The Forgotten Widow

by Layne, Kennedy

  Bright was thirty-four years old, a graduate of the University of Connecticut after having served in the military, and had returned to his hometown last year after a successful seven year stint in the financial industry. He’d saved up enough to buy the bar, but he hadn’t wanted to touch his retirement savings to complete the renovations. With a bit of finagling, Kenna had helped him put together a marketing and financial plan to take to the bank in order for him to secure a small business loan for veteran-owned businesses. Within a year, she projected him to turn a small profit. These types of niche establishments were usually hit or miss, but he had connections in the old neighborhood to help him get off the ground running.

  “That’s great, Bright.” Kenna loved his enthusiasm. He was one of those happy-go-lucky people. She’d always envied those who could find the silver lining in everything. “Whatever advertising you’re doing or promotions you have running, it seems to be working. This place is packed.”

  “I’m hoping that you’re going to allow me to keep my good mood today,” Bright said, nodding knowingly toward the manila file that she’d already pulled from her bag. “How much of a tax hit am I going to take?”

  Kenna was interrupted from answering when one of the employees interrupted, asking about the large party that was due to come in at five o’clock. Apparently, fifteen people had requested a group table in front of one of the large-screen televisions, hoping to watch tonight’s divisional matchup while they partied.

  “Kenna, this is Paul Harrison,” Bright introduced after having agreed upon what tables to take out of certain sections and push together. The members of the dart league were having their end of the season potluck in the back room this evening, and both Bright and Paul agreed that it wouldn’t be pragmatic to have everyone fighting over tables. “Paul is my afternoon manager, and a friend from way back. He’s about to become a first-time father in around three months. His stress level is about one thousand percent.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Kenna greeted the manager with a smile. “And congratulations. That’s wonderful news.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said after they’d shaken hands. “We’re really excited. Listen, I apologize for the interruption. We’re running at warp speed here today. I’ll leave the two of you to finish up.”

  Kenna waited for Paul to be out of earshot before she got back down to business.

  “Okay. Where were we?”

  “You were about to tell me if I was going to have to give up my rental to live in the small room above the pub for the next couple of years,” Bright replied, leaning back against the booth as if Kenna was about to land a punch to his gut. “Just how bad is it?”

  “Actually, not bad at all. For the interim, I’ve based your quarterly taxes off the previous owner’s annual numbers. We can adjust as we go, but you’re in a great position since you bought the pub and property for cash,” Kenna explained, pushing the folder across the table. She took another sip of her drink as Bright glanced over the stack of paperwork she’d brought with her, mainly coupons and envelopes that he could send into the federal and state tax agencies. “Do you have those receipts we discussed on the phone?”

  “Oh, shit,” Bright muttered, rubbing his forehead as he closed the manila folder. His grimace told her that he’d forgotten to bring them in today. He was in the process of transitioning all of his paperwork back into the office, which had been renovated with the rest of the pub. “Kenna, I’m so sorry. I’ve had a million things going on, and we hosted this retirement brunch today for one of the salesmen down at Clyde’s Discount Car Lot. I came in early to make sure things were set up right. I completely forgot to grab the receipts before I left the house.”

  Kenna was used to her clients pushing things off until the very last minute, but she wasn’t worried in the least. She’d purposefully asked for all the renovation receipts early, knowing full well she’d probably get her hands on them come January or February. She always began nudging this time of year, though. If she didn’t, all of her clients would wait until the last minute and she’d be scrambling to get each and every one of them extensions.

  “It’s okay,” Kenna reassured him, curling her fingers into the palm of her hand to maintain some warmth. The condensation on the tall glass had caused the pads of her fingers to go numb. “Let’s schedule a meeting for the second week of—”

  “Kenna?”

  Her gaze flew to the man who’d spent the night in her living room, looking just as clean cut as he had last night with the exception of his five o’clock shadow. Dean was wearing his black dress coat, but he’d left it unbuttoned for her to see that he’d yet to change out of his suit. He mentioned that he was driving straight to the station this morning. It was clear that he hadn’t wasted any time before diving into the investigation, and she had to wonder how the individual who’d leaked the details about the roses had fared after that particular confrontation.

  “Dean, what are you doing here?” Kenna asked with a frown, immediately noticing the tall, severe looking man standing behind him in plain clothes. She’d seen his face enough times during the election months that she recognized him as the newly elected sheriff. The last time she jumped to some far-fetched conclusion, she’d envisioned herself being hauled off to jail for fraud or some other white-collar crime. She wasn’t even going to reflect on the twenty minutes earlier, when she’d briefly considered that someone had been monitoring her progress down the sidewalk. “Are you here for lunch?”

  Lunch was a better theory than the alternative—that Dean had somehow discovered proof that she was the next victim on the Widow Taker’s list. She hadn’t realized that her nails were cutting into her palms until the sheriff had stepped to the side of Liam and held out his hand in greeting.

  “Ma’am, I’m County Sheriff Chaz Hopkins,” he said, introducing himself with a curt nod. His dark gaze homed in on Bright, who was studying both men with open curiosity. “Daryl Brighton, former Army Ranger, I presume?”

