Page 83 of Thanking Her Brother's Best Friends

Reynolds squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "It would appear so. And we have a name. Our fall guy was paid via cryptocurrency, so it took some backchecking to get to the real source, but it's something you can work with."

I smiled slowly. "Show me the money, Reynolds."

"We went through a maze of blockchain transactions," he said. "A digital maze of breadcrumbs that revealed a highly encrypted cryptocurrency. It led us to a cluster of transactions, each marked by a singular, unique identifier."

I was no stranger to this world, although it was never something I'd dabble in. But I knew one man who was obsessed with it. The pieces began coming together.

"We found a recurring alias across multiple encrypted chats. I cross-referenced the intercepted communications with other evidence, and then, there was a correlation between the timing and content of some of the messages sent to the fall guy."

"One man paid him for multiple things?" I asked, a bead of sweat trickling down my forehead. Unusual because the evening was not balmy.

"Yes. And it came down to you," he replied, his eyes piercing into mine. "Stealing your underwear. Stalking you and taking your videos. Leaving those messages."

"When we infiltrated the chatrooms, we learned about one man's obsession with a particular celebrity chef. It took some time, but eventually, a member agreed to help us in exchange for a price."

"You cut him a deal?"

"Not much I can do now that I'm no longer commissioned," he replied stoically. "But I have useful friends. Don't worry. This member was harmless. I believe he likes to make odd purchases from time to time."

I did not want to know what those purchases entailed, whether they were farts in a can or cheese that smelled like feet. I'd heard enough. "A name, Reynolds."

"The man told us a new member had joined a few months ago, hell-bent on ruining the life of this celebrity chef. The two had grown close."

I waited.

"You already know the name," he finally breathed. "And now..." He handed me a sheaf of papers containing paper trails of financial transactions, a written confession from the fall guy, and the details of the jobs he'd been asked to do. "You can do something about it too."

I looked at the name.Dave Baxter.

A lot of feelings went through me. Involve the police. Send Biscuit after him. Kill him myself. But before I could close in on any of them, a wave of impossibly hot nausea hit me like a dumpster fire.

I wobbled up and ran to the nearest bathroom. I was sure the sound of my hurling would have finally sent Reynolds over the edge, but he stood there, passive as ever, when I finally returned.

"Thanks, Reynolds," I said briskly.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't do anything yet, okay? I need some time to process everything."

He nodded. "Don't delay this. We have a very strong lead."

I gave him a grateful smile, which was monumental considering the extent of the worry that had taken root in me. I was in a shitload of trouble.

After Reynolds left, I called Franny, who'd gone shopping for groceries. I asked her to visit the pharmacy on the way home.

And then, I curled up on a couch by the fireplace and stared at my knees.

With my PCOS, periods had never been a regular occurrence, so I had happily chalked up their two months of absence as something that was routine. Not pleasant, but not unexpected.

Plus, I was probably making a mountain out of a molehill. I couldn't—no. The doctor had told me it was impossible.

Franny came home in twenty minutes. I took the pharmacy bag and thanked her before rushing to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I thought about a lot of things.

Most of all, I wondered what God was playing at.

One minute.

Two.

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