“Mr. Whitlow, I don't doubt that your mother was a good woman,” Brook said calmly once his initial eruption had subsided. “From my understanding, your mother was kind, generous, and dedicated to her students. She taught with passion and genuinely cared about helping everyone succeed, regardless of their background or circumstances.”
Figg remained standing, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, but he didn't interrupt again. The tension in his shoulders suggested he was barely containing himself, though.
“Your mother's positive influence on this community is precisely why she made such an impact on the unsub,” Brook continued. “We've learned that Loretta often wore silk scarves aspart of her professional wardrobe. They became something of a signature accessory for her.”
Principal Watkins nodded almost imperceptibly, confirming this detail without seeming aware he was doing so. Brook caught the movement from the corner of her eye, but she didn't acknowledge it.
“We believe that on a specific day meaningful to the unsub, Loretta wore a yellow silk scarf. Perhaps it was new. While wearing it, she either helped someone or spoke to someone who misinterpreted her kindness.” Brook began to meet several gazes. “For this individual, that interaction became significant. It was a special moment when he felt truly seen or understood by someone he admired. And when she died, that yellow scarf became the symbol he used to preserve her memory and influence in a horrifically distorted way.”
Several people began discussing Loretta Whitlow, trying to recall a time when she had worn a yellow silk scarf. Brook now needed to deliver what the team discovered late last night during a phone conversation with Clyde Weaver. She met his gaze, and he was no longer slouched with his ankles crossed. He was sitting up straight, listening to her intently.
“These women were selected because they reminded the unsub of Loretta in some way. Not physically, but through their artistic talents and nurturing qualities. You see, Loretta loved to sketch. Doodle, as she called it.” Brook’s comment had Figg slowly reclaiming his chair. Not in acceptance, but rather to mull over why Brook believed his mother was significant to this investigation. “Her son would sometimes take those doodles and turn them into tattoos. Sometimes on himself, and sometimes on others. Her work lived on, but the unsub? That scarf was to him what those tattoos were to her son. The yellow scarf served as both a tribute and a symbolic transformation that could never leave him, as Loretta had by dying.”
Brian Moore tightened his hold on Jillian again. She turned her face toward him, seeking comfort in his embrace. The gesture triggered Brook's earlier thought about the profile missing a crucial piece that could reveal the identity of the unsub.
And suddenly, it came to her in sharp focus.
The unsub hadn’t stopped due to imprisonment or some physical ailment. He’d stopped killing because he'd found another way to preserve Loretta's memory—through marriage. He had sought out a woman who embodied the qualities he associated with Loretta, creating a living memorial rather than a dead one.
“These victims and their families deserve closure,” Brook said, not missing a beat. The spike of adrenaline began to subside, and in its place was concern over how this evening would end. “If you think of anything, no matter how insignificant it might seem, please speak with a member of my team or me. All conversations will be kept confidential.”
As she regarded the assembled residents, she intentionally locked gazes with a man sitting one row behind the Moores. In that moment of connection, something passed between them.
A silent acknowledgment.
The man’s expression didn't change, his body didn't tense, but his eyes held hers with a calm certainty that confirmed her suspicions.
He knew that she knew.
Brook maintained their bond for exactly three seconds. Not long enough to alert Theo to her focus, but long enough to establish that this was no random eye contact. Then she deliberately averted her gaze, turning her attention to the mayor with a nod that indicated she had finished her presentation.
As the mayor rushed to the podium to reclaim control of the meeting, Brook stepped back, arranging her thoughts withthe implications of what was about to take place. By giving her profile publicly, she had accomplished exactly what she'd intended…revealing the killer’s identity.
30
Bobby ‘Bit’ Nowacki
January 2026
Sunday — 7:36pm
Bit shifted his weight on Paula Stillman's floral-patterned couch for the eighth time in as many minutes, the plastic covering beneath him squeaking in protest with each movement. The living room was a perfectly preserved relic of the 1980s, complete with doilies on every available surface and a shag carpet worn thin where years of footsteps had trodden the same paths. The pervasive scent of Bengay ointment hung in the air, seeping from the upholstery and causing his nostrils to twitch.
“She's been in there for twenty minutes,” Bit whispered to Sylvie, who somehow managed to appear comfortable despite the circumstances. “How long does it take to make tea?”
“Have some patience,” Sylvie murmured, her eyes fixed on the window that overlooked the street. The sheer curtains were parted just enough for Paula to have a great view of the homes across the way. “Like I did when you took over twenty minutesdeciding which kind of Twizzlers to buy at the convenience store.”
“You weren’t the one forced to witness the denture debacle, Little T,” Bit muttered, jostling his leg up and down. “I was thinking that the Pull ‘n’ Peel might be best, but then I spotted the Nibs. I thought for sure that was the way to go, but then I saw they carried the Twizzlers Filled Twists. Maybe the filling would make them…well, less sticky.”
Bit raised the back of his hand to his mouth, unsure if his stomach contents would remain in place at the memory. When he was certain that he’d steadied his body’s response, he glanced toward the kitchen archway where Paula had disappeared after adamantly refusing to accept their polite attempts to decline refreshments.
“Odd question, but did you steal my bag of powdered donuts?”
“No.” Sylvie adjusted her black-rimmed glasses after shooting him a sideways glance. “I did, however, eat the peanut butter cups out of the snack bag. Would you stop moving around? I’m going to slip off this plastic cover if you keep jostling your leg.”
“We're missing everything,” Bit complained, keeping his voice low. “Boss’ profile, the town's reaction. Isn’t that the whole point of this evening? Instead, we're getting high on Bengay and waiting for tea we won’t even drink.”
“Gerontophobia. That’s what you have,” Sylvie accused him with a roll of her blue eyes.
