On the morning of October 15th, 2024, in a private home on Cypress Street in Redford, Virginia, 26-year-old Olivia Harold was found bleeding to death.
The victim of an attack that would expose a chain of lies, betrayal, and fatal revenge.
Olivia Harold was waiting for her boyfriend Roy in a small house on the outskirts of Redford.
The house was old with peeling paint on the facade and creaky floorboards, but it was her refuge, a place where she could be herself.
Olivia’s job as a supermarket cashier barely paid enough to cover her rent and food.
The credit cards she once considered her salvation had become a noose around her neck.
Roy Preston, her boyfriend, was a mechanic at an auto repair shop on the other side of town.
28 years old, solidly built with hands that were always slightly stained with motor oil, even when he tried to scrub them clean.
They had been dating for about a year, and Olivia appreciated his simplicity and sincerity.
Roy wasn’t a man of complicated conversations or romantic gestures, but he was reliable.
He showed up when he said he would.
He didn’t lie.
He didn’t play games.
That was important to Olivia who was tired of uncertainty and everything else.
They didn’t live together.
Roy had his own rented apartment on Maple Street closer to his work.
Olivia preferred to keep her distance, not because she didn’t love him, but because she needed her space, a place where she could be in control.
Around 8:00 in the evening, Roy parked his old pickup truck on the curb in front of her house and walked up the porch.
Olivia opened the door and smiled at him.
[music] She was dressed casually in a gray t-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail.
“Hi,” she said, letting him in.
“Hi,” Roy replied, kissing her on the cheek.
He smelled of gasoline and something metallic.
“How was your day?” “Same as usual,” Olivia shrugged, closing the door.
I stood at the cash register, smiling at people who didn’t care.
How was your day? I replaced the engine in a Chevrolet, Roy said, walking into the living room and sinking onto the sofa.
The owner swore the car was in perfect condition, but half the parts were on their last legs.
I had to explain that the repairs would cost a pretty penny.
Olivia brought two bottles of beer from the kitchen and handed one to him.
Did he agree? Where else could he go? Roy opened the bottle and took a sip.
He needs the car.
People always agree when they have no choice.
They sat and talked about trivial things.
Olivia told him about an annoying customer who tried to return expired goods and Roy shared stories from the workshop.
It was their usual pastime.
Nothing special, just being in each other’s company.
After a while, the conversation died down and they moved to the bedroom.
The room was small, the bed taking up almost all the space.
Olivia turned on the nightlight on the bedside table.
A soft yellowish light filled the space.
Roy hugged her, pulling her close.
They made love slowly without haste.
Olivia closed her eyes, allowing herself to just be there in that moment.
Somewhere in the corner of her mind, a thought flashed about the cameras, about how all of this was being recorded, but [music] she quickly dismissed it.
She had learned not to think about it at moments like this.
3 months ago, Olivia Harold’s life had reached a critical point.
The bills were piling up, the calls from creditors were becoming more insistent, and her landlord was hinting that his patience was not infinite.
Her cashier’s salary was barely enough to cover food, let alone her debts.
One night, [music] when she couldn’t sleep because of anxiety, Olivia started looking for ways to make money online.
Freelancing, online surveys, selling things.
Nothing brought in enough money.
And then she stumbled upon an article about people making money on the Only Fans platform.
At first, the idea seemed absurd to her.
She wasn’t a model and didn’t have any special qualities.
But the more she read, the clearer it became that people weren’t paying for perfection, but for access to something private and intimate.
Olivia looked at her life, her debts, her job that was going nowhere, her future that didn’t exist, and decided to give it a try.
For the first few weeks, she filmed herself alone.
Photos, short videos.
The results were modest.
a few subscribers, small amounts of money.
But then another idea came to her.
What if she didn’t just film herself? What if she filmed what people really wanted to see? Real intimacy, real relationships.
Olivia bought three miniature cameras online.
They were the size of a coin and easy to hide.
She set them up in her bedroom.
one on the bookshelf hidden behind the spines of books, the second on the dresser among her cosmetics, and the third on top of the wardrobe.
The viewing angles covered the entire room.
The recording quality was quite good, even in low light.
Roy knew nothing.
Olivia couldn’t tell him.
He would never agree.
