line. You didn’t kill her. The bastard who beat her to death killed her.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been getting pressure from upstairs to close this clean and fast. Political pressure. Lemaine’s camp is breathing down my neck, the media’s on my ass, and I took it out on you. That wasn’t right.”

“Yeah?”

The detective sighed. “And I’m a weapons-grade asshole.”

“Now was that so hard, Fonty?”

“Don’t push it. We good?”

“Sure.”

“Great. Now let me tell you what we found. Here’s where it gets interesting.”

I sat down at my desk and turned on my laptop.

“Killer used a plaque, looks like some kind of award Sadie won—it caused massive blunt force trauma. Similar to the Mercier case, actually. Which is why we’re pretty sure the same person killed both women.”

“How about that knife under the dishwasher?”

Fontenot paused, impressed that I had already found it before the police arrived at Sadie’s apartment.

“Yeah. Sadie fought back. We found blood on a knife at the scene—it’s got two different blood types on it. One’s Sadie’s. The other one we ran through the system. Not a match yet, but we’re still processing.”

“So the killer bled?”

“Definitely. And here’s the thing—whoever did this knew enough to grab bandages from Sadie’s first aid kit after the murder.” His voice rose in excitement. “We found the empty wrapper. They patched themselves up at the scene. It would have only taken them less than a minute”

The radicals Sadie used to run with always had medical supplies. It’s handy when you’re engaging in violent demonstrations.

“So they’re wounded. Not badly enough to need a hospital, but bad enough to bleed,” I said.

“Exactly. We’re looking for someone with a fresh wound—hand, arm, maybe torso. Probably wrapped or bandaged.”

“Anything else?”

“The killer left a message in blood. COMFORT →TERROR. Same phrase from the Mercier murder. This is the same killer, no question. He’s taunting us.”

“He’s taunting me. He sent me Sadie’s photo. He’s trying to make this personal.”

“I should have believed you when you first told me he was contacting you. Let’s use that. Use his arrogance against him.”

“Sounds good.”

Harlow Residence
Saturday, 9:00 AM

I spent Saturday morning hunched over my laptop with a cup of coffee that magically refilled itself. The Aryan Nation screenshots had been nagging at me since I first saw them circulating online. There was also something strange about how the killer mentioned it to me during our first conversation.

Something about the whole thing felt off.

I pulled up the reverse image search tool and started working backwards. The photos in the “leaked emails” weren’t originals. They were stock images, the kind you find on sketchy websites for five bucks.

The account that first posted them—@PatriotVoice2024—had a profile picture that looked like it came straight out of a Getty Images database.

I checked the posting schedule. Every post went up between 3 AM and 5 AM Eastern Time. That’s UTC+3 timezone, which meant someone was posting from Eastern Europe while Americans slept.

The phrasing across all the posts was identical—same sentence structure, same vocabulary choices, same typos in the same places. No real person posts like that.

This was definitely disinformation. And it was professional. These methods fool millions of people because most are not trained to recognize the anatomy of a disinformation campaign.

I grabbed my phone and pulled up Ryan Daltrey’s number. I’d interviewed him before for another story. He answered on the second ring, suspicious as always.

“Who is this?” His voice had that thin, wary edge of someone whose head was always on a swivel.

“Jackson Harlow, Bayou Chronicle. I’m investigating the murder of Dolly Mercier. There are claims online that you and your organization were working with her to plan a rally.”

There was a pause. Then a bitter laugh. I could almost smell the cigarette smoke through my phone.

“Dolly who?”

“Mercier. She ran an antique shop on Magazine Street.”

“Never heard of her. And we don’t plan rallies in New Orleans. Too hostile. We like to stick to friendlier territory.”

I believed him. Not because Daltrey was a good guy—he wasn’t—but because his confusion was genuine. He didn’t have to fake that kind of bewilderment. Also, there was no reason for him to lie.

“So the leaked emails between you and her—”

“Are horseshit. Someone’s playing games.”

“You’re sure?”

“Mr. Harlow, if I had a connection to a murdered woman, don’t you think I’d at least know her name? We’ve got enough problems without being tied to a murder investigation.”

He had a point.

I hung up. Another red herring eliminated. But this one left a more troubling question in its wake: someone had gone to significant effort to fabricate evidence connecting the Aryan Nation to Dolly’s murder.

But why?

It could have been random social media mischief. Or it could be something else.

But my gut told me something different. That wasn’t some bored teenager on 4chan. That was calculated. That was strategic.

I opened a new document and typed a single line: Who benefits from false evidence pointing away from the real killer?

Then I sat back and stared at it.

Harrison Floyd’s Heritage Shop

Saturday, 2:00 p.m.

I drove to Harrison Floyd’s heritage shop on Saturday afternoon. The sun was high and malevolent, turning the sidewalk into a griddle. I parked across the street and sat there for a moment, thinking about what I knew.

Floyd had claimed he was at a heritage group meeting the night Dolly died. A private residence, 7 PM to 10 PM. One person confirmed he was there, but the timeline was fuzzy—plenty of gaps where Floyd could have slipped out. Memory House was only fifteen minutes away. Fifteen minutes to commit murder.

But I needed more than maybes.

The shop was quiet when I walked in. It smelled of tobacco and aging wood. Floyd was behind the counter, reorganizing a shelf of old Confederate belt buckles. He looked up when the bell above the door chimed. His leathery face went tight.

“You again,” he said, looking at me as if I had just burned his favorite white robe.

“Yep. Me again.”

“What do you want now?”

I didn’t answer right away. I let the silence sit between us for a moment.

“I want to know exactly where you were the night Dolly Mercier was killed.”

Floyd slammed down the buckle he was holding. His jaw clenched.

“I told you already. I was at a heritage group meeting.”

“The whole time? From 7 PM to 10 PM?”

“I...” Floyd hesitated. That hesitation was everything. “Yeah. Mostly. Why are you asking?”

“Because your witness says he didn’t see you for at least an hour in the middle of the meeting.”

He hadn’t actually said that. But Ace Journalist Handbook Rule #12 says, “sometimes you have to treat journalism as a game of Texas Hold ‘Em.”

Floyd’s face flushed crimson. He gripped the edge of the counter hard enough that his knuckles went white.

“I went to the bathroom. Took a walk outside to get some air. Does that make me a killer?”

“It makes you someone who could have slipped away.”

“You’re grasping at straws, Harlow.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m grasping at a murderer.”

Floyd slammed his palm on the counter. A glass display case rattled.

“Watch your mouth. I’m not going to stand here and be accused of—”

“Of what? Murder? Because that’s exactly what I’m asking about.”

“I didn’t kill Dolly Mercier!”

“Then where were you during that hour? And don’t give me that tired bathroom line again.”

Floyd’s chest heaved. He looked like a man caught between a rock and a hard place—and the rock was winning.

“I stepped outside to take a phone call. A private phone call.”

“From who?”

“None of your damn business.”

“It is my business when you’re a suspect in two murders.”

“Two?” Floyd looked genuinely confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Sadie Broussard. She was killed three days ago. Same method as Dolly. Same killer.”

Floyd’s face went pale. “I didn’t—I had nothing to do with—”

“Then give me the name.”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Yes.”

I stepped closer to the counter. Close enough that Floyd had to look up at me. Being tall certainly has its advantages—even if it makes air travel a pain in the ass.

“Let me tell you how this works, Floyd. Right now, you’ve got motive—you were obsessed with that pistol Dolly wouldn’t sell you. You’ve got opportunity—an hour unaccounted for during the timeframe of her murder. You’ve got means—you know the neighborhood, you know her shop, and you’re strong enough to swing a blunt object.”

Floyd’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“The police are going to connect those same dots eventually. And when they do, they’re going to be a lot less polite than me. They’re going to dig into your life, your finances, your relationships. They’re going to find out who you were talking to on that phone call whether you cooperate or not. This means I will know sooner or later. After I know, the Chronicle’s readers will know.”

“Let them try.”

“They will. And whatever you’re hiding—whoever you’re protecting—is going to come out. So you can either tell me now, on your terms, or you can explain it to a jury later.”

Floyd was silent for a long moment. His eyes darted to the window, then back to me.

“The person I was talking to... it’s personal. It has nothing to do with Dolly.”

“Then why won’t you give me the name?”

“Because it would ruin me.”

“Ruin you how?”

Floyd’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “It’s complicated. But it proves I wasn’t at Memory House that night. The call lasted forty-five minutes. We were on the phone the entire time. I couldn’t have killed anyone.”

“Then give me something to verify that. A phone record. A name. Anything.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

I didn’t respond.

Floyd exhaled slowly. He looked 10 years older than he had five minutes ago.

“You want to know the truth, Harlow? The truth is that I’m a proud man. Maybe too proud. I did things to Dolly Mercier that I’m not proud of. I harassed her. I made her uncomfortable. I let my obsession with that pistol turn me into someone I don’t recognize.”

He paused, his voice thick.

“But I didn’t kill her. And I didn’t kill that girl. I’m a lot of things—stubborn, petty, stuck in the past—but I’m not a murderer.”

“Then help me find who is.”

“I can’t give you the name. But I can tell you this: the person I was talking to will confirm my story. If the police come knocking with a warrant, they’ll find out the truth. And when they do, they’ll know I’m innocent.”

I studied his face. There was anger there, sure. But underneath it was something else—genuine shame. The kind of shame that comes from protecting someone you care about, even when it makes you look guilty. He could be telling the truth.

“If you’re lying to me, Floyd, I’m going to find out.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Then who are you protecting? A woman? A man? Someone in that heritage group who’d be embarrassed if people knew you two were close?”

Floyd flinched. Just slightly—but I caught it.

“Goodbye, Mr. Harlow.”

“This isn’t over.”

“For today, it is.”

I left without another word. But as I walked back to my car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Floyd was telling the truth about one thing: he didn’t kill Dolly or Sadie. But he was definitely hiding something. The flinch when I mentioned someone from the heritage group told me I was close.

The question was: who was he protecting? And why was it worth looking like a murderer to keep that secret?

The Harlow Residence
Time: 6:00 PM

I was back at my apartment, organizing my notes on Floyd and making a sandwich wish it had never been born. My laptop pinged with a new email. The sender was Danielle Tran, a reporter from WVUE who’d covered the protests outside Memory House. The subject line read: “You might want to see this.”

I opened the email.

Jackson—

I was going through unused footage from the protest the day after the Broussard murder. Found something that might be relevant to your investigation. Clip attached. Let me know if it helps.

—Danielle

I downloaded the file and hit play.

The footage was shaky, shot on the fly during what looked like a street interview. Protesters milled around in the background, holding signs and chanting. I saw several familiar faces, people I’d spoken with when I was covering the protests before Dolly died.

Then the camera focused on a young man—early twenties, blond hair, intense eyes. He was holding a sign that read “JUSTICE FOR SADIE” in red letters.

I recognized him immediately. Kyle Weston. The earnest activist I’d interviewed before and after Dolly’s murder. The intern who worked for Councilman Lemaine. The guy I’d called after my article was published to ask if he’d be willing to keep an eye on Sadie.

The reporter’s voice came through the speakers: “What’s your reaction to Sadie Broussard’s death?”

Kyle’s face was a mask of self-righteous anger. He leaned into the microphone.

“It’s tragic. But sometimes people forget what we’re really fighting for. The powerful never listen until their comfort turns to terror. That’s the truth people don’t want to hear.”

I stopped the video. Rewound it. Played it again.

The powerful never listen until their comfort turns to terror.

Something stirred in the back of my mind. There was something that sounded familiar.

COMFORT →TERROR.

The message on Sadie’s wall. Written in her blood.

All of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. I leaned back in my chair and forced myself to think clearly. The phrase alone didn’t mean anything. Activist circles had their own vocabulary—slogans, mantras, phrases that got passed around like currency.

“Comfort turns to terror” could be something Kyle picked up at a rally. Something he read in a manifesto. Something a dozen other people were saying at protests across the city.

Still, there was something about it.

I needed to be careful. I’d seen reporters ruin innocent people’s lives by jumping to conclusions. I wasn’t going to be one of them.

But still. The phrase nagged at me.

I pulled up Kyle’s social media profiles and started scrolling. Instagram. Twitter. Facebook. Post after post about activism, social justice, fighting the system. Photos of him at rallies, community meetings, voter registration drives.

Then I found it.

A photo posted two days ago. Kyle at a community organizing meeting, holding a clipboard, talking to a group of volunteers. His right hand was clearly visible in the frame.

Wrapped in a fresh white bandage.

I sat up straighter.

Estelle’s witness had described a blond guy in his twenties leaving Sadie’s building the night of the murder. Walking swiftly toward his car. Bandage on his hand or arm.

Kyle was blond. Kyle was in his twenties. Kyle had a bandaged hand.

But again—so what? People hurt their hands all the time. Kitchen accidents. Sports injuries. A bad fall. It didn’t make him a killer. Even more, how did I know whether he still needed the bandage? Sadie had been killed days ago, and I had no idea how badly she had cut the killer.

He certainly had motive. Dolly was profiting from racism, supposedly. Sadie was a traitor. I already knew Sadie wasn’t the killer, but I hadn’t cleared Kyle — or anyone else in the activist community, for that matter.

I’d called Kyle after the article was published. Asked him to look out for Sadie. He’d agreed. Which meant he knew where she lived. He had access. He had opportunity.

Then again, a lot of other folks could fit the bill. Harrison Floyd. Colin Reddick. Someone I hadn’t discovered yet.

The thought made my stomach turn. If Kyle was the killer, then I’d handed him Sadie on a silver platter.

No. I was getting ahead of myself. This was all circumstantial. The phrase could be common activist rhetoric. The bandage could be a coincidence. Kyle could be exactly what he appeared to be—a passionate young man who cared about justice.

But I couldn’t ignore the pattern either.

I opened a new document and started typing:

I sat back and stared at the screen.

I didn’t want it to be Kyle. He’d seemed genuine when I first met him. Young and idealistic, sure, but not dangerous. Not violent.

But killers rarely look like killers. That’s how they get away with it. Kyle could be my very own Ted Bundy.

I saved the document and closed my laptop. Tomorrow I’d go to Sadie’s vigil. I had a feeling Kyle would be there.

Location: Jackson Square
Time: 7:30 PM

Candles flickered across Jackson Square, hands of every complexion and stripe held them aloft—old church ladies in Sunday hats, college kids in rainbow masks, and regular people waving American flags. There were as many homemade signs as faces: I Stand With Sadie, No More Hate, Humanity > Politics. Local news trucks hovered at the perimeter, lenses trained on the podium.

The first speaker was a white retiree from the Garden District who’d feuded with Sadie about Confederate statues. Next up was a black minister whose congregation shared the same block. A young Republican club president spoke about bridging divides.

Then a progressive city council candidate said Sadie’s blog had helped her reach across the aisle at home. I recognized faces from both protests and counter-protests, each here for their own reasons.

Sadie was still uniting people, even in death. My heart sank deeper into my chest. I found myself hoping she could see this—her legacy.

Councilman Pierce Lemaine stood respectfully off to one side. He wasn’t glad-handing or grandstanding—just listening. He nodded as the minister spoke. It was hard to fake that kind of attentive discomfort; he felt like a guest, not a host.

I edged into the crowd, searching for familiar faces. That’s when I caught sight of Kyle Weston—the young man I’d interviewed for background weeks ago. He had his candle, like everyone else, its orange pool of light half-concealing his expression. I saw the bandage on his right hand.

I slipped through the crowd until I was behind him.

“Kyle?” I kept my tone casual, friendly, like I was greeting an old acquaintance, not trying to find a murderer.

He turned, looking tired. “Hey, Jackson. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Sadie’s vigil. Wouldn’t miss it.”

He nodded. “She was… she really did try to bring people together. Not everyone saw that.” There was a beat of silence. “How are you holding up?”

I shrugged. “Been better. How about you?”

“Trying to process, like everyone. Just wish more people got it before she was gone. We definitely didn’t see eye to eye after her…awakening. But I would rather have her here with us.” He lifted the candle again, then hesitated. “Haven’t seen you at rallies lately.”

I shook my head. “Needed to regroup. Doing some digging for the Chronicle. The news cycle never stops.”

He nodded, eyes on the speaker now.

“Ouch,” I said, pointing at his bandaged hand. “You get into a barfight, Kyle?”

He glanced down, almost sheepish. “Kitchen accident. Stupid of me.”

“You should have gone with the barfight. It would have made for a better story,” I said, offering a smile. He managed a tired laugh.

“I’ll see you around,” he said, turning back to the vigil.

I let him go, feeling a little foolish. Was I expecting him to confess? Even up close, there seemed to be nothing here but a young activist mourning a peer.

Like I said before, what I found was circumstantial. Still, I liked Kyle, which meant I had to focus harder to maintain objectivity.

I was not going to let another person die because I didn’t want to believe what might have been in front of my eyes. If Weston did the deed, I would find out. If he didn’t, I’d find that out too — and I would be relieved.

After the last speaker stepped down, I made my way over to Lemaine.

“Councilman,” I said.

His tired expression morphed into a beaming visage within half a second. “Jackson. I was hoping to say hello.” It was almost bashful—a politician’s careful self-awareness.

“Strange to see so many different people together for once,” I said, gesturing to the crowd.

“It shouldn’t be strange. It should be normal,” Lemaine said softly. “But Sadie had a gift. Makes you wonder what we could accomplish if we listened more and postured less, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe tonight it could stick,” I offered.

“I hope so.” He clasped my hand. “Thank you again for your work. People need your journalism—especially now.” As I nodded and stepped back into the crowd, I realized I almost believed him.

“Mr. Harlow?” a woman’s voice came from behind me. I turned around and saw a 50ish woman with a small frame and fiery red hair. Sadie’s hair. This had to be her mom.

“Ma’am?” I answered.

“I’m Delia, Sadie’s mom.”

“Ms. Broussard,” I said, taking her hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Sadie was a special girl.”

“Thank you. She was.” Her eyes began to moisten. She tried valiantly to hold the tears back, but failed. She began sobbing.

“I—”

I interrupted her by putting my arms around her. She fell into them as if that was her intended destination. She wept. I held.

We stood there, locked together as if the crowd surrounding us had dissipated like a vapor cloud. I didn’t know what to say. But it didn’t matter.

Delia’s sobs began to taper down. I let her go.

“You know, she told me all about you, your story, how you inspired her to speak her truth. I wanted to thank you.”

Those last two words hit me like a sledgehammer. Thank me? Sadie was dead because she followed my advice.

My face must have betrayed my lingering guilt.

“I hope you’re not blaming yourself, Mr. Harlow. You’re not the monster here. You give my little girl a voice. You better not ever forget that.”

“I won’t,” I said, meaning it.

“Good.” She smiled. She squeezed my hand.

“I have to go. Thank you again — for everything, Jackson.”

I hung around long enough to catch one more family lighting candles, then slipped away into the night, mind busy but unsure. Kyle’s bandage was barely a footnote in my thoughts—easy enough to explain, easy enough to file away.

Sadie, even in death, was making people see each other. For once, that seemed like a miracle.

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The Harlow Residence
Saturday, 10:00 p.m

I sat at my desk organizing notes when my phone rang. Unknown number. I almost let it go to voicemail, but something made me answer.

“Hello?”

There was a beat of silence, then the distorted voice came through—modulated, robotic.

“Hello, Mr. Harlow. I was wondering when you’d get back in the game.”

My blood turned to ice.

The killer.

I quickly composed myself.

“Still using the voice changer, I see,” I said, keeping my tone light. “What’s the matter? Afraid I’d recognize your sultry baritone?”

“You’ve been quiet. I was starting to think you’d given up.”

“Me? Give up? Nah. I was just binge-watching Breaking Bad. Had to finish the series. Have you ever watched it?”

There was a pause. I could tell my flippancy was getting under his skin.

“You’re making jokes while people are dying.”

“Better than making people die while people are joking. But hey, that’s your department, isn’t it?”

The distortion crackled with anger.

“You had the chance to be part of something. To use your platform to expose the real enemy. But you’re still playing games. You don’t understand what I’m fighting for.”

“I think I do.”

“This isn’t a joke, Harlow.”

“You’re the one calling me at ten o’clock on a Saturday night with a Darth Vader impression. Who’s really joking here?”

“The message is that compromise is complicity. Sadie compromised. She betrayed everything she claimed to believe in. She chose comfort over truth. And that’s why—”

“Why what? Why you murdered her?”

Silence stretched across the line. It lasted long enough that I thought he might have hung up.

“She made her choice,” he said finally, his voice tight. “Actions have consequences. The powerful never listen until their comfort turns to terror.”

There it was. The phrase.

My hands went cold, but I kept my voice steady.

“That’s poetic. Did you come up with that yourself, or is that from some manifesto I should know about?”

“It’s the truth. And more people are starting to see it.”

“Are they? You should have been there at Jackson Square earlier. I saw purple-haired feminists hugging people wearing red hats. Doesn’t sound like you’re winning.”

“I just need people to wake up. To understand that half-measures accomplish nothing. Dolly Mercier was a racist profiting from hate. Sadie Broussard was a traitor who abandoned the movement. They both—”

He stopped himself mid-sentence.

“They both what?” I pressed.

“They both got what they deserved.”

But that wasn’t what he was going to say. He’d almost said something else. Something that connected them in a way I hadn’t considered yet.

“Interesting,” I said. “So you’re judge, jury, and executioner now?”

“Someone has to be. I was tired of being a talker. Everyone’s a talker. That’s why nothing changes,” he said. “The system protects people like Dolly. It co-opts people like Sadie. Real change requires—”

“Let me guess. Beating people to death for having an opinion?”

He paused. His breathing came through my phone at a rapid pace.

“Real change requires commitment. Something you wouldn’t understand. You’re a talker.”

“Maybe. But I understand that you’re making it personal. Sending me that photo of Sadie. Calling me. You want me to know it’s you. You want me to tell everyone why you’re doing this.”

“I want you to tell the truth. That’s what journalists are supposed to do.”

“I am telling the truth. That’s why I’m still digging.”

The voice on the other end shifted—less controlled now, more agitated.

“Then dig faster. Because I’m not done. There are more people who need to be held accountable. More people who profit from oppression. More people who sell out for comfort and dollars.”

“That’s a long list. You planning to work through it alphabetically, or are you going by zip code?”

“You still think this is funny?”

“I think you’re a killer trying to justify murder with ideology. I think part of you feels guilty. And I think you’re going to slip up eventually. You already have.”

“You don’t know anything—”

I cut him off. “I know something you don’t. Remember when you told me Dolly was working with the Aryan Nation? Yeah, I looked into it. It’s fake news. Looks more like a foreign disinformation campaign.”

“That can’t be true.”

“It can, and it is. You’ve been had.”

“It doesn’t matter. She was still a racist bitch.” The confidence had been drained from his voice. He sounded like someone who was thrown off in a debate by a question he couldn’t answer.

“That’s not all. I know Sadie cut you before you killed her. I know you used her first aid kit to patch yourself up. I know you’re young, blond, and stupid enough to think you can get away with this.”

The line went silent again.

Then, quietly: “I’m not stupid.”

“Then why are you still calling me?”

Another pause.

“Because someone needs to bear witness. Someone needs to tell the story.”

“Well, I’ve got bad news for you. The story I’m going to tell ends with you in handcuffs — or a hospital if I catch you before the police do.”

The line went dead.

I sat there in the dark, phone still pressed to my ear, my heart hammering against my ribs. The call had lasted maybe two minutes. Two minutes and he’d confirmed several things I needed to know.

He was working alone.

He believed he was righteous. That Dolly and Sadie “deserved” what happened to them.

And he’d almost said something—They both— before cutting himself off. What was the connection he’d almost revealed?

I opened my laptop and pulled up my notes from earlier.

Call notes:
- Used phrase “comfort turns to terror” on call—confirms he’s the killer
- Young, gets defensive when called stupid
- Believes he’s working for “real change”—ideological justification
- Almost said something connecting Dolly and Sadie—what did he stop himself from revealing?
- Wants me to “bear witness”—needs validation? Recognition?
- Claims more targets—who else is on his list?

I stared at that last line. More targets.

Who else would fit his twisted logic? Who else “profited from oppression” or “sold out for comfort”?

Colin Reddick, maybe. Harrison Floyd. Politicians. Activists who’d moved toward moderation. To an extremist like him, anyone who didn’t agree with his politics was an oppressor.

Or, it could be someone I hadn’t considered yet.

I looked at my evidence board. Kyle’s photo. The bandaged hand. The phrase. The pieces of a puzzle I was only beginning to understand.

Tomorrow, I’d figure out what Vader had almost revealed. Tomorrow I’d dig into who else might be in danger.

But tonight, I’d take the win: I’d gotten the killer to talk. I’d confirmed the phrase. And I’d rattled him enough that he’d almost slipped.

Now I just had to figure out what he’d been about to say.

The Harlow Residence
Saturday, 11:00 PM

The vigil had drained me, but sleep wasn’t coming. Not yet. My mind kept circling back to a name I hadn’t given enough attention lately: Colin Reddick.

I made myself some tea and sat down at my laptop. It was time to do some digging, and I had my shovel ready.

Reddick had a compelling motive. Dolly had been quietly building a case against him for months—photos of forged documents, receipts from shady transactions, statements from clients he’d swindled out of five and six figures.

If any of that went public, his reputation was toast. His business was finished. His career would go the way of the Titanic.

People have killed for less.

I started with what I already had: civil court records. Louisiana’s online system is clunky, but it’s honest—mostly. I typed in Reddick’s name and watched the results populate.

Six lawsuits. All within the last three years. Fraud. Misrepresentation. Breach of contract. The complaints read like a greatest hits album of white-collar debauchery.

One plaintiff paid $40,000 for a “verified” Civil War officer’s sword that turned out to be a replica made in Pakistan, of all places. Another shelled out $75,000 for a collection of Confederate letters that were supposedly written by General Beauregard—except the handwriting didn’t match any known Beauregard samples, and the paper tested as post-1950.

Reddick’s defense in every case was the same: he was a middleman, not an authenticator. He trusted his sources. He couldn’t be held responsible for their mistakes, could he?

Yet, it was funny how these “mistakes” had always worked in his favor.

I was about to close the file when another document caught my eye—a list of items Reddick had sold in the past five years, compiled as part of discovery in one of the fraud cases. One entry ground my scrolling to a halt.

Item: Confederate officer’s pistol, c. 1862. Purported provenance: Floyd family estate, St. Bernard Parish. Sale price: $85,000. Buyer: D. Mercier, Memory House Antiques.

I read it again.

Dolly had bought a pistol from Reddick. A pistol supposedly from the Floyd family estate.

Harrison Floyd’s family. I remembered my conversations with Estelle and Harrison.

The same Harrison Floyd who’d been harassing Dolly for months over a pistol he claimed belonged to his ancestors. The same Harrison Floyd who was so obsessed with getting it back that he’d made her life a living hell.

A few things clicked into place. The gears of my mind went into overdrive.

Floyd was furious. He wanted that pistol. He believed it was his birthright, a piece of his family’s history that belonged in his hands, not in some antique shop on Magazine Street.

So he went after Dolly. Demanded she sell it to him. Harassed her when she refused.

But what if Dolly had tried to do him a favor?

What if she’d examined the pistol, realized it was a fake, and told Floyd the truth?

And Floyd, proud and stubborn and obsessed, didn’t believe her. He thought she was lying to keep him away. He kept pushing. Kept harassing. Kept making her life miserable.

That’s why she was investigating him. That’s why she was collecting evidence. She was going to expose Colin Reddick for the fraud he was.

And then she was murdered.

That had to have been what happened.

Reddick had motive: Dolly was about to expose him.

Floyd had motive: he was obsessed with the pistol and furious at Dolly.

