The Grinning Golly: Confessions and Revelations
Episode 3: In pursuit of the killer
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.
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.”
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.
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.