CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kari had been staring at Jennifer Blake's phone for twenty minutes, watching as a progress bar crept slowly across the screen of her laptop.
Remy Delacroix, her contact from the Phoenix PD tech unit, had explained the process to her remotely, walking her through each step like he'd done this a hundred times before.
His voice came through her earbuds with the tinny quality of a long-distance call, punctuated by the occasional click of his keyboard in the background.
"Almost there," Remy said. "Once it finishes, you'll have full access to everything—messages, photos, call logs, apps.
But Kari, I'm doing this as a favor, off the books.
Whatever you find, you didn't get it from me.
I could lose my job if anyone finds out I helped crack a phone without proper authorization. "
"Understood. I owe you one, Remy."
"You owe me about six at this point, but who's counting?" She could hear the smile in his voice. "Good luck with whatever you're working on out there. Sounds like a tough one."
The call ended just as the progress bar completed.
Kari disconnected the phone from her laptop and held it in her hand, feeling the strange intimacy of the moment.
This pink case with its worn edges had been Jennifer Blake's constant companion for the last year of her life.
She'd used it to take selfies at photo shoots, to text friends about parties, to call her mother on Sunday evenings.
Every hope and fear and secret of her final months was stored somewhere in its memory.
And somewhere in that memory might also be the identity of whoever had killed her.
Kari opened the messages app and began scrolling through Jennifer's conversations.
Most were mundane—scheduling texts with photographers about call times, group chats with other models complaining about demanding clients, occasional messages to her mother that grew increasingly brief and infrequent over the final months.
The pattern was familiar: a young woman gradually isolating herself from her support system, pulling away from the people who loved her.
Or being pulled away.
One conversation stood out, both for its length and for the way it dominated Jennifer's recent messages. The thread stretched back nearly eight months, with hundreds of exchanges that grew more frequent and more intense as time went on.
The contact was saved simply as "M."
Montgomery. The name surfaced immediately in Kari's mind. But she pushed the assumption aside—M could stand for anything. A nickname, a last name, a term of endearment. She couldn't afford to lock onto a theory before she'd seen the evidence.
She opened the thread and began reading from the beginning, watching a relationship unfold in fragments of text. The early messages, from about eight months before Jennifer's death, were warm and supportive—the kind of messages you might get from a caring friend or mentor:
Just checking on you. You seemed stressed at the shoot today. Everything okay?
I made dinner tonight. Way too much for one person. Want to come over and help me eat it?
You're so talented, Jen. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise. The industry can be cruel, but you have real potential.
Jennifer's responses were grateful, even eager. Thank you so much. I really needed to hear that today. And: Dinner sounds amazing! Be there in 20. And: You're the only one who really understands what this is like.
Kari recognized the dynamic. A vulnerable young woman, far from home, struggling in a brutal industry. And someone offering support, understanding, connection. It would have felt like a lifeline.
She scrolled forward, watching the dynamic shift over the following months. The messages from M became more frequent, more intense. What had started as occasional check-ins became daily texts, sometimes multiple times a day. And the tone changed too—subtle at first, then increasingly obvious:
Haven't heard from you today. Is everything okay? I worry when you don't respond.
I saw you talking to that photographer after the shoot. What did he want? You can tell me.
I thought we were having dinner tonight. I've been waiting for an hour. Where are you?
You've been spending a lot of time with those other models. I hope they're not filling your head with ideas. They don't care about you like I do.
And Jennifer's responses grew shorter, more evasive, the responses of someone trying to create distance without provoking conflict: Sorry, got caught up with work. Talk tomorrow? And: Just tired. Need some alone time. And: I can hang out with whoever I want. They're my friends.
By the final month of Jennifer's life, the messages from 'M' had taken on a desperate, possessive quality that made Kari's stomach tighten. The warmth was gone, the tone growing demanding and dark:
Why aren't you returning my calls? I've called six times today. I've been worried sick about you.
After everything I've done for you, everything I've sacrificed, you can't even send a text? Do you know how that makes me feel?
I thought we had something special. I thought you understood me like no one else does. Was I wrong about you?
You can't just shut me out. I won't let you throw away what we have. I won't let you.
Jennifer's final messages to M showed a woman trying desperately to escape: I need some space right now. Please respect that.
I think we should take a break from seeing each other. This isn't healthy for either of us.
And finally, just three days before her death: Please stop calling me. Please stop coming to my apartment. I can't do this anymore. It's over.
M's response had been chilling in its simplicity: You don't get to decide when this ends.
Kari sat back from the phone, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was it—the possessive relationship Jennifer's mother had described, the person Jennifer had been trying to escape. The language was intimate, controlling, the pattern unmistakable.
Someone had fixated on Jennifer Blake, had refused to let her go, and three days after she'd tried to end things definitively, she had died from an apparent overdose.
But who was M?
Montgomery was the obvious answer. But something nagged at her. One of the early messages had read: I saw you talking to that photographer after the shoot. What did he want? Would Montgomery refer to another photographer that way, as if the profession were foreign to him?