But neither of them fit the profile of the killer who called me. Neither of them would write COMFORT →TERROR in blood. Neither of them had the ideological fervor I’d heard during my phone calls with Vader.

Still, this didn’t mean neither of them couldn’t have done it. With all the political ruckus caused by the golliwog controversy, it wouldn’t be a stretch to murder Dolly and make it look like a left-wing ideologue did it.

I needed to confirm this. I had to find Dolly’s notes—whatever evidence she’d gathered before she died. Estelle might know where she kept them. Or maybe Fontenot had already collected them as part of the investigation.

I picked up my phone and typed out two texts.

To Estelle: “Hey. Quick question—did Dolly ever mention she was investigating Colin Reddick? Or anything about a pistol she bought from him that turned out to be fake? It might be important.”

I set the phone down and stared at my evidence board. Kyle’s photo was pinned in the center now, with the bandage and the phrase noted beside it. Floyd’s photo was off to the side—still suspicious, but maybe not for the reasons I’d thought. And Reddick’s photo sat in the corner, looking a lot more interesting than it had an hour ago.

I moved Reddick’s photo closer to Kyle’s.

Three suspects. Three different motives. One killer.

Or maybe two: a killer and whoever pointed him at the target.

I finished off my tea and closed my laptop. Tomorrow I’d dig into Kyle’s background—his history and career as an activist, his movements the nights of both murders, whether anyone else had heard him use that phrase before Sadie died.

But tonight, I let the questions sit. Sometimes the answers come when you stop chasing them.

Sometimes they don’t.

The Harlow Residence
Sunday, 9:00 am.

I woke up to a text from Estelle: “Dolly mentioned the pistol turned out to be worthless. She seemed frustrated but also determined. Like she was going to do something about it. I knew it was the Floyd pistol, but I didn’t hear anything more from her about it.”

I sauntered over to my kitchen to make some coffee.

No match. Which meant either the killer had never been arrested, or had been arrested for something that didn’t require DNA submission.

It didn’t clear Kyle. It just meant the police couldn’t use DNA to prove he committed the crime.

I made coffee and pulled up Kyle Weston’s social media again. Instagram, Twitter, Facebook. The feed told a story of a political journey I’d seen a billion times: posts from high school about apathy, college about activism, the past year about radicalization.

I started tracing back. Kyle had graduated from Tulane three years ago with a degree in political science. Before that, he’d gone to a private high school in Uptown—the kind of place where tuition costs more than most people’s homes. His parents’ names were visible in a few photos: William and Catherine Weston. William looked like old money—silver hair, country club tan, the kind of face that appeared in society pages.

I searched: William Weston, New Orleans.

The results came back quickly. William Weston, real estate developer. William Weston, member of the Chamber of Commerce. William Weston, philanthropist. And then, buried in an old article from the Times-Picayune: “William Weston’s development company sued by environmental groups over wetlands destruction.”

Kyle came from privilege. His father was successful, politically connected, probably Republican—the kind of guy who donated to campaigns and sat on boards. Maybe Kyle was rebelling against his parents by embracing leftist ideology.

Was Kyle angry? Suffering from white guilt? The former might not lead someone to kill, but the latter tends to lead to a white savior complex, in my experience. There is no telling where that could lead.

I pulled up more recent posts. Kyle’s rhetoric had shifted over the past year—less about policy, more about ideology. More about systemic collapse. More about the need for radical action. The language was almost violent, though not quite. It was the language of someone who’d decided the system was beyond repair.

But he wasn’t quite as radical as Sadie had been.

At the center of a photo posted six months ago, Lemaine was, standing next to Kyle with his hand on Kyle’s shoulder.

The caption read: “Grateful to be mentored by leaders who actually understand what change looks like.

I pulled up Kyle’s arrest record.

Age 19, drunk and disorderly at a protest. Charges dropped.

Age 21, possession of a controlled substance. Pleaded guilty, probation.

Age 22, assault. A fight at a bar. Again, probation.

Kyle had a history of violence. Nothing serious—nothing that would land him in prison—but a pattern. Escalation. A young man learning that aggression got results, or at least got attention.

After all, when your parents can hire high-powered attorneys to get you out of just about anything, consequences aren’t really a thing.

I opened a new document and started typing.

I stared at my notes. Kyle fit the profile. But it didn’t mean he was the killer.

I needed to place him at the scene. I picked up my phone and called Fontenot.

“Harlow,” he answered. “You’re up early.”

“You know what they say about early birds and worms. I need traffic camera footage from the night Dolly was killed. Specifically around Memory House and a two-block radius. I’m looking for a young blond male, early twenties, in a vehicle.”

“You got a name?”

“Kyle Weston. Works for Lemaine’s office. I think he might be worth looking at.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“What do you have on him?”

“He matches the witness description. Bandage on his hand. He uses the phrase that was written at Sadie’s crime scene. And he would have had access to Sadie—I asked him to check on her after the article was published.”

“That’s not a lot.”

“I know. But pull the footage anyway. And when you get traffic cameras around Sadie’s building the night she was killed, look for the same vehicle. Same timeframe.”

“Will do. But Jackson—be careful. Traffic camera work takes time. And even if we find his car there, that doesn’t prove anything.”

“I know. But it’s a start.”

After we hung up, I sat with my coffee and thought about the pieces. Kyle. The bandage. The phrase. The access. The anger.

But I didn’t have proof. Not yet.

What I had was suspicion. For now, that had to be enough.

The Bayou Chronicle
Sunday, 10:30 AM

The newsroom was empty except for Charlie, who was hunched over a laptop at his desk, probably fixing some server issue or upgrading the security software.

He looked up when I walked in. “You’re here early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I said, heading to my desk. “You?”

“System maintenance. Easier to do it when nobody’s hogging the bandwidth.” He set down his screwdriver—he had the laptop’s back panel open. “You look like hell, by the way.”

“Thanks. I’ve heard that before.”

Charlie also looked like hell. The bags under his eyes screamed “sleepless nights.”

I booted up my computer and pulled up my notes on Kyle, Floyd, and Reddick. The evidence board in my mind was getting crowded. Too many suspects, too many motives, too many loose threads.

Mavis appeared at her office door and waved me in.

“You’re making progress,” she said, not as a question.

“Maybe. I’ve got three solid suspects, but nothing that sticks yet. The DNA from Sadie’s crime scene doesn’t match anyone in the system. I’m waiting on traffic camera footage from the nights of both murders. And I’m trying to figure out if there’s a connection between Dolly and Reddick that goes deeper than just a bad business deal.”

Mavis leaned back in her chair. “Why the traffic footage?”

“I’m looking into Kyle Weston. He’s a possibility. He fits the description, he has access, and he uses the same language as the killer.”

“But?”

“But I don’t have proof. Not yet.”

“So what’s your next move?”

“I need to know if Kyle has any history of violence beyond the arrests on record.”

Mavis nodded slowly. “Be careful with that one. He works for Lemaine. The councilman is a good man, and if you start suggesting he’s connected to a murder, you better have ironclad evidence.”

“I’m not suggesting anything—yet. I’m only asking questions.”

“That’s how it starts,” Mavis said. “You ask questions, and before you know it, you’ve got a theory. And before you know it, you’ve published something you can’t take back. ‘Just asking questions’ only works for conspiracy grifters on social media.”

She was right. I needed to be careful.

“I know,” I said. “I’m not going public with any of this yet.”

I left her office and went back to my desk. Charlie was still there, squinting at the laptop’s innards.

“Charlie,” I said. “Can I ask you something?”

He looked up. “Sure.”

“Have you found anything yet on our leaker problem?”

Charlie hesitated.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, bro. Just a little tired. We haven’t found anything yet, but we’re still working on it. We still think it came from an external source.”

I was about to ask him another question, but my phone buzzed. A text from Estelle: “Got your message. Most of Dolly’s notes are with the police—they took everything from her apartment and office. But I have her personal calendar. She had an appointment labeled ‘CR—Verification’ three days before she was killed. CR = Colin Reddick?”

I texted back: “That helps. Can you send me the calendar? And did Dolly ever mention anything about Reddick threatening her?”

Estelle’s response came quickly: “Sending now. And no threats that I know of other than what I told you earlier. But she seemed... worried. Like she was onto something big but wasn’t sure how to handle it.”

My laptop pinged. Estelle had sent Dolly’s calendar as a PDF. I opened it and scrolled through the past few months.

There were the usual entries: shop hours, community events, vigil planning. And then, scattered throughout the past three months: “CR—Verification,” “CR—Follow-up,” “CR—Final Check.”

Three days before her death: “CR—Verification.”

What was Dolly verifying? The pistol? Reddick’s other frauds? Or something else entirely?

My phone rang. Fontenot.

“Harlow. I’ve got preliminary traffic footage from the night Dolly was killed. We’re still processing it, but I wanted to give you a heads-up before you hear it from someone else.”

“What am I hearing?”

“Kyle Weston’s car was parked two blocks from Memory House between 7:15 PM and 9:30 PM. Right timeframe, right location.”

My pulse picked up. “That’s his car?”

“Registered to him, yes. But that doesn’t mean he was driving it. Someone else could have borrowed it. Or stolen it. Or he was there for something else. We’re checking for GPS data, checking his phone location data, trying to narrow it down.”

“What does Kyle say?”

“Haven’t brought him in yet. Wanted to give you a heads-up first. But I’m going to have to talk to him soon. Can’t sit on this.”

“Understood. Keep me posted.”

After we hung up, I sat back and let it sink in.

Kyle’s car. Two blocks away. Right timeframe.

It wasn’t proof, but it was close.

I looked at my evidence board again. Kyle’s photo in the center. The bandage. The phrase. The car at the scene.

He was looking more and more like the killer.

But something still didn’t fit. Kyle didn’t have the kind of ideological fervor that Vader displayed. Kyle seemed like an angry kid trying to find his way, not a zealot convinced he was saving the world. Also, there could be a million reasons why Kyle might have been in the area that night.

I pushed the thought away. I didn’t have evidence for anything beyond what was in front of me. I was speculating. And speculation was how innocent people got accused.

I needed to focus on the facts. Kyle’s car was at the scene. That was a fact. Kyle used the killer’s phrase. That was a fact. Kyle had access to Sadie. That was a fact.

Everything else was theory.

The Harlow Residence
Sunday, 7:23 p.m.

I was reviewing Dolly’s calendar for the third time when my phone buzzed with a text from Estelle.

“Hey... this is probably nothing but there’s a car that’s been parked outside my apartment for like an hour. Same car I think I saw following me earlier from work. Am I being paranoid?”

Every cell in my body lit up like like New York City at night.

I called her immediately.

“Jackson, hi—”

“Lock your door,” I said. “Now. Check your windows. Don’t let anyone in. I’m coming over.”

“Wait, what? You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain when I get there. Just lock up and stay away from the windows.”

A beat of silence, then: “Okay. Door’s locked. I’ll check the windows.”

“Text me when you’re done.”

“Will do.”

I hung up, grabbed my keys, and bolted. I had not considered that the killer might target Estelle. It would fit his pattern—Estelle worked for Dolly. She supported Dolly. The killer might view her as complicit.

The drive to Estelle’s took fifteen minutes. Every red light felt like a personal attack. I checked my phone at every stop—no new texts.

Eight minutes in, my phone rang. I answered it without looking at the screen

I shouldn’t have answered. I did anyway.

“Hello?”

Silence. Then the distortion.

“Mr. Harlow.”

Vader.

“I’ve got another surprise for you. I think you’re gonna love it.”

His breathing was heavy, as if he had just finished running a marathon.

My grip tightened on the wheel. I felt like I was about to rip it off the dashboard.

“What did you do?” I tried to sound calm.

“What needed to be done.” The voice was calmer now, settling into that familiar, chilling cadence. “She worked at that shop for years. Sold symbols of oppression with a smile on her face. Stood by while Dolly poisoned this city. She was always on the list.”

My heart hammered against my ribs.

“Estelle has nothing to do with what you think you’re fighting.”

“On the contrary,” he said. “People like her are the worst. The ones who tell themselves they’re just doing a job. Just following orders. Just being ‘neutral.’ They make all this shit possible.”

I took a turn too fast. Tires squealed.

“Listen motherfucker, if you hurt her, there is no place on Earth I won’t go to make you suffer,” I growled.

He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, there was something almost satisfied in his voice.

“She was louder than I expected. Stronger, too. But she stopped moving eventually.”

My vision tunneled. My surroundings seemed to fade away.

“What does that mean?”

“It means she got what the others got,” he said. “Consequences.”

I wanted to scream at him. Instead, I hung up and floored it.

Estelle’s building came into view. No sirens. No lights. Just a row of quiet windows staring back at me. I parked crooked, half in a space, half out, and sprinted to the entrance. The stairwell felt too narrow, the air too thin. Like the world was closing in on me.

Fourth floor. Her hallway. Her door.

It was closed. No obvious damage.

I pounded on it hard enough to make the frame rattle.

“Estelle!”

No answer.

“Estelle, it’s Jackson. Open up!”

Silence.

My brain started offering me images I didn’t want. Estelle on the floor. Blood. A blunt object. Dolly. Sadie.

I stepped back, then slammed my shoulder into the door. Pain shot down my arm like a lightning bolt. The frame held.

Again.

The wood splintered a little.

This was taking too long. I looked to the right. The window was open. That must have been how he got in. I climbed through.

The apartment was dark except for the weak glow of a lamp knocked on its side. The living room was a wreck—coffee table askew, a chair overturned, throw pillows scattered. The window above the fire escape was open a few inches, curtain breathing with the night air.

But no blood. Anywhere.

“Est—”

My voice died.

She was on the floor near the hallway, half on her side, half on her back. One arm was flung out, the other bent awkwardly under her. There was a smear of blood along the wall where her head must have hit. More in her hair. A small, dark pool spreading beneath it.

Her pepper spray canister lay a few feet away, on its side.

I dropped to my knees beside her.

“Estelle,” I said. “Estelle, hey. Hey.”

No response.

Her face was pale, lips parted slightly. One eye was swollen and red, lashes clumped from tears or spray—maybe both. The skin around her throat was already bruising, dark fingermarks ghosting across it.

I pressed two fingers to her neck. My own pulse was so loud in my ears I couldn’t tell what I was feeling.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on, come on, come on.”

I thought I felt something. Or maybe I just wanted to.

My phone felt like it weighed a hundred pounds when I picked it up. I dialed 911, my hands trembling.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Jackson Harlow,” I said. My voice sounded wrong—too high, too far away. “There’s been an attack. My friend—Estelle Mason—she’s hurt. There’s blood. She’s not—she’s not responding.”

“Is she breathing?”

“I don’t—I don’t know.”

“Stay on the line. Paramedics are on the way. Can you check if her chest is rising and falling?”

I looked at her. Tried to focus on something other than the blood.

“I—maybe,” I said. “I can’t tell. Please just get here.”

“We’re dispatching now. Stay with her.”

I set the phone on speaker and put it on the floor.

“Estelle,” I said, leaning close. “If you can hear me, you hold on, okay? You don’t get to quit. Too many people need you.”

The words came out of my mouth before I realized whose they were.

Dolly’s sister, Marie.

You don’t get to quit. Too many people need you. I prayed to God that she could hear me.

My vision blurred. I blinked hard.

In the corner of my eye, I saw something dark under Estelle’s nails. Dried, flaked. Blood that wasn’t hers. And on the hardwood near the open window, a few small reddish drops leading toward the sill.

She’d fought him. Scratched him. Sprayed him.

And maybe died for it.

Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder.

I stayed there, one hand hovering uselessly over Estelle’s chest, listening for a breath I couldn’t hear, praying for a heartbeat I couldn’t feel.

“Sir, are you still there?” the dispatcher asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m here.”

“Help is almost there.”

Almost.

The sirens grew louder. Closer. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from Estelle’s face.

I leaned closer, my voice barely a whisper.

“I’m going to find him,” I said. “And if you’re still here, you’re going to see me do it. If you’re not… I’ll do it anyway.”

The sirens stopped outside. Doors slammed. Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs.

Check out Episode 6

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Previously on The Grinning Golly:

Jackson’s investigation led to activist Sadie Broussard for Dolly Mercier’s murder, only to learn he was wrong. When he confronted her, Sadie broke down and revealed Dolly had treated her protest injury, challenged her approach to politics, and ultimately given her the jade heart necklace as a symbol of choosing humanity over ideology—backed by a rock-solid alibi. Jackson cleared her in his article and turned her into a public redemption story, which ignited online backlash against them both and ended the episode with his own life being doxxed, as photos and records about his ex-wife and daughter hit social media.

The Bayou Chronicle

Thursday, 7:30 a.m.

Someone had aggregated my life and splashed it all over social media. Not my public persona—my actual life. They had screenshots from court filings about me and my ex-wife’s custody fight with CPS. They had records about Claire, my four-year-old daughter.

I felt like vomiting.

There were posts from accounts with names like @RealJustice2024 and @TruthHawk99, with massive retweets, saying things like:

“This guy uses his dead daughter as a prop to attack activists. Meanwhile, CPS took his other kid away.”

“Classic DEI hire. Destroys his own family then wants to lecture New Orleans about morality.”

“He let his daughter die. Where was his activism then?”

Some were either lying, or had the wrong information. Ellie and I only had one child.

The posts had screenshots. Old court motions with my name and my ex-wife’s name. A photo of Claire—where the hell had they gotten that?—with a caption that said “Jackson Harlow destroyed this family.”

There was a fabricated DM, allegedly from a grief support group, with text saying “I used my daughter’s death for my career advancement.” It didn’t matter that I’d never written that. The format, the screenshot, made it look real enough — at least to those who already wanted to believe it in the first place.

I stood up without thinking. The bullpen got quieter. More eyes on me.

I walked straight to Mavis’s office and entered without waiting for permission.

She was on the phone. She took one look at my face and told whoever was on the line she’d call them back.

“Show me,” she said.

I pulled up the thread on my phone and handed it to her. She scrolled, her jaw tightening with each post.

“This is different,” she said quietly. “This isn’t just trolls. Someone did research. Real research.”

“This is inside my life, Mavis. Court filings. Photos. Details that weren’t easy to find online. It’s below the belt.”

The hole in the pit of my stomach turned into another ball of rage. I never tried to hide my family’s past. Anyone could have found these documents — most were available to the public. But who would be so invested in digging this up?

“Okay. Okay. We’re going to figure this out.” She handed my phone back. “Get Charlie in here. Tell him we need a full forensic sweep. Tell him someone’s in your accounts, or they’ve compromised public records somehow. Go.”

I went.

The Bayou Chronicle

Thursday, 8:00 a.m.

Charlie arrived in Mavis’s office fifteen minutes later, pulling up a chair next to me. He had his laptop with him, and his brow was furrowed, and his mouth was twisted into a frown—the look of a tech wizard getting ready to work his magic.

“Jackson, I’m really sorry about this,” he said. “These people are relentless.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

He set up his laptop and started opening terminals, running commands I didn’t understand. He pulled up my email, my social media, my authentication logs. His fingers flew over the keyboard like a swarm of angry bees.

“Okay,” he said, his fingers moving fast across the keyboard. “Let me check for account compromises. Third-party app logins. See if anyone’s set up forwarding rules, phishing redirects, anything like that.”

Mavis watched from her desk. I stood next to Charlie and pretended I understood his technical mumbo jumbo.

After a few minutes, he looked up. “Okay, here’s what I’m seeing. The IPs accessing your stuff look external. Probably VPNs or proxy servers. The public records angle is interesting because—” He hesitated for just a beat too long. “—it looks like someone automated scraping of court records databases and public filing systems. That’s tedious work, but not impossible if you know what you’re doing.”

“So it’s not my accounts?” I asked.

“Not that I can find. Looks like outside harassment combined with sophisticated public records mining. The photo that scared you—that probably came from social media or a cached version of an old blog. These people are thorough, but I don’t see evidence of a breach on your end.”

He said it smoothly, professionally. But when he mentioned the photo, he looked away. Just for a second. And his next technical term—something about “SSL certificates”—he stumbled over it slightly, then corrected himself with extra emphasis, like he was proving his own expertise to himself.

“So we’re secure?” Mavis asked.

“As far as I can tell, yes,” Charlie said. “The attacks are external. Probably coordinated but external.”

“What about going forward?” I asked.

“Change your passwords. Two-factor authentication on everything. And honestly?” Charlie closed his laptop. “This is the price of being a public figure now. The truth is, they can always find something if they dig deep enough. All we can do is make it harder.”

“Yeah, and being involved in a high-profile racially charged murder case doesn’t exactly help,” Mavis observed.

He stood up, gathering his things. “I’ll keep monitoring. Let me know if anything else looks suspicious.”

After he left, Mavis looked at me.

I stood up to leave.

“Hold up, Jackson.”

I sat back down. I already knew what was coming.

“I’m fine, Mavis.”

“Bullshit.”

“Ok, I’m not fine. But I’ll be ok. It’s not like I was hiding this stuff anyway.”

“Yes, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t how you would have wanted it to get out. Somebody’s really got it in for you.”

“Well, they can get in line. I heard from the killer again, by the way.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Jackson—”

“Nothing happened. I riled him up a little bit, trying to see if I could shake loose some information.”

“Anything come of it?”

“Not much,” he said. “But he’s definitely a white guy. He’s either politically motivated, or wants me to believe he’s politically motivated.”

“Alright. Well keep me posted. And be careful.”

I went back to my desk.

Just when I thought things were settling back into a routine, someone dredged up the worst parts of my past and splashed them all over social media. I’m a private person. I don’t share easily.

But it was even worse than that. I’d been carrying this pain for a decade, and I thought I had moved past it. But the churning in my stomach told me I hadn’t. And now, I have someone using my ex-wife and child against me. Why? I didn’t understand.

The Bayou Chronicle

Thursday, 10:02 a.m.

I tried to focus on background research into Harrison Floyd. I pulled up everything I could find on him—mugshots from 2015 (disturbing the peace at a heritage rally), a DUI in 2019, social media posts going back five years, a few photos of him yelling at protesters in front of Memory House.

Every time I tried to focus, my mind lurched back to the past. The CPS officers walking my four-year-old daughter out the door, tears streaming down her face. Armed police officers escorting us from the hospital. Ellie falling apart in my arms.

Not now, Jackson. I had work to do.

I kept refreshing X. Kept seeing new posts, new angles on my family tragedy. Someone had made a collage of photos—Claire, Ellie, me at the park—with a caption that said “This is what a crisis profiteer looks like.”

My phone buzzed. Text from Jason Whitaker, one of the guys at the Chronicle:

“Bro, ignore the noise. You’re good people.”

“Thanks,” I typed before hitting send.

He meant well. But it felt like confirmation that everyone had seen it. Everyone was looking at me with pity or judgment or both.

I started typing a response. Not to the tweets—to write something. A column. A rebuttal. Something that explained the truth.

I deleted it. All of it.

I pulled up my old photos instead. Found a folder labeled “Claire” on my phone. There were maybe fifty photos. One showed her at three years old, smiling at the camera. Another with her holding a stuffed animal in a hospital bed, still smiling because kids are resilient like that until they’re not.

My eyes started burning.

I closed the folder.

Around 5 p.m., I texted my dad: “Can I come out this weekend? Need to get away.”

His response came back in seconds: “Of course.”

I put my head down and went back to work, trying to lose myself in the investigation. Floyd. The pistol. Estelle’s warning to be careful.

But in the back of my head, one thought kept cycling: My daughter’s been dead for years. My ex-wife too. And these people still find ways to use her. I realized my fists were clenched. My head was on fire.

I packed my laptop and left the office early.

The Harlow Residence

Thursday, 9 p.m.

That night, around 9 p.m., I was home scouring through activist forums, and Discord logs a source had given me access to when I worked a previous story.

It was the usual chatter. My article about Sadie was causing waves, as expected. Some people calling her a sellout. Others defending her. A lot of “we can disagree on tactics but she’s still family” talk.

Then I saw a post from a user named FreedomFighter77:

“Sadie’s got questions. That’s fine. We all question things. But let’s see where her head really is before we write her off. She’s still one of us until she proves otherwise.”

I pulled up the user profile.

It was Kyle Weston.

“Let’s see where her head really is,” he’d written.

That gave me an idea. I picked up my phone and dialed Kyle’s number.

“Hello,” he answered.

“Kyle, this is Jackson Harlow.”

“Oh hey, Mr. Harlow. How are you?”

“I’m good. I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure.”

“You saw my article earlier about Sadie?”

There was a pause.

“Y-yes I did. Why do you ask?”

“I’m concerned about Sadie. I’ve seen some of the chatter on social media. A lot of people are mad at her.”

“Yeah, I saw that too. I’ve been trying to calm things down a bit. Things are already tense enough.”

“I wanted to see if you could keep an eye on her, just in case something happens.”

“Are you concerned that someone might get violent?”

“I don’t think it’ll come to that. But you can never be too sure.”

“Yeah, I don’t think there will be an issue. Most of these people are all talk. I wouldn’t worry about it too much—but I’ll check in with her tomorrow.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. By the way, I really liked the article — even if I don’t agree with Sadie’s decision.”

“Thanks again. I’ll talk to you later.”

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The Harlow Residence

Friday, 6:47 a.m.

My phone buzzed at 6:47 a.m. A text from Sadie: “It’s live. Let me know what you think.”

I was still in bed. The text message had a link. I clicked. Her blog materialized on my phone. I squinted against the screen’s brightness. It was too early.

The post was titled: “Why I Left the Rage Behind.”

My eyes were attached to the screen, taking in every word. Sadie had poured her soul into this—her doubts, her growth, her fear, and her courage.

Sadie wrote about how she met Dolly and the details of their conversation. She talked about how she once believed screaming at people was the way to change minds.

Even more, she discussed how she planned to move forward as an activist and a human being.

I set my phone down and sat in silence for a moment. It was beautiful. It was brave. It was going to cause absolute hell.

I texted her back: “This is beautiful, Sadie. Dolly would be proud.”

Her response came quickly: “I hope so. Guess we’ll see what happens now.”

I knew what was going to happen. The activist community was already getting the nails and the cross ready. Conservative media was going to try to make her a symbol. Everyone was going to have an agenda.

They were going to use her.

But for a moment, I let myself believe that maybe she was right. Maybe there was hope.

My phone rang around 10 a.m. I was at my desk in my home office, already scrolling through the reactions to Sadie’s blog. The responses were mixed, but the angry ones were louder, as usual.

It was Estelle.

“Hey,” I answered.

“Hey. I wanted to call and check on you.” Her voice was soft, concerned. “I saw the stuff online. About your family.”

I almost made a joke and redirected. But something in her tone stopped me.

“Yeah, well,” I said. “I’ve had better weeks.”

“I’m sure you have.” She paused. “Jackson, that was awful. I can’t imagine what that felt like.”

I rubbed my face. “It was public. That’s the worst part. It’s out there, and now everyone knows, and they’re all going to have opinions about it.”

“People are assholes,” Estelle said.

“That they are.”

“Look, I wanted to invite you over tomorrow night. Thursday. I’m going to cook something. Real food. Can we just... not talk about murder or blogs or any of this shit?”

I heard myself say yes before I could think about it. We both needed some normalcy.

“Good. Six o’clock.”

After I hung up, I sat there for a moment, thinking about what it meant that Estelle had called. That she cared enough to check in. That the world still had some decent people in it.

It felt good.

Then I went back to scrolling through the reactions to Sadie’s blog, looking for anything that could be useful.

Harrison Floyd’s House

Friday, 12 p.m.

I drove out to Harrison Floyd’s place. The address I found through a public records search led to a modest house about thirty minutes outside the city, in an area that still felt rural, still felt like the old South.

