CHAPTER SEVEN
The fluorescent lights of the fast-food restaurant cast an unnatural pallor across Riley’s half-eaten burger.
The vinyl booth squeaked beneath her as she shifted, checking her watch for the third time in ten minutes.
An hour had passed since they’d brought Malcolm Hartley in to Atlanta Police Headquarters, and the waiting game had begun—a familiar limbo in the rhythm of an investigation, yet no less maddening for its predictability.
Across the table, Ann Marie methodically arranged her french fries by length before selecting the longest one to dip into a small plastic cup of ketchup. “They’re taking their time,” she observed, her voice pitched low though the restaurant was not crowded at this mid-afternoon hour.
Riley nodded, pushing her burger and fries away. Food was the last thing on her mind. Between the bulletin board of mutilated Veronica Slate photos and the persistent worry about April, her appetite had vanished entirely.
“Hayes knows what he’s doing,” she said, though her tone lacked conviction. “He’ll call when they’re ready for us.”
“Do you believe Hartley’s denial?” Ann Marie asked, selecting another fry with surgical precision. “That board in his office seems pretty damning.”
Riley considered the question. The contrast between Hartley’s calm declaration of innocence and the violent hatred displayed on that bulletin board created a dissonance she couldn’t quite resolve. Her instincts, usually so reliable, were sending mixed signals.
“Obsession doesn’t always equal action,” she said finally. “Plenty of people fixate on celebrities without crossing the line into violence.”
“But making use of that celebration to recreate the murder from The Night Walker, the same strychnine poisoning—that suggests intimate knowledge and planning.” Ann Marie’s eyes lit with analytical interest. “And most obsessive fans wouldn’t have access to the Magnolia Gateway soundstage beforehand. ”
“Unless they worked there,” Riley countered. “As head of security, Hartley would have had both the access and the opportunity.”
“True,” Ann Marie conceded. “But if he wanted to kill Veronica Slate so badly, why wait until she was surrounded by witnesses? Why not choose a more private moment?”
The question lingered between them, underscoring the puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit. Riley was formulating a response when her phone vibrated against the table, the screen lighting up with Bill’s name.
“Bill,” she answered, unable to keep the concern from her voice. “Any news?”
“I’ve been at Jefferson Bell most of the day,” Bill’s steady voice came through clearly. “Spoke with Professor Elena Winters about an hour ago—she’s the one teaching April’s American Politics class.”
Riley straightened, instantly alert. Ann Marie’s attention sharpened as well, her methodical fry-sorting abandoned.
“What did she say about Leo?” Riley asked.
“She confirmed he was auditing her class, though he wasn’t officially registered with the university.
” Bill’s voice carried a note of professional frustration.
“Apparently he told April the same thing that he had told Professor Winters—that he was working in a bookstore and saving money so that he could enroll.”
Riley stiffened, the details landing like small, precise blows. “Working-class background? Saving for tuition?”
“That’s the story he gave her,” Bill confirmed. “Winters found it completely believable. Said he presented himself as a polite, earnest young man—passionate about political science and eager to learn. The perfect student, basically.”
“It was a lie,” Riley said flatly. “All of it.”
She felt Ann Marie’s questioning gaze but kept her focus on the call. This fabricated identity revealed something disturbing about Leo’s methods—a calculated approach that went beyond simple fixation.
“What do you mean?” Bill asked.
“Leo’s background is in his Academy file,” Riley explained, her voice tight.
“I looked into it when I made my complaint against him. His parents are Elizabeth Hollington Dillard and Charles Preston Dillard. The Hollingtons are Georgetown real estate royalty—they own half the historic buildings in the neighborhood. And Charles is senior partner at Lawson and Dillard.”
There was a moment of silence as Bill absorbed this information. “So he’s playing a role,” he said finally. “Creating a false persona to gain sympathy or connection.”
“Or to hide his tracks,” Riley added. “Did April mention anything about Leo describing himself as struggling financially?”
