Chapter 21: Ron's Record
The public records database loaded slowly on my laptop screen.
I'd been at this for three hours—court filings, arrest records, anything that might give me leverage on Ron Lexy. The process was tedious but productive. Men like Ron left trails.
The first hit was an assault charge from Newark, five years old. Victim was a woman whose name I didn't recognize. Ron had pled it down to disorderly conduct, served no time.
The second hit was another assault charge, three years old. Different victim. This one was dismissed when the woman didn't show up to testify. Classic pattern—intimidation working exactly as designed.
But the third hit was gold.
Active warrant for parole violation. Ron had skipped check-ins after a DUI conviction, relocated to New York without notifying his parole officer. The warrant was eighteen months old, still active, still waiting for someone to execute it.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the information settle.
One anonymous tip to NYPD—Ron's name, address, the warrant number—and police would come. Ron would be arrested, transported back to New Jersey, held pending proceedings. Claudia would be free. Paco would be safe. Joe would be denied his kill.
Clean. Elegant. Legal.
I drafted the tip in a text document. Careful wording, actionable details, nothing that could trace back to me.
Re: Active Warrant - Ronald Lexy Current address: [building], Apt 3B Wanted: NJ parole violation, warrant #[number] Typically home evenings after 6 PM Advise caution - subject has history of violence
My finger hovered over the send button.
Then stopped.
The collateral damage unfurled in my mind like a slow-motion disaster.
If police came for Ron, they'd enter the apartment. Anything illegal inside—drugs, weapons, stolen goods—would be found. Claudia might be charged as an accessory, even if she was a victim. Paco might witness his mother being arrested alongside his abuser.
And the system that took over from there wasn't known for protecting children. Foster care had its own horrors. The cure might be worse than the disease.
I thought about Benji—how removing him had cleared Joe's path to Beck instead of blocking it. Good intentions creating bad outcomes.
Rushing helped no one.
I closed the laptop and got a beer from the fridge. The bottle was cold against my palm as I walked to the window.
The city stretched out below, indifferent to my calculations. Somewhere in the maze of streets, Ron was probably terrorizing Claudia. Joe was probably watching, planning. Paco was probably hiding in a book, building escape routes in his imagination.
And I was standing in a dead man's apartment, playing god with incomplete information.
The beer went warm before I finished drinking it. I'd been doing that a lot lately—starting things and not completing them, attention scattered across too many problems.
Candace Stone is the priority.
The thought emerged clearly, cutting through the noise.
Ron was urgent, but Ron was also stable. The pattern had been repeating for years, probably. It might repeat for weeks or months more before Joe decided to act. I had time.
Candace Stone was different. She might be alive somewhere, carrying information that could end Joe's obsession with Beck permanently. Not just saving one victim, but proving what he was. Getting him arrested, convicted, stopped.
That was the mission. Break the obsession. The cosmic rules were specific.
I set down the beer and opened the laptop again.
Finding someone who'd deliberately disappeared was different from researching public records.
Candace Stone had erased herself with intention. Her social media accounts existed but were abandoned. Her old apartment address led to new tenants who'd never heard of her. The last known employer—a publishing house—had marked her as "voluntary departure" with no forwarding information.
She'd run hard and far. Which meant she was probably alive.
I approached the search differently. People who ran usually ran toward something, not just away. Family, maybe. Somewhere she'd feel safe.
Her old social media posts mentioned a sister in Philadelphia. A mother somewhere in the Midwest. Comments from an account labeled "Dad" that stopped appearing years before the disappearance—death or estrangement, impossible to tell.
I focused on the sister. Same last name, easier to find. A few hours of searching produced an address in a Philadelphia suburb.
Candace might not be there. But the sister might know where she went.
The train to Philadelphia took about two hours. I could make a day trip, ask careful questions, come back with answers.
Or I could be wrong about everything. Candace might be dead in a shallow grave somewhere, her sister grieving without closure, her story ending with Joe's reinvention rather than escape.
Only one way to find out.
Before leaving for Philadelphia, I needed to handle the Ron situation. Not solve it—just stabilize it.
The next morning, I researched Claudia.
Her social media was locked down, but old posts from friends mentioned her. She'd been a nurse before. Had worked at a hospital in Queens. The job had ended around the time she'd moved in with Ron—coincidence or control, hard to say.
No arrest record. No warrants. No indication she'd done anything wrong beyond loving the wrong man.
I found a domestic violence hotline and saved the number. Not for me to call—for Claudia, if she ever wanted help. I couldn't force her to leave. Couldn't make decisions for someone I'd never met.
But I could remove the obstacle that kept her trapped.
The warrant tip sat in my drafts. I read it again, weighing consequences.
What if Claudia fights the police when they come for Ron? Gets charged with obstruction?
What if Paco sees the whole thing, ends up in foster care?
What if Ron makes bail, comes back angrier?
The variables were endless. There was no perfect move.
I thought about the first days after waking up in this body. The alley, the cold concrete, the message burned into my consciousness. Break his obsessions, grow stronger. The rules had seemed simple then. Find Joe, stop him, save people.
Six weeks later, nothing was simple.
But simple or not, the mission remained. Joe couldn't be allowed to kill. Not Ron, not Peach, not Beck, not anyone.
I modified the tip. Added a line about a child in the residence, suggesting coordination with family services. Requested discretion about the source. Made it as clean as I could.
Then I saved it without sending.
Tomorrow, Philadelphia. Find the sister, find Candace. If Candace was alive and willing to help, everything changed.
If not, I'd come back and deal with Ron the hard way.
The train ticket cost forty-three dollars. I bought it online, printed the confirmation at a FedEx shop, and stuffed it in my jacket pocket.
Philadelphia in the morning. Questions about a woman who might be dead or might be hiding. A sister who might help or might call the police on the stranger asking about her disappeared sibling.
The plan was thin. The alternatives were thinner.
I spent the evening reading The Count of Monte Cristo—Joe's gift, still sitting on my nightstand. Dantès had spent fourteen years waiting, planning, transforming. I'd been at this for six weeks and already felt the weight.
But Dantès had won eventually. Patience and precision, applied over time.
I marked my place and turned off the light.
Tomorrow, I'd start finding the cracks in Joe's past. Candace Stone's sister was the first thread to pull.
The story wasn't finished yet.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1