Chapter 31
BAILEY
“This is unbelievable,” Ben says, gawking at the contents of the accordion file spread over the kitchen table in front of us. “He had all of this?”
“Yes,” I say, still struggling to believe it myself. My entire life, along with everything I thought I knew about the death of my family, had been flipped upside down in a matter of days.
“Unbelievable,” Ben says again. He’s repeated the word at least a half-dozen times since getting home from work.
When he asked what I was doing, I passed him Reed’s file.
It was the first one I read after returning from lunch with Zane.
He’d organized everything into five smaller sub-folders full of detailed reports, photographs, and background information, one for each of Reed’s victims and a folder for Reed himself. I’d already studied that one for hours.
Reed’s upbringing was admittedly a tragic one.
As a child, he was abandoned by his mother and left to his convict father to raise.
Jack Aldridge dragged Reed all over the country searching for work: Pennsylvania, Nebraska, Arizona, Texas.
They never stayed anywhere for long. Jack’s employment records were littered with terminations.
There were run-ins with the law. Mostly petty stuff—bar fights and DUIs—until Jack killed a man on his front porch in Midland when Reed was twelve years old.
Reed spent a year in the foster system after that, racking up behavior complaints until his aunt, Beth Aldridge, adopted him and brought him to Durango, Colorado.
Reed seemed to level out from there. He got decent grades and managed to land a spot on the high school football team.
His yearbook photos look like those of all the other boys his age—Reed staring empty-eyed at the camera, attempting to look cool.
Reed perched on a bench with some friends, managing to appear both bored and agitated at the same time.
Reed on the football field caught in mid-flight, leaping for a pass.
In those pictures, he never smiled. His smiles were reserved for Taylor White.
It’s why I’d keyed on her to begin with.
There they were, sitting side by side on the gym bleachers, Taylor giving Reed an oh you!
flap of her hand. There they were huddled over a classroom table, Taylor focused on a project, Reed focused on her.
Just look at the two of them caught in conversation at a cafeteria table, so cute together, so in love.
Zane hadn’t provided many photos of her and Reed on the flash drive he dropped into the file, but there were enough to let me know Taylor mattered.
In those pictures, Reed’s smile was real.
“These are the women? The ones he conned?” Ben says, pulling a photo closer.
I’ve arranged Reed’s victims in a single row at the top of the table by name: Rachel Dawson, an Etsy queen who designed cheap handbags and cutesy home decor.
Lacey Grayson, a fitness buff whom Reed conned using a fake fitness franchise.
Jennifer Stewart, a Montana realtor with a killer smile who made the mistake of adding Reed to her business bank account.
And finally, Evelyn Nash—the payoff Reed had been chasing for years.
“Yep,” I say. “The ones we know about, anyway.”
“Fucking hell,” Ben says, returning the photo to the lineup. He takes one of Reed and whistles low through his teeth. “He dresses so differently in all of these. I’d never guess he was the same person.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s unreal.”
Beneath the women, I’ve positioned pictures of Reed as he appeared in each relationship. He was good. Really good. His wardrobes. His hairstyles. Even his posture. Every look expertly curated for his targets.
I study the different versions of Reed again, one by one.
There’s Lucas Pierce for Lacey Grayson, a tattooed gym bro fond of tank tops and full-body tans. Lucas is well built with muscular arms and wears his hair short in a buzz cut. He has a strong jawline and a V-shaped torso and looks like he belongs on the cover of Men’s Health.
Next comes Miles Baxter for Jennifer Stewart the realtor.
In these photos, Reed is freshly slacked and polo’d.
He has a head full of investment-banker hair—perfectly parted to the side.
His eyes are slightly magnified by a set of thick-framed glasses and he’s wearing a fake-as-shit smile I want to punch.
I shift my gaze to Logan Thompson. This version of Reed tends toward baggy clothing.
Logan is a hoodie enthusiast who wears his ball caps backward and buries his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.
He looks like the kind of guy you’d find hitting vape pens behind a gas station.
He’s not exactly my type, but he’s definitely Rachel Dawson’s.
The picture Ben holds is of Evelyn Nash’s Romeo, Adrian Wallace, a long-haired hipster in a denim jacket and slim-cut jeans. This iteration of Reed looks far less assured than the others—but purposefully so. I have no doubt he presented this way in order to not overwhelm Evelyn.
“It’s not just how he’s dressed, either,” I say, taking the photos of Reed and re-arranging them in a line, based on the dates of his cons, from the earliest to the most recent.
I point at the first one, Logan Thompson—Rachel Dawson’s version of Reed.
“Look at his face. See the fullness of his cheeks?” I move my finger to the right and set it on Lucas Pierce. “They’re slimmer here.”
Ben’s eyes narrow. “He lost a lot of weight, didn’t he?”
“Yes. And he went even further with the next girl.” I pull the picture of Miles Baxter closer. “Look at his nose. See how it’s been contoured?”
Ben picks it up and squints. “Surgery?”
“I think so. But nothing that looks unnatural. Just enough of an alteration to change his appearance when combined with the new haircut and wardrobe.”
Ben sets the picture back on the table. “So, what name is he going by now?”
“Grant Wilson.” I dig into Reed’s file and pull out another picture and hand it to Ben. It’s a faraway shot of Reed sitting on a wraparound porch with a beer in his hand, gazing out at a spectacular view.
“Nice place,” Ben says.
“Yeah. The guy’s been enjoying his retirement.”
Ben studies me, then pops his elbow onto the table and leans forward. “You’re taking this to the cops, right?”
