O…kay.
Jordan steps up onto the small platform before the console.He explains how each set controls a different family of pipes—how air pressure and careful tuning create a sound that can rumble like thunder or shimmer like light.
The girls lean in, wide-eyed, as he describes the hidden chambers above, the long metal pipes stretching into the rafters, the way a single note can fill the entire sanctuary.One giggles when he plays a low chord that vibrates the floor beneath their feet.
From my shadowed spot near the back of the room, I can’t help but notice how different he seems here—steady, patient, almost scholarly.Not at all the man I thought I was following.
Damn.He’s good.
But the best criminals are.They’re actors as well as criminals.They lure their victims in with promises of something, with flowers and candy, and apparently with their knowledge of pipe organs.
I turn around to leave when?—
Shit!
I bump my elbow against a small folding music stand propped against the wall.It topples with a metallic clang that ricochets through the empty pews.The ladies turn, but I slip through the sanctuary doors and out into the warm morning air before Jordan can see me.
My car is parked two streets over—just far enough to avoid being spotted, close enough to be convenient.I make the walk quickly, keeping my head down, pulse steadying as I remind myself I have a window.The first service is over, and the second starts in less than an hour.Jordan will be busy—smiling, shaking hands, pretending to be some kind of churchgoing pillar of the community.
By the time I reach Jordan’s street, it’s empty and still, the kind of quiet you only get on a Sunday morning when everyone’s either at church or still in bed.
I park across the street and then make the perimeter check, slow and careful, scanning for cameras.Nothing visible.
At the side gate, I slip the latch and step into the narrow strip of yard.The air smells faintly of cut grass and engine oil.A quick glance through the kitchen window confirms the place is empty.
The lock is old and unremarkable.Two minutes and a little patience is all it takes before the mechanism clicks open beneath my pick.I close the door behind me and pause, listening.No hum of a fridge motor kicking on, no creak of floorboards—only the steady tick of a wall clock somewhere else in the house.
I start in the kitchen.Drawers.Cabinets.Trash.Nothing unusual.I pull open the refrigerator door, bracing myself for something I really don’t want to see.The light flickers on.Milk, condiments, and a half-eaten rotisserie chicken.
No blood.No hacked-off limbs wrapped in butcher paper.No horrors lurking in Tupperware.Just food.Normal food.
Still, my skin crawls as I shut the door again.
I head down the basement stairs, the wooden steps creaking.
Everything creepy happens in a basement, right?
Down here it smells like damp concrete and old cardboard.I scan the corners, behind the water heater, even inside a few storage bins.Dust, cobwebs, and junk, but nothing that screams Dahmer.At least, not today.
I’m actually relieved.
I go back upstairs and search room to room.I’m methodical—closet shelves, desk drawers, under the bed.Plenty of clutter, but no smoking gun.
The real treasure is in his office.A corner desk with a dust-coated printer, a stack of unopened mail, and a laptop that looks like it’s been used hard.I open it, half expecting a password prompt, but the desktop flickers to life instantly.
Sloppy.Doesn’t everyone use a password these days?
But his stupidity works in my favor.I begin clicking the keys
His search history isn’t anything unique—social media pages, a bank, a few shops…and of course porn, some of it vanilla, some of it rougher.Most of the women in the porn are blondes with fair complexions.Nothing that screamsobsession with Daniela.
I scroll further back.The same patterns repeat.No searches for her name.No photos of her.No bookmarks pointing to her social media.
Frustration edges into my ribs.This was supposed to confirm my suspicions—or at least point me in the right direction.
Damn.
I was sure I had the right man.
