Page 7 of Mourning Wings (Whitmore Legacy #1)

6

VALERIA

Present

E arth to Valeria ,” Detective Nathaniel Bennett says as we wait in line for our drinks at the coffee shop.

I barely slept last night. I’ve barely slept for the past three nights.

Ever since the Halloween party, my mind’s been a tangled mess, caught up in two things that just won’t let me rest: the screens I discovered in the basement and her , the mysterious woman whose chain is wrapped around my neck.

Every time I close my eyes, her gaze pierces through the darkness, making me feel things I can’t quite describe. There’s something about the way she looked at me that stirs something deep in my gut.

I’ve always tried to understand people, to get inside their heads and uncover the truth. I can’t ignore the possibility that she might be involved with what I saw on those monitors.

Each time I replay our encounter in my mind, I analyze every gesture, looking for clues, but she didn’t give me much to go on.

She was so guarded and barely spoke a word, leaving me nothing to work with but her silence. It was like trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing. She was a mask of calm, giving nothing away, but her gaze was telling a different story. It was intense.

I need to understand her, to figure out what those eyes were trying to tell me. There’s a connection between her and the screens, I just know it.

“ Valeria ?”

Nathaniel’s voice jolts me back to the present. I blink, suddenly aware of my surroundings again. I’m in the coffee shop, and my colleague is standing in front of me, holding out my to-go cup and a danish.

“ You okay? I’ve been calling your name for a minute now.”

“ Oh ,” I stammer, feeling a rush of heat to my cheeks. “ Sorry , I was lost in thought.”

“ Must be some pretty deep thoughts,” he says, handing me the goods. “ Here , this might help,” he says with a gentle smile.

I take the cup, and the warmth of the drink seeps into my hands, grounding me. “ Thanks , Nate ,” I mumble, trying to shake off the lingering fog in my mind.

He studies me for a moment, concern flickering in his eyes. “ You sure you’re okay? You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

I force a smile. “ I’m fine, really. Just a lot on my mind.”

“ Well , if you need to talk, I’m here.”

I nod, grateful for his kindness. “ I appreciate that.”

I take a sip of the coffee, letting it jolt me further awake. I need to pull myself together. There are too many questions swirling in my head, and I can’t afford to let them consume me, not when I’m on the cusp of figuring out what happened to Camila .

It has been six years since I found out about her death. Six years of searching, digging, chasing every lead I could find. I’ve investigated the Whitmores from every angle, tried to expose them, tried to find anything that ties them to Camila’s sudden end. But they’re too powerful, too rich, and have everyone in their pockets—even the police commissioner. Every time I think I’ve uncovered something, it turns out to be another dead end.

Two thousand one hundred and ninety days of dead ends.

Part of me—the tired, worn-out part—wants to just accept the story they’ve fed everyone: that Camila killed herself. Yet there’s a part of my mind that won’t let me believe it, not for a second. I can’t shake the feeling that the Whitmores had something to do with her death. I know they’re involved. I can feel it in my bones.

Through my digging, I’ve managed to link some of the mysterious deaths of other women in Ebonridge to the Whitmores . There’s a pattern, but without hard evidence, I can’t prove it. No one believes me, or they’re too afraid to even try.

The killings appear to be focused on young women. The victims are usually found in secluded spots where they wouldn’t be immediately discovered, each crime scene with little physical evidence left behind.

But they all have the same cause of death: a slit throat.

I’ve poured over photos and reports, trying to piece everything together, but it has been a struggle, to say the least.

I don’t know what it is about those murders that have me so intrigued, but I feel connected to them somehow.

They’re meticulous and controlled, yet seemingly driven by impulses that break through that fa?ade. The killings are precise and riddled with ritualistic aspects, suggesting a need to regain control.

I’ve always had a fascination with death and what causes people to act so heinously. It’s ironic, given my appearance. You wouldn’t think I’m into that kind of darkness. I dress in vibrant colors, my hair always perfectly styled, makeup carefully applied.

But looks can be deceiving.

Beneath the surface, there’s a part of me that has always been drawn to the macabre, to the shadows that linger in the corners of the human psyche.

Since I was a teenager, I’ve been captivated by the darker aspects of human nature. I spent countless hours reading about infamous serial killers, studying their methods, trying to understand their motivations. There was something intriguing about the contrast between their outward normalcy and their hidden monstrosities. I wanted to know what made them tick, what pushed them over the edge, and if there was a way to predict and prevent such horrible acts.

Every insight, every breakthrough, brings me closer to understanding the depths of human depravity.

Sometimes , I question my own perversion. When I’m surrounded by images of brutality and violence, I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to step into the mind of the killer. To truly understand the darkness, would I need to embrace it myself?

I take another sip of coffee, feeling the caffeine start to kick in as Nathaniel and I walk to the office in comfortable silence.

As soon as we step inside the building, I’m ambushed by my colleague, Joshua , his face flushed with urgency.

