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“Tell me what you need, Mr. Sinclair,” she said. “If what you’re saying is true, I don’t care who it is; I want this animal caught. I want him in a cage, and I want him to know he’s never getting out. Whatever you need from AFC, whatever it takes—I’ll make sure you have it.”
“Thank you. Can I get a list of your male employees and donors, too?”
“It might take some time, but yes.”
“I’ll wait.”
“You can look around. Talk with others?”
“Can I?”
“Yes. We’re preparing for our next event. Some of the volunteers are here today if you want to talk with them—ask about Sofia and Nikki?” Helene offered, her voice laced with determination. “Would that help?”
“Yes.”
She walked ahead, motioning for me to follow. We passed through a narrow corridor into a spacious room at the back of the building. It was noisy and bustling, with people moving in and out, each busy with their own tasks.
The volunteers sat at small tables, with documents, fliers and lists.
As we entered, a young man looked up from the printer. Across the room, two others glanced up from their laptops, exchanged a curious look, then turned back to their screens. At the far end of the table, another man was addressing invitation envelopes, pausing every so often to look up at us.
One of them noticed us approaching and set down her pen, offering a polite smile. “Is there something we can help you with, Ms. Diaz?”
“Yes, actually, Valentina,” Helene said. She gestured toward me. “This is Mr. Sinclair. He’s looking into a… murder case, and wants to ask you something.”
I scanned the faces of the volunteers—curiosity, a bit of wariness, and frustration at being interrupted.
“What’s it about?” Valentina asked.
“I’m Ryden, and I’m an investigative journalist.”
Everyone was now focused on me, their work forgotten.
“I know you’re all here to help with the event, but I have a few questions about two former volunteers, Sofia and Nikki. If anyone remembers anything that seemed strange or out of place around the time they died. Any detail could help.”
Valentina jerked back as if she was hit in the head. “Sofia… didn’t they arrest her killer?”
The guy writing the name on envelopes shifted in his seat, his gaze darting from Helene to me.
“Gabriel?”
“Sofia got a flower a few days before she went missing.”
Valentina nodded. “I remember. She didn’t look pleased. When I asked her who it was from… she said she didn’t know. She looked disturbed.”
“Yes. Gardenia. A single flower in one of those long velvet boxes—you know the kind. Looked expensive. You saw it, didn’t you, Tim?” Gabriel glanced at the guy by the printer.
Tim jerked back like he hadn’t expected the question.
“Yes. It had a small mark. A bird, I think, on the lid. She showed it to me too.”
“Did she get anything else? Notes, messages?” I looked at the girl—she must be around Sofia’s age.
The others were curious, disgusted, scared, but Valentina looked sad and angry. Her feelings were personal.
“Not that I know of. Just the flower. She said it felt more like a threat than a gift.” Valentina flinched from the memory. “She was going to Yale. She was happy, excited about it, and then this happened…”
“Threat? Did she mention anyone who might want to scare her?”