“Yes she did,” Bill replied. “Apparently, he told her he was working in a bookstore and saving up money so he could enroll.”
Riley rubbed her temple, where tension was gathering into the beginnings of a headache. “This makes him more dangerous, Bill. He’s not just obsessed—he’s methodical. Creating false identities, approaching April as a way to get to me...”
“I know,” Bill said grimly. “I’m going to dig deeper into the Dillard family. See if I can find anything useful.”
“Elizabeth Hollington Dillard is a fixture in DC society pages,” Riley told him. “Art museum boards, charity galas—the works. She and Charles live in one of those multi-million-dollar Georgetown townhouses. I remember Leo’s address from his file.”
“You think they know what their son is up to?”
“I have no idea,” Riley admitted. “But they’re our best lead for finding him. Or at least the only one we have right now.”
As they spoke, Riley’s phone notified her of an incoming call. Detective Hayes’ name flashed on the screen.
“Bill, I have to go. Hayes is calling. Keep me updated on anything you find about Leo or his family.”
“Will do. And Riley? Try to focus on the case there. April is safe, and I’m keeping things under control.”
Riley ended the call and immediately answered Hayes’ incoming one, putting it on speaker so Ann Marie could hear.
“Hayes,” she said by way of greeting. “What’s the status with Hartley?”
“We’ve been dealing with his attorney,” Hayes replied, sounding tired. “Marcus Ewing—former federal prosecutor turned defense counsel. Guy’s got a reputation for being meticulous, and he’s living up to it. Been reviewing every detail of what we can and can’t ask Hartley.”
“And?” Riley prompted.
“And he’s finally agreed to let us question his client, but I doubt Ewing will let Hartley say much. He’s already talking about ‘his client’s constitutional rights’ and ‘the prejudicial nature of circumstantial evidence.’“
Riley exchanged glances with Ann Marie. “We’ll be right there.”
“Good. And Agent Paige? This guy Ewing—he’s good. Used to put away criminals for the Justice Department until he had some kind of crisis of conscience. Now he specializes in cases where he thinks the cops have the wrong person. If he’s taken Hartley’s case, he believes in his innocence.”
“Or he’s being well-paid,” Riley countered.
“He’s public defense,” Hayes replied. “Not making a dime more than usual.”
The call ended, and Riley pocketed her phone. “Let’s go,” she said to Ann Marie, already sliding out of the booth. “Sounds like we’re in for an interesting interrogation.”
Ann Marie gathered her bag and followed Riley toward the exit. “So what do you think about Hartley? Innocent or guilty?”
“I think the evidence is circumstantial,” Riley replied, pushing through the door into the warm Atlanta night. “That bulletin board proves he hated Veronica Slate, but hate and murder aren’t the same thing.”
They walked briskly to the sedan that Meredith had arranged for them.
As Riley slid behind the wheel, her thoughts toggled between the two cases—Veronica Slate’s theatrical murder and Leo Dillard’s methodical deception.
Different crimes, different states, yet they felt connected by the theme of obsession.
She started the engine, its soft purr breaking the night’s stillness. “Let’s see what Malcolm Hartley has to say for himself,” she said, pulling out of the parking lot toward Atlanta Police Headquarters.
***
Bill Jeffreys stared at his phone for a long moment after ending the call with Riley. The student union hummed with activity around him—laptops clicking, conversations overlapping, the hiss of the espresso machine punctuating it all. None of it interrupted the focus of his thoughts.
He knew that Leo Dillard was not just any obsessed young guy; he was calculating.
The fabricated working-class persona, the careful approach to April, the strategic positioning that allowed him to observe Riley’s daughter—all of it spoke to a methodical mind capable of far more than simple stalking.
April had texted him fifteen minutes ago, confirming she’d arrived safely at her dormitory, where her roommate was waiting.
Bill had arranged for campus security to maintain regular patrols past her building, though he knew such measures would provide only limited protection against someone as determined as Leo appeared to be.
