Chapter 7
Brooklyn Sloane
Brook carried a small bowl of grapes into the dining room and paused in the doorway to appreciate what Bit had accomplished in the span of two hours.
The long wooden table that had likely hosted formal dinners decades ago was now divided into four distinct workstations, each marked by a laptop, a charging dock, and a small stack of file folders that Arden had prepared before their departure.
Cables ran in organized bundles along the table’s edge and down to several power strips on the floor.
At the far end of the table, Bit had positioned the firm’s large portable monitor on a low stand, its screen currently active and casting a blue-white glow across the faded runner and the brass candelabras that no one had bothered to move.
The monitor had deliberately been angled toward the table and away from the foyer.
With Gwenyth living upstairs and Porter coming and going from the main house, Bit had made certain that anyone passing through the entrance hall wouldn’t be able to read the information on the screen. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but it would do in the short term.
Conducting an investigation from a dead man’s dining room while his daughter occupied the floor above them was far from standard operating procedure.
Brook had made the decision to stay on the estate for a reason, though.
Dale and Porter had offered the rooms without hesitation, and Gwenyth, through Porter, had given her consent.
Brook suspected that the invitation had more to do with keeping an eye on the investigation than with hospitality.
Regardless, the forensics team would be excavating remains for the better part of the week, and she wanted her team within walking distance of the greenhouse rather than thirty minutes away at the nearest motel. They could reconsider the lodging arrangement later if their situation changed.
Bit was currently in the kitchen, familiarizing himself with the pantry situation, and Theo had gone upstairs to call Mia.
That left Sylvie, who was sitting in one of the dining room chairs, holding a remote and adjusting the layout on the portable monitor.
The afternoon sunshine was slanting through the thin gap in the heavy curtains, throwing a single bright stripe across the table that bisected Sylvie’s workstation and lit the dust suspended in the air above it.
“Everything okay?”
Brook set the bowl of grapes on the table near her workstation and pulled out a chair. The wood creaked as she carefully lowered herself into it, and the baby responded to the shift in position with a slow roll that pressed against her ribs.
“If you’re asking about my phone call with Graham earlier, everything is fine. He’s out of the country, but he’ll be back sometime next week. It’s the last trip he’s taking for a while. He’s amended his consulting agreement with the government.”
“Good,” Sylvie said simply, still focused on the monitor. She didn’t press further, which was one of the things Brook valued most about her.
What Brook didn’t share was the edge she’d detected in Graham’s voice during their conversation on the tarmac.
It was rare for him to carry such tension in his tone.
He was a man who had spent decades commanding operations, and his ability to compartmentalize was one of the qualities that made him exceptional at his work.
But she’d heard something beneath the surface of his words this morning.
A tautness that he hadn’t quite managed to smooth over before they’d ended their call.
She didn’t know his exact location, only that it fell under the umbrella of government consulting, but she could guess it wasn’t anywhere she’d want him to be at the precise moment.
And although Graham could take care of himself, it didn’t stop her from worrying.
Brook settled deeper into the chair beside Sylvie and directed her attention to the monitor.
The screen had been divided into a grid.
Eight sections, one for each set of remains.
Seven of the sections were labeled with numbers one through seven, each accompanied by whatever data the forensics team had provided so far.
Excavation status.
Burial location within the greenhouse.
And all preliminary findings.
The sections for the remains that hadn’t yet been fully excavated were sparse, containing only the GPR imaging and the grid coordinates. The eighth section was different, though. Instead of a number, it was labeled NESTOR ELLINGHAM, and the data beneath his name was the most complete of the eight.
The dental record comparison had been confirmed thirty minutes prior.
Skeletal measurements had been included, as well as the cause of death.
Blunt force trauma, depressed fracture to the left parietal bone.
As a side note, the bilateral defensive fracture to the right forearm had been included in the list.
Brook ate a grape and studied the screen in silence.
Two distinct acts of violence had occurred in that greenhouse, and the profiles she was building reflected that distinction.
Nestor’s death could have been reactive.
The fracture pattern on his skull was consistent with a single, heavy blow.
Likely delivered with an object of opportunity rather than a preselected weapon.
The defensive wound on his right forearm confirmed a confrontation, which meant Nestor had known his attacker was coming for him, or at the very least had enough warning to raise his arms.
The attack was desperate, unplanned, and personal.
The women were a different matter entirely.
No skeletal trauma. No signs of struggle.
Deliberate positioning. These were not acts of rage or desperation.
They were acts of ritual. The killer had taken time with each burial.
The unsub had chosen specific locations within the greenhouse that wouldn’t disrupt the growing environment.
He had laid these women to rest as though the word “rest” meant something to him.
That level of care pointed to a killer who believed he was performing an act of devotion. The victims weren’t objects to him. They were meaningful. The greenhouse hadn’t been a dumping ground. It had been a destination, possibly even a sanctuary.
Two profiles.
One killer driven by panic, the other by purpose.
Whether they were the same person operating under different circumstances or two entirely separate individuals was a question Brook couldn’t yet answer.
If the same individual killed all eight, then Nestor’s murder represented a break in the pattern. A disruption of the ritual. Something or someone had forced the unsub’s hand.
“Two profiles,” Sylvie said quietly, as though she’d been following Brook’s thoughts on the screen.
“Yes.”
Brook reached for another grape just as Theo walked into the dining room.
The tension that had been sitting across his shoulders when he’d gone upstairs to call Mia had loosened considerably, and there was a warmth behind his expression that only appeared after he’d spoken with her.
Before he could address them, a heavy knock on the front door echoed through the foyer.
The three of them exchanged glances.
