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Denise set the letter and driver’s license back down on her desk slowly, as if they might explode.

She took some pictures with her phone while Lynn and the others in the Chronicle newsroom gathered around her, reading the message, staring at the license.

Curious, Marco reached for the items.

“Stop!” Denise said. “Don’t touch them!”

Marco’s hand shot back.

“Dear Lord.” Kelcey covered her mouth with her hands. “Is this for real?”

“Meh. A hoax,” Marco said. “A nutjob messin’ with you. Probably a fake license.”

Repositioning her glasses, Lynn leaned closer, studying the items. “What do you think, Denise? You know the case.”

“The files listed Abby’s license as one of the items the killer took from the murdered girls, possibly as a trophy.”

“How did this envelope arrive?” Lynn asked.

“It was wedged in the back door,” Marco said. “I brought it in this morning.”

Lynn set her glasses atop her head, thinking.

“Nobody goes anywhere,” Lynn said. “Don’t touch anything, do anything or call anyone. I’ll be right back.”

She went to her office, closing the door behind her. The staff eyed each other, the license and the letter for a moment as Lynn spoke to someone on her phone.

“I still think it’s fake,” Marco said. “What’s with the ‘I am that I am’ weirdo phrase?”

“It’s from the Bible,” Denise said. “The sender’s revealing his mindset.”

“What?” Marco said.

“It’s from Exodus,” Kelcey said. “What God told Moses.”

Raising an eyebrow, Marco listened as Kelcey went on.

“Something about God’s eternal, absolute existence and power over all things.”

“Look at you,” Marco said.

“Bible studies at my church,” Kelcey said.

“All right, listen up,” Lynn said, emerging from her office. “Chandler Hayes, our attorney, said we should regard this as evidence. So as not to be seen as obstructing justice, we should alert the sheriff. I’m calling Bob Ellerd.”

***

A short time later, Detectives Mallory and Cobb arrived in the newsroom.

After asking a few initial questions, they snapped the latches of an aluminum briefcase, opened it, tugged on blue nitrile gloves and got to work.

First, they examined the message and license, making notes, their poker faces betraying nothing. They photographed the items, logging and placing them in evidence bags. They used a portable fingerprint reader to collect everyone’s prints. They took photos of the newsroom, the rear door.

Then they used Lynn’s office to individually question each staff member present. They went through the timeline, asked about reactions to stories about the case, whether anyone had any idea who may have sent the letter, and the status of the strip mall’s security cameras.

“They were damaged in the last storm,” Lynn said. “Maintenance hasn’t fixed them.”

When they got to Marco, he said he always came through the back. “The story got posted online at midnight. I’m the first one in at seven thirty. I park at the back for the shade. Is it a crackpot faking things?”

“We’ll have to process it,” Mallory said.

Questioning Denise took things to a different level for the detectives.

She knew and they knew.

The message was real. It was from the killer.

“This changes everything, doesn’t it?” Denise said.

“We can’t say for certain. We need to take a good hard look at everything,” Mallory said.

“You know and I know, it’s real. Your file lists Abby’s license as missing from the murder scene—and now, after my story, it surfaces here.”

“Are you planning to do a story on this?” Cobb asked.

“Absolutely.”

“We can’t tell you what to write, but can we ask you to hold off for a bit?” Cobb asked.

“Why?”

“Give us time to examine this, authenticate it, investigate further,” Cobb said.

At that moment, Denise heard the vibrations of Mallory’s and Cobb’s phones. As they looked at them, she observed the near imperceptible crease at the edge of Cobb’s mouth, then he traded a glance with his partner.

“We need to go,” Mallory said.

“What is it? Is it related to this?” Denise asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Cobb said.

A few long seconds later, shrugging on their jackets, the detectives thanked everyone, then left.

Kelcey’s phone rang; she took the call.

“All right.” Lynn clapped her hands. “We did our duty. Denise, we should discuss how to approach—”

“Excuse me!” Kelcey waved her phone. “You won’t believe this! It’s Paul Leeson calling, the freelance photographer I dated a few times.”

“Wow, that’s news,” Marco said.

“He’s on River Road, near Fawn Ridge. Says there’s all kinds of police activity around an abandoned car, that a deputy told him it was Carrie Conway’s car and she’s missing!”

Lynn turned to Denise, who was pulling on her jacket and collecting her things.

“I’m on it!”