“ Valeria , did you check your email?” His voice is sharp, almost panicked.

I freeze mid-step, my heart skipping a beat. “ No , not yet. Why ? What happened?”

“ Another woman was found dead. Three days ago, on the east side of Ebonridge at a Halloween party.”

My breath catches in my throat. “ Was it at the Whitmore estate?”

Joshua nods, his expression grim. “ Yes .”

My mind races, the blood draining from my face. I was at that party. “ Tell me everything.”

As we walk to my office, the corridors seem to stretch longer than usual. Finally , I push open my door and gesture for Joshua to follow.

“ Close the door.”

Joshua complies, and as soon as it clicks shut, he drops a file on my desk with a soft thud.

I sit down, my fingers trembling as I open the folder. The first thing I see is a photograph, and a gasp escapes my lips. I ruffle through the papers frantically, each image more horrifying than the last. My eyes widen as I recognize the person in the pictures.

This woman… I saw her in the first camera feed in the basement.

Joshua watches me intently. “ Do you know her?”

I shake my head.

As I sift through the photographs, each image intensifies the sinking feeling in my stomach. I vividly remember the woman—the way she nervously glanced around the room, her discomfort palpable even through the grainy footage.

The murders always seem to circle the Whitmore property like vultures. Every time a body is discovered, it’s always nearby, as if the estate itself draws the violence in, absorbing the darkness hiding beneath its polished surface.

I shake my head, feeling helpless.

“ Valeria , what’s wrong?” Joshua’s voice breaks through my racing thoughts.

I meet his gaze, eyes wide with apprehension. “ I was there,” I confess.

Joshua’s reaction is immediate; he plops down hard into the chair opposite my desk. “ Oh shit,” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair. “ Did you see anything? Anyone suspicious?”

I shake my head again, feeling the weight of guilt settle over me. “ I remember details, but nothing definite. Did anyone come forward with information?”

Joshua sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. “ Someone did, but it was a dead end. A guest mentioned seeing the victim go upstairs with a man during the party. They came back down together, and everything seemed normal. No one recalls anything suspicious afterward. The next morning, she was found in the forest next to the property with a slit throat.”

My mind races as I absorb the details, trying to piece together the puzzle.

Examining the rest of the photo, I notice her clothes. They look disheveled and torn, as if she had been running through the forest. Her dress is ripped in several places, the fabric snagged and shredded by branches. It’s clear she was being chased.

This further proves my assumption that Camila’s death reeks of something sinister. She was declared dead, but the circumstances surrounding her passing have always felt off. There was no official investigation, no signs of foul play. The Whitmores were quick to claim she committed suicide, but we’ve found nothing to prove it happened. It’s like she just vanished, and that doesn’t sit right with me.

The Whitmores are filthy rich, the kind of wealth that stretches back generations, with roots deep in this town. They own half of it, probably more, and their influence is everywhere. Money like that can buy a lot of things—silence, loyalty, cover-ups. I have no doubt they used it to bury whatever really happened to Camila , to make sure no one asks questions or digs too deep. After all, in a town like this, everyone has a price, and the Whitmores know exactly how to pay it.

It’s infuriating knowing that they can just erase her like that, wipe away the truth with a few well-placed bribes. But I won’t let them get away with it. Camila deserves justice, and I’m going to find out what really happened to her, no matter how many walls the Whitmores try to put up. Their money may buy a lot, but it won’t buy my silence.

The mysterious stranger from the basement flashes through my mind.

Could she be involved? The thought is irrational. The killer’s—or killers’— DNA , found at previous crime scenes, definitively point to a male perpetrator, but what if she was an accomplice?

Joshua watches me closely. “ What are you thinking?”

“ I saw a woman that night, near the woods. I need to find her. She might hold the key to this.” I quickly give him a description of her and what she was wearing.

Joshua nods slowly. “ Alright , we’ll start there. I’ll pull up footage from that area and see if we can identify her.”

After Joshua leaves my office, I let out a slow, steadying breath.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, I turn to my computer, my fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard to bring up the security camera feed from the Halloween party. Joshua doesn’t know that I’ve already been obsessively reviewing this footage for three days now, though initially for a completely different reason—pure infatuation.

At first, I scoured social media, sifting through hundreds of pictures and videos from the many socialites present, but there was no hint of her.

The internet was getting me nowhere, so I decided to use my own resources.

I contacted Marcus , a hacker employed by the agency. We’d worked together many times before on special projects and had a friendly, professional relationship, so I knew he’d comply without too many details.

He sent me the footage at record speed, and I didn’t waste a second.

Now , as I click through the timestamps, my eyes scan each frame with a newfound purpose. There she is. Her presence in the footage sends a jolt through me. I study her movements, her interactions, searching for any clue that might connect her to the events of that tragic night, but nothing stands out.

But the answers are there, I know it. I just need to find the right angle, the right piece of the puzzle to make everything fall into place.