"There are other Charles Dumonds, but none who seem related to him," Nicky said, scrolling through a list of names and photos. "These aren't him."

  "So, it's an alias," Ken said. "He lied to us."

  "It would appear that way," Nicky said. "But why would he lie? Why would someone who runs an antique store lie about where he lives and who he is?"

  "Well, if he's the one who's been planting these photographs," Ken said, "he lied to make himself look innocent."

  That was a very good point.

  "It seems that way," Nicky said. She wasn't sure why, but she didn't want to believe it. Mr. Dumond had been such a kind man.

  But who was he, really?

  Nicky went online and looked up Harriet Antique, and what came up was an article from Pine Grove--with a picture of Mr. Dumond, smiling, looking kind as always. But they had a photo of him--which meant they might be able to track down his real ID.

  "Before we go in guns blazing," Nicky said, "we need to know who we're dealing with. I bet Grace can track him down. I'll give her a call."

  She pulled out her phone and dialed Grace's number. Grace picked up on the third ring.

  "Hey, Nicky," Grace said. "Sorry, I'm still looking into--"

  "Forget the car for now," Nicky said. "I'm sending you a photo of a man who might be living in Pine Grove under an alias. Think you can find out who he is?"

  "I can run his face through the system and see if we get a match, yeah," Grace said.

  "Good. Forwarding it now."

  With a few clicks, Nicky saved the photo and sent it to Grace's email. She waited with bated breath for Grace to accept.

  "Okay, got it," Grace said. "Running him through the system now. Let's see if we get a match..."

  Moments passed. Nicky heard Grace's keyboard clacking on the other end of the line.

  Then, finally, Grace said:

  "I got a hit. His name is Richard Fanson. Seventy-one years old. Born in Brooklyn, New York."

  Nicky's head spun. Richard Fanson from New York. That was nothing close to Charles Dumond from Pine Grove, Florida.

  "Send me everything we have on him," Nicky said.

  "Will do."

  She hung up the phone and turned to Ken. But her heart was pounding. To think, they could have already had the killer right in their sights all along...

  "We're close," she said. "I know it. I just don't know how close."

  "It's hard to believe," he said. "He seemed so nice."

  "I know," she said. "That's what everyone always says about serial killers."

  They were quiet for a moment, reflecting on that.

  "We showed him the pictures," Ken said. "He knew something was wrong. He knew what they were."

  "He did," Nicky said. "On some level, he did."

  Nicky's computer dinged--a message from Grace. She'd forwarded some key documents on Richard Fanson, aka, Mr. Dumond.

  Diagnosed with schizophrenia, he had been in and out of psychiatric hospitals his entire life. Not only that--but he had a criminal record.

  Nicky paged through the documents, her stomach sinking.

  The more she read, the worse it got.

  A string of charges going back to when he was in his twenties: assault, robbery, a few misdemeanors. If he was the one, then that would mean the sketchy man seen with the Hana Kuma had nothing to do with this.

  Nicky's heart raced. "He could be the one," she said. "He could be our guy."

  "But if he's spent his life in and out of hospitals, how did he end up at an antique store?" Ken asked.

  "It's hard to say," she said. "Maybe he's not as bad as he was. Maybe he hasn't committed a crime in a long time. Maybe... maybe these photos are making him act out again."

  Ken looked at her. "So, what do we do?"

  She drew a breath, then shut her laptop, tossed it in the back, and turned the car on. "We pay him another visit."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Nicky parked her car in front of Harriet Antiques, where the lights were on inside--and they could see Mr. Dumond behind the counter. Ken had called ahead and asked if he could come back down to the shop to meet them so they could look for further evidence, and without hesitation, Mr. Dumond had obliged.

  Now, he was inside waiting for them. But Nicky was deep in thought, trying to work out what she thought was true and what wasn't. She tried to put herself in the position of Mr. Dumond--who seemed like a kind, old man, but who also might be a serial killer. It was difficult to reconcile the two ideas.

