“What about Desmond Brewer?” Brook had been waiting for an opportunity to bring the bakery owner into the conversation. She’d received Sylvie’s text about the photograph pinned to the bulletin board. Given the size of the town, there was a very good chance the picture was just a fond reminder of someone the town had lost long ago. “Did Heather and Desmond ever share anything more than friendship?”
“Desmond Brewer? No,” Brian replied with a half-laugh, as if the thought was just too ridiculous to consider. “Don’t get me wrong. Desmond thought the sun rose and set on our daughter.He baked her a birthday cake every year. But I can see where you’re going with this, and trust me, Desmond couldn’t harm a spider, much less our daughter.”
The rest of the conversation carried on as expected, and there didn’t seem to be anything else to add to the original crime reports compiled by both local and federal agencies. There were still many interviews ahead of them that could potentially unlock a valid lead.
“Mrs. Moore, you mentioned that Heather saved all the artwork her students made for her.” Brook figured most of those art projects went home with the students. “Do you still have them?”
“Of course,” Jillian replied as she motioned for her husband to retrieve said items. Brian immediately stood and made his way over to a built-in cabinet along the far side of the living room. “We can’t bring ourselves to throw anything away. We have a storage shed out back with all her furniture and knick-knacks from the house.”
Brook exchanged a knowing glance with Theo. She would have to tread carefully, but it was imperative that they have access to those belongings. The chances of anything useful being found were low, just as any trace evidence left on Lila’s photograph, but everything needed to be reexamined in the Heather Moore case.
Brook accepted a thick file filled with colorful drawings and unique sketches. Most appeared to be in crayons and colored pencils, though a few were done with pencil. She handed the file to Theo and smiled at the Moores in appreciation. She recognized their gesture as both a sign of cooperation and a boundary.
They were sharing information but controlling what and how much.
It was a reasonable compromise, though she was about to ask for a little more.
“Thank you for sharing these with us. We'll treat them with the utmost care. Once we’ve documented everything thoroughly, we’ll return them to you exactly as they are.” Brook paused, her gaze drifting down to Lila’s photograph. Jillian automatically did the same, prompting Brook to voice her request. “You mentioned that you kept her things from the house and stored them out back in your shed. It’s possible that she received a piece of mail or wrote something down that wasn’t discovered during the first canvas of the crime scene. I know this might be too much to ask of you, but would it be possible for us to have access to what you’ve kept?”
The request hung in the air, testing the newfound trust that had begun to form between them. Brook observed as Jillian and Brian exchanged another one of their silent communications, decades of marriage having honed their ability to converse without words.
Jillian nodded first, her decision made before Brian could voice his opinion. For the first time since walking through their front door, some of the tension eased from Brook’s shoulders.
“Yes, you and your team can have access to the shed. Brian will see to it that you have a key to the lock before you leave.” Jillian met Brook’s gaze, the haunted quality in her eyes replaced by determination. “I do have a question for you.”
“If I’m sure of the answer, then I’ll be honest with you. You both deserve clarity, especially after all these years of uncertainty.”
“I watch a lot of those crime shows on TV.” Jillian’s gaze slid to Heather’s graduation photo. “I suspect a lot of the writing exaggerates some aspects of your profession. Still, I’d like to know what you think about the monster who killed our baby girl.”
The directness of the question created a pocket of silence in the room, heavy with expectation. Brook exchanged a quick glance with Theo. Jillian was trying to make sense of a senseless act, to give shape to the shadow that had stolen her daughter. She had most likely constructed countless versions of her daughter's killer in her mind, each one more monstrous than the last.
Brian shifted in his seat, leaning forward with interest despite his earlier resistance.
“I can share what we believe based on the evidence,” Brook said carefully, mulling over exactly how much detail to give. “This morning, I delivered a preliminary profile to my team. I’d like to emphasize that profiles evolve as we gather more information.”
“We understand.” Jillian clutched the tissue tightly in her lap.
“Based on what we've pieced together, the unsub—that's what we call unknown subjects—is almost certainly male, somewhere between his mid-to-late twenties at the time of the crimes. He's the kind of man who wouldn't draw a second glance. Someone who can move through a small town without raising suspicion.”
Brian's jaw tightened, but he remained silent, absorbing each word. Brook was mindful not to provoke his conviction that no one from Harrowick could possibly be to blame.
“He's methodical, controlled, and takes his time planning each abduction.” Brook gave them a moment before continuing. “His victims are women who are visible and trusted in their communities—teachers, shop employees, volunteers. That tells me he studies them first, watches them long enough to understand their routines before making a move.”
“He’s hunting them,” Jillian murmured, her voice barely audible.
“In some ways, yes,” Brook acknowledged. “But there's more to it than predatory instinct. The Polaroid photographs sent to newspapers show a desire for recognition, for his 'work' to be seen and acknowledged. Yet he remains anonymous, which suggests a complex relationship with notoriety—wanting credit without exposure.”
“The scarves,” Brian interjected now that he’d been drawn in. “Yellow scarves. Was that just...practical? Or did it mean something?”
“Both,” Brook replied, wishing she could give them a more definitive reply. “The consistency of the method indicates ritual significance. Yellow can symbolize many things—jealousy, cowardice, betrayal. But it's also highly visible, dramatic against skin. The item most likely has personal meaning to him. Perhaps someone close to him preferred to wear yellow scarves.”
Theo shifted slightly in his seat, a subtle signal that she was treading into dangerous territory. If the Moores were acquainted with someone from their past who had a predilection for scarves, whatever the color, such knowledge could shift their cooperation.
When neither appeared to react to such a statement, Brook adjusted her approach to focus on the remaining aspects with some context without overwhelming them with grotesque details.
“What you should understand is that this man isn't what people typically imagine when they think of a serial killer,” Brook explained as she reached for Lila’s picture. “He likely has a job, possibly interacts with the public regularly. He may be educated, particularly in areas related to art or photography. The composition of his Polaroids shows someone who understands visual aesthetics.”
“Someone like Heather,” Jillian whispered, the connection dawning in her eyes.