Roy was a simple man with simple principles, and the idea of putting his intimate life up for sale would horrify him.
So, she kept quiet.
Every time he came over, when they were in the bedroom, the cameras recorded, and after he left, Olivia sat down at her laptop, edited the video, blurred their faces so they couldn’t be recognized, and uploaded it to her account.
The money started coming in, small amounts at first, then more.
Subscribers appreciated the authenticity.
These weren’t staged scenes, but real intimacy between two people.
Olivia was able to pay her rent, pay off some of her credit card debt, and stop flinching every time the phone rang.
The feeling of relief was so strong that it drowned out the voice of [music] conscience that tried to remind her of Roy, that she was using him without his knowledge.
Around 10:00 in the evening, Roy got out of bed and started getting dressed.
Olivia lay there watching him.
Are you leaving already? I have to get up early tomorrow.
Roy pulled on his jeans and fastened his belt.
The client will arrive at 7:00 in the morning.
He promised I have to be there.
Okay.
Olivia nodded.
She didn’t try to stop him.
They both understood the rules of their relationship.
Roy leaned over and kissed her goodbye.
See you on the weekend.
Of course, she replied.
He left the bedroom and a minute later, Olivia heard the front door slam.
the sound of a pickup truck engine driving away down the street.
Silence returned to the house.
Olivia lay there for a while longer, then got up, put on her robe, and went into the living room.
The laptop was on the coffee table where she had left it that morning.
She opened the lid, and the screen lit up.
Olivia sat down, tucked her legs under her, and opened the folder with the files.
The video was 23 minutes long.
She watched it, checking the quality, then opened the editing program.
She applied filters and added some light color correction.
The work took about an hour.
When everything was ready, she uploaded the video to the platform, set the price, and added a description.
Then Olivia opened the statistics page.
The account balance showed a figure that had seemed unattainable 3 months ago.
Over the past week, her subscribers had left many paid messages and purchased access to premium content.
Olivia leaned back on the sofa, staring at the screen.
Money solved problems.
Money gave freedom.
Money allowed her to breathe.
She closed her laptop and stood up.
In the kitchen, she poured herself some water and drank it slowly, looking out the window at the dark street.
Her neighbors houses were silent with only a few windows lit [music] from within.
Olivia returned to the bedroom and lay down on the bed.
The sheets still held Royy’s scent, a mixture of machine oil and his cologne.
She closed her eyes, feeling the tension leave her body.
For the first time in a long time, her financial worries receded.
The bills were paid.
There was food in the fridge.
and tomorrow she wouldn’t have to choose between gas and lunch.
Olivia allowed herself to relax, drifting off to sleep with a feeling close to peace.
She didn’t know that tonight something would burst into her life and destroy everything, her secret, her security, her future.
She didn’t know that the cameras she had installed for her safety would be the cause of her demise.
Olivia Harold fell asleep, unaware that this was the last peaceful night of her life.
October 14th was a normal day for Roy Preston.
8 hours in the auto shop, the smell of motor oil, the clatter of tools, conversations with customers about problems they had ignored for months and now demanded be solved immediately.
Around 6:30 p.
m.
, Roy left the shop and got into his pickup truck.
He had arranged to meet Boston Hartwell at the Horseshoe Bar at 7:00 p.
m.
Boston had been his friend since college, although both of them had eventually dropped out and taken regular jobs.
Boston worked as a warehouse manager, handling deliveries and invoices, and lived in an apartment not far from downtown.
They didn’t see each other as often as they used to.
Adult life with its work and responsibilities left little time for friendship, [music] but they still tried to meet once a week or two for a beer.
The Horseshoe Bar was located on the edge of an industrial area in a red brick building with a neon sign above the entrance.
It was a place for workers, mechanics, warehouse workers, truck [music] drivers.
There was no trendy music, no expensive cocktails, just good beer, strong whiskey, and the chance to sit in silence after a hard day.
Roy parked at the curb and went inside at exactly 7:00 in the evening.
Inside, it was dimly lit with light coming from old lamps above the bar and a TV in the corner showing some kind of sports game.
[music] Several people were sitting at tables, talking in low voices.
Boston was already waiting at a table by the window, a nearly full bottle of beer in front of him.
Roy headed toward him, his gaze gliding over the familiar space of the bar.