A faded, tattered Confederate flag hung on a pole out front. A bumper sticker on an old truck: “Heritage Not Hate.”

It didn’t faze me. Being raised out in the country, I was used to it.

I knocked on the door.

Floyd answered after the second knock. He was a man in his mid-fifties, weathered, with the kind of posture that comes from a lifetime of being beaten down. His face looked like hardened leather that had sat out in the elements since the 1970s.

His eyes were a hard blue, but there was something else there too—something between caution and defeat.

“Harrison Floyd?” I asked.

“Who’s asking?”

“Jackson Harlow. I’m a reporter with The Bayou Chronicle. I’m looking into Dolly Mercier’s murder. Your name came up.”

He studied me for a moment. I watched his jaw tighten slightly when I mentioned Dolly’s name. But he stepped aside.

“Come in.”

The house was what I expected: a living room with a hunting rifle mounted above the fireplace, framed photographs of family members in military uniforms, a bookshelf with titles about “the real history of the South” and conspiracy theories. A comfortable chair with an indentation worn into it from years of sitting.

We sat. I pulled out my phone. The scent of cigar smoke and misery seemed to emanate from the walls.

“I understand you had a dispute with Ms. Mercier about a pistol,” I said, keeping my voice neutral.

Floyd’s face flushed immediately. His left eye twitched slightly, and his hand went to the back of his neck..

“It wasn’t a dispute. It was theft.” His voice had an edge to it. “That pistol belonged to my great-great-grandfather. He carried it through the war. It’s my family’s. Dolly had no right to it.”

“Can you tell me how she came to have it?”

“She outbid me on it at an auction at Colin Reddick’s place. But that don’t mean shit. She knew it was mine. I told her it was. I even offered to buy it back from her at fair price. More than fair price. But she refused.”

“Why do you think she refused?”

Floyd stood up and walked to a shelf. He pulled down an old photograph—grainy, but clearly showing a Confederate soldier holding a pistol.

“This is my great-great-grandfather, Samuel Floyd. He carried this gun. It’s part of my family’s legacy. When Dolly refused to give it back, she was refusing to let me keep my family’s history alive. She was so stubborn.”

I looked at the photograph. The man looked hard, unforgiving. I didn’t say that out loud.

“How can you be sure it’s the same gun? I would imagine there would be plenty more like it.”

“I can tell just by looking at it. But even if I couldn’t, Reddick said the provenance showed that the pistol was in possession of the Floyd family.”

Knowing what I did about Reddick’s business practices, I filed that tidbit away for future reference.

“You said Dolly knew it was yours. How did that conversation go?”

Floyd’s jaw clenched. “She said she had ‘papers.’ Said some estate had it registered. I told her that papers don’t matter when it’s your blood, your family’s blood. She didn’t care. She just wanted to make a profit off my heritage.”

“So you were angry with her.”

“Damn right I was angry. But I didn’t kill her.” He looked at me with an intensity that might have been sincere. “I was at a Heritage Meeting the night she died. I can give you names of people who saw me there.”

I was almost afraid to ask, but I summoned my courage anyway. “What’s a ‘Heritage Meeting?’”

“It’s where a bunch of us get together in the back room of Larry’s Bar and Grill and talk about the old days and history, that kind of thing,” Floyd said.

I was sure most of these conversations were about how political correctness ruined America, and how they longed for the old days when certain classes of people knew their place. But I didn’t want to delve that deeply into it with him.

“Don’t give me that look,” Floyd said. I guess my poker face wasn’t working as well as usual. “This ain’t about being racist. We don’t have a problem with the blacks. We just want stay in touch with our history, our culture.”

“Your heritage?”

He nodded, “yeah, that’s it.”

I decided it was a good time to change the subject before getting pulled down the lost cause rabbit hole. “I heard you and Dolly had some disagreements about more than just the pistol,” I said carefully.

Floyd sat back down and sighed. His expression shifted—less raw anger, more of a weary frustration.

“She went soft. When the protests started, she just... folded. Started talking to those people like they were her equals. Like their concerns mattered as much as ours.”

“What do you think of her civil rights activism?” I asked. “The marching with King?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “That was different. That was a long time ago. She was young, idealistic. But when it came to her own people—her own heritage—she wouldn’t stand firm. She was embarrassing us. Letting them call her a racist and then trying to reason with them. You can’t reason with those people.”

There was something in his tone that reminded me of Kyle. The same certainty. The same sense that there were people worth listening to, and people you could never reach.

In many ways, they were the same.

“It sounds like you were pretty angry with her,” I said.

Floyd’s eyes hardened again. “I was angry. But I didn’t kill her. I’m angry at a lot of people. That don’t mean I go around murdering them.”

“Why do you think someone did? Why do you think Dolly was killed?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Because this country’s gone to shit. Because people like her—people who try to walk the line between worlds—they become targets. From both sides,” he said. “The left wants to call her a racist. The right wants her to be a martyr for the cause. And she just... she tried to be a person. I didn’t agree with her choices, but I do respect that.”

There was something almost vulnerable in that admission. Almost human. He looked over at the pictures of his family — almost as if he wanted to leap into the frame and leave this new world behind.

“If you remember anything—anything about who might have wanted to hurt her—you’ll let me know?” I asked.

“Yeah. I’ll let you know.” He paused. “You find out who did this, you tell me. Dolly and I had our differences, but she didn’t deserve that.”

As I left, I made a mental note: verify Floyd’s “Heritage Meeting” alibi, but don’t rule him out. Alibis could be faked. Resentment ran deep. And he gave a more sanitized version of his confrontation with Dolly, compared to what Estelle had told me.

The Harlow Residence

Friday, 6 p.m.

The city was cooling down as the sun inched toward the horizon. I made myself some catfish and cauliflower and sat at my kitchen table, my laptop in front of me.

I pulled up the reactions to Sadie Broussard’s blog post. They were pouring in now.

“This made me cry. It’s like Sadie went into my head and wrote everything I’ve been feeling.”

“If more people could see past their tribal identities, maybe we could actually move forward as a country.”

Predictably, others were vicious.

“The system has corrupted another good activist.”

“I bet she was a plant the whole time. This is why we can’t trust anyone.”

I scrolled through a few more, then closed the laptop.

I checked my social media accounts. The attacks on my personal life had slowed but not stopped. A few new posts, a few new angles.

Someone had started a thread about DEI hiring practices in news media, using me as the epitome of “unqualified reporters.”

Of course, they used a picture of me to drive the point home.

I didn’t engage.

Around 8 p.m., I texted my dad: “Still good for Saturday?”

His response came quickly: “Wouldn’t miss it. Grammy’s making gumbo.”

I smiled. That was exactly what I needed to hear. “As long as she’s making it, and not you,” I wrote back.

I finished my food, checked my email, and tried to lose myself in the case files. Floyd’s alibi needed verification. The activist forums needed monitoring. The killer was still out there, somewhere, watching.

But tonight, I let myself think about gumbo and family and the sound of gunshots at the range. Tonight, I let myself think about anything except murder.

The Bayou Chronicle

Saturday, 9:00 a.m.

My phone buzzed around 9 a.m. I was at the office, working on background research. It was a text from Sadie: “Jackson, call me ASAP.”

My heart tensed. I called her immediately.

“Hey,” she said. “Jackson! You’re not going to believe this.”

She sounded giddy, and the relief washed over me like a warm shower.

“Okay, so the blog post. A lot of people are responding. Like, actually responding in meaningful ways.”

“I saw it blowing up on X,” I said.

“A community group contacted me. They are doing these dialogue events. They want me to speak at one on Sunday. Like, actually speak. On a panel with people from different backgrounds talking about bridge-building.”

“Sadie, that’s amazing.”

“Wait, there’s more. A local TV station wants to interview me. They’re calling it ‘The Fresh Face of Activism’ or some shit. I know that’s horrible marketing, but—”

“But you’re using your platform to actually change something,” I said.

“Yeah. And Jackson...” She paused. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. I keep thinking something awful is going to happen. But maybe Dolly was right. Maybe the consequences I imagined were worse than reality.”

I felt a chill run down my spine. “Just be careful, okay? Not everyone is going to be happy about this. There are people who are going to see your blog post as a betrayal.”

“I know. But I can’t stop now. If I do, they win. And I’ve still got my pepper spray.”

After we hung up, I sat for a moment, thinking about what it meant that Sadie had disrupted the local political scene. She was becoming a public voice for the thing Dolly had believed in. She was, in a way, finishing Dolly’s work.

It was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

I tried to continue working, but my ex-wife and daughter kept flashing through my mind. The police officers. The court proceedings. The social workers. Their graves. I needed a break.

I walked into Mavis’s office. She was probably on her second or third coffee, reading something on her computer.

“I need a few days,” I said. “Going to see my dad this weekend.”

She didn’t hesitate. She just closed her laptop and looked at me.

“Good. You need it. The case will be here when you get back.”

“You sure? With everything going on—”

“Jackson, you’ve been running on fumes since Dolly died. You’ve been attacked online, you’ve got two suspects to investigate, you’re chasing a killer who’s been calling you. You need to step back. Go see your family. Eat some gumbo. Come back with your head on straight. And tell your dad I said hello.”

I nodded, grateful. “Thanks, boss lady.”

“Go. Get out of here. And Jackson?” She looked up from her desk. “You’re a damn good reporter. Don’t let the bastards convince you otherwise.”

Around 1 p.m., I called the VFW post that Floyd had mentioned. They had records of their Thursday meetings. I asked to speak to someone who could confirm Floyd’s presence.

A man named Jerry answered. He’d been at the meeting. He remembered Floyd being there.

“He was there the whole time?” I asked.

“From about 6:30 to almost 11. We had a longer meeting that night—there was some discussion about upcoming events, fundraising, that kind of thing. Floyd was there for most of it.”

That lined up with the timing of Dolly’s murder, which had happened around 8 p.m.

“He didn’t leave at any point?”

“Not that I saw. But, I wasn’t watching him the whole time. He could have stepped out for awhile and I might not have noticed.”

That was possible. Dolly’s murder hadn’t taken long. Ten minutes, maybe. If Floyd had slipped out, committed the murder, and slipped back in, it was theoretically possible.

But it seemed unlikely. And his resentment, while real, didn’t quite feel like murder-level resentment. It felt personal, territorial—about a pistol and ideology. Not murderous.

Still, I couldn’t cross him off the list just yet.

I called Fontenot.

“Yeah, we checked that alibi too,” he said. “VFW corroborates most of it. But like Jerry said—could’ve slipped out, could’ve been back in twenty minutes. We can’t completely clear him. But there’s no evidence placing him at the scene. No witnesses saw him near Memory House. His car’s a ‘98 Ford—distinctive. Nobody saw it.”

“So he’s still a person of interest, but not the primary suspect.”

“Something like that. You got anything else?”

“Not yet.”

After I hung up, I made a note: Floyd—alibi shaky but plausible. But no hard evidence. Will keep digging.

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Estelle Mason’s Residence

Saturday, 6:00 p.m.

Estelle answered the door in jeans and a simple blue blouse. Her hair cascaded down to her shoulders. She looked different outside of the context of the murder—softer somehow, more present.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “Come in.”

It was nice to see her smile. It was also nice to smell the shrimp and sausage.

The apartment was small but warm. She had music playing—sounded like Charles Mingus. We were going to get along just fine.

“I made jambalaya,” she said, leading me to a small dining table. “Hope that’s okay.”

“That’s not okay. That’s perfect.”

We ate and talked about things that had nothing to do with murder. Estelle told me about how she’d ended up working for Dolly—a summer job that had turned into a career. About how Dolly had been more than her boss; she’d been a mentor, someone who believed in her.

“She told me I was smart enough to do anything I wanted to do. Most people don’t tell you that,” Estelle said. “They assume you want to stay where you are.”

I told her a little about myself—my halfway completed journalism degree, my first job at a smaller paper, how I’d worked my way up to the Chronicle. I didn’t talk about Claire or Ellie. That felt too raw, too close.

But Estelle seemed to sense there was more.

“You’ve been through a lot,” she said. “The attacks online, the case, all of it.”

“Yeah. It’s been a lot.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

I didn’t want to. But I did it anyway.

“My ex-wife and I, we were happy,” I said anyway.

“I thought for sure Ellie was my soulmate. She was so right for me. I was just starting out in my career and she was by my side. My biggest cheerleader.”

Estelle smiled.

“About two years after we got married, we had Claire—the most beautiful baby girl in the world. My little peach. Her smile could turn the worst day into the best you’ve ever had.”

“I bet.”

“When she was four years old, Ellie found a bruise on her right thigh. It didn’t seem like a big deal. But it wouldn’t go away, so we got worried. We took her to the pediatrician.”

I took a sip of wine, almost to steady myself for the next part of the story.

“The pediatrician couldn’t figure out what was wrong, so she referred us to the children’s hospital. Long story short, the doctors there found that she had broken her leg. Not only that, she had several fractured ribs in various stages of healing.”

“Oh my God.” Estelle’s eyes widened.

“Yeah. Ellie was so upset. She asked the doctors what could have caused it. They said they weren’t sure yet. They had us wait in the room with Claire for a few hours before a lady from social services came in. She had two police officers with her.”

Another sip of wine.

“The lady said the doctors had found that Claire was being abused and that they suspected we did it. They said they were taking Claire and putting her in foster care.”

“What? What evidence did they have?”

“Just the injuries. That’s all they needed. They didn’t even bother to speak with us, to get our point of view. They didn’t care.”

“This is insane, Jackson.”

“We were allowed to visit twice per week. Supervised visits. The court rejected our appeal. Get this, we had other doctors look at Claire’s records. They found that she had Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, which makes bones brittle — especially in young children.”

“So, how did the judge respond?”

“She didn’t. She wouldn’t even allow us to present this evidence. Even when we later found out Ellie had the same condition. It’s typically passed down from parents.”

“With all that, they still wouldn’t reunite you?”

“No. They completely ignored it. Even one of the social workers on our case knew we didn’t hurt our child. It didn’t matter.”

Estelle’s jaw dropped. She shook her head.

“This is unbelievable,” she said.

“We kept fighting. Claire was with foster care. But later she had to go to the hospital again. More broken bones. We pointed out that this proves it wasn’t abuse because we hadn’t been with her unsupervised.”

“But it didn’t matter, did it?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Claire never made it out of the hospital. A few days later, she died. I’m still not clear on the cause of death.”

Estelle gasped. “Oh my God, Jackson. I’m so sorry. This is horrible!”

“Yeah. It didn’t take long for Ellie and I to drift apart after that. I read that this happens with couples who lose a child — especially one so young. The divorce was quiet and amicable. We still kept in touch.”

“It must have been devastating for you both.”

“It was. Ellie couldn’t handle it. She started binge drinking. She would call me while drunk every other day. She blamed herself.”

“I can imagine.”

“About a year after Claire died, Ellie was in her apartment. She took almost half a bottle of painkillers. I guess she couldn’t handle the pain anymore. She was found dead the next day.”

I could tell Estelle didn’t know what to say. “This is so tragic. I can’t believe you have been carrying this for so long, Jackson. And to see people using this against you when they don’t even know the whole story.”

“That’s what you get when you cross politics with social media, I guess.”

“For what it’s worth,” she said, reaching across the table and touching my hand, “I think you’re a good man. I think you care about getting the truth, about helping people. I think the assholes online are—assholes.”

It was a simple gesture, but it meant something.

“I appreciate it.”

“I think this calls for dessert. You wanna watch something on TV? I have all the cool streaming services,” she said in a sing-songy tone.

I was grateful for the off-ramp from the depressing conversation we were having.

“How about some anime?”

“Why, Jackson Harlow,” she said, affecting a southern belle accent. “I didn’t know you were a nerd.”

“I’m full of surprises, Estelle Mason.”

We sat on the couch and watched a few episodes of Blue Eye Samurai. I joked about how woke we were for liking a show about a badass female samurai who pretends to be a badass male samurai.

“Power to the people,” she shouted, raising her fist.

We sat in silence for a moment, staring at the Netflix home screen.

“You know, I was married once,” she said, her voice breaking through the quiet..

“Yeah?”

“Met him in college. He seemed so perfect. But once we tied the knot, it’s like he became someone else.”

“More like, he dropped the mask?”

“Yes. Exactly. One moment he was telling me how much he loved me, how much I understood him. How much he wanted to start a life with me.”

“Then, Mr. Hyde came out?”

She nodded. “Yes. It was like night and day. He wasn’t able to accomplish his goals at work — his career was stagnant. He blamed me. Said I wasn’t supportive enough.”

“As if you were sabotaging him behind the scenes..”

She laughed. “Yeah, really. I guess my very existence was like a magic curse that doomed him to failure.”

“That’s how it goes.”

“He treated me like dirt, Jackson. He wasn’t physical — at first. But he would fly into a rage for no reason.”

“And then he would apologize?”

“No, actually. He never showed any remorse — even fake remorse. That’s just how he was. It was always my fault.”

“Wow.”

She crossed her legs and moved one of her locks out of her face.

“One night, it took another turn. He had drained two bottles of gin. I remember his eyes — they looked like hellfire.”

She shuddered. I took her hand.

“You don’t have to continue if you don’t want to.”

“It’s okay. It would be cruel to keep you in suspense,” she said with a forced smirk.

She continued, “He was upset that he had been passed over for a promotion at his law firm—again. He’d worked his ass off for that position. I told him how unfair I thought it was. Then, he snapped.”

She took another sip of wine.

“He said I was being condescending—fake. He started yelling at me. I don’t remember everything he said, but basically, he felt I didn’t respect him as a man no matter how hard he worked. He hit me. Then he hit me again. He started choking me on the living room floor.”

Her hands went to her neck, as if feeling his hands. I shoved the rage building inside of me back down. Now was not the time to let my anger show.

“I thought I was going to die, Jackson. But his hands slipped and I kicked him hard in the crotch.”

“Ouch,” I said.

“Yeah. Ouch. While he was squirming around on the floor, I grabbed my car keys and ran out of the house as fast as I could. I never returned to that house.”

“Where is he now?”

“Last I heard, he moved to Lafayette and has a private practice. I don’t really keep up with him.”

“Damn. That’s horrible, Estelle. How did you get by?”

“Dolly let me stay with her for awhile, so I could get back on my feet. She set me up with a support group. She was like a mother to me.”

Tears welled up in her eyes.

“I know we weren’t supposed to talk about this stuff. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s fine. As long as you promise never to kick me in the crotch.”

She laughed. “I’ll try not to.”

As I was leaving, she hugged me—a real hug, not a polite one. Her hair smelled like jasmine.

“Be safe this weekend,” she said.

“I will.”

Harlow Residence

Saturday, 2:00 p.m.

I was packing my bag when my phone buzzed. A news alert: “Local Activist Speaks Out About Bridge-Building in Polarized America.”

I clicked on it. There was a link to a video. I hit play.

Sadie was sitting in a studio, composed and articulate. She was wearing a dark dress, and she looked older somehow—more confident, more aware of her own power.

She looked good.

The interviewer was asking her about her journey from activism to what she was calling “productive dialogue.”

“I realized,” Sadie was saying, “that anger was my only language. And I was very fluent in it. But anger doesn’t build anything. It tears down. I think we need people who can build. You learn so much more when you sit down and talk to someone instead of bashing them on social media or yelling in their faces.”

“Aren’t you worried about backlash from your former community?” the interviewer asked.

“I was,” Sadie said. “I was terrified. But someone told me something that changed my perspective. She said, ‘We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.’ And she was right. The consequences I feared never came. Instead, I found freedom.”

I watched her talk. I watched her shine. I was proud of her..

When the interview ended, I texted her: “Saw the interview. You did great. Really great.”

Her response: “Thanks. Heading to the community event tomorrow. Getting ready to change some minds.”

I smiled, packed my last shirt, and headed for the door.

Marcus Harlow’s Residence

Sunday, 8:00 a.m.

I woke up in my childhood bedroom—a room that had been a guest room for years but still smelled like my past. Grammy was already in the kitchen when I came downstairs.

She was standing at the stove in her robe, and the kitchen smelled like butter and flour and love.

“There you are,” she said, pulling me into a hug. She was tiny—barely five feet—and she fit under my chin like she was made for that exact spot. “You look like hell.”

“I’ve been under some stress. But that gumbo last night helped,” I said.

“Good, good.. Sit down. I made you biscuits.”

We had breakfast—biscuits and gravy, bacon, eggs, and coffee that was strong enough to strip paint. Dad came down halfway through, grabbed a plate, and sat across from me. He was in his early sixties now, but he moved like a man half his age.

“How’s the case?” he asked.

“Complicated. Two suspects, neither of them feel right, but I can’t rule either of them out.”

“So just another day in the life of Jackson Harlow, then,” Dad said. He’d been military. Special forces. He didn’t like to talk about it much. “The truth is usually not as clear-cut as people want it to be.”

We talked about other things. The weather. Grammy’s garden, which was doing well despite the heat. A movie Dad had seen. Nothing that required too much thought.

After breakfast, Dad and I got ready to go to the range.

We walked out to the south part of the property where my dad had built his very own gun range. The sun beat down upon us — but wasn’t too oppressive. Just enough to remind us it was there. It was a clear day — the kind where the sky goes on forever.

We set up at one of the stations—Dad had two pistols and a rifle. I had my Smith & Wesson.

We didn’t talk much as we set up. We just worked. Put on our hearing protection. Set up the targets. Got into position.

The first shots were just muscle memory—breathe, line up the sights, pull the trigger. But after a while, something shifted. The sound of the shots, the recoil, the focus—it all became meditative. There was nothing in my head but the target, the gun, the breath.

We shot for about an hour. Didn’t score ourselves. Didn’t compare who was better. Because dad would have won anyway.

When we were done, we sat on a bench in the shade and drank water.

“You want to talk about it?” Dad asked.

I looked at him. My father. A man who’d seen real violence, real loss. A man who’d made peace with his phantoms—mostly.

“Someone’s using my family against me,” I said. “Using my Ellie and Claire to attack me online. To try to discredit me. And I don’t know why, and I don’t know who, and I’m trying not to let it throw me off.”

Dad was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “You know something I learned in the military? You can’t control what other people do. You can only control how you respond to it.”

“That’s not very helpful.”

“Sure, if you’re hard-headed.” He looked out at the targets in the distance. “You didn’t pull the trigger on those people’s guns, Jackson. You didn’t make them use your grief as a weapon. That’s on them, not you.”

“Except I feel like it’s my fault. Like if I’d been more careful—”

“Then they would have found something else to use against you.” Dad turned to look at me. “There’s always ammunition if you’re looking for it. Always something they can weaponize. Remember, these people want to hurt you, not find the truth. The only thing you can do is decide that what they’re saying doesn’t get to define you.”

I wanted to believe that. I wanted to believe I could just decide that and it would be true.

“It’s hard,” I said.

“So what?”

We sat for a while longer, not talking. Just being present. That was enough.

I knew he was right. But sometimes I needed to hear it.

Harlow Family Cemetery

Sunday, 1:22 p.m.

I drove to the cemetery in the late afternoon. It was one of New Orleans’ famous old graveyards, with the above-ground tombs that looked like little houses for the dead.

My family’s plot was in a quiet corner, under the shade of an old oak tree. There were two graves: Claire’s and next to it, Ellie’s.

I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, just looking at the names and dates. All that life, compressed into a few lines of text.

I didn’t say anything out loud. Instead, I stood there and let myself feel everything I’d been holding back all week. The grief, the anger, the sense of helplessness, and loss.

After a while, I reached down and touched Claire’s headstone. It was warm from the sun.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” I whispered.

I knew that guilt wasn’t rational. I knew I couldn’t have saved her. But I felt it anyway. I must have stood there for twenty minutes. A soft breeze went smoothly over my skin.

When I finally walked away, I felt lighter. Not healed—you don’t heal from losing a child. But like I’d set down one of the boulders I’d been carrying.

Marcus Harlow’s Residence

Sunday, 6 p.m.

Grammy made spaghetti that night. Nice and simple.

We sat at the dinner table, and for a few hours, we were just family. We told stories. Grammy reminded me of things I’d done as a kid that I’d forgotten. Dad laughed at jokes he’d heard a thousand times.

It was normal. It was good. It was everything I needed and nothing I could have asked for.

When dinner was done, I helped Grammy clean up. Dad sat on the couch and turned on the news, but he wasn’t really paying attention.

Around 10 p.m., I said goodnight and went up to my room. I lay in bed and thought about going back to the city. Thought about the case. About the killer, out there somewhere.

But I didn’t let myself think too hard. I let myself sleep.

Marcus Harlow’s Residence

Monday, 9 a.m.

I woke up around 9 a.m. to a text from Sadie: “The event went amazing. Jackson, you’re not going to believe it. People were crying. Someone told me I changed their mind about cutting off their sister.”

I smiled and texted back: “I’m not surprised. You’re doing something real.”

Another text came through: “This is what Dolly wanted. I can feel it. I really think this is making a difference.”

Me: “I’m sure she does. I’m coming back Monday. Let’s celebrate. Drink for Dolly?”

Sadie: “Several drinks for Dolly. See you Monday.”

I put my phone down and went downstairs for breakfast. My body felt normal again. The fog had dissipated. I almost didn’t need any coffee, but that didn’t stop me from grabbing a cup.

Dad and I sat on the porch after breakfast, watching the day get hot.

“Thanks, pops,” I said.

“For what?”

“For being here. For letting me be here.”

“That’s what family is,” Dad said. “You come home, and we hold you up while you figure things out. Then you go back to your life, and you carry that with you.”

“Be careful out there,” he said. “With whatever you’re investigating.”

“I will.”

“And Jackson? Don’t let the bastards win. You’re doing good work. We’re all prouda you boy.”

I got in my car around noon and drove back to the city. The roads were clear, and the drive was peaceful. By the time I hit the city limits, the sun was starting to set again.

The Bayou Chronicle

Monday, 11:00 a.m.

The newsroom was the usual chaos of Monday morning—people catching up on the weekend news, coffee being consumed in large quantities, phones ringing, keystrokes clattering.

Mavis saw me and waved me into her office.

“How was it? How are Marcus and Celia?” she asked.

Mavis had known my family for decades.

“They’re good. I needed break.”

“I’m glad you got to spend some time with them. Anything on the case?”

“Nothing yet. Floyd’s alibi is shaky but plausible. I’m still working on him. The activist angle is still open—there could be plenty of other suspects there. And there’s also the Colin Reddick angle we haven’t fully explored yet.”

“Well, you’ve got plenty to keep you busy. Get to it.”

I went back to my desk and settled in. Charlie was at his station, and he gave me a nod when he saw me but didn’t say anything.

Around 11 a.m., I texted Sadie: “You free tonight? I want to celebrate what you did with that community event.”

Her response: “Cousin Boudreaux’s? 6 p.m.?”

Me: “Perfect. See you then.”

Cousin Boudreaux’s Restaurant

Monday, 6 p.m.

I left work around 5 p.m. I had a few hours before meeting Sadie. I went home, showered, and put on a nice shirt.

I was looking forward to this. Sadie had done something brave. She’d stepped into the light and declared herself a bridge-builder in a world that wanted her to be a soldier. There was no way we weren’t going to celebrate.

I drove to Cousin Boudreaux’s, arriving about five minutes early. I grabbed a table by the window and ordered a drink.

The crowd was lively tonight. A band was playing some Dixieland jazz on the stage. The scent of fried catfish made its way into my nostrils, beckoning me to order.

I was waiting for Sadie, thinking about everything that had happened in the past two weeks. A murder. A city in chaos. A young woman brave enough to choose peace over rage.

Sadie texted: “Running a few minutes late. Kyle called. He’s having some activist crisis. Let me listen to him for a sec and I’ll be there.”

Me: “Take your time.”

