“It's possible there was a connection through artistic circles.” Brook had Bit pulling information from the other victims’ past before solidifying that part of the profile. “It's something we're exploring.”
“Did he stop?” Brian asked, his gaze dropping to the photo in her hand. “After that girl? Or are there more victims we don't know about?”
“We aren't certain,” Brook answered honestly. “Based on the pattern we've documented, the killings appear to have stopped after Lila. There are several possibilities for why. He could have evolved to different methods that haven't been connected yet, though that's highly unlikely based on his evident satisfaction with his established pattern. Most likely, he either died, was physically disabled in some way that prevented him from continuing, or was incarcerated for an unrelated offense.”
“You think he could be in prison?” Brian asked, a flicker of something like relief crossing his features. “Right now?”
“It's a strong possibility,” Theo replied, though they had also spoken at length as to other reasons the killer became inactive. “Many offenders eventually commit other crimes—sometimes minor in comparison—that lead to their capture.”
“We'd like to ask you more questions in the coming days, if you're willing,” Brook said, hoping to keep an open line of communication with them. “Sometimes memories surface after initial conversations, especially when you've had time to reflect.”
“We've had eleven years to reflect,” Brian said, but the bitterness that had edged his earlier statements had diminished. “Ask what you need to, when you need to. We're not going anywhere.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us today?” Brook asked, recognizing they had reached a natural conclusion to this first interview but wanting to leave the door open for insights theMoores might not realize were relevant. “Anything that's always bothered you about the investigation?”
“The sheriff focused on strangers passing through.” Brian seemed as if he, too, believed it was someone else rather than one of their own. “Drifters, truckers, salespeople. Nothing came of it. Maybe he didn’t do a good enough investigation into them.”
“Okay, then.” Brook tucked Lila’s picture back into her leather tote. She reached for the handles with her left hand, leaving her the ability to shake their hands after they had all stood from their seats. “Thank you for speaking with us this morning.”
Jillian quickly made her way over to the same built-in cabinet that had held the students’ artwork. She pulled out a sketchbook that had seen better days. The edges were tattered and curled, and the light grey cover had been scuffed numerous times.
“Take this, too," Jillian said as she held it out to Brook. “This was Heather’s sketchbook. She never went anywhere without it.”
“She drew people sometimes.” Brian stared at the sketchbook in sorrow, as if he could picture his daughter using it. “People she knew. Maybe...”
“We'll take good care of it,” Brook promised, meeting Jillian's gaze directly. “And return it to you when we're finished.”
There were many ways this meeting could have gone today, but Brook was pleased with their progress. The Moores weren't fully on board with the investigation. Too many years of disappointment had made them cautious, but they had moved from resistance to resignation.
Perhaps even to a cautious alliance.
8
Bobby ‘Bit’ Nowacki
January 2026
Tuesday – 11:06am
The low thrum of alternative rock drifted through the van, the steady bass line syncing with the rhythm of Bit’s concentration as lines of code streamed across his monitors. He’d parked in front of the house Heather Moore once owned, though the black Sprinter probably stood out like a bruise in the snow. In the city, it blended in easily enough. Just another delivery van lost in traffic. But here, it was a curiosity on an otherwise quiet street. Fortunately, Sylvie was still canvassing the neighborhood. He wasn’t too worried about someone calling it in.
If a deputy did happen to swing by, all Bit had to do was flash his credentials. One look inside would confirm it wasn’t some random tech van—it was a fully equipped surveillance command center used by one of D.C.’s most respected investigative firms.
Every inch of the van’s interior bore his handiwork. A narrow workbench lined one wall, cluttered with monitors, routers,and the neatly coiled cables he treated like art. Three twenty-seven-inch screens glowed softly in front of him, casting a faint blue light over matte-black panels and soundproof insulation. A compact server tower hummed beneath the counter, adding to the heat already competing with the portable space heater near his boots.
For added comfort, he’d made sure a pair of lockable rolling stools fit neatly under the workbench. The van was even equipped with a minifridge positioned in the back corner. The opposite wall held a rack of compact surveillance gear, secured for transport—lenses, scanners, GPS receivers—all wired into a mobile signal booster strong enough to stream data from the middle of nowhere.
Still, Bit would’ve preferred being back at the cabin, where he’d spent most of the night putting together a makeshift workstation from folding tables and spare server racks. By the time he was done, there was barely enough space to sidestep between the equipment and the bed.
He’d even managed to link the network array and set up a motion-triggered perimeter alarm before finally catching a few hours of sleep. The system would ping his phone the instant anyone came within fifty yards of the cabin. It was unfortunate, but the hardware he’d hauled from D.C. was worth more than most homes in Harrowick.
The growl of his stomach forced him to make his way back up front. Once he was settled into the driver’s seat, he peered through the tinted window. Sylvie was knocking on the front door three houses down.
She was built for fieldwork.
Easy smile.
Disarming charm.
