“Harold had many admirers over the years.”
“Like who, Professor Kramer?Who loved Benson’s work enough to kill for it?”
Kramer was quiet for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the photographs that had defined his mentor’s career.When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“Harold had a son.”
The words hung in the air between them.Isla felt something shift in her chest—the particular sensation of a case finally cracking open.
“A son?”
Kramer nodded slowly, his gaze distant with memory.“Ethan.Ethan Benson.He would be...mid-forties now, I believe.Harold didn’t speak of him often—there was some estrangement, I gathered, during Ethan’s younger years.But they reconciled later in life.Ethan moved back to the area to care for Harold during his final years.”
“He was here when Harold died?”
“He was the only one here.”Kramer’s voice carried a weight of unspoken implication.“Ethan watched his father fade into obscurity.Watched the nursing home bills drain whatever savings Harold had left.Watched the photography world that had once celebrated Harold Benson forget he ever existed.”He paused, his trembling hands gripping the armrests of his chair.“That kind of thing...it changes a person.”
Isla’s mind was racing, cataloging the implications.A son who had witnessed his father’s decline.A son who would have had intimate access to Harold’s archive, his compositions, his vision.A son who would know exactly which photographers had built their careers on stolen work.
“What do you know about Ethan?Where does he live?What does he do?”
“I don’t know much, I’m afraid.Harold was protective of him—kept that part of his life separate, even in our correspondence.”Kramer’s brow furrowed with the effort of memory.“I believe Ethan works with his hands—construction, maybe, or something similar.Physical labor.He would have the strength that I lack.”
The strength to overpower three healthy adults.The strength to stage bodies at remote overlooks.The strength to turn murder into a statement about art and theft and the corruption of everything his father had represented.
“Did Ethan inherit anything when Harold died?Besides the nursing home bills?”
“The archive went to the historical society—Harold wanted it preserved for future generations, even if he doubted anyone would care.”Kramer’s voice carried a note of irony.“But Ethan would have inherited personal effects.Photographs that weren’t part of the official collection.Letters, journals, the private documentation of a life spent in service to an art form that ultimately abandoned him.”
Private photographs.Personal compositions that the historical society wouldn’t have.Images that only Ethan Benson would know existed—images that might match, perfectly, the staging of the murders.
“I need to find Ethan Benson,” Isla said.“Current address, employment, anything recent.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.Harold was protective of him—kept that part of his life separate, even in our correspondence.”Kramer’s gaze returned to the vintage prints spread across the table.“But you’ll find him.That kind of thing leaves traces, even when a person doesn’t want to be found.”
Isla’s phone buzzed in her pocket—a text from James, referencing his work on the Brune case.Found something at the scrapyard.Signs of recent habitation.Continuing search.
She typed a quick response—Keep me updated—and turned back to the door.
“Agent Rivers,” Kramer said.She turned back to find him watching her with an expression that was difficult to read.“Ethan...if he’s doing this, it’s not because he’s evil.It’s because he loved his father.Because he watched Harold die forgotten and alone, and he couldn’t bear to let that be the end of the story.”
“I understand,” Isla said.And she did—understood how grief could curdle into rage, how love could twist into something unrecognizable, how the desire to honor the dead could lead to unspeakable acts against the living.
But understanding didn’t change what needed to happen.
“He’s still killing people, Professor.Whatever his reasons, whatever his grief—three people are dead, and there will be more if we don’t stop him.”
Kramer’s eyes dropped to the photographs on his table—the compositions that had defined Harold’s career, the images that someone was willing to kill for.“I know,” he said quietly.“I know.”
Isla stepped out into the gray March afternoon and pulled out her phone.She needed to run Ethan Benson through every database they had access to—DMV records, employment history, known addresses, criminal background.If he was the killer, he’d left traces somewhere.
Everyone slipped up eventually.
She took out her phone and dialed James’s number.If he had time to step away from the scrapyard, then she’d rather not go into the next phase alone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Isla sat in the passenger seat of James's sedan, watching the landscape shift from the commercial bustle of downtown to increasingly industrial corridors—warehouses giving way to repair shops, repair shops giving way to storage facilities, the whole area carrying the particular emptiness of a region that had seen better decades.The address they'd pulled from DMV records was in a converted industrial building on the western edge of the city, the kind of place that had been rezoned for residential use when the original businesses fled and no one else came to replace them.