I hoped Kyle was okay. He had taken quite a few arrows for not joining the mob in canceling Sadie.

And I waited.

Sadie arrived about 20 minutes later and slid into the seat across from me, slightly flushed. The band was still going, trumpet blaring, guitar strumming, bass slapping, drums banging.

“Sorry I’m late. Kyle was spiraling a little,” she said, signaling the server for a drink. “Nothing serious. Just anxiety about being seen as complicit for not attacking me in public.”

I smiled. “How’d you handle it?”

“I told him the truth. That I don’t need him to defend me from people—I need him to think for himself.” She sat back, and I could see the weight of the past few days on her shoulders, even as she tried to shake it off. “Did that make me sound like an asshole?”

“Not at all. It made you sound honest.”

“Thanks. Kyle can be a little high-strung sometimes. But he always gets it together in the end.”

Sadie ordered a drink—something strong—and we sat for a moment, listening to the music. The energy between us had shifted since that day in her apartment. Less investigator and subject. More like two friends who’d walked through something together.

I laughed.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“It was only about a week ago when you were cussing me out. Now, we’re sitting here listening to music like we’ve been friends forever.”

“She chuckled. “Yeah, that is pretty funny.”

“You know what else is wild?” Sadie said, leaning forward. “A week ago, I was terrified of everyone finding out I’d talked to Dolly. Now I’m the one telling other people to have the conversations they’re afraid of.”

“That’s called growth.”

“Or delusion.” But she was smiling. “Dolly would probably say something philosophical right now about how we become what we practice.”

“She probably would.”

We ordered food—nothing complicated, just sustenance—and talked about the events coming up. The panel. The interviews. The work ahead. It felt good to talk about something that wasn’t about the case..

When the food arrived, Sadie took a bite and closed her eyes for a second.

“What?” I asked.

“Just... grateful,” she said simply. “For this. For you listening. For Dolly believing I was worth saving.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I raised my glass. “To Dolly.”

“To Dolly,” she echoed.

We drank.

The Harlow Residence

Tuesday, 8:11 a.m.

Tuesday morning started normal enough. I woke up, showered, made coffee. Dinner with Sadie had been fun—she was radiant, talking about all the interviews she had lined up, all the places where she’d been invited to speak.

And her social media following had almost tripled. She was on her way to injecting some common sense and good will in a sewer of vitriol. It wasn’t going to be easy on her.

But that didn’t seem to faze Sadie Broussard.

“It’s like Dolly opened a door and I walked through it,” she’d said over drinks. “And now I can see a whole world on the other side that I didn’t know existed.”

We’d talked about the future. Made plans to stay in touch, to be friends..

It had felt right.

But it was time to focus. The killer was still out there. I was thinking about a follow-up with Colin Reddick, and maybe one more check-in with Floyd. I was thinking about the case as something I could still solve, still control.

I went to the office. Mavis gave me a case update. Fontenot texted me to let me know there were no new leads. The investigation was in a holding pattern.

Around 4 p.m., I texted Sadie: “Want to grab dinner Wednesday? I want to do a proper follow-up interview about the impact of your blog.”

I was thinking like a journalist now. Professional. Focused.

She responded: “Can’t Wednesday. Community thing. How about Thursday?”

Me: “Thursday works. Your place?”

Sadie: “Perfect. I’ll text you details.”

Tuesday, 6:00 p.m.

I was at my desk, reviewing Floyd’s background one more time, when I noticed something on an activist forum.

A new post from AntiFascist77:

“Sometimes you can reach people. Sometimes you can’t. Sometimes people choose comfort over principle. Sometimes that choice has consequences. The powerful never listen until their comfort turns to terror.”

It was posted at 5:43 p.m.

The timestamp matched almost exactly with Sadie’s blog having crossed 50,000 shares. With her TV interview being re-shared across multiple networks.

I read the post three times.

The powerful never listen until their comfort turns to terror.

That was the phrase from the Dolly murder. The phrase the killer had used on the phone calls.

And it was posted about Sadie, right after her public ascent.

I called Fontenot.

“Hey Jackson,” he answered, already sounding tired.

“Someone just posted something I need you to see. On an activist forum. It’s the killer, I’m sure of it.”

“What did he post?”

I read it to him.

There was a long pause.

“It’s concerning,” Fontenot said. “But it’s not a direct threat. And we still don’t have anything concrete linking this person to the murders.”

“He’s watching Sadie,” I said. “He’s watching her and he’s activated. That post—that’s him signaling something.”

“Or it’s just activist bullshit. Posts like that probably go up twenty times a day in those forums.”

“Not with that specific phrase. Not about Sadie.”

“Okay. I’ll look into it. But Jackson, I need evidence, not intuition. I’d bet a bunch of those activists use that type of phrase.”

I thought about calling Sadie. Warning her. Telling her to be careful.

But I didn’t want to alarm her without cause. She was on top of the world right now. She was doing something good. And Fontenot might have been right. That phrase could also be used by others in the activist community.

I decided to call her anyway. No answer. I left her a voice mail telling her to call me back.

I began my nightly doomscrolling routine. There was still some chatter about my family. That wasn’t going away anytime soon — but it was declining, which was a sign that America’s short attention span had struck again.

Dolly’s murder was still trending, with talking heads and other members of the chattering class asking the usual questions. Who killed Dolly? Why haven’t the police caught a suspect yet?

I saw a video clip of councilman Lemaine standing in front of city hall telling a reporter that he “had the utmost confidence in the New Orleans Police Department” and that “political violence is not welcome in this city and blah blah blah.”

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number. Unknown message.

I was about to go to bed when I saw it.

The photo loaded slowly. Too slowly. I watched it materialize pixel by pixel until the image appeared.

My heart leapt into my throat. A lump as big as a beach ball grew in my stomach.

A body. Lying on the ground, covered in blood, which had pooled around the head. Vacant eyes looking up at the camera but staring at nothing.

A message beneath: “This is what happens to posers.”

It was Sadie Broussard.

Read Episode 5 here.

Read Sadie’s Blog Post here.

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Previously on The Grinning Golly:

Jackson staggered through the fallout of being doxxed, his dead daughter’s photo turned into a weapon against him. While he was patching himself together, Sadie rocketed from suspect to symbol: her confession and article went viral, she became the new face of the movement, and she and Jackson shared a fragile, hopeful dinner that finally felt like a win. Then the threats escalated, the phrase “comfort turns to terror” slithered back into the conversation and a final text dropped into his phone—a photo of Sadie on a kitchen floor, blood blooming around her and that jade necklace catching the light.

The Harlow Residence
Tuesday, 6:47 PM

I stood staring at my phone. My body wouldn’t move. But my mind was spinning like an angry tornado. Was it real? Was I really looking at Sadie Broussard’s dead body?

It couldn’t be. But I knew it was.

I broke out of the trance and snapped into action. I had to know.

I jumped in my car and set my phone’s GPS to Sadie’s address. My heart was a jackhammer pounding on the inside of my chest like a machine gun.

I probably broke a record number of traffic laws on my way to the apartment. I ran at least one red light. Every minute felt like an hour.

Sadie Broussard’s Apartment
Wednesday, 7:15 PM

I finally arrived. I turned off my car and sprinted up the stairs. The door was slightly ajar. Not a good sign. I entered the apartment, trudged to the end of the hall, looked to the kitchen on the right, and my heart turned to ice. A metallic scent assaulted my nose as if to rub the tragedy in my face.

Sadie lay on the kitchen floor, just like Dolly had, face up. Except this time, there were wounds on her face. The killer hadn’t snuck up on her as he did with Dolly. In an act of futility, I placed two fingers on Sadie’s wrist. There was no chance that there would be a pulse — but I had to be sure.

I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “There’s a body. It’s a murder,” I told the dispatcher before giving her the address. I hung up.

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Previously in The Grinning Golly…

Jackson chased the “ally” killer’s new claims, digging into forged evidence tying Dolly to a white supremacist group and interviewing campus radical Sadie Broussard and golden-boy activist Kyle Weston. After Jackson’s private notes were leaked and turned into an online pile-on, a second call confirmed the killer is a white self-styled savior—and a late-night scroll ended with Jackson finding a selfie of Sadie wearing Dolly’s missing jade necklace, placing her squarely in the crosshairs.

The Harlow Residence

Wednesday, 7 a.m.

I woke up at about seven o’clock in the morning after a restless night of quasi-sleep. My brain was sailing through a fog with no lighthouse.

Even though I had suspected Sadie of being the one who killed Dolly, part of me was still in disbelief.

It was hard for me to imagine her picking up a golliwog statue and driving it into the back of an 81-year-old woman’s head. Yet, the evidence I had collected so far pointed to her.

Sadie had been at the shop close to the time of the murder. She was there days before and had a loud argument with Dolly. She was affiliated with violent radicals.

And she clearly despised Mercier.

There was also the necklace. She was wearing the missing jade necklace hours after Dolly was killed.

I examined the picture again. Maybe it was a different necklace. There was only one way to find out. I called Estelle.

“Hey Jackson,” she answered. There was less gravel in her voice, a good sign.

“Hey Estelle. How are you holding up?”

“I’m taking it one step at a time. I managed to eat breakfast this morning, so that’s a start.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re doing better.”

“What’s wrong Jackson? I can hear it in your voice.”

“I need you to help me with something.”

I texted her the picture.

“Do you recognize the necklace in this picture?”

Estelle paused for a moment. Then gasped.

“Holy shit. That’s from Memory House. Dolly had been trying to sell that thing for months. Why is she wearing it?”

“Look at the time the picture was posted.”

“Oh wow. Wow. Do you think —”

“Between you and me, yes. I do.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Not yet. I’m still figuring out how to handle this.”

Estelle exhaled. “I totally had a feeling about her. But I just didn’t know.”

“Are you sure you can’t remember whether you heard anything when she was in Dolly’s office?”

“I’m so sorry Jackson, I can’t. The voices were definitely heated. But I didn’t hear the whole conversation.”

“Ok. That’s fine. Listen, I need to head to the office. Can I call you later?”

“Of course. I’ll be here.”

I hung up and got dressed. No time for a workout. I needed to get to the office and talk this over with Mavis.”

As I drove into town, I called Fontenot.

“Hey there Mike,” he answered.

“Mike? This is Harlow.”

“Nah. I know Mike Tyson’s voice when I hear it.”

Fontenot would pick this time to find a sense of humor.

“Yeah…about that.”

“We saw the whole footage. We know it was self-defense. The two guys aren’t pressing charges.”

I exhaled and felt some of the tension slide out of my body.

“I’m assuming that was your dad’s training in action,” Fontenot said.

“You assume right. But as much as I’d love to discuss my pugilistic pursuits, I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Did your officers ever find a jade necklace at Memory House after we discovered Dolly’s body?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ll check with them and get back to you. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious. I thought I saw one there when I interviewed Dolly. But I don’t remember seeing it at the crime scene.”

“You’re not hiding something, are you Harlow?”

“Would I ever do such a thing to you, Fonty?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

“I gotta go. I’m getting to the office.”

“Harlow wait —”

I hung up. I knew I’d be hearing about it later, but right now, I had to make sure I had the right person.

The Bayou Chronicle

Wednesday, 8:30 a.m.

As I walked to my desk, I noticed some of my co-workers staring at me. Again. They were too quiet. Did someone post something else about me? Was there another leak? I quickened my pace.

I saw it once I got to my desk. A pair of bright red boxing gloves had been placed right next to my keyboard. I looked up and around.

The entire office burst into laughter. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with a sense of humor.

I put on the gloves and threw a few jabs at the air.

“Alright, whose idea was this? Because I’m about to go all Muhammad Ali on them,” I yelled over the laughter.

That got even more laughter.

Jason Whitaker approached, still laughing. “I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“He’s lying,” said Charlie Liu, who appeared beside Jason. “He’s the one who bought the gloves.”

I squared up with Jason and pretended to throw a few shots at his abdomen.

“Ahem”

Mavis was standing at the door to her office, trying — and failing — to keep the smile off her face.

“If you clowns are done with your sparring match, I’m sure y’all have deadlines to meet.”

The crowd died down.

“Jackson, come see me in my office when you’re finished training for your championship match.”

I affected an air of false sadness. “I coulda been a contender,” I said to more laughter.

I took the gloves off and placed them back on my desk.

“Charlie, have y’all made any progress on that leak?”

“Not yet, bro. Still working on it. But I think we might be getting close. You’ll be the first to know when we figure it out.”

“Do you know whether it came from the inside or outside at least?”

“We’re not sure yet, logs are weird, could be external.”

“Okay thanks.”

As I walked to Mavis’ office, processing what Charlie had just told me. Who would risk hacking into a news outlet just to attack me? So many questions. So little time.

I opened Mavis’ door and walked in, savoring the smell of lavender.

“You’ve got that look, Jackson.”

“What look?”

“The ‘I cracked the case’ look. Tell me what you found.”

I explained what I had learned over the past week. I told her about Sadie, her affiliation with the antifascist movement, her presence at Memory House, and the necklace.

“So you think this Sadie is our killer?” Mavis asked.

“I’m pretty sure.”

“All of this is compelling — but circumstantial.”

“I know. That’s why I haven’t gone to Fontenot yet. I still need more evidence before I go forward with this. I need to get her to break.”

“You need to be careful with this, Jackson. For starters, you already know we can’t print accusations without proof — we don’t ruin lives based on suspicion.”

“I’m aware. I’m doing this one by the book.”

“For a change,” Mavis said. “The other thing is that if you’re right, Sadie is a murderer, which means you need to watch yourself.”

“I’ll be fine. You saw what I did to those two guys, right?”

“I’m pretty sure even Sadie could have taken them, to be honest.”

“Ouch.”

Mavis smirked. “Seriously though, what if you’re wrong?”

“Then I’ll drop it and move on. But I really don’t think we have the wrong person here.”

I went back to my desk to do some more fishing. I looked further into the antifascist group Sadie belonged to. Several of its members had been arrested during the protest on the day of the murder. This particular group had a history of getting its people arrested.

I searched through Sadie’s social media again. I saw one photo showing her holding what appeared to be a plaque. “Guys, I’m so stoked. I just won the Activist of the Year Award for my criminal justice advocacy work!” she had written.

She was beaming in the picture. Was that the smile of a killer?

I scanned through footage of the protest. It seems the whole town was filming it from their phones. In one video, I saw Kyle Weston with a bullhorn. “No more racism for profit” he shouted as the crowd yelled the slogan back.

I saw counterprotesters on the other side of the police line yelling obscenities at the leftist demonstrators. They were holding American flags — and some Confederate ones. Some held signs which read “Hands Off Our History.”

I watched a video clip showing Dolly speaking to another reporter. “What do you say to those claiming you’re profiting from racism?”

“First of all, young man, I can sell whatever I want in my shop. This is America, not Venezuela,” Dolly said. “Second, this isn’t about profit, it’s about history. We can’t learn from our history if we hide it.”

“But some are saying that displaying these items is hurtful to our nonwhite population — especially African Americans,” the reporter pressed.

“Then why are most of the people standing outside my shop white? I’ve seen these mobs. They don’t seem to have much diversity,” Dolly said.

“But—”

Dolly interjected. “And I’m not the only shop who sells these items. People like Colin Reddick sell Confederate memorabilia. I haven’t heard a peep from the media about him.. Have YOU reported on Reddick’s shop, young man?”

“Well no, I—”

“Exactly. From where I sit, most of the outrage has been bought and paid for, probably by the people who pay your salary.”

The clip stopped. I couldn’t help but smile. That was Dolly, alright.

I saw another video of the protest. Sadie was in this footage. She was red-faced, screaming at one of the counterprotesters, a 50ish man wearing jeans, a red flannel, and trucker cap. Her face was inches away from his. She looked furious. Like she wanted to kill someone.

Suddenly, an officer lunged at her, shoving her hard to the ground. The footage showed her hitting her head on a nearby bench. She was bleeding. The video cut off.

I couldn’t find anything else. It was just about time to confront Sadie. I texted her to see when we could meet up. I wasn’t sure if she was at work or doing whatever killers do in their spare time.

I decided to grab some lunch as I waited for Sadie to text me back. I waited for two hours with no response. I called her. No answer. It was time to take a more direct approach.

In a city begging for a villain, Sadie Broussard fit the part too well.

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Sadie’s Apartment

Wednesday, 10:03 a.m.

I pulled up the Chronicle’s access to LexisNexis and ran Sadie’s name. Voter registration put her at an apartment complex on Carrollton Avenue. Twenty minutes later, I was parked outside.

If she wasn’t going to answer, I’d have to catch her off guard. Mavis wouldn’t have been happy with this move, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.

I knocked on her door. There was no answer. I didn’t hear any movement inside the apartment. She wasn’t home.

But that didn’t stop me. I went back to my car and waited for her to show up. I was tired of scouring social media. So I occupied myself by playing Angry Birds. Yes, I know. I’m probably the only one who still plays that game. But it’s a great way to pass the time.

About an hour later, I saw her pull in to her parking spot. Game on.

Sadie got out of her car and headed toward the stairs. I came up behind her.

“Sadie.”

She turned around quickly with a bottle of pepper spray at the ready. When she recognized me, she relaxed and put the spray away. Good thing she didn’t know why I was there.

“What the fuck, Harlow? First your notes get leaked, now you want to talk? Are you here to set me up again?”

“I never set you up, Sadie. But we need to talk.”

“Okay, then talk.”

“You don’t want to have this conversation in public, Sadie.”

“Try me.”

I shrugged as if to say “okay, have it your way.”

“Where did you get that jade necklace?”

She tensed. I readied myself for a pepper spray attack.

“What necklace?

I had anticipated this response, so I already had the picture up on my phone. I showed it to her. Classy necklace with a jade heart. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, but she tried to play it cool. Unfortunately for her, her poker face was about as subtle as an orangutan in a litter of puppies.

“Well?”

“I think we should talk inside.”

All the blood had drained from her face, which was now as white as a sheet of copy paper.

“I think so, too.”

She led the way up the stairs to her apartment. I looked around to make sure there were no surprises. My Smith & Wesson was loaded — with one in the chamber — should it come to that.

I walked in after her. Sadie put down her purse and gestured for me to take a seat at the living room table. She sat across from me and exercised her right to remain silent.

Her apartment had a minimalist vibe. Few decorations. A sofa and television sat lonely in the living room.

I figured I would start the show.

“When I interviewed Dolly, I saw that necklace. It stood out to me because green happens to be my favorite color. It was sitting on one of her bookshelves with a bunch of other stuff.”

She nodded, as if she already knew.

“I also know you were at Memory House on the day of the protest and also the day of the murder. You had a long conversation with Ms. Mercier, didn’t you?”

Sadie nodded without looking at me. I couldn’t figure out her facial expression — a mix of sadness, grief, and fear. Did she regret killing Dolly?

“When I saw you wearing that necklace, I knew I needed to speak with you. I’m giving you a chance to come clean, Sadie.”

“Oh, my God,” Sadie said, her voice breaking. The tears began rolling down her face. She let out a rhythmic gasp, trying to get a hold of herself.

The gasps crescendoed into full on sobs. Sadie buried her face in her hands.

I wasn’t sure what to do. Normally I’d try comforting her. But I needed to stay sharp — I was speaking with a killer.

I waited.

After a few beats, the sobbing slowed.

“I didn’t kill her,” she said, finally. She stood, drifted to the kitchen, and grabbed a napkin. She wiped her face.

“Sadie, you were in the shop. You have her necklace. You support a movement known for violence.”

“It’s not like that,” she said, her voice coming out as a slight whisper. She had begun staring at the table, as if looking for a lifeline.

“Then explain.”

“You’re right. I was there. I was in her office. But you got something wrong. I was there on the day of the protest, the day after, and on that day.”

That day was the day Dolly was killed. I nodded patiently.

“But I didn’t kill her.”

“Why were you in her office, then?”

Sadie’s eyes had turned a weary shade of red.

“The protest got a little crazy. A police officer knocked me down and I hit my head. I was bleeding so much.”

“I saw footage of that.”

“Yeah. Everything went to shit after that. I can hardly remember everything because of the blow I’d taken to my head. But the police dispersed the crowds almost immediately.”

So far, her story fit with what I had seen.

“Kyle asked me if I needed help. I said I’d be fine, so he left. I was still lying on the floor when she came up to me.”

“Dolly?”

She nodded. “She helped me up and insisted I come into the shop so she could look at my head. She said she had been a nurse.”

“Okay. What happened next?”

“We went into her office. She had a first aid kit and put a bandage on my head. Told me she didn’t think it was a concussion.”

“But you argued, right?”

Sadie looked to the side as if trying to find the words on the wall.

“Yes. I told her I was grateful for her help. But it didn’t change anything. I was still angry at her for selling those…things.”

“How did she respond?”

“She said she understood how I felt. She told me she’d done some activism when she was my age. Did you know she marched in the civil rights movement?”

I did know. But most people didn’t. I was the only local reporter who bothered to include that little detail in my report about the controversy.

“Yes. She told me.”

“I was shocked. I asked how she could sell such hateful items when she knew how horribly black people are treated in this country. She said, ‘Hiding history doesn’t erase anything. It only ensures that we will repeat it.’”

“She told me that too.”

“She wasn’t what I expected, Jackson. She wasn’t this monster I had built up in my head. She was kind. She listened to me vent about my anger at our society. I listened to her stories about growing up under Jim Crow and seeing firsthand how black people were treated.”

Sadie paused, as if trying to catch her breath.

“I need something to drink.”

She got up again and came back with a bottle of tequila. She offered me a shot. I politely declined. I don’t normally drink when conversing with killers.

But I was beginning to doubt she was a killer.

She downed the shot like a pro.

“Talking to her was like talking to a therapist for activists,” she said. “We didn’t agree on everything, and that was okay. For the first time, I felt it was actually okay to speak with those who don’t share my political views.”

“How did it feel?”

“Liberating, I think that’s the right word. Jackson, I know I play the role well, but I haven’t been sure what I believe for a few months now. All this violence and hatred. It seems to come so easy for others. But it’s been nagging me. I realized I had stopped seeing people as people. I viewed everything through the lens of politics. I put ideology over humanity — she helped me see that.”

“She certainly had a way of doing that.”

“Did you know I had cut my parents off because of this shit? They didn’t even agree with her selling the gollies — but they also didn’t see her as an evil person.”

I nodded.

Sadie took another shot before continuing.

“I had been having so many doubts. I didn’t want to be part of the problem anymore. But I was scared. I was afraid of what it might mean to go a different route.”

“You might lose your friends.”

“There is no ‘might’ about it. It’s almost like a religion for these people. If you are not in lock step with the movement, you become the enemy. It’s like a cult.”

“I know what you mean. I’ve seen this on both sides.”

“Right. I told her that I couldn’t go public with this because of what it would mean. You know what she told me?”

“I’m listening.”

“She said, ‘We suffer more often in imagination than in reality.’ Have you heard that quote?”

“It’s Seneca. It means that the consequences we imagine for a particular action are often worse than what actually happens.”

“Yes. I think she’s right. I was going to start doing my own thing. She inspired me, Jackson. I couldn’t wait to tell her — but I never got the chance.”

Sadie’s eyes began to well up again. But she kept herself together.

“By the time I knew it, we had been talking for almost five hours. I felt like I was speaking to my grandmother. ”

“What about the necklace?”

Her eyes began to well up again. But she kept her composure.

“She gave it to me.”

“She gave it to you?”

“Yes. I went to visit her again on the day she died. She wanted me to have it. She had been trying to sell it, but hadn’t been successful. She said it was a reminder that we can build bridges instead of walls.’”

This tracked with what Estelle had told me. There was no way Sadie could have known that unless Dolly had told her.

“Wearing it made me feel a bit braver. I wore it in that picture as a silent statement because I was still not ready to go public. I didn’t even know what happened to her when I posted the photo. I was devastated when I found out — I felt destroyed. She had changed my life, and someone took hers.”

I believed her. But I had to be sure.

“What were you doing on the night of the murder at around ten o’ clock?”

“I was at a restaurant with a friend of mine — one that isn’t involved in politics.”

She pulled out her phone and flipped through it. She turned the screen in my direction and showed me a picture she and her friend took. The timestamp showed 9:47 p.m. on the night of the murder.

“I also have these,” she said.

She showed me receipts for Cousin Boudreaux’s. They were printed at various times after ten o’ clock.

There was no way she could have killed Dolly. She was too far away and probably too drunk judging by what I saw on the receipts.

Sadie began sobbing again. “I can’t believe she’s gone, Jackson.”

“I believe you, Sadie.”

She settled down and took another shot.

“I’m ready for one of those too,” I said.

She poured me a shot and another for herself. We clinked glasses and drank to our health.

“Sadie, I hope I’m not being too forward. But what happened between you and Dolly and your transformation, it’s a story that should be told. What you have been through is horrific. But I think Dolly would want you to use it for something good.”

“I agree, but I don’t know if I’m ready for that. My friends—the activist community—they’ll turn on me if they know I was with her. That I accepted her help. That I’m questioning everything I believed in.”

“Would it be better for you to keep faking it? To continue hiding who you really are? You could do a lot of good here, Sadie.”

She nodded slowly and wiped her eyes.

“Sadie, Dolly died believing she made a difference in your life. What do you think she’d want you to do?”

“She’d say, ‘to hell with them. You do what you know is right.’”

We laughed.

“Okay. To hell with them. I’ll do it. But it has to be you who writes the story. You’re the only one I trust to do it justice.”

“I will. This isn’t going to be some puff piece about ‘both sides this’ and ‘both sides that.’ This is a story about two people connecting as human beings. Humanity over politics.”

“I like the way you think, Jackson.”

“Me too, sometimes.”

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Sadie Broussard’s Apartment

Wednesday, 12:13 a.m.

I sat with Sadie and did the full interview. She told me about her political journey and what led to her current transformation. It was a great interview — I knew it would make a splash when I published the article, which I planned to do the next morning.

Sadie was resolute. All traces of fear that I’d seen on her face just hours earlier had vanished. She was determined to tell her story and honor Dolly. I admired her. I understood her situation — and that it would only get worse after her soon-to-be former comrades found out.

“How are you going to handle the fallout?” I asked.

“I haven’t figured it out yet. The antifascists will immediately disown me — say that I’ve joined the enemy. I might have to watch my back.”

“Well, you’re pretty quick with the pepper spray, so that’s good.”

“Yeah, I hope I don’t have to use it. I think others in the activist community will also be upset — they will probably try to talk me out of it. I can just hear Kyle now. ‘You really want to leave the movement when we’re finally making progress?’”

She laughed.

“I’ve only spoken with him a couple of times, but he seems pretty reasonable.”

“Yeah, he is. I’m not really worried about how he will react. It’s the others.”

“Well, if you ever need some backup, you have my number.”

“Yeah, I saw that video. I’ve seen what you can do, Mr. Tyson.”

I chuckled and punched the air.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

I told her I needed to head home to write up the article. She was pretty excited and asked me to send her the link when the piece went live.

The Harlow Residence

Wednesday, 5:30 p.m.

As I took the trip back to my castle, I thought about how the case had shaken out so far. I’d gotten it wrong about Sadie. I was glad she wasn’t the killer, but I felt guilty for suspecting her. Still, the evidence did point in her direction.

But that left an obvious problem: If Sadie didn’t murder Dolly, who did? I thought about Reddick again. He was still a top suspect in my book — and he seemed smart enough to make it appear as if the murder was political instead of him covering his ass.

The culprit could also be someone I hadn’t discovered yet. I might have to circle back with Estelle or Fontenot to see what other possibilities there were. He could still be a member of the activist community.

I arrived home and immediately got to work. I transcribed my interview with Sadie and began writing. The words flowed easy — like a soft stream making its way through the woods. When I hit the “submit” button, it felt like something had immediately shifted.