“It’s unlikely that Gwenyth heard that,” Brook pointed out as she gestured toward the door. “It could be Dr. Kessler.”
Theo nodded his agreement before walking toward the front door. Brook’s thoughts turned to Gwenyth while they waited. Bit was the only member of the team who had encountered her so far, and his account had been characteristically vivid.
A woman standing at the railing of the staircase, a gray cardigan, and a stare that had apparently shaved a year off his life expectancy. Porter had been very clear that Gwenyth preferred to be left alone, and Brook would respect that boundary for the time being.
But it wouldn’t last.
At some point soon, Brook intended to knock on the door of Gwenyth’s suite and introduce herself, regardless of Porter’s insistence.
A woman who had spent thirty years living next to a greenhouse full of buried remains was either a witness, a victim, or something else entirely, and Brook needed to determine which.
Porter’s role in all of this remained an open question, as well.
The so-called groundskeeper lived in a small cottage near the back of the property, close enough to the main house to keep an eye on Gwenyth but separate enough to maintain a boundary. His loyalty to her was evident, though the nature of that loyalty remained in question.
Protective?
Possessive?
Or simply habitual?
Theo returned to the dining room with a gentleman at his side.
Brook recognized him from the photographs in Arden’s briefing file before the man uttered a word.
Dale Ellingham was in his mid-seventies, though he carried himself with the stiff, deliberate posture of someone who considered appearance an extension of authority.
His hair was white and neatly combed, and he wore pressed khakis with a collared shirt that was buttoned one too high for the Indiana heat.
His shoes were clean, which meant he’d come directly to the front door without walking the property.
“Mr. Ellingham,” Brook greeted, rising from her chair a little slower than normal.
“Ms. Sloane, I presume.” His handshake was brief and perfunctory.
“I appreciate you and Gwenyth opening the estate to us,” Brook said, gesturing toward an empty chair. “Please, have a seat.”
Dale remained standing.
“I won’t take up too much of your time. I just have a few questions.” He clasped his hands in front of him, a posture that was meant to convey patience but carried a barely concealed urgency instead. “How long do you anticipate this investigation will take?”
“That depends on what the evidence tells us,” Brook replied evenly. “The forensics team will be on site for at least another week. Our work will extend beyond that.”
Dale nodded once, though the answer clearly didn’t satisfy him.
“I still don’t understand why the crew started with the greenhouse,” Dale said, the frustration breaking through his composure for the first time.
“They were instructed to clear the grounds first. The overgrowth, the fencing, the areas that Porter had let go over the years. He can only do so much on his own now that he seems to be taking care of Gwenyth on a daily basis. I don’t mean to sound insincere, but my primary concern is my niece and the care she obviously needs.
I should have stepped in and taken over her affairs years ago, and I’ll carry that regret for the rest of my life.
But the truth is, she was lucid back then.
She made her own decisions, and she made them clearly.
It wasn’t until recently that the decline began to take hold. ”
He paused, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve in a gesture that struck Brook as rehearsed.
“Porter hid it, of course. Thinking he was doing what was best for her, but I believe he’s overstepped his bounds.
Nestor always gave the man too much leeway, but that’s neither here nor there.
” Dale took the time to meet each of their gazes.
“What matters most is getting Gwenyth into a facility where someone can look after her around the clock. The proceeds from the estate sale will go directly toward her care. After the tax debt is paid, of course.”
“A small portion of the proceeds, you mean.” Brook hadn’t wanted to start this discussion off as an adversary, but he’d left her little choice. “Relative to your debt, as well.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Dale’s composure didn’t crack, but it shifted, causing a slight tightening around his mouth. He wasn’t used to being confronted, and he certainly hadn’t expected it from a pregnant woman eating grapes in his brother’s dining room.
“We’re well aware of your financial situation, Mr. Ellingham,” Brook continued, her tone neither accusatory nor sympathetic. “The outstanding liens, the delinquent accounts, the second mortgage on your own property. We’re thorough. It’s what the Bureau hired us to be.”
She let a beat pass before softening her voice, but only by a degree.
“I am sorry for the loss of your brother.”
The pivot had been intentional, and it landed exactly where she’d aimed it.
Dale’s expression faltered. His calculated composure gave way to something rawer, if only for a moment, as the reality of what Brook had just done settled over him.
She had reminded him, without raising her voice, that his brother’s remains were among the dead in that greenhouse, and that his first visit to this house had been spent talking about money.
“The sheriff informed me,” Dale said quietly, his voice stripped of its earlier formality. “About Nestor.”
“Yes, I know.” Brook had a long conversation with Sheriff Gentry before he’d left the estate. “Sheriff Gentry mentioned that you asked to be the one to tell Gwenyth, but—”
“That’s correct. And I would appreciate it if we could keep our voices down. I’d rather wait until Gwenyth is settled in a proper facility before giving her that kind of news. She’s fragile. Something like this could push her over the edge.”
Brook shared a surprised glance with Theo and Sylvie. It had been their understanding that Porter had already delivered the news, which was what she’d been attempting to relay. Brook parted her lips to respond, but she never got the chance. A voice came from the first landing of the staircase.
“I already know, Uncle Dale.”
Gwenyth Ellingham stood with one hand on the banister, the other hanging limp at her side.
She wore the same long gray cardigan that Bit had described, and her dark hair fell straight and uncombed past her shoulders.
Her face was pale, her frame impossibly thin beneath the shapeless knit, yet her eyes carried a clarity that contradicted everything Dale and Porter had claimed about her condition.
She was staring directly at her uncle with animosity.
“I’ve always known.”