CHAPTER TWENTY #2
Eight months.
The account read like someone who had crossed through a broken marriage and decided other women needed guidance.
“We need her name,” Selena said.
Dana checked the registration record. “Disposable email. No profile details. Recovery questions are blank.”
Connor dragged the account-activity table onto his screen. “HearthSpace kept login times even after the source addresses were deleted.”
“The regional provider kept the other side,” Selena said.
Dana understood first. “We compare MorningGlory44’s activity to subscriber connections reaching HearthSpace during those exact windows.”
“Start with the last logins,” Selena said. “Fewer records, better chance the provider still has detail.”
Kelly called the Commonwealth’s Attorney, who obtained an expedited extension from the on-call circuit judge authorizing the provider to identify subscriber connections during those precise windows.
When the return arrived, Connor and Dana worked through it.
The first two timestamps produced several residential accounts.
The third matched a fixed business line. So did the fourth and fifth.
Connor enlarged the subscriber name.
“Bell County Public Library,” he said. “Middlesboro branch.”
The registration email led nowhere, but the library connection did not. MorningGlory44’s last three traceable sessions had all come from the same public terminal network.
“Kelly…” Selena said, almost hating that she had to ask. “I need you to pull some strings again.”
*
Kelly had asked the Commonwealth’s Attorney to obtain a second order covering Bell County Public Library’s computer-area records while Dana contacted its systems manager and sent an immediate preservation request. The signed order and reply arrived within the hour.
Terminal reservation logs were no longer available, but archived security footage covered all three login windows.
Following repeated thefts from the computer area, the library had moved to a service retaining recordings for twelve months.
Three login dates gave them three blocks of footage. Several patrons used the computer area during each window, but only one woman appeared at a terminal during all three.
Connor took the video review. Selena, Kelly, and Dana continued through MorningGlory44’s early posts, searching for a name, workplace, town, or relative.
The afternoon shortened around them.
At three, the sunlight no longer reached the table. Long shadows crossed the parking lot outside, and school buses moved along the road beyond the station. Cheryl brought sandwiches and left them near the door after receiving no answer to her first knock.
Selena ate half of one without tasting it.
Somewhere in the county, the killer still had freedom.
Three women had believed they were speaking inside a protected community.
Their words had exposed fears, routines, relationships, and the moments when they would be alone.
Other members had offered the same information.
MorningGlory44 might already have chosen another target.
“I have one person who appears in all three windows,” Connor said.
Everyone turned.
He froze the library recording at 4:18 p.m. A woman sat at a terminal near the rear wall. A plain brown coat covered a dark blouse. Brown hair reached her jaw, cut without any distinctive style. The camera angle showed her in profile as she typed.
Connor opened a second recording. The same woman entered in different clothes, selected the same bank of terminals, and left forty minutes later.
The third date confirmed it.
Mid-forties. Average height and build. No visible tattoos, unusual jewelry, or clothing that would remain in a witness’s memory. She walked through the library without speaking to anyone.
Connor exported the clearest stills and sent them to Selena’s secure account.
Facial comparison returned no reliable match.
Selena tried federal criminal records, state licensing photographs available through authorized systems, jail bookings, known associates, and local databases. Nothing connected the woman to Karen, Ruth, or Linda.
Kelly stood behind her. “No driver’s-license result?”
"The angle is poor, and the resolution is worse. The system's offering low-confidence candidates from three states, including Kentucky."
“Anything usable?”
Selena worked through the returns. “Nothing close to the comparison threshold. The Kentucky matches are all down in the thirties.”
“So we don’t have an identification.”
“Not from this.”
Outside, the day had begun fading toward evening. The windows reflected the briefing room over the parking lot, placing Karen, Ruth, and Linda’s photographs against the darkening glass.
Connor rubbed the back of his neck. “We found her and still don’t know who she is.”
Selena studied the woman on-screen. “We’re looking at the version of her that already knew how to hide.”
Dana closed one search window. “What do you suggest?”
“Go back to the beginning. Before disposable accounts and library terminals became habits.” Selena opened MorningGlory44’s oldest posts. “People usually learn caution after giving something away.”
Dana searched dates, appointments, towns, businesses, court references, doctors, schools, and anything else that might point outside the platform. Most results were vague. MorningGlory44 spoke about fear and disappointment without naming the person who caused either.
At 5:06, Dana leaned closer to her screen.
“I think I have something.”
The post was fourteen months old.
I won’t make Thursday’s discussion. I have a mediation session that afternoon, and I doubt I’ll be fit company afterward.
Selena checked the surrounding thread. Other users wished her luck. One asked whether the mediation concerned her divorce. MorningGlory44 answered.
Yes. Using the same lawyer. Better than the last one. Closer, too.
“We need to identify a local family lawyer,” Selena said.
Connor checked the time. “Most offices will be closing.”
“Then we call around, quickly.”