I didn’t know how to describe it, but I felt that after this article went live, things would change. I just didn’t know if it would be for the better. I don’t normally get that sensation after writing an article. But something was different.

My phone buzzed. It was Estelle.

“Hey Estelle.”

“Hey Jackson. I just wanted to check with you to see how everything went with Sadie.”

“Well, she’s not the killer.”

“What? Are you sure? How’d you figure that out?”

“It’s a long story. You can read my article about it tomorrow. But basically, Dolly patched her up after she was hurt during the protest. They got to talking and found some common ground. Sounds like Sadie had an awakening. Also, she proved that she was somewhere during the murder.”

“Wow. So back to square one?”

“Back to square one.”

“Do you suspect anyone else?”

“Right now, my list consists of one Colin Reddick.”

I could almost hear her squirm with disgust on the other line.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was him,” she said.

“Is there anyone else you could think of? Someone else who had an issue with Dolly that didn’t involve politics?”

“Nobody comes to mind, but I’ll give it some thought and let you know.”

“Sounds good, thanks.”

We hung up.

I hadn’t eaten anything since lunch, so I was a bit peckish. I solved this problem by making myself a sandwich. Turkey. Provolone. Avocado. Tomato. Heaven.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number. Here we go again.

“Vader?” I answered.

“Have you given up, Mr. Harlow?”

“Nah. Still working on it. How have you been? It’s been awhile. You don’t call, you don’t write.”

“You keep treating this like it’s a game. But it’s not. It’s dead serious.”

“I know I know, racism this, racism that. Blah blah blah. You got any new material?”

“You’re still targeting the activist community, I see. Did you really have to break that guy’s nose?”

“I just wanted to give you a preview of what you’ll experience when I finally catch up to you. Those were love taps in comparison.”

“Have you told anyone that we have been in contact?”

“Maybe.”

He paused, as if thinking it over.

“That means no, doesn’t it?”

“Let’s just say I’m not quick to let people know when I make new friends.”

“You know, it wasn’t just the racism, Mr. Harlow.”

“I’m listening.”

“It’s about power. It’s about privilege. These people think they can lord their superiority over people like you, and you don’t even care.”

I didn’t respond. I might as well let him cook. He obviously needed to get something off his chest. Who was I to stop him?

“You see, the problem isn’t just people like Dolly. It’s the system that props them up, protects them.”

“Doesn’t the First Amendment protect our right to express ourselves?”

He scoffed.

“You can’t be that naive. What happened when the Black Panthers marched in Sacramento with guns?”

“They passed the kind of gun control laws people like you support.”

There was a pause.

“What about the Civil Rights movement? The hoses? German shepherds? The First Amendment didn’t mean anything back then.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“You know how many activists have been arrested simply for protesting? Even at the nonviolent protests, the police were still there harassing us — them.”

Us? I wondered if I was dealing with more than one killer.

“Yes, I saw the footage. Even wrote about it. But how does killing Dolly stop any of this?”

“It sends a message, Mr. Harlow. It shows the world that they can’t just walk all over us without us fighting back.”

“Last time I checked, Dolly wasn’t a police officer.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s part of the system. She uses her privilege to profit at the expense of oppressed people. And she’s not as innocent as you seem to think — plenty of people had problems with her, and for good reason.”

“If this is about protecting people like me, why are there so few black people protesting? These demonstrations are whiter than Mitt Romney covered with baby powder.”

“It’s because they know they’ll be targeted! Don’t you get it? Believe it or not, I’m doing this for you and your community — even though you aren’t smart enough to appreciate it.”

“I’m smart enough to know when someone is using us to make themselves feel virtuous. You seem to fit that bill perfectly.”

“Did John Brown kill all those slaveholders to make himself feel virtuous? No. He did it because it was the right thing to do. He was willing to kill to protect the helpless.”

“First of all, if you know your history, we weren’t as helpless as you make it sound. Maybe you should read about all the black people who shot slave catchers instead of running from them.”

“But—”

“Secondly,” I said, talking over him. “You are nothing like John Brown. You murdered a defenseless old lady and you’re acting like it makes you a hero.”

“Shut up!” He was getting agitated again.

“What you don’t want to admit is that you’re nothing but a coward who can’t figure out how to make a difference without violence.”

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!” he screamed.

“When the powerful get too comfortable, it’s time to replace that comfort with terror. That’s what I’m doing whether you like it or not.”

The line went dead.

I tried to remember the details of the call. Were there any clues in there? He was definitely white and also a member of the activist community. Or, that was what he wanted me to think. Also, what was that line about comfort and terror about?

All I could do was continue focusing on the investigation. He was bound to have made a mistake somewhere, and I was going to find it.

But at the moment, it was bedtime.

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The Harlow Residence

Thursday, 6:30 a.m.

I woke up and checked my phone. The article was live. And it was already going viral on social media.

I had done a good job of detailing Sadie’s political evolution, if I do say so myself. She made it easy. Her words were poignant and heartfelt.

“I used to think I could scream at someone until they saw it my way. Now I see how foolish that was” she told me during our interview. “There’s a time for anger. But there’s also a time for talking — for healing. I realized I didn’t want to be that person anymore.”

Sadie had not changed sides. She was every bit the progressive she was before, but she had just found a better way forward. I was excited to see where this new path would take her. I was proud of her.

The Bayou Chronicle

Thursday, 7:00 a.m.

I arrived at the Chronicle early, before most of the staff showed up. I wanted to see how the Sadie piece was landing in real time. The article had gone live at 6 a.m., and by 8:30, it was already making noise.

The first few hours looked promising. Some praise from readers who appreciated the nuance. A few think pieces from other outlets picking up on the bridge-building angle.

But by 10 a.m., the wave started turning. I guess trolls and outrage addicts aren’t early risers.

“Sadie Broussard is a class traitor” was trending on X. Users were sharing screenshots of her photo from the article with captions like, “This is what happens when we let posers co-opt our movement” and “Sellout. Snitch. Enemy.”

One user claimed I was responsible for “corrupting” Sadie.

I was trudging through the digital cesspool when Mavis called me into her office. She closed the door behind me—usually not a good sign.

“Great piece, Jackson,” she said, gesturing for me to sit. “Solid work. Nuanced. You gave Sadie and Dolly their humanity back.”

“But?”

“But you just put a spotlight on a scared kid who said out loud she’s leaving a militant tribe. That’s not exactly a safe place to stand.”

I hadn’t thought about it that. Or, more accurately, I had thought about it and decided Sadie’s truth mattered more than her comfort — and she agreed.

“Mavis, she needs to tell her story.”

“I know. And I’m not saying you shouldn’t have run it. I’m saying be aware of what you’ve done.” She leaned back in her chair. “Does she have security? Anyone watching her back?”

“She’s got pepper spray and friends. She’ll be fine.”

The words felt hollow even as I said them. Mavis raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it.

“Just keep your phone close,” she said. “And Jackson? Good work. I mean it.”

I left her office. I tried to think of ways I could protect her, even though I doubted that anyone would go beyond attacking her on social media.

My phone rang around 11 a.m. Detective Leo Fontenot’s name popped up on the screen. I almost didn’t answer. But curiosity won out.

“Harlow,” I said.

“Jackson, it’s Fontenot.” He sounded tired. “Got a minute?”

“For you? Always,” I said in my most accommodating tone.

“Cut the shit. I need you to know we’re pursuing another angle. Off the record.”

“Another suspect?”

“Name that keeps popping up is Harrison Floyd. Local heritage guy. Big on ‘Southern pride.’ Real vocal at the counterprotests. I’m not handing you our case file, but I figured you’d hear about it anyway. Better it comes from me than the rumor mill.”

Harrison Floyd. The name didn’t ring any bells. I made a note.

“What’s his connection to Dolly?”

“Claims she had something that belonged to him.”

“Like what?”

“Ask your sources. He’s been around those protests before. That’s all you get.”

Fontenot hung up before I could ask another question. I sat there staring at my laptop. Harrison Floyd. Heritage guy. Claims Dolly had something that belonged to him.

I grabbed my phone and called Estelle.

“Hey Jackson,” Estelle answered on the second ring. She sounded even better than yesterday. Time and routine were helping.

“Hey Estelle. Quick question. Ever heard of a Harrison Floyd?”

There was a pause. Then, she groaned, “Oh God. Yeah. I know who he is.”

“He already sounds like a charmer.”

“He’s…he was a regular, kind of. In and out of the shop. I completely forgot about him. If I hadn’t, I would have told you about him sooner.”

“What’s his deal?”

“He was obsessed with this old pistol. Said it belonged to his great great grandfather. Confederate vet or something. He kept coming in, saying Dolly had no right to sell it. That it was his family’s.”

“What did Dolly say?”

“She told him she bought it fair and square. That she had papers showing the provenance. And that even if it had belonged to his family once, possession is nine-tenths of the law. She wasn’t going to just hand it over.”

I could hear the frustration in Estelle’s voice, not at Dolly, but at Floyd.

“But that wasn’t all,” Estelle continued, affecting the type of deep, slow drawl characteristic of Floyd’s type. “He also kept saying she’d gone soft. That she was caving to the woke mob by even talking to protesters and reporters about the golliwog thing. He said she wasn’t a true believer. That she was embarrassing her own people.”

“Embarrassing how?”

“By not doubling down on the gollies. By acting like maybe there was something worth understanding about the other side.” Estelle’s voice got quieter. “He came in one day and just went off. Said she was playing games with history that wasn’t hers. That she was going to regret crossing his family.”

I could feel the shape of it now. A man aggrieved on two fronts: the pistol, and Dolly’s refusal to be a hardline defender of “heritage.”

“What happened? Did she ask him to leave?”

“He slammed one of the display cases. He looked like he wanted to throw it at the wall. Dolly called the police but he left before they got there. That was maybe two weeks before the murder.”

I made more notes.

“What’s funny is that Dolly was never part of their heritage nonsense — and I’m pretty sure that pistol didn’t belong to his family.”

“Estelle, if I go talk to him, should I be worried?”

“Worried? No. But cautious. He’s intense. And he never got over the pistol thing or the fact that Dolly wouldn’t take his side. He’s the kind of guy who builds things up in his head until they become way bigger than they are.”

“What would I do without you, Ms. Mason?”

“Nothing good. Be careful, Jackson.”

I hung up and added Floyd to my mental suspect board. Two suspects now. Two very different motives. One ideological, one personal. Or maybe both, wrapped up in the same person.

I made a note to visit Floyd later in the week. First, I needed to find more information on him. And I needed to get through the rest of today.

It was almost lunchtime, and I was still at my desk, pulling Floyd background—old mugshots, social media profiles, anything public—when my phone started buzzing.

One text: “Dude, I saw what happened on social media. You okay?”

Another: “I’m so sorry.”

Another: “Is this real about your daughter?”

I looked up. A co-worker was staring at me from across the bullpen, then quickly looked away as if he had just been caught stealing from the cookie jar. Another was whispering to someone else, both of them glancing in my direction.

My stomach dropped. What was it this time?

I opened X on my phone. It took me three seconds to understand. My blood ran cold. The pit of my stomach sank into my feet.

There was a line of posts displaying pictures of my ex-wife and daughter.

Check out Episode 4.

Read Jackson’s article about Sadie Broussard here.

This is a long episode, and it will be shortened by some email servers. If you aren’t reading in the Substack app, please open this in your browser to see the whole episode.

Previously on The Case of the Grinning Golly:

Dolly Mercier, an antique dealer selling controversial items, was murdered with one of her own wares. When a mysterious caller confessed to Jackson Harlow—claiming to be an activist “ally”—the journalist knew he had the real killer on the line. But proving it would mean wading through misdirection, false suspects, and a killer who seemed determined to make Jackson complicit in the narrative.

Harlow Residence

Monday, 7:00 AM

My phone buzzed me awake at seven o’ clock in the morning. I considered throwing it out of the window as I’d only just fallen asleep at 5:30 a.m.

“You called,” Detective Fontenot said.

“I did. I think the killer called me last night.”

Fontenot paused, chewing on my bombshell, no doubt. I rolled over into a sitting position on my bed.

“Okay, I’ll bite. Let’s hear it.”

“A little after nine o’ clock, I got a call. He said he killed Dolly and claimed he was an ally.”

“He? It was a man?”

“Well, actually, I don’t know, they used a voice modulator so I didn’t know their sex. But they knew about the crime scene — about the statue that was used to kill Dolly.”

“What else?”

“He also knew about the blood pattern— “

Fontenot interjected. “We released photos of the statue yesterday afternoon. It’s been all over social media.”

How had I missed that during my evening doomscrolling session? But I still wasn’t backing down.

“He said he left it next to her head as a message,” I offered.

“I hear you, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess that. We have already received seven fake calls saying the same thing.”

“Leo, I’m telling, you, this is real. The way he talked about it. The way he reacted to me. It has to be him. Her. It. Whatever.”

I was done playing the pronoun game. I decided to refer to him as a “he” and hope nobody called me a sexist.

“Jackson, like I told you. We’re getting flooded with false confessions and tips. We had one guy call from Monroe claiming he killed Dolly in a dream using psychic powers.”

I rubbed my temples and stood up. I needed some coffee. Or whiskey.

Fontenot kept going. “Some old lady in Baton Rouge tried to tell us it was all a hoax and that Dolly was still alive. Said she saw her at the liquor store buying a lottery ticket.”

“Listen Leo, I know you’re skeptical, but I’m telling you —”

“Look Jackson, I need to go. I’ve got a murder to solve.”

“Can I at least send you the recording?”

Fontenot sighed. “Yes, send me the recording. Let me know if you find something I can use.”

He hung up. I sent the recording, knowing he was about as likely to listen to it as a chicken is to play with a fox.

My fingers clenched into a tight fist. Not because Fontenot didn’t believe me, but because he was right. I had no proof.

Maybe it was a troll. There are a lot of those going around these days.

I resolved that if this Vader character called again, I would try to trip him up.

I showered, shaved, made coffee, and felt like a new man. Well, I felt like a caffeinated man, at least. I still had a story to investigate.

One of the great things about my job is that I can work from home if I wanted to.

I wanted to, so I did.

The caller said Dolly was working with the Aryan Patriots. I knew it was a longshot, so I decided to look into it. I went to social media to see if others were talking about it.

They were.

But the first post I could find on this alleged connection had been posted at around six o’ clock this morning — after I spoke with the killer. It didn’t mean much. He could have gotten the information on his own. He could have fabricated it.

After wading through a sea of incoherent conspiracy theories, I managed to get a clearer picture.

There were leaked emails between Dolly and Ryan Daltrey, the leader of the Aryan Patriots. Users had posted the screenshots on every major social media outlet.

They seemed real. But I wasn’t sure. I would need some help. I knew just the guy.

I called Charlie Liu.

“Yo Jackson, where you at?” he answered.

“I’m working from home today.”

“Must be nice.”

“It is. I need a favor.”

“I’m a little busy upgrading our cybersecurity system, bro. Can it wait?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much you’d like some Cafe Du Monde.”

He loved those damned crack-filled pastries almost as much as I did.

“Dude, don’t do this to me. You know I have an addiction.”

“Consider me your pusher man.”

“Remember that scene in Game of Thrones when they sliced off Ned Stark’s head?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That’s what Mavis is gonna do to me if I don’t have this done by close of business.”

“At least you will lose weight with that humongous brain of yours.”

Liu groaned. It was a bad joke. But I’d only had an hour of sleep.

I said, “I need you to look into the rumors that Dolly Mercier was connected to the Aryan Patriots. It’s all over the internet.”

“Yeah, I saw that. I’ll take a look tonight when I’m off, but I can’t promise any results.”

“Just give it a shot, and those beignets are yours.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

I needed another lead to chase down. I leaned back in my office chair. On the day I interviewed Dolly, I spoke with several protesters. I remembered a wiry, high-strung young man named Kyle Weston.

He was outside of Memory House holding a sign that read, “Racism Is Violence.”

I had approached him first. He was wearing blue jeans and a black t-shirt which read “Fuck Racism.” He had dirty blonde hair and the kind of eyes that made him look like a meerkat. At only 23 years old, he was on the front lines fighting for his idea of social justice.

He was also one of Pierce Lemaine’s interns and was often seen with him. He seemed to look up to the politician as a mentor figure.

I introduced myself and asked for his comment on the golliwog issue. “What Ms. Mercier is doing is toxic,” he had told me. “She says it’s about history. But not all history is equal. It’s like she’s rubbing everything in our faces. Imagine how black people must feel knowing someone is trying to make a few bucks off of racism.”

Weston had established himself as a key leader in New Orleans’ left-wing activist class. His connection to Lemaine helped to bolster his reputation as an activist. He might point me in the right direction. I sent him a direct message on Twitter, asking if we could meet up later in the day.

There was also a young lady named Sadie Broussard. She was a student at Tulane University and also a prominent figure in progressive circles. Unlike Weston, Broussard was known to run with the more radical, even violent, elements. The type who dress in black clothes and masks to fight those who they believed were fascists — which was pretty much anyone to the right of Josef Stalin.

If the killer was motivated by politics, Broussard’s clique was probably the best place to gather information. I went to her Twitter account to reach out, but then stopped.

The radicals weren’t exactly fans of the press, so I’d have to take a more sensitive approach with Sadie. And by “sensitive,” I mean ambushing her in person so she couldn’t easily brush me off.

In fact, I was feeling a bit saucy, so I hopped into my Jeep and headed to Tulane University. It was ten thirty, so my target would likely be in class.

I was about halfway through Boz Scaggs’ “Lowdown” when my phone rang.

“This better be good. You interrupted Boz Scaggs,” I said.

“That dirty dirty dirty lowdown?” Mavis asked.

“Yep.”

I smiled. One thing I like about Mavis was her taste in music.

“You didn’t come into the office today. Everything okay?”

“Yes. I’m working on the Mercier story.”

“Are you sure? I figured you’d still be rattled after Saturday.”

“I’m dealing with it. I had coffee.”

“I also thought you might have lost your mind because Charlie told me you’re trying to have him track down some information when he’s supposed to be working on our security system.”

“He said he’d start that tonight, after hours.”

“What do you think is happening with the Aryan Patriot angle?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m shaking the trees — seeing what falls out. Also, the killer called me last night.”

“Why am I just now hearing about this?”

“Fontenot thinks it’s bullshit. Apparently, every nutjob in Louisiana is calling NOPD with fake confessions.”

“What proof do you have that it was the killer?”

“He told me. But, as Leo so delicately put it, this doesn’t prove anything.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he killed Dolly because she was selling those racist artifacts.”

“That’s what I’d say if I wanted to troll a gullible journalist.”

I smiled. That woman knew how to stick the dagger and twist it.

“I know I know. I thought it was a troll at first. But there was just something about it that I can’t put my finger on.”

“Well, let me know if there’s anything new. Where are you headed now?”

“I’ve got a hot date with a radical named Sadie Broussard.”

“How nice.”

“Nothing like a white progressive lecturing me on white privilege and blah blah blah.”

“Well, let me know if anything comes of it.”

“Will do.”

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Tulane University

Monday, 11:00 a.m.

I pulled into the parking lot. I checked my direct messages and saw that Kyle Weston had responded. We would meet at the Lagniappe Coffee Shop across from Memory House.

When I interviewed Sadie at the protest, she told me she worked at the Howard-Tilton Memorial Library, the main place where students went to expand their eager, fertile young minds.

I didn’t quite feel right about ambushing Sadie like this. But I’ve been around activist circles enough to know that if there is anyone radicals want to avoid, other than the police, it’s nosy journalists like yours truly.

It was already hard enough to get a comment from her at the protest. Now, there has been a murder — one that appeared to be politically motivated. There is no way she would have agreed to speak with me.

I walked into the building. I looked for a tall girl with pale skin, glasses, freckles, and fire-red hair. She wouldn’t be hard to miss.

The building sprawled out like a palace, decked out with bookshelves that seemed to go on into eternity on each side. Fortunately, it didn’t have that old, musty smell some libraries have. Instead, it was a sanitized, modern scent of paper and boredom.

I was glad to find out I was wrong. After about 15 minutes, I spotted my prey in an aisle near the back of the room. She was standing next to a cart full of books, putting them back in their homes on the bookshelves.

“Hello Ms. Broussard,” I said.

She turned to look at me. Her face grew almost as red as her hair. Her eyes narrowed. They were puffy and red, like she had been crying. There was a small bandage on her forehead which made me wonder if she had been hit by a falling book.

“What are you doing here?” she half whispered half grunted.

“I need to ask you some questions.”

She placed another book neatly on the bookshelf.

“I’m working.”

“So am I.”

“Even if I weren’t working, the last person I’d want to talk to is you.”

I acted as if I were hurt.

“Why, whatever do you mean?”

“You want to talk about that murder, don’t you?” she said.

“I just want to ask you a few questions. I won’t take up too much of your time, scout’s honor.” I raised my right hand as if swearing an oath.

She snorted. “I bet. You probably think it was one of us who killed that woman.”

“I’ve seen no evidence suggesting it — yet. I’m only certain of two things: There was a murder and the people have a right to be informed about it.”

“Bullshit. We get blamed for everything.”

“And sometimes it’s deserved. But if the person who did this doesn’t represent you, shouldn’t people know that?”

She stood up taller and looked right at me. I thought it was cute.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

“You already are.”

“Then maybe you should leave.”

“Maybe I should stay, and let your comrades see you speaking with a journalist. I wonder what they would think of that?”

“Fuck you.”

“Look, I don’t want to play hardball. But I’m going to get to the bottom of this one way or another,” I said. It was time for this game to end.

“I’d rather give you and your friends an opportunity to tell your side of things. I only need about 30 minutes of your time, then I’m out of your hair.”

“15 minutes.”

“Deal.”

“Meet me at the football field in an hour.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I took a stroll to the football field and sat on the bleachers. I thought about how I would approach the conversation with Sadie. She did not want to talk to me — and I couldn’t blame her.

The afternoon sun beat down on the empty bleachers. Somewhere across campus, I heard someone blasting loud hip-hop music. I couldn’t tell who it was because today’s artists all sound the same to me.

I longed for the days of Biggie and 2Pac.

As far as I knew, Sadie hadn’t participated in her clique’s more violent escapades. But this didn’t mean one of her friends hadn’t decided Dolly needed killing.

I was operating under the assumption that politics was the driving force behind whoever killed Dolly. But there were plenty of people who were furious at her over the golliwog issue. It could be just about anyone.

I had to play this right — make sure I wasn’t coming off as accusatory. Otherwise, I might lose her.

I scrolled through her Twitter page. It was the usual boilerplate leftist claptrap. Selfies with friends at protests. Rants about the police.

“Pigs are just fine with protests, as long as we don’t make the government too uncomfortable,” one post read, showing a video she had recorded of police in riot gear hurling tear gas at a throng of protesters.

Well, I couldn’t say she was wrong. I’ve been at this long enough to have seen this on many occasions.

She had also written a post about the murder. “Prediction: The fascists are going to blame us for this,” she wrote. “In fact, they have already started. Guilty until proven innocent.”

That was probably true too. I could use this.

Sadie approached from the other side of the field. She trudged through the field deliberately, as if she had mentally prepared for the interrogation she was sure I was going to give her.

I smiled. “Well hello there. Long time no see.”

Sadie looked at me like I was a roach she had just scraped off her shoe. She wore a black tank top and blue jeans, the type that already come with holes torn in them, for some reason.

She sat down next to me, her arms crossed. Not too close, but far enough away that we could hear each other talk.

“I’m here. What do you want?”

She steeled herself for the first question.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

“About what?”

“They do think you’re guilty until proven innocent. And the police are there to crack down on protests that make those in power uncomfortable.”

“Either you’re a mindreader, or you’ve been going through my social media.”

“I was bored.”

“You’re probably just saying that to get on my good side.”

“You’re probably just saying that because you haven’t read my work. If you had, you would know I’m no fan of the government.”

“You’re not about to tell me you’re one of us, are you?”

I laughed. “Hell no. No offense, but if your people ever gained power, I’d oppose them as much as I do the current status quo.”

She paused. I had thrown her off a bit. It’s what I do.

“So you’re a Republican?”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“Then what the fuck are you?”

“I’m a journalist. I report on the news. I report on bad people. I make sure the public knows what their so-called leaders are up to.”

“Bullshit. The media are just propaganda for the elites.”

“Yes. Most of it is. But I’m not. You don’t have to take my word for it. My work is available for all to see.”

“So, why are we here?”

“I want to know who killed Dolly.”

Sadie snorted again. She liked snorting.

“It wasn’t one of us,” she said.

“You were there are the protest, right? Did you see anything suspicious?”

She sighed. “I was a bit preoccupied.”

“Did you know Dolly?”

“No,” she said, a little too quickly.

“You sure?”

Sadie brushed some hair out of her face and looked out at the football field.

“I don’t hang out with racists. I don’t talk to them. My only interaction with Dolly Mercier was yelling at her about her racist bullshit she was selling.”

Her face was red again.

“I didn’t kill her,” she said.

“I never said you did.”

“I didn’t want her dead. I wanted her to stop glorifying oppression.”

“You thought yelling at her would change her mind?”

She looked away from me, across the field, as if expecting someone to come along and rescue her.

“I don’t even know what I think anymore,” she said. Her voice was quiet, resigned. There was something she wasn’t telling me.

“Sadie, I know this isn’t easy. You want to make the world a better place. I respect that. But if you don’t mind me saying, you don’t really seem like the violent type, despite who you hang out with.”

“Are you calling me a poser?”

“I think you’re trying to do what’s right. Dolly’s death wasn’t right. I just want to know what happened. Do you have any information that could point me in the right direction?”

“Look, sometimes people aren’t who you think they—” (stops herself) “Never mind. I need to go.”

“Sadie —”

“No. I need to go. Please don’t contact me again.”

She stood up abruptly and walked quickly back across the field.

Well, that didn’t go too smoothly. Great job Jackson.

Sadie was definitely not being forthright with me. That much was about as obvious as a tiger in the gazelle exhibit at the zoo.

But guilty of murder? I wasn’t sure. She was definitely conflicted about something — but what?

I thought I might have better luck with Kyle Weston. It was about time for our appointment.

Lagniappe Coffee Shop

Monday, 1:30 p.m.

I drove back to the coffee shop. I’d spent a lot of time there over the past 24 hours. Good thing for me, I had grabbed one of those loyalty cards where they give you a stamp every time you buy a drink. Once I got to ten coffees, I’d get a free cup.

I love capitalism.

Kyle was already there, sitting at a table in the corner. He was wearing a blue t-shirt that read “Resist” and shorts because he was 23 years old and hadn’t figured out he was a walking cliche.

He stood as I walked to the table and shook my hand with a smile. “Nice to see you again Mr. Harlow.”

“You can call me Jackson. You want a coffee?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You sure? I only have to buy eight more before I get a free one. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

I flashed my loyalty card like a wealthy douchebag showing off his new American Express Black Card.

“In that case, I’ll take a latte.”

“Good man.”

I approached the counter and was greeted by a very nice young woman with a nosering and spiky hair. Her name was “Cynthia,” if her name tag was to be believed. I always suspected that these people chose fake names to pull one over on the customers. It’s one of my favorite conspiracy theories.

I sat down across from Kyle.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” I said. “I’m covering the Mercier murder and I want to make sure my readers understand what’s been going on.”

“No problem. I’m meeting Pierce here in about an hour. Is that an issue?”

“Not at all,” I lied. I had already avoided politician cooties and now I was about to be exposed to them again. “I’m sure you already heard the news about Dolly, right?”

“I won’t pretend I liked her. But this was not the way to handle it.” He paused. “She was still a human being.”