  She and Ken got out. The sun had long since set over Pine Grove, but there were still cars to be seen, and people going about their business. Someone was walking a dog, and a few people were going into and out of the local bar. It was a quaint, peaceful town to live in, and Nicky might understand why an old man with a long history of mental illness would want to retire here. But did he really come here to start a killing spree? Was a seventy-one-year-old man capable of these heinous crimes?

  Nicky didn't know. But she did know they had enough circumstantial evidence to bring him in for questioning.

  And now, they had a name, too. They had a photo. They had a record. They had everything they needed. And if they could get him to confess, they might be able to move on this case once and for all.

  But Nicky didn't know how to go about this. She didn't want to come on too aggressively and freak him out.

  "Here's our game plan," Nicky told Ken. "We won't tip him off that we know anything is up with him at first, just prod and ask questions, and see how he reacts. We don't want to spook him."

  "Agreed," Ken said. "If he's as unhinged as his file suggests... we don't want him to blow a gasket on us."

  They got out of the car, into the warm night, and walked up to the store. Ken opened the door to the shop and went inside, and Nicky followed close behind. Mr. Dumond rose from behind the counter, a smile on his face.

  "You're back!" he said.

  "We are," Nicky said. "Thank you for coming in."

  She glanced at the wallpaper. It was definitely the same as the wallpaper in the photo. Or, at the very least, extremely similar.

  "I'm happy to help," Mr. Dumond said. "Please, sit down."

  Nicky and Ken went to the table and sat down, and Mr. Dumond sat across from them. It seemed strange to Nicky to be talking to someone who might be a serial killer. She looked him over--calm, collected, friendly. It was hard to believe.

  "I'm sure you're aware of the situation," Ken said.

  Mr. Dumond nodded. "Yes, I am," he said. "I saw the news earlier. They found a photograph in another town. I guess my shop isn't the only victim of this crime."

  "Right," Nicky said. "Unfortunately, we haven't ID'd the photographer yet, but we wanted to know if you could tell us anything about the type of Polaroid camera he was using. You have a lot of vintage cameras here, so maybe you can give us some insight on the make and model."

  Mr. Dumond frowned. "Well, I'm not sure if I'm the best person to ask. I have quite the collection, but I'm not an expert on any of this. I'm sure you could ask a collector for a more informed opinion."

  Nicky looked at Ken. She wasn't sure why, but there was something about his reluctance to answer the question that made her suspicious. It was almost as if he was hiding something.

  "So, you don't know the brand of camera?" Nicky said.

  "Not at all," he said. "I'm terribly sorry. I wish I could help."

  "You're sure you don't know anything else about the culprit?" Nicky asked.

  "I'm afraid not," Mr. Dumond said. "But I wish I could help." He looked down, genuinely sad. "I wish I could be of more use."

  "Well, you've lived here a long time," Ken said. "Do you know of anyone in town who has an interest in these types of cameras?"

  "Hmm, well, as I told you before, we get a lot of tourists, and I'm sure there are many photography enthusiasts in town."

  Nicky looked around the shop as Ken asked questions, trying to spot anything suspicious, or any piece of furniture that might match something seen in the photos of the victims. But she saw nothing. The only connection was the wallpaper.

  Maybe it was time to kick this up a notch.

  "When did you have that wallpaper installed, Mr. Dumond?" Nicky asked.

  "Hmm?" He looked around. "Oh... it was there when I bought the shop. The people who sold it to me said it had been there since before they had it too. It's an antique itself, you see."

  "Right," Nicky said. "You said you lived here your whole life. Do you remember the different people who owned the shop before the people who sold it to you?"

  "Oh, yes," he said. "I've been coming here for years. Before me, the owners were a husband and wife team from Canada. They had a string of failed antique stores before this one, and as soon as they moved in, they changed the name to 'Harriet Antiques.' I always liked that."

  "Why?" Ken asked.

  "I don't know," Mr. Dumond said. "I think it just has a nice ring to it. It's a bit more personalized than the other stores."

  Nicky's ears perked up. "Can I ask why they moved here?" she said.

