Page 38 of Once Broken
“Too well, sometimes,” Jilly added with a crooked smile.“Yesterday I nearly pepper-sprayed the mailman because he came to the door at an unusual time.”
Bill chuckled.“She’s exaggerating.But she did make the poor guy show ID before accepting the package.”
The moment of levity eased some of the tension, and Riley felt herself relax fractionally.Her daughters were smart, alert, and prepared—they’d absorbed her training well.Still, she couldn’t shake the knowledge that Leo Dillard was unlike the average predator.His intelligence, patience, and methodical nature made him particularly dangerous.
“How’s the case going?”April asked, clearly trying to change the subject from her own situation.
Riley hesitated, unsure how much to share.“It’s...complicated.The local Detective has his theory, but Ann Marie and I are pursuing a different angle.”
“Meaning he thinks you’re wrong and wants you to back off,” Bill translated with the insight of someone who’d worked with Riley for years.
“Something like that,” Riley admitted.“We’re regrouping in the morning.”
The conversation continued for another fifteen minutes, drifting to lighter topics—Jilly’s latest art project, April’s literature professor who insisted on wearing a different bow tie for each author they studied, Bill’s successful repair of the dishwasher that had been making mysterious grinding noises.Normal life continues despite the shadows hanging over them.
“I should go,” April finally said, glancing at something off-screen.“My study group’s meeting in ten minutes in the common room.”
“And I’ve got homework,” Jilly added, already shifting to stand.
“Stay safe,” Riley said, unable to keep the urgency from her voice.“Both of you.I love you.”
“Love you too, Mom,” they echoed almost in unison before their windows disappeared from the screen, leaving only Bill’s face looking back at her.
“They’ll be okay,” he assured her quietly.“I won’t let anything happen to them.”
Riley nodded, grateful beyond words for his steady presence in their lives.“I know.Keep me updated on anything—anything at all-that seems out of place.”
“I will.Try to get some rest, Riley.You look exhausted.”
After they disconnected, Riley sat motionless on the edge of the bed, the room suddenly vast and empty around her.She closed the laptop and set it aside, then moved to the window, pushing aside the heavy curtain to look out at the Atlanta skyline glittering against the night sky.
Somewhere out there was a killer motivated by decades-old grievances, possibly planning their next move.And hundreds of miles away, her daughters were doing their best to live normal lives while a dangerous obsessive lurked somewhere close by.The distance between them had never felt so insurmountable, so suffocating.
Riley pressed her forehead against the cool glass, closing her eyes.Two separate threats, two different predators, and right now she felt powerless against both.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Crystal Keene straightened her silk scarf against the evening chill as she stepped from the Uber onto the sidewalk in front of The Velvet Screen.The theater’s marquee above her was dark, its bulbs extinguished since the venue’s closure a month prior, yet warm light spilled from the lobby windows.She checked her watch: eleven o’clock precisely.Ted Coonfield would be waiting inside, analog to his core, a man who measured his life in the steady rhythm of twenty-four frames per second.She admired that—the commitment to craft in a world that increasingly mistook convenience for progress.
“Thanks,” she told the driver, who responded with a disinterested nod before pulling away.The car’s taillights receded into the night, leaving Crystal alone on the deserted block.
She approached the theater entrance, her heels clicking against the concrete.Tonight’s clandestine screening felt deliciously subversive—a small act of rebellion against the digital homogenization of cinema.After the horror of Veronica Slate’s murder and postponement of the Roberta Rimes film festival, this private viewing ofDandelion Daysoffered both comfort and continuity.A reminder that art endured, even as artists perished.
The glass doors yielded to her push without resistance.Unlocked, as Ted had promised.Crystal stepped into the lobby, her nostrils filling with the familiar perfume of a vintage movie house: aged carpeting, faint remnants of butter and salt, the subtle ghost of decades of perfumes and colognes that had passed through these doors in more vibrant times.
“Ted?”she called, her voice echoing slightly in the empty space.“It’s Crystal Keene.”
No answer came.The concession stand stood abandoned, its popcorn machine cold and silent, display cases emptied of their candy and snacks.The lobby lights burned bright, however, suggesting Ted’s presence somewhere in the building.
Crystal frowned, mildly annoyed.They’d arranged everything so precisely over the phone—she would arrive at eleven, and he would haveDandelion Daysready to screen.Perhaps he was busy in the projection booth, making final adjustments to ensure the perfect presentation.
She made her way toward the main theater, pushing through the padded double doors.Inside, the house lights glowed at half-strength, illuminating rows of burgundy velvet seats that faced the blank screen like supplicants before an altar.The theater was larger than she’d expected—perhaps three hundred seats, arranged in a gentle slope toward the screen.Though modest by modern multiplex standards, it had an intimacy that newer venues lacked, a sense that the space had been designed for communion between audience and art.
Crystal paused at the entrance, scanning the empty seats for any sign of Ted.Finding none, she tilted her head back to look toward the projection booth—a small windowed room set high in the back wall.Light spilled from its windows, and she could make out the silhouette of projectors inside.
“Ted?”she called again, louder this time.“Are you up there?”
A figure moved across one of the windows, a dark shape against the brightness.A hand raised in what appeared to be a wave.
