Arden had tried to explain to them that S&E Investigations, Inc. mainly investigated serial murders, but the Hartmans still insisted on meeting with Brook anyway. She had agreed, thoughshe decided not to involve the team, since she would most likely end up convincing them they were better off with a private investigator.
“Yes,” Beth replied before reaching into her purse. She extracted a clear plastic baggie containing what appeared to be a Polaroid picture inside. She then extended it across the corner of the coffee table that separated them. “This is our Lila.”
Brook had invited the Hartmans to make themselves comfortable on the black leather couch rather than the guest chairs, preferring the more intimate setting for a conversation no parent should ever have. She’d taken the matching chair, positioned deliberately to give her a view of the reception area. Her office mirrored the discipline she demanded of herself—sleek lines, no clutter, no wasted space.
Natural light from floor-to-ceiling windows spilled across white walls and black furniture, the minimalist design understated yet authoritative. Fourteen stories above downtown D.C., the firm shared its floor with a hedge fund, while a bank occupied the lower levels, lending both prestige and built-in security.
Brook valued such efficiency, and her office sat within easy reach of elevators and emergency exits. Through the glass wall, she noted Arden at his desk, shuffling papers with exaggerated purpose as he monitored the meeting.
They had yet to speak privately about his newfound status with Elizabeth.
“We believe this picture was taken at a farmer’s market.” Beth’s voice was steadier than her hands.“A few days before our daughter was killed.”
The vivid memory of Scotty Nevin handing Brook three Polaroids flashed through her mind so fast that she couldn’t stop it. It was as if she’d been transported back in time. Instead ofa young woman, all she could envision was three boys standing next to their bicycles.
She cleared her throat as she smoothed the plastic over the picture, hoping to do the same with her thoughts. She finally managed to center herself and concentrate on the image before the Hartmans realized anything was wrong.
Lila Hartman stood amidst the faded chaos of a farmer's market, completely absorbed in the moment. Her attention had been drawn to a display of wildflowers. The photographer had captured her leaning in close, her fingers gently brushing the soft yellow petals. Her brown hair tumbled in soft waves, though a lock had been tucked behind her left ear.
“Whoever took that picture is who killed our baby girl,” Jared replied gruffly, his voice thick with emotion. “You see, we believe Lila was killed by the Photograph Killer.”
Brook now understood why the Polaroid had been placed in a clear plastic baggie. Without giving the Hartmans the reaction that they were no doubt waiting for, she leaned back in her chair to hear the rest of their theory.
“Go on,” Brook urged quietly as she crossed her legs.
“A friend of mine has taken on a renovation of one of the older buildings in our hometown. The second floor was used as the headquarters for our local newspaper, but they shut their doors around the time that Lily was taken from us.” Jared nodded toward the picture in Brook’s hand. “There was a box of unopened mail in the storage room. He went through it to make sure there wasn’t anything important, but he ended up finding that picture. Our daughter was strangled with a yellow scarf. It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots, but the sheriff didn’t believe us back then, and we’re not trusting him now.”
“Sheriff Miles Winney,” Brook stated, having read through the criminal report to get a better understanding of theparticulars. “He concluded that your daughter’s death was the result of a burglary gone wrong.”
“That theory got blown when the Kiser boys were caught red-handed by a homeowner. The boys confessed to the string of burglaries around town, but they adamantly denied any involvement in Lila’s murder. Since nothing was missing from her apartment, we believed them. Still do.”
Beth and Jarod Hartman weren’t clinging to conspiracy theories to avoid accepting a painful truth. These were parents who had spent eleven years piecing together fragments of their daughter's final days.
And there was a chance they could be right.
“Have you heard of the Photograph Killer, Ms. Sloane?” Beth asked again as she searched Brook’s face for the truth. “You were working with the FBI as a profiler back then, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Brook replied, not willing to give her opinion just yet. She gave the facts as she remembered from her time at the Bureau. “Three young women were strangled to death with a yellow scarf between 2014 and 2015. All in small Ohio towns. Each death was preceded by a Polaroid photograph sent to local newspapers. It was a snapshot of his victim in her everyday life. Twenty-four hours after her death, the paper would receive another picture postmortem. The killer was known to bring his own scarves, and if I recall correctly, it stated in the sheriff’s report that the scarf used on Lila belonged to her.”
“It did not.” Beth's response was immediate. “Lila owned exactly three scarves—a green woolen one I'd knitted for her birthday, a black pashmina her grandmother had given her for Christmas, and a patterned silk one she'd purchased for herself in Columbus. She preferred earth tones rather than pastel or bright colors. She never would have owned a yellow scarf.”
“Did your friend happen to keep the envelope?” Brook asked, though she doubted they would be able to extract any DNAfrom the photo or envelope. There had been no traces of DNA discovered at the other three crime scenes, though that didn’t mean they couldn’t strike gold. “Or find the second picture that typically followed?”
“No is the answer to both of your questions, but we are fully convinced that the Photograph Killer was the one who killed our daughter. And we’d like to hire you and your firm to find out who he is,” Jared said as he leaned forward on the couch. He rested his elbows on his knees as if doing so would stress his next statement. “We’ve gone eleven years without answers, Ms. Sloane.”
Beth inched forward and placed her hand gently on her husband’s arm. She then met Brook’s stare, and she recognized what came next.
“We saw the news coverage on your brother. We heard about what he did to your best friend, and we thought you might understand what it's like. To never have closure.”
Brook should have known the Hartmans would bring Jacob into the conversation, though she wasn’t sure why she was so caught off guard. People often sought out morbid tidbits about her life. The public was fascinated with serial killers, and she had personally shared a dinner table with one for her entire childhood. But in this particular case, the Hartmans were merely attempting to use her past to their advantage. She couldn’t blame them, either.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hartman, I work with an exceptional team of investigators. I’d like to consult with them and review the original evidence in your daughter’s case more thoroughly before making any decisions.”
“Money isn’t an issue,” Jared exclaimed, as if that was the reason for her hesitation. She’d spoken the truth, though. She and her team had a system in place that worked, and they all had a say in their caseloads. “We’ve always considered hiringsomeone outside the sheriff’s office, and we’re prepared to use our retirement funds.”
She closed the file carefully, buying herself a moment to steady her thoughts. Money could be discussed at a later time. Given that many of the firm’s investigations were based on a consulting agreement with the Bureau, the firm had leeway regarding the number of pro bono cases it could take each year. If the team decided to take the case, she wouldn’t deplete their life’s savings.
"That’s something we can discuss later, if need be. You mentioned that you’re staying at the Westin. I’d still like to spend the rest of the morning meeting with my team and making a few phone calls. Would it be all right to call you later this afternoon with our decision?”
