The Grinning Golly: Predator and Prey
Episode 5: Harlow goes on the hunt.
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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.
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.
“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.
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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