  "Oh, I think they just needed a change," Mr. Dumond said. "Or maybe they just wanted a fresh start."

  "Sometimes we all need a fresh start," Nicky said, her eyes flashing on Mr. Dumond's. "But if you've lived here your whole life, I suppose you wouldn't know about that."

  Sweat pooled on Mr. Dumond's brow. "I suppose not..." He laughed uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, dears, I have to go to the washroom. When you get to my age, it gets harder to hold it in."

  Nicky and Ken exchanged a look as Mr. Dumond got up and hobbled toward the back of the store. Once alone, Nicky whispered to Ken, "What do you think?"

  "I think he's a practiced liar," he muttered.

  That was true. And right now, everything was pointing at him. His shop was ground zero for the photographs...

  Moments ticked on, and Mr. Dumond still did not return from the bathroom. Nicky felt her gut tighten with anticipation. She had to do something.

  "Ken, I'm going to check on him," she said.

  They got up from the table and went to the bathroom door. Ken knocked.

  "Mr. Dumond?" he asked.

  No reply.

  He knocked on the door again. "Mr. Dumond?" he repeated.

  Nicky turned the knob and slowly opened the door.

  Mr. Dumond was nowhere to be seen.

  The bathroom was a tiny little space. It didn't take long to search, but when they were done, they were still unable to find him. He had disappeared. He had left them all alone in the shop.

  "Where the fuck is he?" Ken whispered. "There's no back door here."

  "I don't know," Nicky said. "But we need to find him."

  Ken was right--the shop had no back door, only a front, and they would have seen the old man sneak out. He had to be in here somewhere.

  "Mr. Dumond?" Nicky called out. Carefully, they made their way through the store. "Are you in here? We're worried about you..."

  "Come on out, Mr. Dumond," Ken echoed. "You don't need to hide from us. We're not gonna hurt you."

  "Mr. Dumond?" Nicky said. "Please, we don't have time for this."

  They searched the store from top to bottom. They found nothing, and they were only ones there.

  She and Ken looked at each other. They had one last place to search.

  The room behind the counter, where the computer had been. As they walked up to it, they realized the door was closed.

  "Mr. Dumond?" Nicky called out. She knocked on the door. "Are you in there?"

  No answer. But they couldn't waste time here. Nicky put her hand on her gun--just in case--and slowly opened the door.

  Huddled in the corner of the room was Mr. Dumond--and he had an old musket pointed right at them.

  "Shit!" Nicky ducked out of the way, bringing Ken with her--but the shot never came. Realizing Mr. Dumond hadn't fired the gun, Nicky took a breath to calm herself. She nodded at Ken, and they both took out their guns.

  "Mr. Dumond," Ken said. "Drop your weapon and come out."

  "N-no!" he shouted. "Who are you people, really? What do you want from me?"

  "We just want to talk about the pictures, Mr. Dumond," Nicky said.

  "No--you're... you're them, aren't you? You found me!"

  "Who, Mr. Dumond?" Nicky asked. Ken shot her a confused frown too. "Are you running from someone, Mr. Dumond? Is that why you changed your name and moved here from New York?"

  Silence.

  But then, through the silence, something fell. Nicky turned her head and saw it--a forgotten bottle of pills. They had slipped out of Mr. Dumond's pocket.

  "Mr. Dumond..." she said slowly. "Why did you move here?"

  "I... I..." He was sweating. "My family... I had to get away... I had to..."

  Nicky exchanged a look with Ken. They still didn't know what this was about, but they knew they had to get to the bottom of it.

  "If someone is after you, Mr. Dumond," Ken said, "we can help you. But you gotta drop the gun."

  "I can't!" he shouted. "You took away everything! I have nothing left! You killed everyone!"

  "Mr. Dumond, we're... we're not..." Nicky struggled to find the right words. "We're not the people after you. If you're running from someone, then we can help you. But we need you to come out of there."

  "No!" Mr. Dumond shouted. "You're lying! You are them! You killed him and you'll kill me too!"