Kyle’s eyes turned downward. He fiddled with his napkin and tapped his foot like a woodpecker going at an oak. I didn’t think he needed any coffee.

“I understand you’re well-known in activist circles.”

“Yeah, I’ve been involved in politics for a few years now.”

“You’re also an intern for councilman Lemaine, correct?”

“Yes, I’ve been with Pierce for over a year.”

“What do you think of him?”

“I think he’s the future of politics. The type of leader we need. I’m grateful to be working with him. He’s been a great mentor for me.”

Kyle looked like he wanted to keep singing Lemaine’s praises, but was interrupted by “Cynthia.”

“Denzel!” I heard spiky-haired nosering chick yell. I got up to retrieve our coffees. Yes, I also gave a fake name. Two can play that game.

“Denzel?” Kyle asked when I got back to the table.

“It’s a thing I do,” I explained.

“Fair enough. So how can I help?”

“Did you know Dolly Mercier?”

“I didn’t know her personally. But I was part of most of the protests in front of Memory House.”

“So, it’s safe to say you didn’t approve of her merchandise.”

Kyle snickered. “Not in the slightest. You know the history of this country. People who looked like me put people who looked like you in chains. Mocked you. Oppressed you. Stifled your voices. Took your freedom.”

“That they did. But I doubt my ancestors would look at me today and say I’m suffering like they did.”

“Yeah, but you have to admit there are still problems today. The fact that a white woman can sell Jim Crow-era relics without pushback shows that we haven’t come as far as people think.” Kyle sounded almost rehearsed, as if he were Edward Norton delivering lines from the script.

“You haven’t even touched your coffee yet. Cynthia is going to think you don’t like it,” I pointed at his cup.

“Cynthia?”

“The girl at the counter.”

“Oh, right.” He took a sip.

“Not bad,” he said. “Anyway, I think those items are racist caricatures from another era — one that should stay dead. But these people just can’t let go of the past, you know what I mean?”

“I do. Tell me about the protests.”

I liked Kyle, but I’d had to sit through this type of whitesplaining far too many times to do it again. I can rag on conservatives all I want — but at least they rarely lectured like this.

Kyle took another sip. He seemed to be enjoying it. I looked over and gave “Cynthia” a thumbs up.

“Our group organized peaceful protests outside her shop.”

“It wasn’t so peaceful last week.” I took a sip.

“We stayed on public property. Followed all the ordinances. But those rednecks think they own everyone.”

“And by ‘rednecks,’ you’re referring to the people who supported Dolly, right?”

“Precisely. They were there too, just looking for a reason to hurt us. Racist assholes. The cops clearly sided with them when things got violent,” Kyle’s fists clenched.

This wasn’t exactly true. I read the reports, watched the camera footage on social media. It wasn’t clear who started the violence. But the police cracked down on everyone. Arrested multiple people on both sides.

I didn’t think it would be productive to raise this issue with Kyle, so I pressed on.

“These items, golliwogs, why have they become such an issue? People have been selling them for decades.”

Kyle thought for a moment. He took another sip of his coffee.

“It’s because people’s minds are changing. More people are waking up, man. We’re not going to tolerate this shit anymore.”

He became more animated. “Look, Dolly had the RIGHT to sell these objects. But we also had the right to speak up, and that’s what we did.”

“Do you think anyone in the activist community might have wanted to take it further?”

“You think an activist did it?”

“I’m not sure. I’m just trying to piece this all together.”

“I doubt it. We despise violence. We hated what Dolly was doing, but we didn’t want to hurt her — well, most of us didn’t. I can only speak for myself and those in my circle.”

I finished my coffee and considered ordering another.

“Most of us? What can you tell me?”

Kyle sat back in his chair. He looked as if he had accidentally spoiled my surprise birthday party.

“Mr. Harlow, I don’t want to accuse anyone who might be innocent. You probably already know there are some in the activist community who prefer direct action. I know a lot of these people — but I don’t agree with them.”

“Are you talking about Sadie Broussard?”

He nodded. “I’m not saying it was her or someone in her group. But I’ll say this, if it ends up being one of them, I will be less than shocked.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, Sadie and others were talking about doing more than protesting. I heard them at the protest and tried to reason with them.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. But it just felt like she was getting way too extreme. I’ve known her for awhile now. But she’s not the only one, she’s just the one who stands out to me. She mentioned that they needed to shut Memory House down by ANY means necessary.”

“Ah, the honorable El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz.”

“Huh?”

“Malcolm X. That’s what he changed his name to later in life. He’s the one who said, ‘by any means necessary.’”

Kyle scratched his head. I could tell he was used to being the most knowledgeable person in the room.

“Can I ask YOU something, Mr. Harlow?”

I nodded.

“What do you think of this whole thing? Not just the murder, but the golliwog thing?”

“I think the outrage is silly, to be honest.”

“What? You? You’re a black man. If anything, this should affect people like you the most.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Why?”

“Someone selling racist memorabilia isn’t affecting my bank account. It’s not keeping me from living my life. It’s history. It’s ugly history, but pretending it doesn’t exist isn’t going to help anyone.”

Kyle’s eyes widened. He looked at me as if I had transformed into a newt.

“You sound just like her. Don’t you realize how much this hurts your community?”

“The government has done far more to hurt my community than a mammy doll, Kyle.”

His face fell. His mouth opened and closed, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond.

The door opened and in walked Councilman Pierce Lemaine. He stood at the entrance for a moment, looking around for Kyle. When he saw us sitting together, he beamed as if it were the best surprise he’s had all day. He stepped over to our table.

It would probably take me three month’s salary to afford half of his suit. His handshake was firm, like he meant it. “Mr. Harlow, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I tend to show up in places where I’m not expected,” I said.

Lemaine laughed and put his hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “This guy isn’t preaching you to death is he?”

Kyle chuckled, “No Mr. Lemaine. We’re just having a civil political discussion.”

“I bet,” Lemaine said. “Y’all want refills on your coffee?”

We didn’t. He went to the counter to place his order. “Cynthia” seemed quite smitten with the councilman.

I decided to get the conversation back on track.

“If you were me, where would you be looking?”

“Honestly, Sadie’s group is worth looking into. But have you considered it might not even be political?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s another antique dealer. Name’s Colin Reddick. He owns a place down on Royal street. I heard there was some bad blood between him and Mercier.”

“What kind of bad blood?”

“I don’t know man. I just hear things, y’know?”

Lemaine returned to the table and sat down. Whatever he ordered smelled like heaven.

“What did you order? That smells delicious.” I had to ask.

“Peppermint mocha with a hint of vanilla. It’ll change your life,” Lemaine said.

Well, at least he had decent taste in coffee.

“Have you learned anything new about the murder?” Lemaine asked.

“Not yet. My investigation is still in the preliminary stages. That’s actually why I’m speaking with Kyle. Thought I’d pick his brain a bit,” I said.

“Good idea. Nobody is as plugged in as Kyle. He’s the best person to point you in the right direction,” Lemaine said.

Kyle sat up a little straighter, as if his coach had just praised him for scoring the tiebreaking touchdown just before the buzzer went off.

“I learned from the best,” Kyle said.

“Well, I’m going to head out. Gotta follow up on the information you gave me. I appreciate your time, Kyle,”

“No problem. Look, like I said, Dolly didn’t deserve to die. But honestly? She was stubborn. Refused to listen to reason. She could have easily calmed things down. But some people would rather profit from racism.”

“I know we didn’t agree with her, Kyle. But now’s not the time to speak ill of the dead. You know what I mean?” Lemaine chided, gently.

“Yeah, I know. Things will get better when you’re mayor,” Kyle said.

“We still got a tough campaign. We’ll see how it shakes out,” Lemaine said.

“Well, good luck. I’ll be in touch,” I said.

I stood up, saluted “Cynthia,” and walked out of the shop.

I replayed the conversation in my head. Kyle Weston was exactly the kind of activist his movement needed—smart, articulate, willing to condemn violence. He was not like Sadie, who’d been defensive and evasive. He had given me real leads, real context. I made a mental note to quote him in my article.

My position on the golliwogs threw him. But that was his youth showing—like most progressives, he expected every Black person to think alike. But I was confident he would learn some nuance at some point.

It was interesting seeing Lemaine in a more casual setting. If he weren’t a politician, he might have grown on me.

Harlow’s Home

Monday, 6 p.m.

I arrived home a little after six o’ clock in the evening. It was time to get to work on my next report on the Mercier case. But first, I wanted to check in on Estelle. She’d had a rough day yesterday.

“Hello?” She answered.

“Estelle, it’s Jackson Harlow. I wanted to check on you to see how you’re holding up.”

“I…I’m okay,” she stammered. Her voice sounded like a flute stuffed with gravel. Probably worn out from crying and talking all day to police.

“I keep expecting her to call about some estate sale she found or to gripe about a customer.”

“I can’t even imagine what you’re going through. I didn’t know Dolly well, but I could tell she was a good person.”

“She was, Mr. Harlow —”

“Call me Jackson.”

“-- Jackson. She was wonderful. She helped me out so many times. She was about as tough.”

“I could tell.”

“I just don’t understand how anyone could do this. What the hell is happening to our city — and our country?”

She began sobbing. I let her.

I didn’t have an answer to her question, so I didn’t give one. It felt like a vise grip was tightening on my heart. I hated this. So much pain over some dolls.

The sobbing slowed down, then faded. She spoke again.

“I know you’re looking into it Jackson. But the police don’t even have a suspect. Have you found anything?”

“Not yet. I’m still looking at a few angles. I know you’re not up to it right now, Estelle. But when you’re ready—maybe in a few days—I’d like to speak with you. Not just for my reporting, but to truly understand who Dolly was and who might have wanted to harm her.”

“That would be fine.”

“I’ll call you in a few days to check in again. But if you need anything, you have my number now.”

“Thank you.”

She hung up.

I wanted to go to bed — even though it was early. But I had work to do.

I wrote about what I had learned about the case so far. The murder weapon. My interview with Pierce Lemaine. I added quotes from Kyle Weston and Sadie Broussard.

Sadie Broussard. Weston intimated that she might have been willing to resort to violence. But it was hard to believe. Sure, she was passionate. But nothing about her screamed “Hey Harlow, I’m totally a killer.”

I opened up a new draft in The Bayou Chronicle’s Content Management System, otherwise known as CMS. I wrote up my notes about my interviews and laid out my thoughts on the case. I included parts of my conversations that did not make it into the latest article. This helps me see all the angles to a particular story.

I sat down on my couch for my nightly doomscrolling ritual. The moment I opened the Twitter app, a call came through. Unknown number.

Could it be?

I answered.

“This is Harlow.”

“Hello Mr. Harlow. Sounds like you’ve been working late,” the modulated voice taunted.

“You again. I was hoping for a telemarketer. You sure you don’t want to sell me a timeshare or something?”

He ignored my joke. I couldn’t blame him. It was getting a little corny at this point.

“You have had quite a busy day. Did you think about our conversation from last night?”

“Sure. But here’s the thing: I’m not convinced you’re the killer. I think you’re some incel in his mother’s basement trying to troll the media.”

I didn’t really think he was a troll. But I wanted to see where this would go.

“I told you about how I killed Dolly, didn’t I?”

“Yes. But you’re one of thousands of people who already knew about the murder weapon. I remain unimpressed.”

He paused. He was probably trying to conjure a detail that had not been publicized yet.

“You know the first thing I noticed when I saw the woman? Those tacky earrings.”

My pulse quickened. I knew what he was talking about.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What did they look like?”

“Those godawful things. Shaped like seashells. I should have killed her for that alone.”

He was right. That’s exactly what she was wearing. I still had to play it cool.

“Let’s say I believe you. Why are you calling me?”

“Because I know you will listen. Most reporters—they just want a villain, or a headline. Not you. You write about the big picture, not just the sexy details. You tend to dig where people usually walk away. You’re honest. I think you’re the perfect one to tell my story.”

“You flatter me, sir. But I’m not giving you my autograph.”

The voice chuckled. He seemed to get a kick out of it. I was glad one of us was having fun.

“You ever wonder what pushes someone to the edge, Mr. Harlow?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“It’s doing the right thing, over and over and over again and not getting the right results.”

“Definition of insanity?”

“Sort of. We tried dialogue. We tried pressure. All people want to do is talk. They’re all talkers. But I’m the only one who had the balls to take action. I’m a doer.”

“And now a woman is dead.”

“Yes, she’s dead, Harlow! She could have avoided it. But she chose to keep profiting from division. You know the damage she was doing and you know I’m right.”

“I get it. We live in a wicked society under a wicked government full of wicked people.”

“See, you DO understand.”

“But, murderers are the most wicked of all. You killed a woman for selling dolls. The city was already a powder keg — and I think you may have just lit the flame.”

“Sometimes, you have to become what you hate to eradicate what you hate.”

I didn’t answer. A few seconds passed.

“Are you listening, Mr. Harlow?”

“Yes. I’m just waiting for the part where you say ‘We’re not so different, you and I.’” I tried my best to emulate James Earl Jones’ iconic baritone.

“You still think this a game. I should visit you next.”

He was shouting now. I had struck a nerve. I pressed the advantage.

“Because we’re nothing alike,” I continued, ignoring the threat. “You sound like a wannabe white savior with a God complex who thinks he was put on this Earth to rescue poor, helpless negroes like me.”

“FUCK YOU HARLOW!”

“You know I’m right, white boy.”

“I don’t have to be black to care about oppression! I’m doing more to help people like you than you ever will.”

“You’re a coward who thinks he’s a real man because he bludgeoned an old lady to death over some dolls.”

“No!” he screamed. “You don’t know shit.”

“What I do know is that when I catch your pansy ass, you’re going to wish the police had gotten to you first.”

He paused. Collected himself.

“I guess we will see, Mr. Harlow.”

The line went dead.

I felt much better about this call. And, I found out the killer was white. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I also learned how to push his buttons. That might be useful later.

But even though the call was a win, I knew the caller was dangerous. I wasn’t sure if he would kill again and I knew I had to catch him before he could.

Despite his threat, I doubted he would come after me. I was his sounding board. He wanted me to listen and tell his story. But I wasn’t going to take this for granted. I’d certainly riled him up, and this could make him irrational.

I made sure my pistol was on the nightstand, plopped down on my mattress, and drifted off to sleep.

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Harlow’s home

Tuesday, 6 a.m.

I woke up at six o’ clock in the morning. I felt much better than I had the previous morning. I headed to the garage to get in a quick workout. Lifting gave me the jolt I needed to carry me through the rest of the day. Well, that, and coffee.

On my way to the office, I grabbed a dozen beignets for Charlie and a cup of steaming hot java. Today was going to be a good day.

After parking, I strolled into the office. I immediately felt that something was wrong. It was as if an invisible cloud had descended on a usually bustling office. I could hear the keystrokes of my colleagues tapping away at their computers.

The sounds faded out. I saw some of my coworkers sneaking glances at me.

I walked over to Charlie’s desk.

“Yo, Charlie! I got something for you.”

Charlie looked up and forced a smile.

“Thanks, man.”

“Change of plans. I’m not giving these to you until you tell me what’s wrong.”

His face dropped the smile and replaced it with a look of concern. His brow was furrowed and eyes downcast.

“You might want to check with Mavis.”

I handed him the box and made a beeline for the boss’ office.

“Why does this place feel like cemetery all of a sudden?” I asked.

Mavis looked up from her computer screen.

“Jackson. Have you looked at social media lately?”

“Not since last night, why?”

“You might want to check.”

I looked at my notifications. I had more than 200 notifications..

And then I saw it. A line of posts with screenshots of the notes I had put in CMS last night. Everything that was never meant for public consumption was all over Twitter — and likely on other social media platforms. Even worse, people were attacking me and The Bayou Chronicle.

It was all there. My impressions of Sadie and Kyle. I had written about Sadie’s radical views and her comments about Dolly. Her ties to radical groups. No wonder she was the focus of the online outrage — she was the perfect target.

I’m used to being attacked on social media by everyone from all sides because I won’t join one.

But this was different.

In the trending section, I saw a headline: “New Orleans Journalist Targets Activist Community in Mercier Killing.”

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“It was only a matter of time before the media started exploiting this woman’s death to attack us,” a user named “AntiFascist2020” wrote.

“Screw this guy. He’s a feckless hack using this woman’s murder to make a name for himself. Objectivity, my ass,” another user said.

Well, that was to be expected from the left. But the right wasn’t exactly grateful either.

PatriotMom1776 wrote, “So-called ‘journalists’ like this Harlow character are just carrying water for the left. The fact that he only mentioned these terrorists in his private notes shows that he’s part of the coverup.”

Et tu, conservatives?

“All of these DEI reporters are destroying our country. #JacksonHarlowHatesWhitePeople,” another user wrote.

Since my day didn’t start out badly enough, CNN posted a video reporting on the fiasco.

“New Orleans journalist Jackson Harlow, with The Bayou Chronicle, is facing a barrage of criticism for allegedly blaming the activist community for the murder of Dolores ‘Dolly’ Mercier, a local antique shop owner,” the blond haired talking head said. “This comes after his notes about local activist Sadie Broussard and her fellow activists were leaked online.”

Fuck.

The reporter went on to discuss Sadie’s ties to radical antifascist movements. On the screen was a post she had written. “Some stains never wash out,” she had posted on Saturday.

A ball of rage expanded in my chest like a balloon slowly inflating. No matter how many times I saw people lie on social media, it still irked me. But when it’s directed at me, it’s even worse. These animals would do anything for clicks and ratings.

I didn’t even want to think about what Sadie was facing online. Yes, I did low-key suspect her, but I never actually wrote that in my notes. But the truth doesn’t matter to social media.

“Mavis, I —”

“Stop right there, Jackson. If you’re about to tell me you didn’t leak this, don’t bother. I already know you didn’t.”

“But —”

“Either we have a leaker, or someone hacked us. My phones been blowing up all morning.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Well, you are going to keep investigating. Charlie and I are going to get to the bottom of this. He’s already got his team working on it.”

“Are you sure I should keep working on this case?”

“Would it matter if I told you not to?”

“Well…”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Don’t worry about the bullshit, Jackson. Just do your job. We’ll handle the rest. And be careful out there. Now you have a target on your back.”

“What else is new?”

“I mean it, Harlow. Keep your head on a swivel. You know how tense things are right now.”

“I’ll be fine. I won’t be alone. My friends Smith and Wesson are always with me.”

I patted my hip where I carry my pistol — concealed of course. With one in the chamber.

“Please don’t shoot anyone, Jackson,” Mavis sighed. She was putting up a good front. But the worry had etched itself onto her eyes.

I walked out of her office and headed for my desk. I sat down at my computer, but I couldn’t figure out what to do next.

“I’m sorry, man.” Jason Whitaker stood behind me.

He was one of my fellow reporters — covered white collar crime.

“Thanks,” I said.

“It’s wild. I also write my notes in CMS. I never would have thought they would make their way into the interwebs.”

“Me neither. But the world is full of surprises, isn’t it?”

Jason nodded, “Hell yeah. Hang in there bud.”

He walked away.

That’s what I said out loud. Inside, my mind was spinning. Who would have done this? Were they trying to throw off the investigation? Did they have a personal vendetta against me?

I’d certainly made my share of enemies. Corrupt politicians. Corrupt police. Corrupt businessmen. If it was corrupt, it hated me — and the feeling was mutual.

I had another lead to explore. I wanted to speak with Estelle, but I knew she wouldn’t be ready yet. I wanted to look at Colin Reddick. But first, I had some calls to make.

My phone buzzed. It was a text message. It was from Sadie.

“We need to talk,” the message read.

“Give me 15 minutes,” I wrote back.

I called Fontenot.

“How does it feel to be famous, Harlow?” Fontenot answered — a bit too smugly, I might add.

“Feels great. Fox News has already reached out to give me my own show.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re taking it in stride. Tough break, man.”

“Have you found any new information?”

“Not much. We heard from someone who says he saw a woman leave Memory House on the evening of the murder. And a college kid who looked like he was walking off seven shots of tequila.”

“Hmmmm,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s not much to go on. But we’re looking into it.”

“Okay.”

“Off the record, we’re looking into a suspect. Can’t tell you who yet. But once we have more information, you’ll get the scoop.”

“You sure you can’t just give me hint?”

“No.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I try. I’ll talk to you later, Harlow.”

Harlow’s Jeep

Tuesday, 10:00 a.m.

I went to my car. I wanted to call Sadie away from prying ears.

She answered on the first ring.

“What the fuck, Harlow???”

“Sadie let me explain —”

“I should never have spoken to you! I can’t believe you set me up!”

“Listen, I didn’t set you up, Sadie.”

“Don’t lie to me Harlow!” She was shrieking. I could hear the tears in her voice.

“How could you do this to me?”

“Sadie, look. I didn’t set you up. Those notes were never meant to be public.”

“Then why the hell am I seeing them all over social media? I’m getting death threats, Jackson. Don’t bullshit me.”

I kept my tone calm. I needed her to listen so a spoke more quietly so that she would have to focus on my words.

“Sadie. Think about it for one second. If I wanted to set you up, everything that was in my notes would have been in the article I published.”

I could hear her breathing. But she didn’t respond.

“I would have had no reason to hide it. I sure as hell wouldn’t have leaked it online,” I said. “Someone else did this.”

“But you obviously think I killed her.”

“I never said that. I didn’t even write that in my notes.”

“Well if you didn’t do it, who did?”

“We’re trying to find out. I’m sorry.”

“Well what the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

I could hear the terror in her voice. My stomach was twisted like a pretzel.

“Stay off social media. Lay low for awhile. We’re going to get this sorted out. I’ll call you later, ok?”

“I hope you didn’t do this Jackson. I thought you were different.”

“I understand. Give me some time.”

She hung up.

I didn’t know what to make of it. She sounded convincing enough. But she was partially right — I still believed there was a chance that she was the killer. But I had some more investigating to do.

Reddick & Company Antique Shop

10:45 a.m.

I drove down to Royal Street. It was time to pay Colin Reddick a visit. After I parked, I took out my phone and started doing some research on him. He was the owner of Reddick & Company Antique Shop.

There were several local news reports about Reddick. Apparently, he was well known in the field of antiques, having dealt in some high-ticket items. One article called him “The King of Antiques.” Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

I looked at the online reviews. Most were positive. But at least one user claimed they were “sold a fake” and were “still waiting for a refund.”

I continued my research. No public criminal charges. However, his name came up in civil suit paperwork with “disputed consignment proceeds.” The case was settled out of court.

Reddick was also listed as a plaintiff in a few defamation cases.

I decided to see what I could find out. I went into the shop and looked around. It looked similar to Memory House. An array of curiosities greeted me as I took in the place. Old bicycles. Vintage record players. An old school phone where you removed the receiver, put it to your ear, and worked the crank until you reached an operator named Mildred.

Richard Marx was playing on the radio, informing his lover he’d be right there waiting for her.

I walked further to the back where double wooden doors led to another room. A big room. This must have been where Reddick kept the good stuff for rich folks.

It was more of a large hall than a room. It resembled a museum exhibit. To the right was a plantation-era writing desk that looked like it could have belonged to Jefferson Davis. It was made of ornate heavy dark brown mahogany. I barely resisted the urge to sit behind it and say “I do declare” in my best Confederate accent.

To the left sat a brass-bound maritime trunk that looked like it had shivered more than a few timbers in its day. It was advertised as having been saved from an 1850s Gulf Coast shipwreck.

Further down was a sterling silver tea service which gave me a peculiar craving for crumpets and grape jam. The sign said it had been gifted to Reddick and Company by a prominent southern family.

There were footsteps out in the front lobby, coming closer. “Hello there, can I help you” Reddick’s voice said from behind me.

I turned around and looked at him. He was average height. His piercing blue eyes looked me over, trying to discern what caliber of customer I might be. He was balding at the top, but hair crowned the sides of his head and extended into a long brown ponytail.

He appeared to be in his mid 50s. He wore an expression that reminded me of a used car salesman who sold previously owned Lamborghinis.

“Yes, I would like an order of Earl Grey and crumpets. Grape jam, if you please.”

Reddick looked at me as if I had just defecated on his floor.

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” he drawled.

“I was just admiring this tea set.” I smiled.

“I see. If you don’t mind me saying, you look familiar.”

“I have one of those faces.”

“Naw. You’re that journalist boy, right?”

I kept my composure, but being called “boy” made me fantasize about slapping the taste out of his mouth. But I didn’t act on that impulse.

“I’ve been known to write an article or two.”

He walked up to the tea set and examined it carefully. After he confirmed that this strange Negro hadn’t swiped one of his silver cups, he turned back to me.

“You’ll have to pardon me sir, not many people from your background shop in this section,” he said.

“Oh, word?” I said. “Well I couldn’t help but admire your wares.”

“Yes, a lot of people do. You won’t find a finer selection of antiques.”

“I wanted to ask you some questions.”

His eyebrows sprung toward the ceiling.

“Let me guess — about Dolly Mercier.”

“You’re a sharp guy, Mr. Reddick.”

He tried to hide it, but the corners of his mouth perked up into a quarter of a smile.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Did you kill her?”

He laughed. I laughed too.

“Quite forward of you.”

“Well, the police haven’t been able to find out so I figured I’d try to make a name for myself by solving the crime. Can’t blame me for trying, can you?”

“I suppose not.”

He smoothed his hair — or what was left of it.

“You’ve been in this business awhile, right? What made you get into this racket?”

“I love history and all of its artifacts.” He turned with a sweeping gesture covering the entire room “Every piece here has a story. My passion for Americana that makes me the best at what I do.”

Time for some prodding.

“Ever have problems with fakes or forgeries?”

He bristled slightly, but didn’t crack. He rubbed his chin.

“I don’t know what you been reading on the internet, but everything I sell is bonafide.”

“Oh, no doubt,” I said. “I saw a lot of chatter online about the plantation desk. Dolly seemed pretty certain it was a copy. You two ever sort that out?”

“Dolly said a lot of things, God rest her soul. It’s a shame what happened to her. Do you know if the police are close to solving it?”

“I have no idea, but I think they’re close,” I lied.

“Good. I hope they catch that bastard.”

His monotone drawl carried less emotion than Eeyore.

“I heard y’all had some bad blood, so to speak.”

“We didn’t always see eye to eye, Mr. Harlow. To be frank, she told a lot of lies about me. Probably because she didn’t like the competition.”

“What kind of lies did she tell?”

“The usual. Claimed my merchandise was fake. She claimed I was falsifying the provenance of my selection.”

“Can you repeat that in English?”

He raised an eyebrow, looked at me as if I had just asked him how to tie my shoes.

“Provenance, sir. It’s the most important part of this business. It refers to the life of an antique — where it has been, who owned it, what it lived through.”

“So this plantation desk, what’s the, uh, provenance behind it?”

“It was owned by a prominent Confederate general and his family. It was one of the few items that was recovered after the northern invaders arrived to set fire to the plantation.”

“I see. Quite a story.”

“Quite.”

“I noticed you have sued a few people for defamation. Was Dolly on the list?”

His facial expression had “bless your heart” written all over it. I really didn’t like this guy.

“Frankly, that’s none of your business.”

“Some have said you have a knack for discovering documentation that adds to a piece’s value just when you need to make a sale. Coincidence?”

“Mr. Harlow —”

“Have any buyers ever tried to take you to court over false provenance claims? Ever had to pay any settlements?”

“Mr. Harlow — “

“What did Dolly do to make you angry?”

I was just fishing now. But I wasn’t catching anything.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Just wanted to give you a chance. It’s better if it comes from you instead of me having to dig it up.”

“You have a good day, Mr. Harlow.”

“I’ll do that.”

I still had a hankering for crumpets.

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Estelle Mason’s Residence

11:37 a.m.

