CHAPTER TWELVE
Riley navigated Atlanta traffic skillfully through the approaching dusk while her mind traveled down two separate paths of concern—the murder in her professional focus, plus the shadow looming over April.
In the passenger seat, Ann Marie studied the GPS on her phone. “We should be about ten minutes from Timeless Threads Boutique.”
“What kind of name is Timeless Threads anyway?” Riley asked, grateful for the change of subject. “Sounds like a craft store, not a vintage clothing shop.”
“According to what I found online, it specializes in period costumes and movie memorabilia. The owner—Diane Kingsley—worked in Hollywood wardrobe departments before she became an actress.”
Riley’s phone buzzed, and Ann Marie reached for it. “It’s Bill,” she said, answering and putting it on speaker. “Agent Esmer here with Agent Paige. You’re on speaker, Bill.”
“Riley? Ann Marie?” Bill’s voice filled the car, the connection slightly fuzzy. “I just left the Dillard house in Georgetown. You need to hear this.”
The gravity in Bill’s voice sent a chill through Riley. “What did you find out?”
“Leo Dillard is more dangerous than we thought. I spoke with his mother, Elizabeth. She said that she and her husband had cut off Leo and hadn’t heard from him in five years. She also told me about Leo’s younger sister, Kelli.”
“I didn’t know he had a sister,” Riley said, navigating around a delivery truck double-parked on the narrow street.
“Had is the operative word,” Bill replied grimly. “She committed suicide five years ago, when she was nineteen. A freshman at Georgetown University.”
Ann Marie leaned closer to the phone. “And Leo was involved?”
“According to Elizabeth, he systematically destroyed his sister’s life—isolated her from friends, sabotaged her relationship with her boyfriend, created fake evidence of things she hadn’t done. And the whole time, he presented himself as her supportive brother, the one person she could trust.”
“That’s why they cut him off,” Riley murmured.
“Exactly. After Kelli’s death, Elizabeth found emails proving Leo had orchestrated everything. When confronted, he showed no remorse. Said his sister was ‘too weak for this world’ and he’d merely ‘accelerated the inevitable.’“
A heavy silence filled the car as Riley processed this information. The traffic light ahead turned yellow, then red. She stopped, staring through the windshield at nothing in particular.
“Elizabeth described him as fixating on authority figures, especially women,” Bill continued. “Said it started with teachers in preparatory school. He would develop intense obsessions, creating elaborate fantasies about their futures together.”
“Just like with me,” Riley said quietly.
The light turned green, but Riley didn’t immediately accelerate. A horn blared behind her, jolting her back to awareness. She eased the car forward.
“How’s April doing?” she asked, hating the tremor she couldn’t quite keep from her voice.
“I just got off the phone with her before I called you,” Bill reassured her. “She’s with her roommate and some friends. Campus security is aware of the situation, and they’ve increased patrols around her dorm and classroom buildings.”
“Good.” She paused, then asked the question that had been gnawing at her. “Bill, what can we actually do here? Leo dropped out of the Academy after my complaint, and while his interaction with April is disturbing, he hasn’t broken any laws or even made a direct threat.”
Bill’s sigh crackled through the speaker. “That’s the problem. Legally, our hands are tied until he actually does something. But given what happened to his sister...”
“We keep April safe,” Riley said firmly. “We make sure she’s never alone, that she stays in public places, that she varies her routines.”
“Already on it,” Bill confirmed. “I’ve set up a system where she checks in with me at regular intervals throughout the day. And I’ve spoken with campus security about monitoring their visitor logs and surveillance footage.”
Riley navigated a sharp turn, following Ann Marie’s gestured directions. “Do we have any leads on where Leo might be staying? Any property in his name?”
“I’m working on that now. The family cut him off financially, but Elizabeth mentioned he’d received a substantial inheritance from his grandfather. He’s not hurting for money, which means he could be anywhere, using any name.”
The frustration in Bill’s voice mirrored Riley’s own feelings. They were trained to hunt killers, to track predators through the most obscure trails of evidence. But Leo hadn’t killed anyone directly—yet. He had intentionally destroyed his sister, but with emotional weapons over a period of time.
“What’s your next move?” she asked.
