Page 27 of Murder in the Lighthouse

As they continued to discuss their strategy, they knew how high the stakes were. They also realized that time was running out for Bethany if she was still alive. As the evening wore on, they wrapped up their meeting and said their goodbyes, each lost in their own thoughts. Lucien and Brogan cleaned up the kitchen and headed upstairs, the weight of the investigation heavy on their minds.

7

Jade’s comment remained in Lucien’s head hours later, long after their guests had gone home when the house was quiet, and he kept tossing and turning next to Brogan. Finally giving up on sleep, he got out of bed and tip-toed downstairs to the living room, his footsteps echoing in the silence of the house. He went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a full glass of whiskey.

Maybe a dose of Jack Daniels could help him nod off. Not likely, he decided, as moonlight filtered through the bank of windows. He got comfortable on the sofa, his mind racing with images of what he’d seen at the lighthouse. He seemed unable to get that grim sight out of his head, knowing somewhere out there in the dark, Bethany had probably suffered the same fate as her brother.

Images of Bethany and Sam Heywood flashed before his eyes, their faces haunting him even in solitude. If, by somemiracle, she happened to still be alive, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were racing against a malevolent force hellbent on silencing anyone who dared uncover the truth.

The liquor did nothing to calm his nerves. He got up to pace, peering out into the darkness. His thoughts turned from the victims to the elusive killer they were trying to track down. A chill ran down his spine as he realized how cunning and dangerous this individual must be.

He set his glass on a side table and pulled out his phone. He began scrolling through the blog posts Jade had bookmarked. The posts from Truthseeker22 stared back at him from the screen, each a puzzle piece in a larger, more sinister picture. Lucien’s jaw clenched as he read through the comments.

He reread each post, his mind trying to decipher a clue. Suddenly, the use of a particular phrase caught his eye—the answer lies where it all began—and was repeated several times over different websites. What did that mean? Where had it all begun? He tried to come up with the meaning behind those words. Had it started with Connie Upland? Or perhaps even earlier, with another victim they knew nothing about? If so, why didn’t they say that? Why drop the vague hints at knowing more?

Lucien took his glass and headed for his office. He decided to dig deeper into cases occurring before 1999. He started cross-referencing dates and locations, using keywords like strangled or stabbed, looking for any cases that might be connected. He found three possible victims that had been killed in 1998, prior to Connie’s murder. But did they have a link to Keith Shepherd?

Suddenly, a realization hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Why not ask the poster directly?

He created a profile on impulse, picked a silly white rabbit in a top hat as his avatar, and set out to reply to every Truthseeker22 post throughout the years.

Hunched over his laptop, Lucien meticulously crafted each response, trying to engage the poster in a way that would reveal more about their identity. He asked probing questions in some posts, subtly steering the conversation toward the older cases. In a few replies, he mentioned how the cops had likely bungled the investigations. In other responses, he tried to mimic the tone of Truthseeker22’s plea for justice, hoping to befriend him.

He spent hours constructing his responses, each one carefully worded to pique Truthseeker22’s interest without revealing too much. In a few posts, he delved into the details of the cases from 1998, weaving in questions and comments that hinted at a shared knowledge only someone involved in the investigations would possess. Each time he hit “send” on a reply, a surge of adrenaline swept through him.

Lucien was no fool. He knew he had to be cautious, not reveal his intentions too much or give away the connection to Sam and Bethany. He had no idea who this person was. But with each reply, he hoped it would elicit a response that might point to Keith Shepherd as their suspect.

When he’d finally finished the last response, he leaned back in his chair, swiveled toward his whiskey, and drained the contents of the glass in one fierce gulp.

Now, he had to wait for Truthseeker22 to return with a comment.

Exhausted, he stood up and shuffled across the room to the small loveseat in his office. He dropped down into the soft cushions, stretching his legs out until his feet hung over the sides. He plumped the cushy pillows several times before curling into the sofa cushions.

Within minutes, he was fast asleep.

8

The next morning at 6:45, Brogan woke to see Lucien’s side of the bed empty. Thinking he’d gotten up early, she threw on a robe and headed downstairs, Stella and Poppy hot on her heels. But as she reached the first floor, she heard snoring. Loud. Emphatic. Snoring. She followed the sound coming from his office. Instead of finding him wide awake, she found him curled up in a ball on the loveseat, passed out.

When the dogs started to whine, she shushed them and looked around the room. She spotted the empty glass tumbler on his desk, picked it up, and gave it a sniff. “Yep, that would do it. I’d recognize that smell anywhere.”

Instead of shaking him awake, she threw a blanket over him and headed to the kitchen to make coffee, the dogs trailing behind, hoping for breakfast.

After scooping food into their dishes, she watched Stella and Poppy settle over their kibble. Craving coffee, she poured beans into a grinder. The whirring sound pulsated out a beat she could wake up to. Bypassing the fancy barista machine, she dumped the fresh ground coffee into her workhorse of a coffeemaker, filled it with water, and hit the button to brew a pot instead of one cup. When it kicked into gear, the aroma was enough to wrap around her like a warm, comforting blanket. It might even be strong enough to rouse Lucien from his slumber.

She leaned against the kitchen counter, taking a moment to savor the quiet before the day began in earnest. The events of the night before flooded her mind—the intensity of their investigation, the dark and dangerous path they were treading in pursuit of a killer.

When the machine beeped an end to the brewing cycle, she poured herself a cup and heard the sound of footsteps shuffling toward the kitchen. She turned to see Lucien rubbing his blurry eyes, blinking rapidly to filter out the bright light coming through the blinds, holding up his hands to block out the sun. His disheveled appearance signaled either a throbbing headache or an intense hangover. He carried his laptop under his arm.

“Could you do something about all that sunlight?” Lucien muttered.

“What do you suggest? Did you turn into a vampire overnight? Do you need to go back to your coffin before you burst into flames?”

“Very funny,” he mumbled as he inched closer to the coffee pot, leaving his laptop on the kitchen table. “Right now, closing those blinds would be a blessing.”

She slowly moved over to lower the shades. “How much did you drink last night?”

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