Page 39 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The storm had turned our driveway into a river by the time we made it home, water cascading down the slope toward the cliff edge where it disappeared into darkness.

Jack killed the engine under the shelter of the garage, and we sat for a moment in the sudden quiet, just the sound of rain drumming on the roof and our own breathing.

“You okay?” he asked, his hand finding mine in the dark.

“Just thinking about Judith,” I said. “All that terror, and she fought back. Drove her knee into the attacker’s ribs and escaped.”

“Strong woman,” Jack agreed. “And lucky. If she hadn’t known those woods…”

I sighed as I climbed out of the Tahoe. “I feel like I’m starting to mold with all this rain. Maybe we could ask Evangeline and Leena to do some kind of rain voodoo and get it to stop.”

“I’d be good with never seeing either of them again,” Jack said, ushering me toward the mudroom door. “All this witch stuff is freaky. We should go to church on Sunday.”

“You afraid the witchy stuff rubbed off?” I asked, laughing.

“You can never be too careful in our line of work.”

We made our way through the mudroom, peeling off soaked jackets and leaving wet shoes on the mat. The house felt empty at first—that particular quiet that usually meant we had it to ourselves. But as we headed toward the kitchen, I saw light spilling from Jack’s office doorway.

“Doug’s back,” I said, unable to keep the smile out of my voice.

Sure enough, we found him in Jack’s office, surrounded by what looked like the contents of our entire pantry.

Empty bags of chips, three soda cans, a plate that had clearly held multiple sandwiches, and a mixing bowl with brownie batter remnants.

Oscar was passed out at his feet, occasionally twitching in dreams that probably involved chasing squirrels.

Multiple monitors glowed with data, and I could hear Margot’s familiar synthetic voice as we approached.

“—statistical analysis suggests a sixty-seven percent probability of precipitation continuing for the next four hours,” she was saying.

“Nobody asked about the weather, Margot,” Doug replied, spinning in his chair when we entered.

“I was merely providing contextual information that might affect your evening plans,” Margot said with what sounded suspiciously like sniffiness. “Good evening, Jack and Jaye. You both appear to be experiencing elevated stress levels based on your vocal patterns and movement signatures.”

“Hello, Margot,” I said, unable to suppress a smile. “Keeping Doug company?”

“Someone has to ensure he maintains basic nutritional requirements,” she replied. “He has consumed nothing but refined carbohydrates and caffeine for the past six hours.”

Doug grabbed another handful of pretzels from the bag beside him. “What’s up? Finals week was brutal, but I survived.”

“How’d you do?” I asked, moving some of his debris to make room on the couch.

“Advanced Cryptography was a breeze,” he said, trying to sound casual but unable to hide his pride.

“Professor said my approach to the Byzantine Generals Problem was unconventional but brilliant. Turned in my master’s thesis on quantum encryption this morning.

I hate writing papers. Zeros and ones are so much more reliable than the English language. ”

“Great job, Doug,” Jack said, though his eyes were already scanning the multiple monitors displaying what looked like genealogical databases and courthouse records.

“I’m pretty pumped,” he said. “I’ve had about five hours of sleep all week, so I’m working off adrenaline.

Missed you guys, but I needed some peace and quiet to study.

Y’all have too much company over here and Mom is hardly ever home.

I think I cramped her style though with her new boyfriend.

She kept asking when I was going back to your house. ”

I tried to keep my face blank so my anger wouldn’t show, but I glanced at Jack and saw the corners of his mouth tighten subtly.

Doug’s mom had never known what to do with a kid as special and unique as he was, and she’d been almost relieved when he’d gotten busted by the FBI for hacking into databases he had no business being in.

Doug’s Uncle Ben, who also happened to be Jack’s best friend, had gotten the kid back on the straight and narrow.

And Doug had come to live with us. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“Speaking of company, did you know Sheldon’s living in the room across from mine? I almost karate chopped him when I came in. He was just standing in the doorway like a weirdo. I think he ate all your food so I put in a grocery order.”

“He’s still upstairs now?” I asked, brows raised.

“Yep,” Doug said. “He’s looking paler that usual. I told him he looked like he’d seen a ghost, but he just blinked at me like he does and closed his bedroom door.”

Jack pointed at the screens and said, “Do I want to know what you’re doing?”

