An Influential Murder

An Influential Murder A Secrets Thriller Wendy Owens Orangewillow Publishing Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 WOULD YOU RECOMMEND AN INFLUENTIAL MURDER? WHAT’S NEXT? STAY UP TO DATE ON EVERYTHING WENDY OWENS BY JOINING THE #SUSCREW NEWSLETTER About the Author Acknowledgments Also by Wendy Owens Copyright © 2023 by Wendy Owens All rights reserved. No part of this book, The Day We Died, may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Secrets at Meadow Lake is a work of fiction. Names, places, or anything that happens in this book are based on the author’s imagination and not real. Cover Design: Wendy Owens Developmental Editing: Josh Owens Copy Editing: Editing 4 Indies Proofing: Karen Lawson Formatting: Wendy Owens Copyright © 2023 by Wendy Owens https://wendyowensbooks.com/ In memory of Jerry Lee Allen 1/25/52 - 10/9/22 Daddy, you were the greatest human I ever knew and my biggest cheerleader, I miss you every day. I ask all readers to think of my daddy’s smile when you eat your next ice cream. He loved God, his family, and ice cream. One “Sydney Booth?” a woman’s voice calls out from the phone. I hesitate a moment before asking, “Who’s this?” “My name is Cassie Hill, and I need your help.” The woman’s voice trembles with desperation. “I think I’m in danger.” A lump forms in my throat as I hear the fear in Cassie’s voice. It is a fear I know all too well. The same fear nearly suffocated me just over a year ago when the bodies of murdered women started showing up in my town. Victims who carried identical signatures on their bodies as my father’s victims. It was like he had somehow managed to come back from the dead, and the fear was so intense it felt like a vise gripping my throat. “Hi, Cassie,” I begin in a sympathetic voice. “Are you in a safe place right now?” I haven’t been an independent investigator long, but I’m confident in what I do. The first thing is to make sure whoever is reaching out isn’t in immediate danger. The line is quiet for a few moments. “Cassie?” I repeat more forcefully. “I-I think so,” she mutters. “I’m at home.” Nodding to myself, I say, “It’s important that, until I understand the situation a little better, your safety is the top priority. Are you alone?” I hear movement through the phone before she replies, “My assistant is here too.” Clenching my jaw, I respond, “Good, now tell me what happened.” “I don’t know what to do.” Cassie’s voice cracks with desperation on the other end of the line. My muscles quiver with tension as I make my way toward my laptop, quickly type in Cassie Hill and the area code she was calling from, and hit search. “I’m going to help you figure that out,” I assure her. “Now, I want you to take a deep breath and start from the beginning. Leave nothing out; any detail could be important. Do you understand?” I can hear the raw emotion in her voice and the underlying doubt as she begins to speak, “I don’t know. Maybe it was just some random burglar, as the cops said. I probably shouldn’t have called.” “Hey, Cassie,” I continue as I filter through the results on my screen. “Why don’t you tell me everything, and if I think it’s nothing, then all we did was spend a little time getting to know each other, okay?” Most female victims have been made to feel they are crazy or paranoid. My initial job is usually getting them to trust me and their instincts. When I decided to become a freelance investigator, I’d unwittingly taken on the roles of detective, scientist, and therapist. On the screen, I saw a bright blue-eyed, blond woman looking at me. Dozens of pictures of her standing in front of famous Las Vegas monuments. As I continued clicking around, I came across her social media pages, and suddenly, my eyes widened with recognition. I’ve seen her before. Cassie Hill is a famous lifestyle influencer with millions of followers. A couple of years ago, she did a brand deal with a makeup company and had her face plastered on billboards all over the city. “I came home after a party the other night and—” Her voice breaks, and she’s struggling to finish her sentence. “It’s okay, Cassie. Remember, you’re safe right now,” I reassure her. “Someone had broken into my house,” she manages to whisper. I quickly scan through any information I can find on Cassie and come across a story of a bitter rivalry between Cassie and another influencer. I bookmark the page to read later and direct my attention back to her. “What did they take?” I press, desperate to find out more. “Some of my clothes, I think. And a picture of me on my wall is missing,” she says a little louder now. “Were these clothes expensive? Could that be why they were taken?” I ask. “It was lingerie,” she replies. “Ah, I can see why that could set you on edge.” My chest aches as I understand the violation Cassie must be struggling with. “Is that all that was taken?” “I think so.” “And you called the police?” “I did, but they said these kinds of criminals usually don’t come back,” she tells me despondently. “They told me that I need to make sure I set my home alarm when I go out.” “What makes you think they’re wrong?” Cassie sobs uncontrollably on the other end of the line.