“And he targets people he believes dishonored their parents.”
“Yep.”
Kate stared at the frozen image of Holloway on the screen.His eyes were intense, lit with the conviction of someone who’d shed all doubt long ago.
“Pull everything,” she said.
Marcus didn’t need clarification.“Travel records, social media, known associates, conference schedules?”
“All of it,” Kate said.“And see if he’s filed any new complaints in the past six months.Anyone he’s been focused on recently.”
Marcus nodded and moved to sit.
But Kate didn’t move.She kept staring at the paused image—those squared shoulders, that determined jawline, the grim, terrible purpose vibrating under his speech.
She felt the hairs on her arms lift.
She didn’t know for certain yet.
But she knew something else:
This man believed in his mission.
And belief—that real, unshakeable belief—was often deadly.
*
It was late afternoon by the time they reached the counselling center in Worcester.And it looked nothing like the lair of a zealot.It was a converted Victorian townhouse with ivy creeping up the brickwork and a chalkboard on the porch that read, in cheerful turquoise letters:
TODAY: GRIEF GROUP AT 12.CAREGIVER CIRCLE AT 3.ALL WELCOME.
Inside, the waiting room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and old upholstery.A basket of knitted blankets sat beside the door; a water cooler burbled quietly like a contented animal.Nothing about it suggested violence.Nothing suggested a man who might slit a stranger’s throat and arrange her in a grotesque imitation of reverence.
Which only made Kate more alert, not less.
The receptionist—a college-aged volunteer with pink hair and a nose ring—directed them down the hallway.
“Mr.Holloway’s just finishing with a client,” she said.“He’ll be right out.”
Kate and Marcus waited by a bulletin board plastered with flyers:End-of-Life Planning,Navigating Adult Family Estrangement,Burnout in Caregivers.
“Cheery stuff,” Marcus muttered.
Kate didn’t respond.Her attention had shifted to the sound emerging from behind the office door: a deep voice, warm and steady, speaking with the cadence of someone accustomed to holding the emotional weight of others.
The door opened.
James Holloway filled the doorway—literally.He was even larger in person than he’d appeared on video.Broad shoulders, heavyset frame, forearms like he’d spent his twenties lifting furniture for fun.His face was gentle, though: tired, kindly eyes above a close-cropped beard, grey beginning to thread through the brown.
He ushered out an elderly man with a walker, touching his shoulder with infinite care.
“Call me if you need anything, Frank.Anything at all.”
Frank left, slow and grateful.
Then Holloway turned toward Kate and Marcus.
The warmth vanished.