I got back to my car after my conversation with Mr. Sleaze and considered what I would do next. I had just decided to go grab some lunch when my phone buzzed.

It was Estelle.

“I think I’m ready to talk,” she wrote.

“Are you free now?”

She was. She sent me her address and I started my car and headed over.

As I drove over, I tried to prepare myself for the conversation. I needed to be delicate, but I had to move my investigation forward. I’d handled situations like this before. But this poor girl had just walked in on a scene from a horror movie.

Even worse, Dolly was a good friend of hers. She had to be hurting. Still, she was probably in the best position to help me.

Could Reddick be the culprit? It was hard to say. He was obviously an unsavory individual. But I wasn’t sure he fit the mold of a killer.

Plus, I’d spoken with someone already claiming to be the killer. He didn’t hide his motivation. But, it was also possible that Reddick was simply masquerading as a left-wing ideologue to throw our scent off.

After all, if he did kill Dolly because of a personal motive, what better way to get away with it than to convince people that it was a political murder? Honestly, it was a near-perfect idea.

I would have to continue exploring this line of thought.

But what about Sadie? She certainly didn’t look like a killer. But then again, neither did Jeffrey Dahmer.

The girl was passionate. And I couldn’t ignore the crowd she ran with. As far as I knew, none of them had committed murder. But some had gotten close. I couldn’t ignore that.

So far, I had no evidence that Sadie had ever assaulted anyone — so that was a mark in her favor. But there is a first time for anything.

Estelle Mason’s Apartment

Tuesday, 12:11 p.m.

I pulled into Estelle Mason’s apartment complex and parked. She was on the second floor of her building. I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.

The door opened and Estelle stood there. Her dark brown hair was disheveled. There was redness under her puffy eyes that told me she had been crying almost nonstop for two days. She was wearing pajamas and looked like she had been in bed since the moment she got home that day.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

“Hello Estelle.”

“Hi Jackson.”

She beckoned for me to come in.

“Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”

“I’ll take some water.”

I sat down on the loveseat against the wall across from the television. Estelle shuffled into the kitchen.

Her apartment was quaint — cozy even. She had a few paintings on the wall. Not masterpieces, but they made me think of Thomas Kincaide. A bouquet of daisies perched in a vase on a coffee table. The scent of Febreze floated around the room.

Estelle reached into the refrigerator and brought out two bottles of water. She sat one in front of me and then curled up on the recliner chair to my left. She pulled her legs under her like a teenager and folded her hands.

She looked down at the floor, as if her head were too heavy to look at me.

“How are you holding up, Estelle?”

“I don’t know. I’ve barely eaten. I can’t sleep.”

She gave a yawn so wide that she might as well have just told me she hadn't slept in days.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now. Do you have any friends or family that can stay with you for awhile?’

“Not really. My neighbor checks on me from time to time. But she works long hours.”

“I see.”

She tied her hair back, as if just realizing that it looked a mess and was trying to make herself more presentable.

“It’s okay. I’m dealing with it. I’d rather not be a burden on other people anyway.”

“That’s what friends are for though,” I said, realizing how corny that sounded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like an episode of Barney & Friends.”

She smirked, and gave a quiet chuckle.

“It’s ok.”

“No, seriously. I could go out and grab a purple dinosaur suit if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

She laughed again. It was a cute laugh. It was nice to hear it.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Can you tell me about Dolly? What kind of person she was?”

Estelle shifted in her seat. She picked up her water bottle and took a sip as if she wished it contained vodka instead of water.

“She was amazing. I don’t know too much about her background, but I know she had been a nurse for thirty years.”

“She worked at University Medical Center, right?”

“That’s right. You’ve done your homework.”

“Well, when you’re a world-class journalist, it comes with the territory, Ms. Mason.”

She cracked a smile.

“I bet she saw a lot of heartache during her time there,” I said.

“She did. Sometimes she would tell me about some of her ‘war sEstellees.’ Treating gunshot wounds. Working with patients on their deathbeds. That sort of thing.”

“Yeah, she had seen it all, I imagine.”

“Yes. But she was so tough. It was like she wasn’t afraid of anything. The way she handled some of those protesters. You’d think she was a 30-year-old man and not a 81-year-old lady.”

I laughed. “John Wick in Betty White’s body?”

“Oh yeah,” Estelle said. “And she certainly knew how to use a gun.”

“We were kindred spirits, then.”

“You would have loved her if you got to know her more.”

“I know,” I said. And I meant it. My heart felt heavy — for a woman I never knew. I felt a sense of loss. Like a possibility that I’d never realize.

“I see she had that effect on you too.”

“I suppose she did.”

She was a perceptive one, I’ll give her that.

“This is going to sound like a stupid question, considering the current environment, but do you know who might have wanted to kill her?”

Estelle snorted. “Like, half the town.”

“Yes, I gathered that. But anyone in particular?”

She paused. Thinking. I remained silent.

“She told me about some guy who seemed to be following her. As far as I know, she never interacted with him. But she recalled seeing him at some of the protests.”

“What did he look like?”

“Kinda skinny. Young. Early 20s. White. Tallish.”

“Hmmmm,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s what the police said. That narrows it down to pretty much everyone at the protests.”

“What about Colin Reddick? What can you tell me about him?”

Estelle wrinkled her nose as if she had suddently caught a whiff of hog crap with onions and rotten eggs.

“Not a fan?” I asked.

“I like him about as much as a racoon with rabies.”

“I spoke with him earlier.”

“What did you think?”

“I’d have rather dealt with a rabies-ridden raccoon.”

She laughed again. I enjoyed making her laugh. I wanted to take her mind off things — even if temporarily.

“What happened between Dolly and Reddick?” I asked.

“Reddick is a fraud and Dolly called him out on it.”

“How so?”

“Reddick has been known to fake provenance. He embellishes the provenance behind his big-ticket items so people pay more money for them. He’s been sued a billion times.”

“He also likes to sue his detractors.”

“Yes. He’s certainly got the money for it. He inherited that shop. His grandfather built it. Now, Reddick just uses it to win money and prestige.”

“I see.”

I took another sip of water.

“Dolly found out about it when she outbid him for a supposed Civil War era pistol. Then she did some digging and found out he had lied about a plantation desk.”

Now things were starting to make sense.

“I saw that desk. Looked sturdy.”

“Yes. Except, the desk wasn’t even old enoough to have been built back then. It actually belonged to a semi-famous explorer from New York City in the early 1900s.”

“Still sounds pretty fancy. Why lie about it?”

“Because he can command a higher price if it was part of Civil War history. Especially on the Confederate side. Plenty of rich people around here would pay a pretty penny for it. You know, the types who call it the ‘War of Northern Aggression.’”

“When did this auction take place?”

Estelle opened up her phone, checking her calendar and shifted in her seat again.

“About three weeks ago.”

“So how did Dolly react when she found out he was pretending that desk was from ‘the good ol’ days?’”

“She flew into a rage. She had me teach her how to go live on Facebook and X. She ripped him a new one and exposed his fraud.”

“Ah, so that’s why he hasn’t sold it yet.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sure he wasn’t happy.”

“He wasn’t. He barged into the shop last week. Screaming until his face looked like a tomato.”

“What did he say?”

“I couldn’t make out all the words. But I did hear him say ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before you put me out of business you skeezy bitch.’”

Something like a volcano wanted to erupt inside of me. I really didn’t like this guy.

“Jackson. Are you ok?”

Apparently my face betrayed my thoughts.

“Yes, sorry. Something about that bothers me. I was raised never to raise my voice at a lady — especially not an elderly one.”

“I guess chivalry isn’t quite dead yet,” Estelle had that grin on her face again.

Now it was my turn to laugh.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be laughing,” Estelle said.

“I think you need it. Why else would I offer to dress up like Barney?”

She cracked a small smile.

“Do you remember seeing him near the shop on…that day?” I asked.

“I did see him across the street at that coffee shop where you were waiting for me. It was on the morning of —” her voice trailed off.

I made a mental note to convince “Cynthia” to spit in his drink next time she sees him.

“I understand. You told the police about this, right?”

“Yes. That detective…Fontenot? Yes, he was very interested in that.”

“I bet he was. I know this is painful, Estelle. But can you remember anyone else who stood out on that day?”

Estelle fell silent. Thinking.

She finally spoke. “There was someone else. But I doubt it means anything.”

“I’m listening.”

“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble — especially if they are innocent.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“I don’t know her. But I’ve seen her at several protests. Many, in fact.”

“Can you describe her for me?”

“Not really. She was in Dolly’s office on the day of that crazy protest, a few days before the murder. I was busy so I didn’t get a great look at her.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

She raised her bottle to take a drink. Paused. Then put it back down.

“Jackson, I really don’t think this is relevant.”

“I get it. But please, Estelle. This is important.”

“She was in Dolly’s office for a long time. They were arguing. Not loudly — no screaming. But they did argue.”

“Could you make out what they were saying?”

“I couldn’t. But she was in there for awhile.”

“How long?

“I think she walked in with Dolly right after all the fighting stopped. That was at about one o’ clock, when everyone left. It looked like she was holding her hand to her head. All I remember is her red curly hair.”

“When did she leave?”

“I saw her walk out just before closing, which is when I left. So that would have put it at about six o’ clock.”

My eyes widened.

“They were in the office for five hours?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t think this was important?”

“Well, when you put it like that, I guess it might be. My mind has been a bit hazy since then. I remember also seeing her coming in to the shop on the day of the murder, right when I was leaving for the day. It was almost closing time.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to badger you. But this could be critical, Estelle. Are you sure you don’t remember anything else about her?

“I can’t. It’s all a bit fuzzy.”

She looked exhausted. This ordeal was draining her and I didn’t want to press her any further.

“No problem. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me. I know it’s hard.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“You helped quite a bit. I’m going to head out. Can I check in with you later?”

“I’d like that.”

She walked me to the door.

“If you need anything, you know how to reach me. I’m serious.”

Estelle seemed to appreciate that. “Thanks Jackson. I’ll see you later.”

She closed the door.

I was about three feet from my vehicle when it hit me like a Mack truck. She was holding her hand to her head.

I turned around and headed back up the stairs with my phone in hand. I knocked. Estelle opened the door again and looked confused.

I showed her my phone.

“Estelle, was this the girl?”

“Yes, yes it was. That’s her. I’m pretty sure.”

My head felt like a hot air balloon.

“Okay, sorry to bother you again.”

I went back to my car. I felt that vise grip on my heart again as I stared at my phone at the picture of the girl staring back at me. I compared it to how I remembered her earlier. Glasses. Red hair. Freckles. And a bandage on her forehead.

It was Sadie Broussard.

Cousin Boudreaux’s Cajun Restaurant

Tuesday 2:30 p.m.

I was shocked. I was also hungry. Dr. Harlow’s advice for alleviating shock and hunger is a po’ boy sandwich, so I started my car and headed downtown to fill my prescription.

I arrived at Cousin Boudreaux’s on Dauphine. It was busy. The lunchtime crowd had already filed in. The aroma of fried catfish and shrimp massaged my nostrils. Aaron Neville’s “Tell It Like It Is” blared through the speakers, his dulcet tones serenading the lunch crowd.

I placed my order with a highly enthusiastic server named “Geraldine” who floated back into the restaurant to have the guys start making my sandwich and fries. With bleu cheese dressing.

While I waited, I scrolled through social media and wondered what “Geraldine’s” real name might be. I lasted about five seconds on that hellscape of an app. People were still angry at me. I felt like Charlie Brown getting blamed each time his team loses a baseball game.

Instead, I figured I’d look at other news. A firefighter saved a kitten who was drowning in the river. Lucky feline. The New Orleans Saints lost again. Typical. A steakhouse owner was found stabbed to death in the alley behind his restaurant in downtown. Stabbed 43 times. Depressing.

I was fighting media depression when “Geraldine” materialized in front of me with my medicine. Her real name was probably Harriet. She wasn’t fooling me.

I thanked her and she chirped, “you’re welcome” and traipsed back into the restaurant.

I ate my po’ boy and fries in silence. Watching the passersby on the street. Thinking about the case. About Sadie. Could she really be the killer?

It was hard to believe — but not impossible. Lifting that statute might have been harder for her than a man, but it was doable.

I finished my food and all my ills were cured. My phone rang. It was everyone’s favorite homicide detective.

“What’s up Fonty?”

“Sounds like you’ve been a busy bee, Harlow.”

“Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Reddick.”

“Ah, you met the sleaze.”

“I did. We’re looking at him as a person of interest.”

“On the record?”

“Hell no.”

“Can’t blame me for trying.”

I resisted the tempation to order another sandwich.

“Maybe you can give me some information for a change.”

“Sorry, I don’t talk to police.”

“You’re talking to me right now.”

He had a point. I figured it couldn’t hurt to throw him a bone. But I was keeping my Sadie card to myself.

“Reddick hated Dolly.”

“Jackson, what in the blue hell would make you think we didn’t already know that?”

“He’s also a fraud, according to Dolly and his former customers.”

“We read about that.”

“Dolly found out Reddick lied about that plantation desk he has in his back room. Told me it was rescued from a plantation after the northern aggressors burned it down.”

“Northern aggressors?”

“Yep.”

“So he’s one of ‘those’ types.”

“He is.”

Fontenot paused, probably considering arresting Reddick for being an imbecile.

“That’s good to know. How did you find out?” the detective asked.

“The Force is strong with me, detective.”

“Bullshit.”

“You know I don’t give up my sources, Fonty.”

“Sure.”

“But Dolly was going to expose him.”

“How so?”

“She was gathering information. She did a livestream about it.”

“Okay, we’ll look into it. Thanks for the tip. I gotta go.”

“Alright then. May the Force be with you.”

He hung up.

I wasn’t sure if it was wise to withhold the information about Sadie. But I wanted to be sure. If she was innocent, then she’d already been through enough because of the HarlowGate leak.

Besides, there was a decent chance Reddick was the culprit as well.

Geraldine/Harriet came back and gave me the check. I paid it. I decided to defy the stereotype about black people and tipped her 20 percent. She accomplished the unthinkable: She got even perkier. She told me to come back soon. I told her I would.

I walked through the small gate on the patio, crossed the street, and headed to the parking lot and my Jeep.

That’s when I heard the voice.

“Yo! You Harlow?”

I turned to my right. Two guys in their mid-twenties stood about fifteen feet away. One was white and lean, with a patch of facial hair that looked like it was still deciding whether it was time to come out. The other was Hispanic, stockier, with aggressive eyes.

They were blocking my path to the car.

“Jackson Harlow. Can I help you?” I asked, keeping my voice level.

“Yeah, you can stop being a fucking sellout,” the Hispanic guy said. His friend moved to flank me from the left.

I recognized the energy immediately. Self-righteous anger.

“Let me guess. You’re butt hurt over the Mercier story.”

“You’re a sellout,” the white guy said. “You’re helping them build a case against Sadie.”

“I haven’t written anything about Sadie. I only quoted her in the article.”

“Your notes—” the Hispanic guy started.

“Were leaked by someone else. Get your facts straight.”

“Bullshit,” he spat. “You set her up.”

“I had absolutely no reason to do that.”

“Don’t matter,” the Hispanic guy stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Damage is done.”

I could have walked away, back to the restaurant. It was only a few feet away. I could have called the police. De-escalated.

But I didn’t. I was sick of this shit. My leaked notes. The social media outrage. The media lies. Sadie Broussard. Colin Reddick.

Instead, I said “If you do what you’re thinking about doing, it’s gonna be bad for your health brother.”

“Yeah? Whatchu gonna do, you fucking Uncle Tom?”

The white guy didn’t wait for me to answer. He swung—a wild haymaker from the left that Ray Charles could have seen coming.

I sidestepped it easily. His momentum carried him past me, and I could have let him go. Should have let him go.

But his friend was already moving, trying to cut off my retreat. Coordinated, at least. Just not well.

“Last chance,” I said.

The Hispanic guy threw a punch. Sloppy. Wide. I slipped it and countered with a sharp jab to his ribs—not full power, just enough to remind his body what pain was. He gasped, doubled slightly.

The white guy came back around, angrier now. He was trying to grab me, not box—a tackle attempt that Dad would have made me run drills for until I wanted to die.

I pivoted, used his own momentum, and drove him hard into a nearby brick wall. His shoulder took the impact. It cracked from the impact—something in him registered the damage. He slid down the wall, holding his shoulder, trying to figure out what had happened.

The Hispanic guy was still in the fight. Tougher than his friend. He came at me with a combination—left hook, right cross—more technical than the opening salvo. Better footwork.

But Dad had trained me against better. They never stood a chance. That’s what happens when your father is a former Navy SEAL.

I parried the hook, let the cross whistle past my ear, and countered with a hard strike to his temple. Not lethal. But painful. His vision swam. I could see it in his eyes—the moment his brain decided it had had enough.

He stumbled backward, hands up in a defensive posture that came too late. I finished him off with a strike to his nose. I could feel it break. I didn’t press. Didn’t need to.

The white guy was still against the wall, breathing hard, holding his shoulder. The Hispanic guy was on one knee, head down, trying to remember what his name was.

It had taken maybe ten seconds.

I stood there, breathing normally—muscle memory and training keeping my heart rate down—and assessed the situation. My hand hurt. I don’t hit people very often — anymore.

Neither guy was seriously hurt. Bruised, sure. Shaken, definitely. But nothing that wouldn’t heal, eventually.

“Don’t do that again,” I said, my voice steady in a way that surprised even me.

Blood poured through the Hispanic guy’s fingers onto the sidewalk but he didn’t try to get up. “You broke my nose, you asshole.”

“Consider yourself lucky that’s all I did.”

I turned to leave, then stopped.

“For what it’s worth,” I said, “I didn’t set anyone up. Someone else leaked those notes. If you want to be angry at someone, find out who that was. And never fuck with me again.”

The white guy nodded slowly, processing. Maybe understanding. Maybe not.

I turned around and faced the restaurant. The patrons who were eating on the patio were looking at me. Some had their phones out. They were recording.

Shit.

Harlow’s Home

Tuesday, 5 p.m.

I decided to head home. I already knew what was going to happen. I arrived back at my humble abode and sat on the couch for my nightly doomscrolling session.

Sure enough, it had gotten worse. Footage of my encounter with the two men was already going viral on social media.

But it was worse than I thought.

Several users had posted footage that cut out the part where the white guy had thrown the first punch. They made it appear as if I had started the fight. I knew this would happen. I’ve been in media for over a decade.

I saw several variations of the same headline: “BREAKING: Reporter Assaults Left-Wing Activists In Parking Lot.”

Influencers were already spinning the story into clicks. One user wrote, “It’s not enough to falsely accuse the activist community of murdering that old lady, this dude is out here assaulting us too. Why isn’t he in jail?”

I wasn’t looking forward to explaining this to Fontenot.

Another posted, “Now THIS is what I’m talking about. Give those commies a taste of their own medicine.”

Well, at least the conservatives don’t hate me today.

But Mavis was going to kill me.

Sure enough, my phone buzzed. I answered.

“Can you at least wait until I get my affairs in order?”

“Jackson, what the hell —”

“They started it, Mavis. He swung at me first. I defended myself.”

“Jackson, that doesn’t matter —”

She paused, collecting herself. She tried again.

“First of all, are you okay?”

“You should see the other guys.”

“I did, all over X, Facebook, YouTube, and everywhere else. That’s the problem. You know how this works. Now everyone on social media has seen you beating seven shades of shit out of two twenty-year-olds.”

“Someone doctored the footage.”

“Of course they did. You’re just lucky that at least a few people are sharing the whole video. But you know lies get all the clicks.”

I found myself in the kitchen to grab a beer.

“What was I supposed to do, Mavis? They approached me, not the other way around.”

“You could have walked away.”

“Maybe. But how do I know they wouldn’t have blindsided me?”

“Like I said. It doesn’t matter. Hopefully this blows over.”

“I hope so. But I have some news.”

“You managed to make it home without breaking someone’s neck?”

“Well, yes. That too.”

She sighed. “Lay it on me.”

“I talked to Colin Reddick. Apparently, he had a feud with Dolly because he’s a sleazy fraud and she called him out on it. The police are looking into him as a suspect.”

“How did you know about the fraud?”

“Estelle Mason told me. She saw them arguing. He threatened her.”

“Do you think it was him?”

“I don’t know. But it would make sense, wouldn’t it?”

“It would. Dig deeper tomorrow. Let legal handle inquiries into the fight. Get some rest.”

“Will do.”

I thought of Estelle. She was a tough girl. Yes, she had been knocked down for the moment. But she was handling it about as well as can be expected. I couldn’t get her face out of my head. Those puffy eyes. Dour expression.

I’d check on her tomorrow.

And Sadie.

Poor Sadie. I went to her social media. She hadn’t posted anything since HarlowGate jumped off.

I scrolled through her timeline. I’d only looked at her latest posts before. I went back further, looking for something — anything that might exonerate her.

I didn’t find it. Instead, I found something else.

Sadie had posted a selfie with a friend I didn’t recognize at 7:21 a.m. on the morning after the murder. It looked innocuous enough until I saw it around her neck.

She was wearing the jade necklace that was missing from Dolly’s office.

Click here for Episode 3

Memory House Antique Shop

Saturday, 7:55 a.m.

Estelle Mason strolled up to the front door, her keys jangling. That was my cue. I stepped out from beneath the coffee shop awning and crossed the street.

“Hello, Estelle,” I said as she pulled out her keys to the Memory House Antique Shop.

She yelped as she turned around to see me standing there. “Mr. Harlow, do you usually sneak up on people while they are going to work?”

She had dropped her key, which I picked up for her because I’m a gentleman.

“Only on the weekends,” I replied with my winning smile. “Sorry for scaring you.”

Her dark brown hair was twisted into neat rows, pulled back from her dark, almond-colored face. A few locs had escaped near her temple, which she tucked behind her ears.

“I’m here to speak with Dolly. I wasn’t sure when she comes in so I figured I would wait,” I said.

“Well, come on in.”

It looked like a typical antique shop. At first glance, there was nothing that would suggest this place had become the center of a cultural firestorm. It smelled of old hickory and ancient history.

All kinds of items displayed themselves on shelves, beckoning the eager customer to pick them up. Rickety old rocking chairs. Dusty old books. The obligatory rooster weather vane.

Hanging on the wall was a painting of an adolescent white girl holding the hand of a small boy with charcoal skin. His blood-red lips stretched tightly into a tense grimace as the white girl appeared to be leading him somewhere.

I was still gazing at it when Estelle’s voice sliced through my reverie. “I’m going to make some coffee and then I’ll be in the office if you need me,” she said.

I gave her a thumbs up.

The section causing all the ruckus was easy to find. Mammy dolls with pitch-black skin. Dinner bells shaped like black maids. I rang one—seemed like the thing to do.

Estelle’s scream was shrill and cut through my thoughts like a hacksaw. The folks in Baton Rouge probably heard it.

I rushed to the source of the scream, which still hadn’t stopped. It was coming from the office.

“Help! Help! Oh my God!”

I hurried to the back corner of the shop, where I had interviewed Dolly days ago. The door stood ajar, begging me to enter.

Dolly was stretched out over a white, patterned rug. She was lying on her back, her limbs twisted in awkward, severe angles.

I almost went for my pistol before I saw the dried blood that encircled her head like a crimson halo. She’d been killed last night, which means whoever did this was long gone.

Her kind, grey eyes were half open. Her jaw hung open in a silent scream. Her blue dress was wrinkled, and one of her green seashell earrings had fallen next to her shoulder.

Without thinking, I touched her wrist. It was cold. My shoulders quaked as I removed my hand.

The murder weapon lay inches away from her head. It was an old statue. A grinning black man with ape-like features and impossibly large lips. He clutched a giant piece of watermelon. Flecks of green, red, and black paint remained on the fruit.

It was as if the killer had used the item that best reflected the controversy.

“The golliwog character became so well known that when others produced this type of art, people referred to them as ‘golliwogs,’ or ‘gollies’ for short,” Dolly had told me during our interview. “That’s how they got their name.”

I remembered feeling like I had taken a trip back to the late 19th century, when pieces like this would have been the norm in a city like New Orleans and across the South.

“This imagery was all over the place back then,” Dolly had told me. “Really though, the fact that so many people find it odious today shows that we have made progress — even if there is still more work to be done.”

She had a point. But it made me wonder how often someone who looked like me could go about town without having society’s scorn shoved in their faces.

I felt fortunate that I would never have to find out.

The smell of blood was so pungent, I could almost taste it. A deathly atmosphere made the hair on my neck stand at attention.

Blood caked on the statue’s face like makeup on a television news anchor. There were no injuries on Dolly’s face, which seemed to indicate the assailant had struck her from behind.

Estelle had finally stopped screaming. Her hands trembled as I took them in my own. “Call the police,” I said. “Can you do that for me, Estelle?”

An unintelligible noise came from her mouth, but she nodded, so I took it as a “Yes.”

After she left the room, I scanned the scene. I knew the police would come through that door any minute, and this would be my only chance to take everything in.

No signs of a struggle. The sparse furniture was arrayed just as I remembered it from the last time I was here. Against the wall, nestled between two oak bookcases, was a desk.

Dolly’s laptop perched atop the desk. Strewn on the desk were various papers. Accounting, bills of sale, nothing special. Perhaps the killer struck while she was working.

My mind raced with theories as to the motive for the crime. I quickly shunted them away — I had plenty of time to put on my Sherlock cap later.

When I interviewed Dolly for my article on the golliwog topic, it was in this very office. I remembered watching her place a bunch of sundry items on one of the shelves of the bookcase to the left of her desk. “I’m just doing some reorganizing,” she had said.

There was a campaign flyer featuring City Councilmember Pierce Lemaine, who was currently on track to win the mayoral race. Also, a nasty letter from a critic. She hadn’t thrown it in the trash yet.

There had been a jade necklace with a heart pendant that looked like it belonged in a pawn shop. She told me she had trouble selling it.

I didn’t see the necklace now, but the letter was interesting. I took a quick picture of the note with my smartphone. In fact, I took pictures of the whole office. The desk. The bookcases. Even the wastebasket.

I snapped a quick picture of the shelf. The necklace was the only item missing, which could mean something.

As it says in the Ace Journalist Handbook: “When you accidentally discover a crime scene, take as many unauthorized photos as possible.”

I don’t make the rules, folks.

“The police are on their way,” Estelle said behind me. “Are you taking pictures?”

“Yes,” I answered confidently.

“Are you supposed to do that?”

“In case the police might want them.”

“Don’t they take their own pictures?”

Before I could explain the finer points of the Ace Journalist Handbook, we heard the front door open. The boys in blue were here to save the day.

Less than five seconds later, Detective Leo Fontenot and several uniformed officers came into the office. He looked at me like I was a piece of bird crap on his windshield.

He was wearing a basic grey suit. Grey trousers. Grey sports coat over a white dress shirt. He was black, but light-skinned — Creole blood. He was a year older than me at 36 years old. He ran a hand through his closely-cropped black hair and adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses.

Fontenot and I have a history. I’m no fan of the police. I’m not a fan of government officials in general.

But Leo and I have known each other since high school, which means I trust him—barely. We weren’t exactly bosom buddies, but we were cordial, usually.

We got along fine until he started wearing the badge.

“Shit,” Fontenot exhaled. “What are you doing here Harlow?”

“Shopping?” I explained.

Fontenot’s eyes darted around the room. “Did you touch anything?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I said.

The detective turned to the uniforms and barked some instructions. He gestured for me to follow him out of the room.

“Am I going to have to take you down to the station, Jackson?” Fontenot said, glowering.

“I interviewed Dolly a few days ago for an article about the golliwog thing,” I said.

Fontenot rolled his eyes. He was probably as exasperated about the whole thing as I was.

“I came back this morning because I wanted to discuss something else with her.” I added.