Bill opened his contacts and scrolled until he found the number he’d requested earlier from the FBI database—the Dillard family’s Georgetown residence.
This inquiry lay outside official Bureau channels; no crime had been committed at Jefferson Bell, no direct threat made.
Leo’s presence here was concerning but not yet actionable in any formal capacity.
But Bill had long ago learned that waiting for “actionable” often meant waiting until it was too late.
He pressed the call button, his jaw set in determination. The phone rang three times before a woman’s voice answered, cultured and cool.
“Dillard residence.”
“Mrs. Elizabeth Dillard?” Bill kept his tone professionally neutral.
A pause, barely perceptible. “Yes. Who’s calling, please?”
“Special Agent Bill Jeffreys, FBI.” He allowed the weight of the credentials to settle before continuing. “I’m calling regarding your son, Leo.”
The silence that followed was neither surprise nor confusion, but something harder—a deliberate stop. When Elizabeth Dillard spoke again, her voice had dropped several degrees in temperature.
“I have nothing to say about Leo.” The statement carried no maternal concern, only weary resignation tinged with anxiety.
“I’m investigating a situation at Jefferson Bell University where Leo has been auditing classes.” Bill chose his words carefully, navigating the narrow space between truth and necessary omission. “He’s been misrepresenting himself to faculty and students.”
“I can’t help you,” Elizabeth replied, her voice a flat line devoid of emotion.
Bill seized the moment to probe further. “Mrs. Dillard, when did you last speak with him?”
Her response was clipped and precise. “Fourteen months ago.” A pause, then a choking sound, almost like a sob of grief. Or perhaps even fear. “I have nothing more to say about him.”
Bill tried again, “Do you know where he might be staying now?”
“No I don’t.” Elizabeth’s tone turned frosty. “Agent Jeffreys, my husband and I are done with Leo. Whatever he’s doing now is his own affair.”
Bill attempted one last time, “This could be serious—”
But she interrupted sharply, “It always is with Leo.” Her patience had clearly run out. With an air of finality, she said, “If there’s nothing else, I’m busy,” and ended the call abruptly.
He lowered the phone slowly, processing the dismissal and the troubling insights it had yielded.
But more troubling were they unanswered new questions it raised.
He detected dread in Elizabeth’s voice at the mere mention of her son’s name.
The portrait emerging of Leo Dillard was increasingly concerning—a pattern of obsessions stretching back to childhood, wealthy parents who had distanced themselves from their son’s behavior, and a young man adept at reinventing himself to suit his purposes.
Bill glanced around the student union, noting the carefree interactions of students whose biggest worry might be an upcoming exam or a relationship issue.
April deserved that same normalcy, that same freedom from fear.
And Riley—already stretched thin by her case in Atlanta—deserved to know her daughter was safe.
He weighed his options. The FBI’s official channels moved at a deliberate slow pace, bound by protocols and jurisdictional considerations.
A formal investigation into Leo Dillard would require evidence of specific threats or criminal acts, neither of which they yet possessed.
By the time such an investigation received approval, Leo could have disappeared again, reemerging under yet another carefully constructed identity.
The decision crystallized in his mind with sudden clarity.
Elizabeth Dillard’s refusal to talk to him had only reinforced his concerns about Leo.
If she wouldn’t help willingly over the phone, perhaps an in-person visit would yield more cooperation—or at least more information.
The Georgetown address was less than an hour’s drive from Fredericksburg.
Bill stood, gathering his jacket from the back of the chair.
He would drive to Georgetown immediately and speak with the Dillards face-to-face.
The direct approach often revealed things that phone calls concealed—body language, household dynamics, the subtle tells that could point toward Leo’s whereabouts or intentions.
As he walked toward the exit, Bill sent a quick text to April, reminding her to stay with friends and to call immediately if she spotted Leo.
Then he pocketed his phone and quickened his pace, a sense of urgency propelling him toward the wealthy, insulated world that awaited—and perhaps within it, the key to understanding the threat that Leo Dillard posed.