Kari scrolled through Jennifer's emails, looking for anyone whose name started with M.
There were a few—a makeup artist named Maria, a photographer named Miguel, a college friend named Michelle back in Arizona.
But when Kari checked their message histories, none of them matched the intensity or intimacy of the M conversation.
Whoever this person was, Jennifer had saved them under a single initial, as if even typing their full name felt dangerous.
Kari pulled up Carter's number and called her.
"I got into the phone," she said when Carter answered. "And I found something."
She spent the next ten minutes reading Carter the key messages, hearing the detective's silence grow heavier as the pattern became clear. When Kari finished, Carter let out a long breath.
"So we're looking for someone with the initial M who had close access to Jennifer in the months before her death," Carter said. "Someone in the industry, probably. Someone who saw her regularly enough to know her schedule, her moods, who she was spending time with."
"It reads like a romantic relationship," Kari said. "The dinners, the jealousy, the possessiveness. Someone who felt entitled to her time and attention. Someone who couldn't handle being rejected."
"A man, most likely. Given the dynamics." Carter paused. "M could be a middle name, or a nickname. Something private between them." More silence, then the sound of typing. "Let me check on Pemberton—I'm pretty sure his middle name starts with M."
"What about Montgomery?" Kari asked. "His last name fits."
"The photographer? He's on my list too." His keyboard clicked again. "Got it. Dr. Callum Pemberton. Middle name Michael."
"So M could be Pemberton, using his middle name to keep things discreet.
" Kari felt the pieces starting to come together, the shape of a case finally emerging from the fog.
"He had access to Jennifer through medical appointments.
He prescribed her medications. He's charming, successful, the kind of man who could make a young woman feel special.
And he'd know exactly how to stage an overdose to look convincing. "
"He fits," Carter agreed. "He fits almost perfectly. But his alibis—"
"Alibis can be manufactured. Especially by someone with money and connections."
"Maybe." Carter didn't sound convinced, but she didn't sound dismissive either. "This is the first real lead we've had. We need to dig deeper into Pemberton's relationship with Jennifer specifically. Medical records, appointment histories, anything that shows how often they were in contact."
"I'm going to keep working the agency angle too," Kari said. "Montgomery's still on my radar, regardless of that message. And I want to talk to people who knew Jennifer, see if anyone noticed her relationship with M. Someone might have seen something."
After hanging up, Kari checked the time. Late afternoon. She thought about Diana Shepherd. The roommates had said Diana was kind to the models, that she looked out for them.
Maybe she'd known Jennifer. Maybe she'd noticed something about Jennifer's relationship with M that could help Kari understand what had happened.
She drove to the Image Management office and found a parking spot with a clear view of the entrance.
The building was sleek and modern, all glass and chrome, the kind of architecture that promised success and sophistication.
Kari watched employees come and go—young assistants in fashionable clothes, executives in expensive suits—until she spotted Diana emerging through the glass doors around five-thirty.
The woman looked tired, her shoulders slightly hunched, her pace slower than it had been when Kari had first seen her at Elite Vision. She was carrying a large bag and fumbling with her phone, distracted enough that she didn't notice Kari approaching until they were almost side by side.
"Ms. Shepherd?"
Diana startled, nearly dropping her phone. Then she recognized Kari and relaxed. "Oh, Detective Blackhorse. You surprised me."
"I'm sorry. I was hoping we could talk." Kari kept her voice gentle, unthreatening. "About Tayen Stern. I know you were kind to her—her roommates mentioned you specifically. They said you looked out for the new girls."
Diana frowned, looking troubled. "I tried to be there for her.
She was so young when she came to us, so uncertain about everything.
She reminded me of myself at that age—trying to make it in a city that doesn't care whether you succeed or fail.
" She glanced around the street, as if checking who might be watching them.
"I'm not really supposed to discuss clients with outsiders. Vanessa is very particular about that."
"I understand. I'm not asking you to violate any confidentiality.
I just want to find Tayen before something happens to her.
" Kari paused, letting the urgency in her voice speak for itself.
"I'm worried, Ms. Shepherd. Tayen disappeared the same day Amanda Escalante died. That timing can't be a coincidence."
Diana was quiet for a long moment, seeming to wrestle with something internally. Finally she let out a breath.
"There's a café a few blocks from here. Quiet place, not many people.
Can you meet me there in half an hour? I need to go home and change first, clear my head, but I'll come back.
" She met Kari's eyes, and there was something vulnerable in her expression.
"I want to help. I just can't be seen talking to you outside the office like this. Vanessa would have questions."
"Of course. What's the address?"
Diana gave her directions to a place called the Quiet Cup, a few streets over from the main commercial district. "Half an hour," Diana repeated. "I'll be there."
Kari watched her go, feeling cautiously hopeful. Diana seemed worried about Tayen, willing to help despite the risk to her job. Maybe she'd noticed something about the dynamics at Elite Vision or Image Management that could point Kari toward whoever was killing these young women.
Maybe she even knew who M was.