“No,” I say. “What would I tell them? That Reed was the one to hit my car instead of Evelyn? There’s no proof he was involved. Nothing solid, anyway. There weren’t any witnesses.”
Ben frowns. “So find these other women, then. Get them to file a report.”
I snort. “They already have. Zane looked into them. It didn’t matter. None of these women had his real identity. Reed’s good, Ben. He’s been doing this a long time. If I go to the cops, he’ll get spooked and disappear again.”
“You don’t know that.”
In all actuality, my brother is right. I don’t, though I suspect it’s true.
But either way, I’m not about to hand Reed over to the police.
I don’t simply want Reed arrested. Reed Aldridge is the reason I’ll never again feel the brush of Ethan’s hand against my own or hear him whisper I love you as he pulls me close from behind.
Reed is the reason Ethan and I won’t grow old together or travel the world like he wanted to; backpacking across Europe had been his dream.
And that’s exactly what it will remain. A dream.
A what-if, forever buried in the past along with my husband and my child, all because of Reed.
He took so much from me that day. He obliterated every beautiful memory my family will never share.
All of the birthdays and holidays and family vacations, gone.
Because of Reed Aldridge, I’ll never attend Noah’s high school and college graduations and never get to see the man he’d become from there.
Because of Reed Aldridge, I’ll never get to meet my daughter-in-law or hold my grandchildren in my arms. The day Reed barreled into the side of my car, he took everything from me.
Just like he’s taken everything from so many others.
Which is exactly what I’m going to do to him.
“So, if not the cops, then what?” Ben asks.
I turn my attention back to the table and the photographs of the women.
“Look, he has a type. Pretty but not untouchable. Slender. The girl next door.” I set my finger on Jennifer Stewart, the realtor.
“Like her. Petite. Medium height. Cute build.” I move my finger to Lacey Grayson’s picture.
It’s a shot from her fitness franchise website, Lacey glistening with sweat as she directs a HIIT class. “Just like her.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Ben says, nodding at Rachel Dawson. “She doesn’t exactly fit. And neither does Evelyn.”
I’d noticed the same thing. “No, she doesn’t. But Rachel was Reed’s first target. He needed money. He made an exception. And Evelyn was his big score. Here, look.” I snatch the yearbook photos I printed and hand one to Ben. “See the girl next to Reed?”
“Yeah. Who’s that?”
“Taylor White. An old girlfriend.”
“How do you know?”
“It isn’t hard. See how she’s looking at him? It’s obvious.” I pass him another photo—this one from Reed’s yearbook. “Notice anything else?”
Ben massages his mouth. “She’s cute.”
“Besides that.”
He sighs. “Okay, yeah, I’ll give. She looks like the others. And that hair. Wow.”
I study it—a flowing, strawberry mane closer to red than blonde, framing a pair of light green eyes.
“Like I said. He has a type.” I reach over and set my hand on his arm. “Ben, look at me. Tell me what you see.”
He smirks. “My sister?”
I roll my eyes. “No. Pretend I’m a stranger. Who do I look like? Who do I remind you of?”
He rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not tracking.”
I sweep my hand toward the photos. “Them. I look like them.”
His brow furrows, his gaze pinballing between the photos and my face. “I mean … maybe. Sort of. Why does it matter?”
I hesitate. I’ve debated long and hard about this.
I could keep Ben in the dark or I could tell him what I plan to do.
In the end, I know there’s no way I can lie to him.
Besides, I don’t need him worrying when I disappear, thinking I’ve decided to take another run at ending my life.
And I certainly don’t want him filing a missing person report.
No, if I’m going to do this—and I absolutely am—Ben has every right to know.
“It matters,” I say, swallowing. “Because it means I’m his type.”
The crease over his nose deepens. “His type? Bailey, what exactly are you getting at here?”
“I’m going to meet him.”
Ben recoils. “What? Why the hell would you do that?”
I stiffen. “Because I’m going to do to him what he’s done to all these women, to me. I’m going to destroy him.”
The color drains from his face. He blinks. “Oh, Jesus, Bailey, no …”
“You’re the one who said I needed closure.”
He gives me a what-the-fuck-are-you-smoking kind of look and shakes his head. “How is getting involved with this guy closure? That’s not closure. What you’re talking about—shit—it sounds like madness.”
Heat hits my eyes, the tears already rising.
I stand and grab the picture of Reed sitting on his deck, beer in hand, and shake it.
“This man has destroyed so many lives, Ben. So many! You want to know what closure is for me?” I slap the photo back to the table and stab it with my finger.
“Ruining him. Taking back what he stole and returning it to his victims. Doing to him exactly what he’s done to others.
I want to make him hurt. I want him to suffer.
That’s closure! It’s how I stay out of the ground.
And you can either support me in this, or you can walk away.
I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But you don’t get to stop me.
I’m doing this with or without you. Do you understand? With or without.”
He stares at me with his eyes glossing. His lips tremble, and I know he’s fighting tears, too.
But there’s something else buried in the look—a flicker of understanding.
He’s been here before in his own way, when the doctors told him he’d never walk again, that living a normal life would be difficult.
He didn’t listen to them, either. He simply turned their words into motivation and proved them all wrong.
He did it his own way, just like I have to do this mine.
After a moment, he nods. “I’m always with you. You know I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know,” I say, leaning over and pulling him into a hug. “I know.”
When we separate, he’s crying, no longer holding the tears back. He runs the back of his hand over his face and laughs. “You’re out of your goddamn mind, though. There’s no way you can do this alone.”
I retake my seat. “I’m not going to. Zane’s going to help me. He just doesn’t know it yet.”