  Kenna met Dean’s gaze, realizing that she hadn’t jumped to any conclusions at all. Pieces of the profile began to fall back into place, only this time in the shape of the man sitting across from her. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that Bright could actually be the suspect who was being sought in such a high-profile case. Dean was completely wrong in presuming that Bright had anything to do with the murders.

  “Please, call me Bright. What can I do for you?”

  “Kenna, could I speak with you privately, please?” Dean asked, tension lacing his tone as he waited for her to grab her purse and scoot out of the booth.

  He murmured something to Sheriff Hopkins before he escorted her to an open table where he pulled out a chair. Rhonda, the bartender, was keeping a close eye on everything that was unfolding. Kenna didn’t want to have her back to Bright or the sheriff, but Dean hadn’t given her much of a choice on where to sit as he held out a chair.

  “Dean, there’s no way that Bright had anything to do with killing those women,” Kenna said in a hushed whisper, knowing exactly what a rumor of this kind could do to a brand-new business. “I’ve been working with him for months. He hasn’t once said or done anything that would leave me to believe he is capable of such…”

  Kenna wasn’t sure there were words for what the Widow Taker had done to those women. She’d spent a good hour this morning researching every article she could find on the murders. The graphic details in some of the articles were downright horrific, especially those written by a woman named Quinn Simmons. It wasn’t surprising that she was the one who seemed to have the most knowledge on the case, especially seeing as she was the one who printed the exposé regarding the roses.

  “Kenna, what are you doing here?” Dean asked grimly, not bothering to remove his dress coat. He took the seat across from her, giving him the perfect line of sight to Bright and Sheriff Hopkins’ table. “Did Brighton ask to meet you today?”

  “This meeting with Bright has been on my calendar for ov
er a week,” Kenna informed him, not willing to say another word until she got some answers. “Dean, I realize that he’s the right age and race for your suspect, along with the fact that he grew up in Winter Heights, but Bright has been nothing but kind and respectful to me this past month. Did he lose his father? Is his mother a widow? Is he a widower? I don’t recall him saying anything of the sort.”

  The muscle along Dean’s jawline ticked in irritation over the fact that she was asking more questions, but she figured she had that right considering she could potentially be one of the targets of a sadistic serial killer. It wasn’t like she’d asked Bright such intimate details about his personal life. She highly doubted that he was even aware that she was a widow herself. It wasn’t a topic that came up in their business meetings.

  “I can’t answer those questions right now, Kenna.” Dean rubbed the dark whiskers on his chin that had grown in even more since she’d last seen him earlier this morning. He looked exhausted and frustrated, but that wasn’t surprising given that she wasn’t sure he even slept last night. “This is an open investigation. You know that. I’d feel more comfortable if you grabbed your coat and headed home, though.”

  “You wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t brought up the fact that I had a new client, would you?” Kenna asked, ignoring his suggestion that she leave the pub. Her stomach wavered in distress over the fact that she might have made Bright’s life a living hell just because he was her newest client. “You put me in a compromising position, Dean. That’s not fair. This is my livelihood, my reputation. If word gets out—”

  “If that man over there turns out to be the unsub who has brutally murdered three women in the span of five months, the last thing you’ll be caring about is your professional reputation,” Dean said rather harshly. She had no doubt that he’d done so intentionally, and she didn’t appreciate being spoken to as if she didn’t know what the stakes were at the moment. “You’ll just be glad that you’re still alive, Kenna. Go home. I’ll call you later once we’ve talked to Brighton.”

  Kenna was almost tempted to argue with him, but at least she’d gotten the promise of a phone call. She nodded curtly, believing it best that she not say another word. Her anger had spiked at the way things had been handled up to this point, even though she understood Dean’s position. She’d wait until later this evening after hearing from him to decide how she would explain things to Bright.

  Kenna shoved her chair back and swung her oversized purse over her shoulder before walking back to where Bright had lost a bit of color in his face. He was staring at Sheriff Hopkins with a mixture of disbelief and horror. Was he that good of an actor, or was he truly appalled that anyone would ever think him capable of doing such things?

  She quietly gathered her coat, not wanting to interrupt Sheriff Hopkins, who was asking Bright a string of personal questions. The weight of Dean’s gaze was on her back, but she didn’t turn around. Her focus was on Bright, but either he didn’t notice her due to his attention being solely on Sheriff Hopkins or he’d already put two and two together. That was if he even knew of her status as a widow and had connected the dots.

  Kenna wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Rhonda and Paul were now both behind the bar, murmuring to one another and speculating as to why Sheriff Hopkins would be speaking with Bright. She could only hope that the media didn’t get ahold of this information regarding the police’s interest in him. If that were to happen, his business would suffer, his life would be turned upside down, and she would be the one solely to blame.

  So much pain.

  She walked around the land of the living, but she couldn’t see anything standing right there in front of her. All she could focus on was memories from a time when she was happy. He could give that back to her, but he needed to do so very carefully.

