Page 16 of Guess Again
“What size, sweetie?” the woman asked.
“Oh, like, medium, I guess?”
“Our smallest units are ten by ten. Those are pretty tight. Then we’ve got two middle-sized units that are twenty by twenty and thirty by thirty. Our biggest unit is—”
“The twenty foot one should be fine.”
The woman reached for paperwork and started scribbling. “What’s the purpose of the storage unit?”
“Um, just clearing out my basement but not ready to part with all the junk just yet.”
The woman looked up from the paperwork.
“I need a name and credit card.”
“Eugenia Morgan,” she said, handing over the card.
“Card gets auto charged every month. If the card gets canceled or expires, we give you ninety days to submit a new form of payment. After ninety days, we clear out the unit. Everything goes in the dumpster, no auctioning off the items like on TV.”
“Understood.”
She knew the credit card would eventually fall past due, but that would take a couple of months. By then, she’d be long gone and the people who Francis wanted to show the photos to would have discovered the storage unit.
“The twenty-by-twenty is eighty-nine dollars. Due on the fifteenth of each month. I need you to fill out the top with your personal information—name, address, phone number. Then sign at the bottom.”
She did as she was told and scribbled a signature.
The woman tossed a small envelope onto the table. “Unit 223. The key is in the envelope and will open the side door to the unit. The bay door in the front is controlled by a keypad. Code is on the front of the envelope. It’s all yours.”
“Thank you,” she said, scooping up the envelope and hurrying out of the office.
A few minutes later she drove the Ford Focus along the gravel path that ran in front of the storage units until she found number 223. She suspected that surveillance cameras were recording her movements, and that was just fine. She climbed from her car and walked to the large bay door. Each unit was a standalone set in a long cluster. In the background, Lake Mendota was visible between the units. She tapped the 4-digit code onto the keypad and the bay door rattled open. A wall switch ignited a bank of overhead fluorescents. She climbed back into her car, twisted the steering wheel, and reversed until the back end was just inside the unit.
It took ten minutes to unload the contents of her trunk. It was everything she had collected from the footlocker in the abandoned warehouse two nights before. Touching the items—especially the photos of the dead women from 1993—sent a shiver through her body. She arranged the photos as instructed, and knew Francis would be pleased with her work.
With the storage unit locked and secured, she pulled out of the lot and drove an hour and a half to Boscobel. It killed her to be so close to Francis without seeing him. But she was not there to visit the Wisconsin Secure Program Facility. The drive to Boscobel served a different purpose today. She found the post office, and pulled into the drive-thru lane, stopping at the mailbox. From the middle console she removed a pair of latex gloves and slipped her hands into them. Then she pulled an envelope from the glove box. It was addressed toMaddie Jacobson. She dropped it through the slot in the mailbox, assuring that the letter—like all the others—would have a Boscobel postmark, and pulled away.
So far, she’d accomplished every task Francis had asked of her.
CHAPTER 19
Madison, Wisconsin Monday, July 14, 2025
ETHAN ARRIVED EARLY AND SAT IN THE FRONT ROW, LEGS CROSSEDand hands folded calmly on his lap. The courtroom filled to standing room only as Ethan waited, but he never looked behind him to see who was there. Parole hearings typically took place at the prison where the incarcerated individual was being held, but due to the high-profile nature of the case, today’s hearing was taking place at a courthouse in Madison.
Ethan focused his attention on the closed door at the side of the courtroom. Eventually, four parole board members shuffled in and filled the long table that waited for them, organizing their notes as they took their spots. Nameplates told the courtroom spectators who each of the members were. The side door opened, and two bailiffs entered. Ethan sat up a bit straighter and took a deep breath. The bailiffs nodded and then led Francis Bernard, dressed in an orange jumpsuit with wrists and ankles shackled, to the defense table where he sat with his attorney, a mere ten feet away.
Ethan watched as the attorney whispered into the man’s ear. Francis nodded and then looked over his attorney’s shoulder to take in the crowd. His gaze momentarily fell on Ethan, and Ethan liked to imagine that with the eye contact came a sense of lost hope. An icy tingle ran through Ethan’s spine when the corners of Francis’s lips twisted upward in a smile.
His career as a special agent at the DCI lasted ten years, during which Ethan had been responsible for putting many sick individuals behind bars. But none of those criminals had been imprisoned long enough to be considered for parole. Therefore, parole hearings were a new experience for him. Ethan had played no role in putting Francis Bernard in prison. He was, however, a key factor in keeping him there. Ethan’s testimony had led to the board denying Francis’s first chance at parole two years earlier. And Ethan planned to spoil things again today.
Ethan kept his gaze locked on the man’s eyes, his face expressionless, until Francis finally looked away.
“Good morning,” the woman sitting at the middle of the table said to get the hearing under way.
The courtroom quieted and everyone settled in.
“My name is Christine Jackson, chairperson of the Wisconsin Parole Commission. We are gathered in this courtroom on the fourteenth day of July, 2025 for the parole board hearing of Mr. Francis Bernard.”
