Chapter 8
Eight
M olly Everhart stepped out of the coroner's van, her very pregnant belly making it a little more difficult to maneuver. Her assistants followed closely behind, lugging equipment, their faces grim and professional. As the coroner, it was Molly’s job to remove the deceased woman from the scene and begin the examination. But as she approached the room’s door, her heart tightened. Her sister, Isobel, was pacing outside in small, frantic circles, her hands clenched and her brow knitted in concentration.
“Izzy, what are you doing here?” Molly called softly, but loud enough to catch her sister’s attention. Isobel turned, and without hesitation, Molly wrapped her arms around her. Isobel melted into her, seeking comfort.
"Mols," Isobel choked out, “it’s like the Vernon case. Why is this happening again? There was another note.”
Molly didn't know. She wanted to give her sister a real answer, but none came. Instead, she gently wiped a stray tear from Isobel’s cheek with her thumb. “I’m sure the police will solve this,” she offered, the words rehearsed like a script. It was what she was supposed to say, what people expected to hear. “Let me do my job. We’ll get some answers.”
“I hope so,” Isobel whispered, her eyes filled with worry as she pulled away.
Molly nodded, offering one last comforting squeeze before she stepped inside the room.
What she didn’t expect, however, was to see Brad standing in the room, his posture stiff but his eyes warm as they landed on her.
"Molly," Brad greeted.
Detective Larson rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Another family friend, huh?"
Brad’s jaw clenched as Molly’s eyes snapped to Larson. She turned her head, her voice cool but her words cutting. “Detective,” she began, “I am Isobel Everhart's sister. Commander Killian is my sister Detective Olivia Everhart's dear friend and also a family friend. My husband is in charge of the FBI resident agency in Pierre, and my mother’s boyfriend is a special investigator for the state's attorney's office. So, before you roll your eyes in my direction ever again, I’d be careful.”
Larson's face paled at the not-so-subtle and undeniable warning in her voice, but Molly didn’t wait for a response. She turned toward the body, her professionalism slipping back into place. She pulled on her gloves, the familiar snap bringing the room’s focus to the task at hand.
With practiced movements, she inserted the liver probe and frowned as she checked the temperature reading. "Was the AC in this room on high when you came in?" she asked, her voice sharp and to the point. Something was off.
"No," Larson answered, his irritation from earlier gone, replaced with confusion.
Molly shook her head, her frown deepening. “She’s partially frozen.”
Larson blinked, caught off guard by her statement. Brad shot him a look, the implication settling in.
“Wrap her,” Molly ordered her assistants. “Wrap the bedsheets and pillowcases, each pillow, and the mattress, all separately. Bring it all in.”
As her assistants went to work, Brad locked eyes with Larson, exchanging a silent message. The original victim had also been frozen—a chilling detail that was never made public.
Once the body was packaged and Molly left the scene, Brad stepped into the hallway where Isobel waited, still shaken. He approached her with calm authority, knowing what he needed her to do but dreading it for her sake.
“I know you saw the original crime scene, Isobel,” Brad began. “Other than the addition of the note, I need you to walk inside and tell me what’s different about this scene.”
Isobel stiffened, fear and anxiety rippling through her. “I can’t—” she started to protest, her voice wavering.
Brad's voice dropped an octave, becoming more commanding. “Isobel, you can do this.”
She stopped. Her shoulders fell, and though her hands trembled slightly, she nodded. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, resigned.
Brad kept his expression neutral, though inside, the submissiveness in her response sent a ripple of awareness through him. He forced himself to focus on the job, pushing aside any personal thoughts. He guided her back into the room, his hand light on her back, and motioned for the other officers, except Larson, to leave.
Once they were alone, Brad turned to her. “Tell me what’s different.”
Isobel stood in the center of the room, her eyes scanning the space. She bit her lip as her gaze flickered to the empty bed frame where the body had been. Her breath hitched, and she took a step closer.
“The pillows,” she whispered after a long pause.
Brad frowned. “The pillows?”
She nodded, her voice shaking but steady enough. “In the Vernon case... they were stacked. Two pillows, perfectly aligned, one on top of the other, like... like the killer was arranging them.” She looked up at Brad, her eyes wide with recognition. “But here, before Molly packed them up, they were tossed one above her head and the other tucked on her left side. It’s like they weren’t important this time.”
Brad connected the dots. “So, the arrangement’s different.”
“Yes,” Isobel said softly, “it was not as... precise. The same with the sheets. This time they weren’t tucked in. And look, the window blinds. They’re uneven. Everything is messier. Like whoever did this wasn’t as careful. They didn’t care about the details. Or they ran out of time.”
Larson frowned. “You remember this?”
“It was my first case on my own. I studied the pictures for what felt like forever.” She wrapped her arms around herself.
Brad nodded slowly, his mind filling with possibilities. The killer was evolving—or perhaps growing careless. Either way, this was no coincidence.
“Good work, Isobel,” Brad murmured. She looked up at him, her worry still lingering, but her shoulders seemed a little less tense.
Brad’s phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the silence in the room. He glanced at the screen. It was Jeffrey Brewster, his investigator. He’d been working on any possible connections between the victims from four years ago and the two found just over a week ago.
Without hesitation, Brad faked a grin and answered the call, raising his voice as he spoke, “Hey, Mom. Yeah, everything’s fine.” He nodded to Larson, signaling that he was stepping out to take the call and walked a few feet away, lowering his voice. “What do you have?”
The voice on the other end was tense but efficient, as always. “Brad, I’ve got something. There’s a connection between the two sets of victims. The girls from four years ago—Megan Carson and Rachel Doyle—both attended a summer camp near the Black Hills. It was one of those wilderness retreats for troubled teens. Guess who else attended that same camp?”
Brad’s stomach clenched. He already knew the answer before Brewster said the names.
“Daniella Roy and Kara Simms,” Brewster confirmed. “The two girls found dead last week.”
Brad’s mind raced, piecing it together. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. I got records from the camp administrator. They all attended the same summer session, same group. The girls overlapped for the full six weeks.”
Brad exhaled sharply, his thoughts snapping into focus. “Any idea what could have happened at the camp? Something to tie them all together?”
“Still digging, but nothing jumps out yet. There were no reports of any incidents, at least not officially. But it’s more than a coincidence that all four of them ended up dead. Age also tracks. All camp attendees were thirteen and fourteen years old. The more recent girls were both seventeen.”
Brad’s jaw clenched. “Keep digging. I need more on this camp, the staff, any other attendees. If this was planned, if this is part of some twisted revenge or pact, I want to know.”
“Will do,” Brewster replied before ending the call.
Brad let the phone drop to his side, his pulse still quickening. A connection. The killings weren’t random. Something happened at that camp four years ago, something that had now led to the deaths of all four girls. It was no coincidence. Were the Vernon case and this young woman’s death connected too?
He pocketed his phone, then turned back to the room where Larson was watching him with a raised eyebrow. “Everything okay with Mom?” Larson asked, though his tone suggested he knew better.
“Yeah.” Brad forced a quick smile before it faded. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Listen, I’m taking Isobel home. She’s done enough for today.”
Larson’s expression shifted to one of understanding, his usual sarcasm absent for once. “Yeah, I figured. She’s been through a lot.”
“I’ll call you later,” Brad added. “But for now, she needs to get out of here.”
Larson gave a small nod. “I’ll finish things here.”
Brad walked back into the hallway where Isobel was waiting, her eyes still wide and haunted from the scene. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said softly. “Let’s get you home.”
She looked up at him, her gaze a mix of exhaustion and gratitude.