Page 34 of Once Silenced

“Only one half of a location,” she said, voice low.“We need more, or...”She trailed off, meeting Ann Marie’s wide eyes.They both realized that that they would only get another number—the one for the longitude—if they failed to stop the killer from murdering again.In his twisted system, the quiz revealing that number would be found pinned to yet another victim.

Riley turned to Putnam and realized that he must have already figured that out.She met his gaze directly and asked, “Have you found out anything useful from your interviews?”

“Not yet,” he replied, then added a bit proudly.“But my team dug up something you need to know.”

“What is it?”

“Seems our victims weren’t chosen at random,” Putnam continued, scrolling through his phone with efficiency.“At least two of them did have a connection.”

He held up his phone, the screen lit up with blog posts, emails exchanged, a digital trail winding back through the lives of Margaret Whitfield and Garrett Fenn.Putnam handed the phone to Riley, who skimmed the contents.Garrett Fenn, a man whose passion for mathematics echoed in his writings, had once shone a spotlight on Margaret Whitfield’s methods.

“An interview,” Riley muttered, absorbing the words that leaped out at her.“He said how much he admired her.”

“Exactly,” Putnam replied.“They shared more than just a profession—they had a mutual respect, a kinship in their field.”

Riley exhaled slowly, the pieces slotting together in her mind with a clarity that was as sharp as it was unwelcome.Two educators linked by their love of teaching, now bound together by the circumstances of their deaths.

“Good work, Putnam,” she said, handing back the phone.Her respect for the agent’s diligence did not extend to liking him, but she couldn’t deny his effectiveness.

Her gaze met Ann Marie’s, a silent exchange passing between them.Both women were puzzled by the ruthless murders of quiet scholars who did no one any harm.Now it seemed that the very admiration that linked Margaret Whitfield to Garrett Fenn might have also connected their fates.

In addition to that, Riley still felt the sting of personal loss.Margaret Whitfield had been more than just a name in a case file to her.She was grateful that Ann Marie made no mention of Riley’s private history with Mrs.Whitfield.She didn’t need Putnam prying into her motivations or questioning her objectivity.Their partnership was frayed around the edges as it was; no sense in unraveling it further with personal disclosures.

“Another brilliant mind snuffed out,” Riley muttered under her breath—a lament for those lost and a vow to see justice done.

“Can we speak to Professor Nash’s wife?”Riley asked, breaking the hush that had settled over the group.She needed to hear from someone who knew Robert Nash intimately—perhaps there lay a clue yet uncovered.

“Mrs.Nash is currently hospitalized,” Putnam informed them, his voice devoid of warmth.“She suffered a severe shock upon learning what happened to her husband.”

Riley’s heart clenched at the thought.She could imagine all too well the trauma Louella Nash must be enduring after discovering a loved one’s lifeless body.

“However,” Putnam continued, redirecting their attention, “Cliff Baird, the friend who lives here, is available.He’s inside being interviewed by one of the local detectives.”

“Let’s not waste any time then,” Riley said, setting aside her thoughts on Louella Nash.As they left the garage, her gaze lingered on the empty space where Robert Nash’s life had been brutally cut short.In that brief moment, a shiver coursed through her body.She could almost sense the killer’s presence—vengeful yet reverent—as if he were meting out his own twisted form of justice.

Reverence,she thought.

Although a sense of the killer’s presence had mostly evaded her on this occasion, that feeling rang clear in her mind.The killer was committing these acts as a homage of sorts—perhaps as retribution for a perceived wrong to someone he deeply respected.

“Riley?”Ann Marie’s voice pulled her back from her thoughts.

“Right behind you,” she replied, following Putnam toward the front of Cliff Baird’s house.But she kept the eerie sensation close; it held a clue about the killer’s motivation, an insight into a mind that saw murder as a means to set things right.

The suburban home, with its neatly trimmed hedges and welcoming front porch, seemed incongruous with the horror that had unfolded just outside last night.As they approached, Riley steadied herself, preparing to delve for answers that might be tucked away in the memories of those who knew Nash best.

Inside, the living room was steeped in a somber atmosphere, the air thick with unspoken grief.Putnam introduced them to Basingstoke Police Detective Archie Prendergast, a man whose stern expression softened upon seeing Riley and Ann Marie.

“Detective Paige, Agent Esmer,” Prendergast greeted them.He gestured toward a man seated on the couch, his hands wrung tight, his eyes red-rimmed with distress.“This is Cliff Baird.”

“Mr.Baird,” Riley began, her voice gentle but firm, “we understand this has been a traumatic experience for you.”

Baird nodded, his gaze hollow.“I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“Do you have any idea who might have meant Professor Nash any harm.”

“I think...maybe I do,” Baird.In fact, I think you may know who did this.”

Riley heard Putnam’s sharp intake of breath.Apparently, this was a new declaration.

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