  Unfortunately, his good deeds were being misinterpreted by the media. The police had plastered hatred all over the news claiming he was some type of serial killer, like Jeffrey Dahmer or Ted Bundy. They’d seen the roses and how he’d taken care of the widows’ bodies, so surely they understood he was saving each and every one of them…not brutally taking their lives for the mere enjoyment of it. That would be crass.

  He’d had no choice but to set them all straight, and the beautiful reporter had followed through with his request for honesty. Quinn Simmons had been very kind to him, and he would return the favor in due time. For now, the widow walking past him right this moment needed his full attention.

  She needed to be saved, and he was the only one who was willing to help her through this time of desolation.

  I’ll make it better, dear widow of mine.

  Chapter Ten

  Dean blinked rapidly, hoping to dispel the burning sensation that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his eyes. The day had been longer than anticipated, with more leads panning out than what he had originally anticipated. The questioning of Benjamin Henry and Daryl Brighton hadn’t revealed anything that wasn’t in their files. Even so, they were still both persons of interests in the case, with another two potential suspects to speak with first thing in the morning.

  Benjamin Henry’s mother had given him alibis on all three dates in question, though Dean believed that she would have said anything to protect her son. Dean never took an alibi at face value. These things had to be fleshed out by good old-fashioned detective work. Details needed to be verified. They had an odd relationship, but that wasn’t unusual given the man’s demeanor. He came across as socially awkward, not knowing quite where or who to focus on, but he managed to hold a full-time job in human resources at a larger company the next town over. He fit the profile to a T, and Dean had told Dwight to keep digging into the man’s past. No lead was too small.

  As for Daryl Brighton, he was the complete opposite from Henry. Brighton was outgoing, talkative, and came across as a solid American veteran wanting to be as helpful in the current situation as possible. The staff thought the world of him, and Kenna had even expressed her disbelief at the thought Brighton would even be considered a suspect. Still, there was something about the man that didn’t sit right with Dean.

  Brighton was a former Army Ranger and an expert at hand-to-hand fighting. His expertise extended to knife fighting and improvised weaponry. Slicing open a vulnerable widow would be child’s play for a trained expert like Brighton. Their suspect knew how to use a knife with a measured amount of skill. There was a finite amount of people who could use close in weapons with such a practiced hand and Brighton was one of those few people. It was the reason that Evans had been authorized overtime to pay a visit to the pub tonight under the guise of an avid New York Giants fan.

  Evans would only be permitted to consume nonalcoholic beer in order to blend in, though. If anything happened to pop up during this evening’s surveillance, one of the first things that would happen as a matter of protocol was a blood alcohol test for the primary officer on scene. The FBI was notorious for its hard-nosed approach when it came to alcohol and drinking on duty.

  Dean looked up from the file on another potential suspect by the name of Lyle Guthfield, catching sight of Frank walking into the station and having a quick discussion with Angie Norman. He had on his winter coat, sans the hat and gloves. It didn’t take him too long to make his way across the bullpen, lifting a hand in acknowledgement through the window before opening the door to the conference room. There were blinds on the window, if needed, and a lock on the door.

  “Catch me up, Adam Levine,” Frank said, tossing his winter coat into one of the chairs as he managed to get in a shot at Dean for the growth of his whiskers. “You’re starting to look like some kind of pop culture icon. Are you going to be a guest coach on ‘The Voice’ next week?”

  “Good to see you, too, Frank,” Dean replied wryly, closing the manila folder and leaning back against the mesh backing of the chair. “I didn’t make it home last night, as I’m sure you’re already aware of. I’m currently a little bit sleep deprived, which I intend to make up
for tonight if the surveillance at the pub doesn’t manage to blow up.”

  “You might want to hold off leaving until the road crews get that multiple car pileup cleared from the highway on-ramp.” Frank slipped his right hand into the pocket of his trousers and jiggled his keys as he stood in front of the monitor to read over the details of Benjamin Henry’s life. “This guy certainly fits the profile. Of course, so does a fifth of the local male community it seems.”

  “That he does, but Mr. Henry’s mother conveniently gave him an alibi for each and every single murder. Jesus Christ, what adult male spends that much time with their elderly mother?” Dean reached over the manila folder for his cup of coffee. He took a swig before almost spitting the cold brew back into the mug. His stomach objected loudly, not happy that it hadn’t had any fuel since lunchtime. “Dwight is going to dig deeper into the man’s past. Maybe we can find something to bring him in for official questioning. Maybe rattle his cage a little bit, possibly get him to admit that he wasn’t actually spending all his time taking care of his mother.”

  “Did you and Hopkins ever find out who leaked the rose souvenir shit to the papers?”

  “Chaz received a call from the editor right before he sacked it in for the night.” Dean sat the navy-blue mug back down on the table, not able to finish the rest of the cold contents. “All Quinn Simmons would say is that the information didn’t come from anyone at this station, nor from any of the county employees.”

  “What you’re telling me is that Simmons basically said what she needed to in order for Hopkins to give her that exclusive interview,” Frank said mockingly, not particularly fond of the sheriff or his tactics. It had more to do with old school methods than anything else. He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t know why you don’t let Archer just pull this case and hand it to us. There are too many fingers in the fucking pie, and you know it.”