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Me: What? Fat rolls are not sexy to anyone not harboring a fetish.
Kyle: We all have flaws, things we don’t like about ourselves, but we have to free ourselves of that to love someone and share ourselves with someone else.
Me: I don’t know how.
Harmony: Do what they say to do with a man you despise. Write your insecurities on a piece of paper and burn it.
Joy: Oh, and every time you think something bad about yourself, throw salt over your shoulder.
Me: Okay, I’ll try it. Thanks, you guys. You’re the best.
They all happily agreed with me, then went back to their lives. The more I sat there thinking about what they said, the more I wondered if it would work. Probably couldn’t hurt. So, I tore a sheet from my notebook and wrote all the things on it I wanted to banish from my life. My grandmother’s name. My father’s name. And then I listed each and every insecurity I had. Each and every one of them. Then I ripped out a second sheet of paper and wrote a list of things I loved about myself. There were only four, but I would keep it close by and add to it. Taking the bad list to the sink, I pulled out the lighter I had in the drawer. With a flick, I let the flame rid me of the ideas that had poisoned every aspect of my life.
As I watched the words burn, I felt myself releasing the idea that those words belonged to me. They didn’t. They didn’t matter. My fat rolls were mine. I may not love them, but they were part of a strong and healthy me. I wouldn’t waste another second worrying about them or any of my other flaws. It was time to move on with my life and leave all the bad shit behind me.
* * *
In the next few weeks, I felt lighter than I ever had before. Burning the bad thoughts had helped, but I was also onto something with this Shadow Reaper story. With each interview, I felt like I was on the right path. Now, if I could just uncover a common link, a reason why someone might want them dead.
If I ruled out a random serial killer, I was left with a killer for a reason. Most motives for murder were connected to money, love, or to cover up a crime. There were too many women for it to be a crime of passion, so I ruled out love. That left money or covering up a crime. While I wasn’t ruling money out entirely, there was no one person who would benefit from their deaths. So, I focused on the crime aspect. These women were around so many of the same people, it was entirely possible that someone committed some sort of illegal act that all these women knew about or were victims. Maybe the models knew, promised to keep it to themselves, but the risk of exposure was too great.
Okay, so that was really thin. But it was just a working theory.
I blew out a breath as I looked around my apartment. Every horizontal surface was covered with paperwork. FOIA returns were on top of the coffee table. Fashion source statements were on top of the television stand. The kitchen had all my research on the individual models. And the statements from the interviews were spread on my bed. Somehow, all these pieces would lead me to the answer. Well, maybe.
* * *
When there was only a week until Christmas, it felt like the entire city of Taylor Ridge texted me all day long. Ransom wanted an update on when he could send his plane for me, Molly demanded to know when I was coming home, and Kiley and Harmony gave me updates on the Christmas party. In between, Kyle and Joy took turns sending me inspirational quotes.
Staring at the piles of paper around me, I knew I was missing something. I was in a weird state trying to think through all the evidence when my phone rang.
Ransom’s voice was so loud I had to hold the phone back. “Did you tell Molly you wouldn’t be back until Christmas Eve?”
I flopped back onto the sofa. “I didn’t say that. And hello, by the way.”
He huffed. “When are you coming home?”
I had to chuckle. Everyone wanted me to come back so much they were harassing me until I came. “If you give me an hour to think, I’ll give you my answer. Keep your pants on and I’ll call you back.”
I snickered a little at how grumpy he was about when I could leave. It made me feel special in a way that made me warm inside. That along with the way he’d been different since I returned, with more innuendo than ever before making me think he was seriously flirting with me. I’d sent a couple texts to Maddy and she confirmed the flirting. Now, if I only knew what to do about it.
I shook my head to focus, then looked around the room. I’d already been back to Fresh Faces to pick up my check stub and caught up with my sources there. I found the three catering companies that typically handled most of the parties in town. Not much food was eaten at these things with models, so they had time to circulate. A couple of them heard other models sniping about those who later died. They were jealous, but not strong enough to push someone out a window.
I met up with five photographers who would talk to me. They knew the models who died and were devastated about their loss. They spoke of their work ethic, their professionalism, and didn’t have one negative word about them. The models were all too new to be arrogant, too experienced to be lured into a scam, and not popular enough for a stalker.
As much as I wanted to, there was no point in talking to Harry Norman. He wasn’t even there when it happened. And the man he allowed to throw the party at his place was an agent looking for fresh talent and clients to poach. Most models, even if they went to the parties, wouldn’t be foolish enough to be separated from the herd to go with a shark like that to a tower far away from the party. But Tatianna did. So strange.
Looking back at everything, women of all different hair colors, sexual preferences, races, colors, and creeds were all victims of the Shadow Reaper. And no one even called any of them murders.
As I packed up the FOIA request returns, so much was omitted by the police I wasn’t even sure they were of much use. I could evaluate their usefulness from anywhere, though.
I dialed Ransom and let him know to fuel up the jet. I’d meet him at his game tonight and drive home with him after.
Once I packed all the paperwork carefully, I found some nice dresses, a few pairs of jeans, leggings, some nicer undergarments, and my sassy T-shirts and sweatshirts, and shoes. I was just snapping the last latch on my suitcase when there was a knock at the door. Checking the peephole, I saw it was Edgar. I flung the door open and gave him a huge hug.
A tear ran down my cheek as I backed away. “Feels like I need to thank you, Edgar.”
He gave me a warm smile. “Of course, ma’am. Happy to help.”
