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“Do the right thing,” Tanya continued. “Tell me where you stashed Olivia McCabe’s body. Give her family some peace. Admit what happened at Deadwater Lake. Those families need closure.”

“Closure,” Sidney said, using air quotes. “A made-up word to sell books. I already gave those families exactly what they needed. You want me to say something to them?”

“Yes,” she said. “If the McCabe family or the Oleson family were sitting here across from you instead of me, what would you tell them?”

Sidney laughed harder. Then he grew quietly serious. He ripped off his mic and stared at the camera. Tanya’s mic was sensitive enough to pick up his next words.

“Blackness is the gift, baby.”

Then he spit right into the camera lens. There was a shuffle. The picture tilted sideways, then the feed cut out.

Dad reached over and tried to click off the video in pure disgust. But I couldn’t move.

“No,” I said. “Play it back.”

I moved the cursor and found the right frame. I hit play. Sidney leaned forward. He said, “Blackness is the gift, baby.”

I froze the frame.

“Blackness is the gift,” I repeated. “That’s close enough to what Geneva says he said. Atrō te benedicto? Right?”

“I bless you with blackness, more or less,” Dad said. “She’s at least telling the truth about that.”

“Nobody else ever saw this footage. Is that right? I mean, it wasn’t aired. Who would have seen it in the newsroom?”

“Producers, editors. Tanya herself. What, you think somebody in the newsroom is taunting Geneva now?”

“No. I don’t know. He didn’t say anything in Latin. It’s just ... like you said. It lends credibility to what Geneva said Sidney whispered to her.”

“So, what do you want to do next?” he asked.

“His son,” I said. “I think we need to talk to him.”

“Oh,” Dad said. “I might have found a current address. I followed the trail on an ancestry site. Derrek Sidney Jr. I don’t think he exists anymore.”

“He’s dead?” I asked.

“No,” Dad said. He rifled through some papers on the table and handed me one. It was a copy of a probate court order. Five years ago, a Derrek Sidney had filed a motion in the Washtenaw County Court for a name change. If this was the same guy, he went by Boone now, not Derrek. The address listed was just a few hours from here.

“Should I call him first?” I asked.

“I think you need to do this the old-fashioned way. Face to face. It’s harder to slam a door in someone’s face than hang up a phone.”

“Good point. I’ll drive down there first thing in the morning.”

Chapter

Sixteen

Chelsea, Michigan, reminded me a lot of Helene. It had a quaint downtown area and a vibrant art and theater scene. The neighborhoods in the town proper were well maintained with manicured lawns and beautiful early 1900s homes.

I wondered how many people in town knew that the son of Derrek Sidney, one of the nation’s most infamous serial killers, owned a boutique storefront design studio nestled between a bakery and an Irish pub.

Bells above the door chimed as I entered the showroom of Blue Rose Designs. My internet deep dive told me Derrek Junior, now known as Boone Sidney, was a finish carpenter who founded his own design firm just before the COVID pandemic. I saw a home tour brochure sitting on an oak coffee table surrounded by blue and gold velvet upholstered chairs.

Blue Rose Designs would present the featured crown jewel home on the tour in just three weeks.

“Welcome to Blue Rose. May I help you?”