Page 29 of Dead Man's Wish
“Mr. Peters.” Bexley spoke before I could. “I don’t know what ripper case you think is occurring, as it’s not 1888 and this isn’t fucking London. I can assure that this doesn’t concern you as no one in this room currently needs legal representation.” She marched out the door, muttering under her breath, “I’m not television entertainment for true crime junkies.”
Jaiden and Kel turned their backs and fought to cover their laughter over Peters’s embarrassment. Mari gave me a nod and I ushered him out of the conference room and down the hall to my office.
* * *
Half an hour later,I returned to see Bexley scanning over the details of two photos. She didn’t look up when I entered.
“Sorry,” she said without much empathy. “He annoyed me.” Placing the photos on the table, she faced them in my direction and beckoned me over. “Can you see the difference?” An old and new print sat side by side.
“Aside from time?” I picked them up to inspect any differences.
“Yeah, there’s a difference in . . .artistry.” Her voice strained on the last word.
“Explain?”
“You know how a Pollock is a Pollock and a Picasso is a Picasso?” She thought over the comparison herself.
“Yeah.”
“I refuse to call it art, but Brent’s photography had a style. The Polaroids were a signature and it’s very clear that the motives are different based on how the subject is being photographed. How he felt showed through the lens. Not that he was capable of genuine connections . . . ”
“He cared about the preservation of you. The perfection he fabricated in his mind,” Kel filled in the rest of her thought.
“Precisely. I’m not the object of infatuation here,” she said, tapping the new photo. “I’m the object of hate.”
“Who hates you?” I asked. Years prior, no one we investigated had anything hateful to say about Bexley.
“What an interesting list that’ll be.” She sighed. “Since freelancing, I’m sure I’ve racked up many names.”
“But we aren’t looking at clients or suspects from other counties,” I clarified. “We need the personal connections here in Old Oaks.”
Thirteen
August 7, 2025
Jaiden Wells
Something sharp hitme and my eyes popped open to our dark bedroom. A twinge in my ribs started as a wail cut through the silence and I caught another stray elbow. I reached out for Bexley’s curled form, and she shook beneath my hand.
“Bex,” I whispered, shaking her shoulder. “Baby, wake up.” My eyes adjusted to the darkness. She had completely kicked off her side of the covers and pillow. With a firmer touch, I shook her shoulder again. “Bexley!” My voice raised slightly, and she popped up with labored breaths.
“Jaiden?”
“It’s me. I’m here.” I tugged her into my chest and she sobbed. It was the hardest I’d seen her cry in years. My hands trailed her back and I kept my breathing steady. “Breathe with me, baby. In and out.” Tears rolled down my abdomen as sobs turned to sniffles.
“It’s not fair,” she said, her voice muffled in the tight space.
“I know. You don’t deserve any of it. I’ll do anything to right it.”
“Why won’t it end?” she yelled; tiny fists beat against my chest. “Every time I close my eyes, he’s taunting me, looming over me, and I can’t make him go away. Every nightmare is the same, and I keep losing you.”
“You will never lose me. I’m right here and I’ll fight like hell to stay here.” She pushed out of my arms.
“I can’t do it. I’m not good enough to take this on. The answers are in the journals, but I can’t find them. They’re are in the photos, but fuck— what good have I actually done in figuring those out?” She turned away.
“Bex—”
“I’m missing it. This person has been in close proximity and I’m just too stupid to pay attention and catch them.”