“I’m heading back to Fredericksburg now. I’ll follow up with April in person and make sure she understands the seriousness of the situation. Then I’ll start digging into Leo’s financial records, see if I can trace any purchases or rental agreements.”
Riley checked the cross streets as they approached their destination. “Bill, be careful. If Leo is as methodical as his mother says, he might be watching April’s movements. That means he could spot you, too.”
“I’m always careful. How’s your case going?”
“We’re following a lead now—headed to meet a former actress who knew Roberta Rimes during the McCarthy era. There might be a connection between Veronica’s murder and her mother’s testimony before HUAC.”
“Old ghosts coming back to haunt the next generation,” Bill mused. “Sounds promising. Keep me posted.”
“I will. And Bill? Thank you for handling all this with April. I hate being so far away from her right now.”
“She’s like a daughter to me, too, Riley. You know that.”
“I know. I’ll call you later.”
After ending the call, Riley turned onto Peachtree Street, scanning the storefronts for their destination.
“There it is,” Ann Marie said, pointing to a narrow Victorian house sandwiched between more modern buildings.
True to Gillian Sinclair’s description, a mannequin dressed in a replica of Judy Garland’s iconic blue gingham dress and ruby slippers stood in the front window, frozen mid-step on a journey to somewhere over the rainbow.
Riley parked across the street, studying the building as they unbuckled their seatbelts.
Timeless Threads Boutique occupied the first floor of the three-story Victorian, its faded elegance evident in the ornate woodwork and stained glass accents.
A hand-painted sign hung above the door, the letters styled to evoke 1940s glamour.
But despite the artistic presentation, there was something melancholy about the place—like a beautiful woman who had aged without quite accepting the passage of time.
A “CLOSED” sign hung in the window, likely a response to Veronica Slate’s death, as Gillian had suggested. Beside it, a smaller sign read “By Appointment Only” with a phone number.
“Guess we’re the appointment,” Ann Marie remarked as they crossed the street.
Riley pressed the brass doorbell beside the entrance, its chime audible even from outside. Nothing happened. She pressed it again, longer this time.
After nearly a minute, movement flickered behind the door’s frosted glass panel. The lock clicked, and the door opened just enough to reveal a woman’s face peering out at them.
“Yes?” The voice was soft, slightly tremulous.
“Ms. Kingsley? I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, and this is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer. We’re with the FBI. Gillian Sinclair called ahead about our visit.”
The door opened wider. Diane Kingsley was tall and thin, her frame draped in a flowing caftan of peacock blue silk that might have been fashionable decades ago.
Her silver hair was arranged in an elaborate updo that seemed too formal for a quiet afternoon at home, and her face—once beautiful, Riley could tell—wore makeup applied with a hand that wasn’t entirely steady.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Diane said, her hands fluttering like agitated birds. “Gillian called. About dear Veronica. Such a tragedy. Please, come in.”
She stepped back, swinging the door wide.
Riley and Ann Marie entered a space that felt more like a film set than a retail store.
Racks of vintage clothing lined the walls, organized by era—1920s flapper dresses shimmering with beadwork, 1930s bias-cut gowns in liquid satins, 1940s suits with strong shoulders and nipped waists.
But what drew Riley’s attention were the mannequins.
They stood throughout the shop, at least a dozen of them, each dressed in a recognizable costume from classic Hollywood.
Not just dressed—transformed. Wigs, makeup, and accessories all meticulously arranged to create the illusion that these weren’t mannequins at all, but specific stars themselves, frozen in their most iconic moments.
“My little family,” Diane said, following Riley’s gaze. She approached the nearest mannequin—dressed in Audrey Hepburn’s black Givenchy dress from Breakfast at Tiffany’s—and gently adjusted its pearl necklace. “They keep me company. This one’s been fussy today. The pearls never sit quite right.”
Riley exchanged a quick glance with Ann Marie, whose expression remained professionally neutral despite the oddness of the moment.
“We have so much to discuss,” Diane continued, gesturing for them to follow her toward the back of the store. “Not down here, though. Too many ears.” She cast a meaningful look at the mannequins, then smiled as if sharing a private joke. “This way to my apartment. We’ll have privacy there.”
She led them through a curtained doorway to a narrow staircase that creaked beneath their feet. The walls of the stairwell were lined with framed movie posters, many featuring a young Roberta Rimes.