“Monitoring your investigation,” Doug said, his expression shifting from casual to focused. “Margot’s been helping me analyze data patterns. Someone’s been accessing sealed Colonial records through the courthouse system for months.”

“The access patterns are quite sophisticated,” Margot interjected. “Whoever is conducting these searches demonstrates advanced knowledge of database architecture and historical record-keeping.”

Jack’s expression darkened. “Doug, please tell me you’re not hacking into restricted courthouse systems.”

“I’m not hacking,” Doug said quickly. “I’m analyzing metadata patterns from legitimate access logs. Big difference.”

“The difference being what, exactly?” Jack asked.

“Hacking implies unauthorized intrusion. I’m simply observing digital footprints that are technically visible to anyone with appropriate analytical software,” Doug said.

“Your federal consulting agreement covers this?” I asked.

“Cybersecurity threat assessment,” Doug confirmed. “Which this definitely qualifies as.” His phone buzzed before Jack could respond. “Oh, and speaking of threats—Blackwood’s lawyer just got him released. Traffic cameras confirmed his alibi.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Well, we knew that was coming.”

“I need coffee,” I said, heading for the little bar area. “Anyone else?”

“Always,” Jack said. “But I’ll make it. I don’t want to be poisoned tonight.”

“Can you toss me another soda from the fridge?” Doug asked. “I gotta keep the neurons snapping.”

While Jack brewed coffee, he explained our timeline while Doug’s fingers never stopped moving across his keyboards.

Jack handed me a cup and I saw it was tea instead of coffee.

I narrowed my eyes at the deception, but decided to let it pass.

This time. I’d needed the coffee. I was falling asleep standing up.

“Let’s walk through what we know,” Jack said, settling into his chair with his coffee. “Three murders, one attempted. All connected to families from the 1725 witch trials.”

“But not random descendants,” I said, curling up on the couch with my tea. “Thomas Whitman was actively researching the land fraud. Victoria Mills was asking questions about her family’s involvement. Margaret Randolph knew about Thomas’s work and tried to warn him off.”

“And Judith Hughes received those letters, was specifically targeted,” Jack added.

Doug pulled up crime-scene photos on his largest monitor. “The staging is sophisticated. Whoever’s doing this understands not just the history, but the symbolism. The positioning of Thomas’s body, the carved messages, the books arranged around Margaret—it’s theatrical.”

“Someone who thinks in scenes,” I said. “Someone who wants to tell a story.”

“Or send a message,” Jack said. “Three hundred years of injustice, and they’re making sure everyone understands the connection.”

Doug’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “I’ve been analyzing the access logs for the courthouse database with Margot’s help. Someone’s been digging into these family records for six months.”

“The search patterns indicate obsessive behavior,” Margot added. “Always during off-hours, always from different terminals, but with consistent methodology and increasing frequency over time.”

“Inside access?” Jack asked.

“Definitely,” Doug said. “The queries were too specific, too sophisticated for a casual user.”

“I have identified forty-seven individuals with both the technical knowledge and system access to conduct such searches,” Margot said. “However, the behavioral patterns suggest someone with deep personal investment in the outcomes.”

“Six months,” I said. “That’s a lot of planning.”

“That’s obsession,” Jack corrected. “Someone who’s been thinking about this for a long time.”

Doug switched screens, showing a map of King George County with various locations marked.

“Here’s what bothers me about the crime scenes.

Each one was chosen for maximum symbolic impact, but they’re also practical.

The cemetery—easy access after hours, secluded.

The mill—isolated, historically significant.

Dr. Mills dumped at the boat launch—convenient disposal, but also where she’d be found quickly. ”

“Our killer wants the bodies discovered,” I said. “This isn’t about hiding the crimes, it’s about displaying them.”

“But they’re careful about evidence,” Jack pointed out. “No fingerprints, no DNA until Victoria fought back, no witnesses.”

“Professional,” Doug said. “Someone who understands crime-scene processing.”

That made me pause. “The herbs stolen from Evangeline’s greenhouse. Someone who knew exactly what they were taking and what it could be used for.”

“Medical knowledge,” Jack agreed. “Someone who understands how plant toxins work.”

“Or just someone who did their research,” I said. “It’s not exactly classified information. You can find anything online these days.”