Fontenot’s gaze never left my face. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Boring journalist stuff. History. Nothing you would be interested in.”

“Did you see anything suspicious?”

“Yes. A dead body.”

Fontenot removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. I really shouldn’t have been giving him a hard time. But some things are just too hard to resist.

“Jackson,” he sighed.

“I didn’t see anything else out of the ordinary. I came in here with Estelle when she opened the store. She discovered the body. Looks like she’s been dead for awhile judging by the dried blood. Also, the statue is clearly the murder weapon. Has lots of blood on it,” I said.

“Some fine detective work there, Harlow,” he said.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought he was being sarcastic. I did my best to look hurt.

“Does that mean I can have a badge now, Fonty?”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“You did? When was that?”

“Every time I have the displeasure of running into you.”

“I’m thinking it had something to do with the protests. Why else would the killer choose to use that particular statue as the murder weapon?”

Fontenot leaned back against the wall.

“I need a smoke,” he said. He looked tired.

“You want some company?”

“Sure.”

We walked out of the back door into an alleyway. Fontenot fished a pack of Newports out of his jacket pocket and lit one up. He offered me the pack. I shook my head.

“A black dude smoking Newports? Shouldn’t we be trying to break the stereotype, Leo?”

He gave a short laugh. “Sorry I’m not blacking right, Jackson. It’s been a long day.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m actually a proficient swimmer.”

“This golliwog thing has gotten out of control. If it turns out the killer did this because of politics, shit’s gonna get even worse. Know what I mean?”

I did. On the day I interviewed Dolly, there was a massive protest outside of her store. While we were talking, someone hurled a brick through the window.

Then, all hell broke loose. Dolly’s supporters clashed with the protesters. The police clashed with everyone. It was by God’s grace that nobody died or was seriously hurt.

“Did you notice anything strange when you interviewed Dolly?” Fontenot asked.

“Other than the chaos outside and the brick through the window?” I answered.

“Yes, other than that.”

“She tried to put on a brave face. But she was worried, and I think it was about more than the protests.”

He took another drag on his cigarette and gave me a look that said, “Go on.”

“She said she’s been getting more hate mail than usual — including death threats. That didn’t bother her because it had become normal,” I said. “But she said she was concerned that she was being watched. She didn’t elaborate.”

“Okay. That’s good to know.”

“You know I have to write this up, right?” I said.

“Of course you do. God forbid you make this easier on me.” he replied. “We just got here. I don’t have any information for you yet.”

“I know. But when you do—”

“Yes, when I do, I’ll give you a call,” Fontenot interjected. “Now get out of here and let me do my job.”

I walked back to my Jeep and caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. At 35, I still looked young enough to get carded occasionally, though the flecks of grey creeping into my goatee suggested those days were numbered.

My dark brown skin showed the first signs of stress—a crease between my eyebrows that hadn’t been there a year ago. I straightened my collar and pulled back onto Magazine Street.

The Bayou Chronicle

9:37 a.m.

I walked across the street and got into my car and drove down Magazine Street on my way to the office.

It was 9:37 in the morning, and the tourist traffic had just begun to pick up. I drove past the usual lineup of boutiques, restaurants, and coffee shops. I patted myself on the back for managing to avoid running over any pedestrians.

Fontenot was right. If it turned out that the killer was motivated by politics, it could lead to even more violence. New Orleans, like the rest of the country, was a powder keg. All it needed was a spark — and murdering an old white lady who people were branding as a racist would be the perfect match.

No matter how this went, things were going to get ugly.

I thought about my interview with Dolly days before. It was my first time meeting her. She was a kindly woman — a little over 80 years old. But she was tough. I couldn’t help but admire her resolve.

“This is NOT about racism,” she told me. “It’s about history. All of it. The good, the bad, and the ugly.”

What truly impressed me was Dolly’s refusal to vilify her detractors.

“What about the people calling you a racist?” I asked. “What do you think of these people?”

“I think they are misguided — and I can hardly blame them. When you have people in positions of power telling us to hate each other, it’s not easy to avoid getting swept up in the hate,” she said. “They think I’m evil. But I bet if they actually got to know me, they would think differently, even if they still disagreed with me.”

The sordid history of golliwogs has largely gone under the radar. Many shops had been selling these relics for years. But when activists began posting pictures of these items on social media, talking heads and online influencers couldn’t wait to pounce on the opportunity to use them for clicks.

When I interviewed some of the protesters, most couldn’t even tell me the history behind these artifacts. They just knew they were hateful, and that’s all that mattered. But would any of them resort to murder?

I couldn’t discount it.

I pulled into the parking lot of The Bayou Chronicle, my home away from home.

I made my way toward Mavis Carroll’s office. She’s my editor.

“What’s up Jax!” a voice said behind me.

I turned around and saw Charlie Liu, our IT manager, standing in the hallway.

“What’s good, Liu?” I said.

“Just making sure the trains are running on time,” he quipped.

Liu was young, about 25 years old. He was Chinese American. His parents came to the United States back in the 1990s with only seven dollars to their name. At least that’s what he’s told me about a million times.

He was skinny, of average height, and looked like he spent most of his spare time playing tabletop role-playing games.

He was a bit socially awkward, but the kid is a wizard with computers. I mean a Dumbledore/Gandalf level of wizardry. He had started at The Chronicle about six months ago, and our systems had been running like brand new.

“I’d love to chop it up with you, but I need to see Mavis,” I said.

“Okay then, I’ll catch you later.”

I walked into Mavis’ office. She was on the phone, but I’m a patient guy, so I waited.

Her office was what some might describe as “homey.” A comfortable brown couch sat on the left wall. I typically avoided it because it was known to cause unwitting victims to fall asleep three seconds after their butts hit those cushions. The scent of lavender wafted throughout the room, betraying Mavis’ penchant for essential oils.

The wall was littered with various awards the news outlet had won over the years. Mavis’ desk was almost completely bare, except for her laptop and several pictures of her laughing husband and smiling kids — who were now adults.

“Okay, I’ll let him know,” Mavis said into her phone before hanging up.

She looked at me.

“So, I heard you had a ‘Law & Order’ moment this morning,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You know. Law & Order. Every episode starts with someone randomly finding a dead body.”

“Yes, but without a ‘chung chung’ noise, I hardly think it counts as a Law & Order moment. How did you know, anyway?”

Mavis was in her early 60s. She’d been in the news business since before the printing press was invented. She was slightly overweight due to her penchant for sweets. She had pale skin and a Mrs. Buttersworth’s face that could easily turn scary when the situation demanded it.

But, as they say, appearances are deceiving. She was a no-nonsense hard-nosed newswoman, and she did not suffer fools lightly — especially those who underestimated her.

“Your friend at the NOPD called me.”

“Yeah? What did Fonty want?”

“He informed me that he doesn’t want you getting in his way.”

I put my hand to my chest as if I were aghast at the very suggestion. With my most wounded look, I said, “Why would he ever say such a thing?”

“I have no idea, especially since Mercier was just discovered and you haven’t written a single word about it yet. Are you waiting for The Times-Picayune to scoop you?” she asked.

“What did you tell Fonty?” I asked.

“I told him to mind his own business. He told me to tell you to give him a call when you get a moment. I’m telling you that moment is now, I want that report on our site yesterday.”

“Aye aye, captain!” I saluted.

I went to my desk and called Detective Fontenot.

“Harlow.” Fontenot answered.

“Fonty,” I replied.

“The investigation is still in its early stages. But I have some information for you.”

This wasn’t right. Normally, getting information out of Fontenot was like trying to win a tennis match against a brick wall. I believe his first words as an infant were “no comment.”

“I’m listening,” I said.

“Dolly had been receiving death threats in the days leading up to the murder. More so than usual.”

“And?”

“Our initial assessment is that the murder happened at about nine-thirty last night. She died of blunt force trauama after the killer used that statue to bludgeon her to death.”

“Any suspects?”

“Not yet.”

“So, what are you not telling me?”

“No comment.”

There it was.

“How about off the record?”

“All I’ll say is that if you’re looking for something for your story, you might want to talk to Estelle Mason.”

“The lady who works there? Makes sense.”

I decided to circle back with Ms. Mason when she was ready to talk.

“Also, Pierce Lemaine has been informed of the murder. It happened in his district. He will be giving a press conference later today. Better get that article out. You don’t want to get scooped by a politician, do you?”

No, I didn’t. I bade Fontenot farewell and got to work.

I had the article completed in less than fifteen minutes because I’m that damn good. Of course, it was all preliminary information. I was in this for the long haul, so I knew I’d be writing plenty more updates about this story.

The question was, should I hit up Estelle first? Or attend this press conference. I decided on the latter. Estelle would still be in shock from what she saw that morning.

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Memory House Antique Shop

11:45 a.m.

The press conference was to be held in front of Memory House Antiques — the crime scene. I got there early because I had nothing better to do.

As other reporters began to show up on the street in front of the store, I scrolled through social media to see the chatter about the case.

“The old racist bitch is dead? Good riddance,” one user wrote.

A well-known left-leaning influencer wrote, “We don’t know what happened here. We should wait for the facts to come out. But we definitely shouldn’t be celebrating murder even when it happens to people like Dolly Mercier.”

I read several posts from those on the other side claiming Mercier’s murder was politically motivated. “This is what the woke left does,” one user wrote. “They use violence to silence people who don’t agree with them.”

Many people had shared my article, trotting out the usual talking points coming from their chosen team.

I knew this was only the beginning. I suspected the killer was motivated by politics. There would have been no other reason to murder Dolly. Nothing had been stolen, so robbery was out of the question.

There was also the choice of murder weapon. There were plenty of items in that shop that would have been a better instrument. Lamps. Frying pans. Hell, the murderer could have brought his own weapon.

Instead, he smashed Dolly’s head in with a heavy golliwog statue and left it next to her body.

What else could it be?

My phone rang. I answered it.

“Mavis! Guess where I am,” I said.

“I don’t know, but I know where you better be.”

“I’m at the press conference.”

“And that’s why you’re my favorite. Don’t tell the others.”

“Aww, I bet you say that to all your ace reporters.”

“Maybe I do. Anyway, I wanted to ask you to get an interview with Councilman Lemaine after the conference if you can. It would be nice to get him on record.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes. You’re a journalist, remember? Talking to politicians is part of the job.”

“Sometimes I forget. On purpose.”

I pounded the pavement toward the front of the shop so I could get a good angle of the press conference. A few other reporters showed up, trying to do the same. We looked like spectators trying to find the best seats for a free concert.

“That’s because you hate politicians, which is why you’re such a good journalist.”

“I must be a piece of toast, because I can feel you trying to butter me up.”

“If you don’t get that interview, you WILL be toast.”

“Touché. By the way, Fonty gave me some interesting tidbits. I’m going to get Estelle Mason on the record if I can.”

“Sounds great. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up. The press conference was starting.

Detective Fontenot was first.

“You’ve all heard by now that Dolores Mercier is dead. I’m here to tell you that NOPD has opened up a murder investigation. She died at about nine thirty last night and was discovered this morning at nine o’ clock,” Fontenot said.

He still looked tired, but seemed more energetic after getting some caffeine into his system.

“She appears to have been bludgeoned to death with a heavy blunt object, but we have not yet obtained the autopsy results. We are urging caution, but we want you to know that we will apprehend the person who did this. There is no reason for panic. We will update you when we have more information. Now, I’d like to allow councilman Pierce Lemaine to offer his thoughts.”

Fontenot waited for Lemaine to come to the podium. He looked almost relieved, but he knew he would be fielding questions from nosy reporters like me later.

Lemaine shook Fontenot’s hand and turned to the microphone.

“First, I want to extend by deepest condolences to the family of Dolly Mercier. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to have a beloved family member taken from them in such a gruesome manner,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I ask all New Orleanians to join my wife and I in praying for Dolly’s loved ones in this time of tragedy.”

Lemaine was tall, a little over six feet. He wore an expensive navy blue suit over a white dress shirt, a red power tie, and an appropriately somber expression.

He was a black man, 52 years old, and had risen quickly through the political ranks in New Orleans. He had kind, but penetrating brown eyes. In other words, the quintessential politician.

“This atrocious act of violence will not go unpunished. I have faith in our good men and women in law enforcement,” Lemaine said, his voice rising. “But even more, I have faith in the people of New Orleans. These senseless acts do not define us. We do not murder people over their political views. This is not who we are.”

The crowd was so silent that if someone had dropped a grain of sand on the pavement, we would have heard it. This guy was good — real good.

“When I am mayor, I will work tirelessly to ensure that this does not happen again. Nobody should ever lose their life over politics,” Lemaine said.

Lemaine already assumed Dolly’s murder was political, even though the police had not publicized a motive yet. Perhaps he was thinking what I was thinking.

“I won’t take up more of your time. But I will assure you that Detective Fontenot and the good people in the NOPD have this well in hand,” Lemaine concluded.

Short and sweet. This man had politics in his DNA.

Fontenot stepped up to the podium once more and invited questions. Normally, I would join the other reporters in questioning the detective, but I knew he would simply repeat his favorite words: No comment.

Instead, I made a beeline for Lemaine as he walked toward a waiting vehicle.

“Councilman Lemaine,” I shouted, getting his attention.

He turned around and looked at me, a look of recognition spreading over his face. He gave a smile bigger than the Cheshire cat’s. “Jackson Harlow, is it? With The Bayou Chronicle?”

I raised my hands in mock surrender. “You got me.”

Lemaine laughed, not just with his mouth, but with his whole face. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

One of Lemaine’s staffers stepped between us. He was a slender, tall white man wearing black trousers and a powder blue dress shirt. “The councilman is not taking questions at this time, sir.”

I knew him. His name was Theo Guidry, a longtime staffer for Lemaine. But I could tell he was more than that. In fact, I know a fixer when I see one, and they usually don’t look like Olivia Pope from that wretched TV show.

“Theo, it’s fine,” Lemaine said. “I’ve read Harlow’s work. He’s a straight shooter.”

Guidry nodded and walked back to the car. Lemaine gestured for me to follow him.

We both got into the limo. I sat across from Lemaine, who made himself comfortable and opened a bottle of water. He offered me one. I said no thanks because I didn’t want to get politician cooties.

I didn’t really say that last part.

“What can I do for you Mr. Harlow?”

“Call me Jackson.”

“Call me Pierce.”

“I noticed you indicated that Dolly’s murder was politically motivated. Do you know something the rest of us don’t?”

“You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“I don’t know you.”

“Yes, but I’ve read your work. You’re not exactly a fan of politicians are you?”

“I’m a fan of the truth, something that gives most politicians hives.”

Lemaine laughed again, and he seemed to mean it.

“I can’t blame you for your skepticism. I think it’s well earned in most cases. I will be the last person to say I’m anywhere close to being perfect.”

“Who would be second to last?”

“My wife.”

He chuckled again.

“I could sit here and try to convince you that I’m different. I could tell you that I’m dedicated to bettering this city. I won’t waste your time. I’d rather my actions speak for themselves,” he said, straightening his tie. Instead, I’ll just tell you that Fontenot gave me some of the details of the crime scene. The killer used that racist statue to kill her, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think the message is clear.”

“Seems to be.”

Lemaine downed the rest of his water and placed the bottle into a trash compartment.

“I know you’re skeptical. But I meant what I said. This country has become way too divided,” he said, his expression intensifying. “I can’t tell you how many of my constituents have told me they cut off family members, or were cut off themselves just because of politics.”

He sat back in his seat. Suddenly, his tone became more weary, resigned.

“Sometimes I don’t think there’s a way out of this. I certainly don’t know what to do about it,” he said. “But, for what it’s worth, I can use my platform to try to convince people to come together. What happened to Ms. Mercier is heartbreaking, even though I personally did not agree with her choices.”

Lemaine looked at his phone. His expression turned grim.

“I look at social media — I know I shouldn’t — and all I see is people attacking each other. What happened to the belief that we’re all Americans? I remember a time when we all came together after 9/11.”

He paused, as if he were remembering. The frustration etched itself onto his clean-shaven face.

“I don’t know what it will take to get back to that. But I think people like you are the key. You don’t have an agenda. I don’t even know who you voted for in the last election,” he continued. “I know we’re from different worlds, but I believe you and I want the same thing.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

I moved for the door. Lemaine said, “hold on one second.”

I stopped.

He fished out a business card from his suit pocket. “If you need anything, here’s my personal cell number. I want to help in any way I can.”

I took the card and left.

He was good. Almost too good. I’d seen it many times before — the kind of charisma that had been honed over years and years of politicking, glad-handing, elbow rubbing, and everything else.

But — he seemed sincere. I hadn’t heard anything too negative about him over his political career.

I didn’t trust him. But I didn’t distrust him either. His conviction seemed genuine enough. As he said, his actions would tell me everything I need to know.

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The Harlow Residence

5:00 p.m.

I decided to call it quits for the day. Between discovering Dolly’s corpse, writing a frantic report about her murder, and cavorting with a politician, I felt I’d paid my dues — at least until tomorrow.

Lemaine had given me more questions than answers—and I needed time to think through the events of the day. Or maybe I just needed a beer. Two things can be true at once, right?

On the drive home, I reflected. I had no doubt that politics motivated the killer to target Dolly. It was a shame. She seemed to be a decent woman. I realized I hadn’t had time to process what happened to her.

I couldn’t get the image of her vacant expression staring up at the ceiling. Estelle’s scream still echoed in my mind like a persistent ringing in the ears. Even more, I considered how this might affect an already-tense political climate in New Orleans — and across the country.

I pulled into my garage, walked into the house, grabbed a beer, put on some Coltrane on the Bluetooth speaker, and plopped down on the couch.

I pulled out my phone and called Mavis. “Jackson,” she answered.

“I think it was political, Mavis.”

“I’m doing well, how about you?”

“I’m just dandy.”

“Jackson, I’ve known you for over a decade. You think I don’t know when you’re lying?”

“Dolly didn’t deserve that. I don’t understand why selling antiques could motivate someone to murder.”

I got off the couch and grabbed another beer.

“You liked her.”

“I didn’t know her that well.”

“When has that ever mattered to you?”

“Touché. Want to tell me what I’m thinking now?”

“You want to find out who did it.”

“I do.”

“Just let the police do their jobs, Jackson. You’re a reporter, not Philip Marlowe.”

“But our last names rhyme.”

“Fontenot had a point earlier. They will handle this. Just let them work.”

“Yeah, because that always works out so well.”

I could hear her scowl through the phone.

I smiled. “Don’t worry boss lady. I’m just here for the story.”

“Let you tell it,” Mavis said before hanging up.

I took a sip of beer as I opened up the Twitter/X app. I wanted to see what the chatter was like — and it was exactly what I expected. The murder was trending.

Some influencer posted a video in which she claimed the Deep State, in conjunction with the Mossad and the Portugese government, had orchestrated the murder, but couldn’t yet tell us why. She was just asking questions, after all.

There was a video clip of a generic white-haired talking head ranting about how “If it had been a black victim, we’d be hearing about it all over the legacy media” even though I’d already seen it in several mainstream outlets.

My phone buzzed. I picked it up without looking at the screen. I figured it was Mavis calling me back.

It wasn’t.

“Hello, Mr. Harlow,” the caller said. The voice was distorted and metallic. It sounded almost like Darth Vader. The caller was using an app to disguise their voice. I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman.

My heart jumped a beat.

“Good evening. Who is this?” I answered.

“An ally.”

“Does my ally have a name?”

“I read your article on Dolly Mercier’s murder. In fact, I’ve read a lot of your work. You could say I’m a fan.”

“Are you about to tell me to go to the pharmacy and buy some gift cards?” I said.

“What?”

“You know, like those scams.”

The caller paused, as if trying to decide how to answer. They eventually decided to ignore my joke.

“Aren’t you curious about who killed that racist bitch?” the caller said.

It was almost certainly a prank. But I was bored, so I played along.

“Sure. But before you tell me, do me a favor, say ‘You don’t know the power of the Dark Side.’”

“You’re not taking me seriously, are you, Mr. Harlow?”

“Of course I am. The fate of the galaxy is at stake.”

“I bludgeoned her to death with that racist statue. Left her staring at the ceiling while the blood flowed out of her head.”

A sat up straight. With a few flicks of my finger, I turned on the recording app. The only people who knew about the murder weapon were a few police officers and Pierce Lemaine, who definitely didn’t commit this crime — probably.

“I’m listening.”

“I have your attention now, Mr. Harlow?”

“I said I’m listening.”

“She had it coming. She was warned. But she wouldn’t stop.”

I needed this person to make a mistake, one that could help me identify them. But I didn’t want to spook the caller, so I played it cool.

“Seems to me she was just selling old relics. Was that worth killing over?”

“You’re a black man, Jackson. Are you really gonna defend that bitch? Of all people, you should know how problematic she was.”

He was picking up speed, getting excited. Exactly what I wanted.

“I know a lot of people were offended. I can understand why. They represent an ugly era in our history.”

“Yes, yes. Exactly.”

The caller’s voice was rising now.

“She could have donated them to a museum, or threw them away. But she didn’t,” said, leading them on.

“Right. And she wasn’t going to stop — and it gets even worse, Mr. Harlow.”

“Go on.”

“She was working with the Aryan Nation.”

“The white supremacist group?”

“Yes, the white supremacist group.”

The Aryan Nation was a gaggle of disaffected white youth who believed their race was under attack. Their list of enemies included the usual suspects: The blacks, the Jews, and the Messkins.

They weren’t the usual toothless, inbred, Bud Light swilling hicks. Most of their activity was online, where they tried to present a more palatable image. They wore nice suits and ties and engaged in online debates.

My stomach tightened. If this was true, it would mean I’d been defending a whole white supremacist. I made a mental note to follow up on this later.

“She was helping them organize a rally in New Orleans. I’ve got proof,” the caller said.

“The Aryan Nation are feckless imbeciles. They rally all the time. As far as I’ve seen, they’re not the violent type.”

“You’re missing the point, Mr. Harlow!”

They were becoming more agitated now. Good.

The caller continued, “Do you know what kind of damage a rally like that could cause right now? They plan to escalate. The residents of New Orleans shouldn’t have to deal with these pricks waving their swastika flags in the streets!”

I decided to take a gamble.

“What’s your name? Maybe we could meet up and talk about this.”

“Do you think I’m a fucking moron Harlow?”

“Just thought I’d give it a shot. What should I call you?”

“You still think this is a joke?”

“I don’t. But this conversation would be easier on me if I had a name. How about Lord Vader?”

“Fuck off.”

“Why did you call me, anyway? There are plenty of other black journalists you could have bothered.”

“Like I said, I’ve read your work. I’m a fan — even if I think you ride the fence too much for my tastes. You’re fair, and I think you might understand more than those other hacks.”

“I’m flattered.”

“I’ve got to go. We’ll talk again, Mr. Harlow.”

“Does this mean you’re going to kill someone else?”

“Good night, Mr. Harlow.”

The line went dead. Well, I tried.

I called Detective Fontenot. His voice mail message greeted me. I tried again. No luck. I sent a text message telling him to call me as soon as possible.

I knew then that this was going to get even uglier. I gazed down at my phone, the recording app still running.

The killer's distorted voice was frozen on the screen, a flat line. I had a feeling this wouldn’t be my last conversation with my new acquaintance.

Click for Episode 2: Pointed Fingers and Comfortable Lies

Read Jackson’s report on the Golliwog Controversy here.

Tomorrow evening, I’m launching a serial murder mystery series called “The Harlow Files. The protagonist is a New Orleans-based journalist named Jackson Harlow who finds himself investigating — and solving — murders.

The first story, titled Case of the Grinning Golly, is about a murdered antique dealer, a city on the verge of collapse, and a journalist willing to burn everything to find the truth.

The victim sold controversial antiques. Someone killed her for it. Or did they? Jackson Harlow stumbles into a conspiracy that reaches into City Hall, into activist networks, into the media itself.

Everyone has motive. Everyone has secrets. And Jackson is about to discover that the person you can trust least might be sitting right next to you.

But, for me, this isn’t just a story—it’s an argument.

The question is: Why write a murder mystery series?

The answer is simple:I love a good murder mystery.

Whether it’s a book, television series, or movie, the mystery genre has always fascinated me even as a child.

Sherlock Holmes. Phillip Marlowe. Hercule Poirot. Sam Spade.

These iconic sleuths have captivated people’s minds for ages. Like millions of people all over the world, I have spent hours upon hours reading (or watching) these stories unfold, eagerly trying to figure out “whodunit.”

I also love to write. For almost a decade, I have used the written form for journalistic purposes, and it remains one of my passions.

I have written many stories exposing government corruption and covering the latest happenings in the culture war.

But, as you probably already know, being immersed in American politics in this era isn’t exactly beneficial for one’s mental health. For years, I’ve lived and breathed politics.

A few months ago, I realized I needed another outlet — a project to work on that wasn’t purely political. I’d always wanted to write fiction from the time I was in elementary school, but I figured it’d be something I would pursue later in life.

But I realized that there isn’t a valid reason for me to wait that long. That’s when The Harlow Files was born.

I’m no John Grisham or James Patterson, but I like to think the characters and stories are unique enough to be entertaining and compelling for my audience.

While politics is not the primary focal point for the series, it does serve as a backdrop — especially in the first case.

In my journalistic career, I’ve watched how narratives get weaponized. How truth gets buried. How power protects itself.

The first case shows how that actually works—not through op-eds or investigative columns, but through a story that makes you feel the machinery of manipulation.”

These stories are not necessarily meant primarily as political statements. For me, it’s important that the story and characters come first. If you’re like me, you probably despise entertainment that seems solely intended to lecture you rather than entertain you.

With The Harlow Files, I believe I have found a balance.

Here is how the release schedule works:

• Tomorrow: Episode 1 releases FREE to all subscribers.

• Thursday: Episode 2 drops as a bonus for all subscribers.

• Weekly: There are eight episodes total, dropping weekly after that.

Why Subscribe to the Paid Tier?

While free subscribers get access to the main story, paid subscribers get the full experience:

• Early Access: You get episodes on Thursday instead of waiting until the following Tuesday.

• Bonus Intel: Exclusive articles written by Jackson Harlow and scenes from other characters’ points of view.

• Quarterly Q&A: A Zoom call with yours truly to discuss the series, the writing process, and more.

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I hope you find the stories compelling and fun. I’m having a blast working on it, and I’d love to hear your thoughts on how Jackson’s first case proceeds.

I’ll see y’all tomorrow evening!

The Harlow Files is the chronicle of Jackson Harlow, an investigative journalist in New Orleans obsessed with exposing government corruption and injustice. Each story—each case—peels back layers of deception, power, and moral complexity. A man driven by grief and obsession, Jackson won’t stop digging even when it destroys him.

Jackson Harlow is a skilled investigator with a dangerous gift: he can read people better than anyone, sense when someone’s lying before they even speak. He’s also a man carrying trauma—the government system he fights destroyed his family a decade ago, and he’s spent every year since making sure no one else loses what he lost.

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Season One: The Case of the Grinning Golly

Jackson’s first case: A beloved antique shop owner, Dolly Mercier, is murdered in her shop. Jackson is determined to find her killer. But the investigation spirals into something far darker than a simple crime.

The suspects multiply. The motives tangle. Political radicals become unlikely allies. A saboteur threatens his investigation in ways that threaten everything he’s built.

Eight episodes. One murder. A mystery where nothing is what it seems.

Coming January 6, 2026

Episodes launch on Substack. Free to read. Subscribe now to stay updated, access exclusive character guides, and join a community of readers obsessed with solving these cases alongside Jackson.

All eight episodes of Season One are written, edited, and ready. This mystery concludes. This case resolves. You’re not waiting for answers—you’re getting the full story, delivered weekly.

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