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Jayne gazed off into the distance. ‘God, I want to say Trent, but I’m not sure.’
Ella felt the spark, the connection. ‘Lucas Trent?’
‘Yes, Lucas Trent! Please don’t say…?’
'No, he's alive as far as we know,' Ella said. She turned to her partner, who gave her the affirmative nod. Whoever Lucas Trent was, they needed to talk to him.
‘Was there any follow-up to this altercation? Any ongoing issues between them?’
Jayne shook her head. ‘Not that I know of. After the fight, things just went back to normal, or at least it seemed that way. Miles never spoke much about it.’
Ella made a mental note. ‘Do you know if Miles kept in touch with Lucas Trent or anyone else from that group after high school?’
‘I'm not sure,’ Jayne replied. ‘Miles and I... we didn't talk much about his friends from high school. We mostly caught up on family stuff, you know? But he never mentioned Lucas or anyone else from that group in our conversations.’
Ella could sense the gap in the puzzle. The high school connection was there, but the specifics were blurred by time and distance. Ripley stood up beside her.
‘Thank you, Jayne. You've been very helpful. If you remember anything else, no matter how small, please let us know,’ Ripley said.
The pieces were slowly coming together, but the full picture was still elusive. The link between the high school years and the present murders was undeniable, but the killer’s motive was still unclear. The name Lucas Trent lingered in her mind as a potential lead, a thread that needed to be followed, but what could drive a person to frenziedly murder their old classmates twenty years after graduation?
As Ella prepared to leave, Jayne’s voice halted her. ‘Agents, please find out who did this to Miles and the others. They weren’t perfect, but they didn't deserve this.’
Ella nodded gravely. Protocol said that she should never make promises she couldn’t keep, but when it came to reassurance, protocol could go to hell. ‘We will,’ she said. ‘Trust us.’
CHAPTER NINE
Before him lay a list; five names, each name written with meticulous precision, each a link to a past long buried but not forgotten. Next to them were photographs he'd taken of them from afar, not that he needed reminding of their faces. He'd seen them in his dreams for a long time.
The room, sparse and unadorned, reflected the singular focus of its occupant - a mission driven by deep-seated emotions that had simmered for two decades.
His hand, steady and unwavering, reached for the list. The pen in his grip was more than just a writing tool; it was an instrument of judgment, a means to cross off each name, each symbolizing a chapter in a saga of vengeance and retribution. Three names already bore the stark, definitive line through them - Demi Hart, Mark Jensen, Miles Rampell. Each crossing-off was a release, a cathartic expulsion of pent-up rage and bitterness. Now, three of the photos had crosses through their eyes too.
In the shadows, his face was an impassive mask, betraying no hint of satisfaction or regret. To him, these were not just names, but embodiments of a history that had scarred his psyche, injustices that had gone unacknowledged, wounds that had never healed. As he admired his hit list, memories flooded back – a single moment of humiliation, betrayal, and abandonment. High school had been a battlefield, where every slight, every laugh, every look had been a dagger to his self-esteem. They, his classmates, had moved on, their lives untouched by the past, while he remained shackled by it, unable to escape the prison of his memories.
The room was his sanctuary, a place where he could plan, reflect, and execute his vision of justice. It was here that he had meticulously plotted each move, anticipating reactions, planning contingencies. The killings were not just acts of violence; they were statements, each carefully choreographed to deliver the maximum impact, to echo the torment they’d put him through.
There was no joy in this endeavor, only a sense of purpose, a need to balance the scales that had been so unfairly tipped against him. He understood the gravity of his actions, the irreversibility of death, but in his mind, there was no other way. The world had turned a blind eye to his suffering; now, it would be forced to witness the consequences.
The pen paused above the next name, a moment of hesitation in the otherwise unwavering resolve. This was more than a mission; it was a journey into the heart of his own darkness, a path from which there was no return.
In truth, this had never been his intention. Killing had not been part of the original plan. He had imagined a different kind of closure, a confrontation that might somehow heal the wounds of the past. He had wanted to reach out, to see if they had changed, if the passage of time had brought any wisdom or remorse.
Like back in high school, he’d just wanted to be their friend.
The first girl, he’d given her a clue, played a little game with her – a game reminiscent of the puzzles he used to send his so-called friends as a naïve teen. He’d always had a thing for Demi, even confessed his adoration at one time. Confessed it in the form of a puzzle, in fact, but Demi had thrown it away back then, and thrown it away now.
His encounter with Demi had been a test, a chance to see if time had altered her perception, softened her dismissiveness. Watching her walk to her vehicle each evening, he thought that perhaps Demi had grown, matured and became a better person. Perhaps she too longed to apologize for the hardships she’d bestowed upon those she deemed beneath her.
But when he had approached her after all these years, introduced himself, her reaction had been the same - indifference, a lack of recognition. It was as if he were still that invisible boy from high school, the one who lingered on the fringes, longing to be part of something he could never quite grasp. Demi was still the shallow bitch she always was, and what hurt the most was that she didn’t even remember his name.
This lack of recognition, this dismissal, had ignited a flame of anger he thought he had long extinguished. It was the realization that, to them, he was still just a background character in their lives, inconsequential and easily forgotten. The plan he had initially conceived – to confront them, to make amends – had crumbled in the face of this stark reality.
The idea of killing Demi hadn’t been premeditated. It was a spontaneous eruption of years of suppressed pain and anger. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but once it had, a threshold was crossed from which there was no returning. The rush of power, the finality of action, had been both terrifying and intoxicating.
Mark and Miles were next, their names next on the list not out of a calculated plan but as a continuation of a path he found himself unable to veer from. With each act, he felt he was reclaiming a piece of himself that they had taken, asserting his existence in the most irrevocable way possible. He had become the arbiter of fate for those who had once dictated his. Yet, there was no satisfaction in this role, no sense of victory. Each name crossed off was a reminder of what he had become, a reflection of the darkness that had consumed him.
If these poor souls wanted to live, all they had to do was see. If they looked beyond their hedonistic pursuits, they’d see that on the other side waited a potential friend. The puzzles he had carefully crafted for each of them were not mere taunts but a chance for redemption, a test to see if they had changed.
