Page 15 of Requiem & Reverie

“Fuck!” With both hands rubbing my skull, I pace beside the bed.

Years ago, I’d have tracked him down, taken him out and closed the deal. I’d have used every resource available to me, including the victims themselves, like bait, to get to my quarry. A thought that disgusts me where Nola and Oliver are concerned.

He’s toying with me, though. Biding his time. Setting me off on these little scavenger hunts for clues, which I’ve been too lazy, too complacent to piece together on my own, relying on the scraps fed to me by my half-wit assistant. Nothing against Jackson, really. He’s basically a kid, but every piece of intel he’s provided is lacking the single thread that would stitch everything together inside my head.

There’s something I’m missing in all of this. Something that doesn’t make sense. Coming to a halt, I take a moment to scour my mind for whatever piece that isn’t coming to light. A detail that hasn’t fit in the puzzle since the beginning.

Nola.

Why his interest in her? Why didn’t he abduct her that night, well before I arrived, when he left the note on her car?

Makes me wonder if he left notes on the other victims’ cars. Like Marnee’s. The security cameras in the parking garage where she was last seen would’ve been helpful, but by the time her body was found, they’d already been overwritten, according to building management. Her car was nowhere to be found.

Four girls have gone missing, five including Bethany. Only miles apart from one another. None of them appeared to know each other—on social media, at least. Approximately the same age as Nola, socially active, single, or, in Bethany’s case, swinging. All attractive. Superficially, all very similar to Nola, but that isn’t how Carl works. He’s counting on me to discover the differences here. What makes her unique.

It isn’t Oliver, because one of the women, Kelly, also had a young son she’d left with her mother the night she first went missing. I don’t know what the connection is to all of these girls. Maybe they’re all random, including Nola.

I open my briefcase and remove my laptop from inside. It’s been a while since I’ve taken the time to investigate the information otherwise spoon-fed to me by Jackson over the last few years. Shitty intel, no doubt, but I’ve made it work. There’s only so much the police investigations can provide, though, because unfortunately for them, they don’t know who killed those women.

I know who killed the women, and possibly even why. Had I not been so cocky and taken the time to really dig into what he’s been doing these last few years, it might’ve provided a bit more insight into where Nola falls. Perhaps I’ve become too accustomed to dealing with sociopaths over psychopaths. Most of the assholes I hunt are impulsive and sloppy, volatile and easily rattled. Nowhere near as meticulous and methodical as Carl. Perhaps the most hair-raising trait about my uncle was the way he so easily flipped on his charm, mimicking feelings and emotions he never actually felt himself, just to gain trust.

That’s how he slipped past me.

I might’ve been a bit arrogant in my assumptions, and maybe a little too confident of my skills. As much as I’ve evolved, so has Carl.

Back when Jackson first provided the victims’ names, I conducted some cursory research and found that, in each case, these women liked to flaunt themselves on social media, all of them socialites—party girls, with too much time and money. All except for Bethany, of course, but even she gave off a party girl vibe, albeit the lower class version. Marnee’s Instagram account was essentially a feed of selfies, some taken in her bedroom, others in bars, at parties, some teasing images taken in a bubble bath. Kelly seemed to prefer Snapchat, and posted a number of images, standing in front of the mirror in panties, covering up bare breasts, one with her son playing in the background. Of course, Bethany’s social media, particularly Facebook, hemorrhaged with everything wrong about her life and marriage, with an obvious attempt to garner attention. The fourth and fifth victims were no different from the others. Nauseating, in a sense that every one of them had a fairly large following of sympathizers or admirers.

Pulling up Marnee’s account, I click through some of the comments below a picture I considered a massive call for attention. Plump, silicone-stuffed lips pucker, as she holds a rose up to her face, sniffing it. Her shirt is a half cut, baring the lower part of her obviously fake tits to just below the nipple, where part of her areola sticks out, and the caption on the image says, ‘I love the smell of fresh cut roses’. As if we’re all to believe the point of the post is the rose in her hand.

Hundreds of comments below carry a number of messages—from the tongue and wet emojis, to guys trying to look like they’re sensitive and decent by calling the image a beautiful use of lighting and composition.

‘Fucks sake.

Trying to find a psychopath on social media is like trying to find a needle in a stack of needles. Some of these commenters could probably pass a Rorschach test with flying pathology.

Each of the girls’ profiles are the exact opposite of Nola’s. Aside from some pottery shots, she hasn’t posted anything to Facebook in about a year. Prior to that, it was sunsets, a baby picture of what appeared to be Oliver from the back, and an early one, posted three years ago, of her and a blond-haired guy I assume was Denny.

Thanks to Jackson’s anemic research, I learned something new about Nola earlier in the day, as well. She had a sister who went missing.

Nola’s married name is Tensley, but on her profile, it’s hyphenated Tensley-Stiever. Her maiden name, I’m guessing. I don’t know her sister’s first name, so I type Stiever into Google, and a number of images pop up with her brother’s face, while some are an older man I’ll assume is her father, Gordon.

With blond hair and blue eyes, he, nor her brother, for that matter, look anything like Nola, so I’m guessing she takes after her mother.

I type Stiever Missing Persons, and click on the first search result. A local news article, dated seventeen years ago.

Seventeen years.

The date hits me first.

The accompanying image, second.

Staring back at me on the screen is a blonde, blue-eyed beauty who clearly takes after her father, looks-wise. Nora Stiever. A nineteen-year-old pre-vet student, attending Loyola University, before she ventured out to meet up with her boyfriend one night and was never seen again.

I stare at her long blonde locks, and at a flash of memory, blinding like that of a camera, I see it matted and dirty, clinging to blood that’s dried on her face. Pale skin glows onscreen, but in my head, it’s marred with bruises and cuts, coated in a thin layer of dirt and sweat.

Almost unrecognizable when compared to the woman staring back at me with a bright smile, as if she hasn’t yet seen the darker side of humanity.

And just like that, everything clicks. Snap. Snap. Click. Like a photograph.