  "Who?" Nicky said. "Who did we kill, Mr. Dumond?"

  "He was... he was the only one who'd ever been nice to me..." Mr. Dumond's words dissolved into tears.

  "Who, Mr. Dumond?" Nicky said. "Who was it?"

  She knew he had been diagnosed with schizophrenia, but this wasn't making any sense. Anxiety clawed through Nicky. She needed to end this now.

  "Please drop the gun, Mr. Dumond," she said. "You don't want to hurt us. We're not your enemies."

  For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to do it. But then, the gun started to shake.

  "I... I... I..." Mr. Dumond stuttered. "I--"

  Then he fainted, and the musket clattered to the floor.

  Nicky heaved a sigh of relief. She and Ken ran to the other side of the counter and helped Mr. Dumond up.

  "Are you alright, Mr. Dumond?" she said.

  "I..." he stammered. "I'm fine..."

  His eyes were open, his face pale. "I--I think I just blacked out for a bit."

  Nicky almost felt bad for the guy. Maybe he was being honest—maybe he wasn’t; it was impossible to say right now. Either way, they had him, and they needed to take him in.

  "It's nice to see you awake again," Nicky said. "But I'm afraid we need you to come down to the station with us."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The dim light from his TV filled the room. The news was out. He couldn't believe it--his story was finally breaking. Finally, the world would see what he was worth.

  He sat on the cold concrete floor of his basement in front of the old tube TV, biting his nail with his knees to his chest. On the screen, a news reporter:

  "Several reports are coming in that somebody has been leaving photographs of homicide victims in antique stores," the woman said. "The photos, which are graphic in nature, appear to show actual victims, and police aren't sure who is taking them. Two victims have so far been identified as Paris Conner of Miami, Florida, and Francine Gibbons of Stoneycreek, Florida. A third victim has been photographed, but police have not yet identified her."

  "Yes!" he exclaimed, smiling wildly. "Yes!"

  He launched to his feet and danced around the studio, smiling gleefully.

  "This is it! Finally, the cat is out of the bag... I can finally show you to the world, for real!"

  He turned to the woman, lying slumped on his couch, with her throat slit. She looked so gorgeous in that red dress and had looked even better in the photoshoot he just completed. Alive, she had failed him.

  But in death, she had proved to be a truly great model.

  He took a deep breath.

  "Now, it's time for my masterpiece."

  The perfect image for his masterpiece.

  He walked back to the girl and looked down at her. She was so beautiful there, lying on his couch with her throat slit, her blood pooling on the floor under her. He wished he could just leave her there, but as nice as that would be, it wasn't practical—she would start to rot, become stinky and fleshy and stain his wonderful couch, so the next subject would have their set ruined. No, this one, he had other plans for.

  He turned back to the TV, where the reporter was still talking: "To date, police have no clues about who is taking the photos, or why. If you have any information about this case, please contact the police."

  He laughed bitterly. "Oh, I will," he said. "I'll give them plenty of information. I'll give them a little clue..." He turned back to the woman on the couch.

  It was time to move her.

  She was surprisingly heavy, but he managed to throw her over his shoulder. He hauled her up the stairs. He knew just where he'd bring her--the perfect place to leave his mark. All he had to do was get her in his car, and then they would begin their final road trip together.

  It was a warm, beautiful night, the perfect night to make his true debut. He threw her in the back of his car, and then climbed into the driver's seat. He started the engine, and then pulled out of the driveway and began to drive.

  The woman's body was in the back seat. He smiled as he saw her in his rear view mirror.

  "I'm so sorry, my dear. I know this isn't how you imagined your career would end, but you are my muse, and it's your duty to help me." He reached back and stroked her hair. "You will be remembered, my dear. You will be remembered."

  He drove on.

  He had his masterpiece in the back seat.

  All he needed now was an audience.

  It must have been an hour of driving under the hazy night sky, but it felt like a blur of euphoria and bliss. He breathed in deeply, listening to the lull of the car beneath him, thinking back to the days when he was invisible.

  That would be no more.

 

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