Murder in the Lighthouse (Beachcomber Mystery #4)

7

J ade’s comment remained in Lucien’s head hours later, long after their guests had gone home when the house was quiet, and he kept tossing and turning next to Brogan. Finally giving up on sleep, he got out of bed and tip-toed downstairs to the living room, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the house. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a full glass of whiskey.

Maybe a dose of Jack Daniels could help him nod off. Not likely, he decided, as moonlight filtered through the bank of windows. He got comfortable on the sofa, his mind racing with images of what he’d seen at the lighthouse. He seemed unable to get that grim sight out of his head, knowing somewhere out there in the dark, Bethany had probably suffered the same fate as her brother.

Images of Bethany and Sam Heywood flashed before his eyes, their faces haunting him even in solitude. If, by some miracle, she happened to still be alive, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were racing against a malevolent force hellbent on silencing anyone who dared uncover the truth.

The liquor did nothing to calm his nerves. He got up to pace, peering out into the darkness. His thoughts turned from the victims to the elusive killer they were trying to track down. A chill ran down his spine as he realized how cunning and dangerous this individual must be.

He set his glass on a side table and pulled out his phone. He began scrolling through the blog posts Jade had bookmarked. The posts from Truthseeker22 stared back at him from the screen, each a puzzle piece in a larger, more sinister picture. Lucien’s jaw clenched as he read through the comments.

He reread each post, his mind trying to decipher a clue. Suddenly, the use of a particular phrase caught his eye—the answer lies where it all began—and was repeated several times over different websites. What did that mean? Where had it all begun? He tried to come up with the meaning behind those words. Had it started with Connie Upland? Or perhaps even earlier, with another victim they knew nothing about? If so, why didn’t they say that? Why drop the vague hints at knowing more?

Lucien took his glass and headed for his office. He decided to dig deeper into cases occurring before 1999. He started cross-referencing dates and locations, using keywords like strangled or stabbed, looking for any cases that might be connected. He found three possible victims that had been killed in 1998, prior to Connie’s murder. But did they have a link to Keith Shepherd?

Suddenly, a realization hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Why not ask the poster directly?

He created a profile on impulse, picked a silly white rabbit in a top hat as his avatar, and set out to reply to every Truthseeker22 post throughout the years.

Hunched over his laptop, Lucien meticulously crafted each response, trying to engage the poster in a way that would reveal more about their identity. He asked probing questions in some posts, subtly steering the conversation toward the older cases. In a few replies, he mentioned how the cops had likely bungled the investigations. In other responses, he tried to mimic the tone of Truthseeker22’s plea for justice, hoping to befriend him.

He spent hours constructing his responses, each one carefully worded to pique Truthseeker22’s interest without revealing too much. In a few posts, he delved into the details of the cases from 1998, weaving in questions and comments that hinted at a shared knowledge only someone involved in the investigations would possess. Each time he hit “send” on a reply, a surge of adrenaline swept through him.

Lucien was no fool. He knew he had to be cautious, not reveal his intentions too much or give away the connection to Sam and Bethany. He had no idea who this person was. But with each reply, he hoped it would elicit a response that might point to Keith Shepherd as their suspect.

When he’d finally finished the last response, he leaned back in his chair, swiveled toward his whiskey, and drained the contents of the glass in one fierce gulp.

Now, he had to wait for Truthseeker22 to return with a comment.

Exhausted, he stood up and shuffled across the room to the small loveseat in his office. He dropped down into the soft cushions, stretching his legs out until his feet hung over the sides. He plumped the cushy pillows several times before curling into the sofa cushions.

Within minutes, he was fast asleep.