Hi,” Roy said, sitting down across from his friend.
“Hi,” Boston replied, but his voice sounded strained.
Roy immediately noticed that something was wrong.
Boston Hartwell was a calm, event-empered man, always ready to laugh at a joke and keep up a conversation.
But now he sat hunched over, his gaze wandering across the table, his fingers nervously twirling the beer bottle.
Roy frowned as he studied his friend.
Boston’s face looked tense with dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept well.
“What would you like?” asked the waitress, a young woman in a black t-shirt with the bar’s logo.
“Beer,” said Roy without taking his eyes off Boston.
The waitress left and Roy leaned forward.
“What’s wrong, Boston? You look like you’ve been hit by a truck.
” “Everything’s fine.
” Boston took a sip from the bottle, but his eyes still avoided Royy’s.
Just tired from work.
Inventories going on.
The bosses are getting on my case.
Roy didn’t believe him.
He’d known Boston long enough to tell when he was telling the truth and when he was evading the question.
The waitress brought the beer, said it in front of Roy, and he took a sip, keeping his eyes on his friend.
“Boston, I’m not an idiot,” Roy said calmly.
[music] “You can’t even look at me.
What’s going on? Boston fell silent, his jaw tensing.
He twirled the bottle in his hands, staring at the label as if it contained something important.
The silence dragged on, becoming awkward.
Roy waited, feeling his anxiety grow.
Whatever had happened, it was serious.
“Listen, Roy,” Boston finally began, his voice quiet, almost uncertain.
I need to tell you something and I don’t know how you’re going to react.
Go ahead, Roy said, putting the bottle on the table, [music] his whole demeanor indicating his readiness to listen.
Boston took a deep breath.
Finally looked up and looked at his friend.
Last night, I was sitting at home browsing the internet.
He began slowly, you know, just out of boredom.
I went to Only Fans.
I go there sometimes just to look, nothing serious.
and I stumbled upon one account.
Roy frowned, not understanding where this was going.
And there were videos on the account, Boston continued, struggling to find the words.
And in one of them, I saw Olivia.
You’re Olivia.
Roy froze.
For a few seconds, he just stared at Boston, trying to comprehend what he had heard.
What did you say? I saw Olivia in the video.
Boston repeated more firmly now.
And you were there, too, in the video.
The two of you.
The air seemed to thicken.
Roy slowly put the bottle down on the table, his fingers white with tension.
You’re joking.
Royy’s voice was low, almost threatening.
Is this some kind of joke? I wouldn’t joke about something like this.
Boston shook his head.
Roy, at first I thought you were doing this together, that it was your way of making money.
You know, some couples do that.
It’s not that uncommon.
I thought you just weren’t talking about it openly, and I understand why.
But when I saw your face on that video, I knew I had to tell you, because if you’re doing this together, then it’s okay.
But if not, wait, wait.
Roy raised his hand, stopping the flow of words.
His heart beat faster, blood pounding in his temples.
What video? What are you talking about? I didn’t film anything with Olivia ever.
Boston looked at him for a long moment, and Roy saw concern and sympathy in his eyes.
Roy, I don’t think you’re aware of this, Boston said quietly.
It looks like she was filming you without your knowledge.
The words hung in the air, heavy and unbelievable.
Roy sat motionless, his mind refusing to accept the information.
Olivia? his Olivia filming them without his consent.
“That’s impossible,” he squeezed out.
“You’re mistaken.
It’s someone else.
” “I wish I were wrong,” Boston said, taking his phone out of his pocket and unlocking the screen.
“But it’s her, Roy.
I recognized her.
” “And you, too.
” He turned the phone toward Roy, who saw the screen with the video player.
The preview image showed blurry figures in a dimly lit room.
Boston pressed play and turned the volume down to a minimum.
The video started.
Roy stared at the screen and the world around him began to shrink.
The video showed a bedroom.
He recognized it instantly.
The yellowish nightlight on the nightstand, the bookshelf against the wall, the dresser with the mirror.
Olivia’s bedroom.
And there were two people on the bed.
Their faces were blurred by filters, but the silhouettes, the movements, even the clothes lying on the floor next to the bed.
Everything was recognizable.
It was his t-shirt.
It was his jeans.
It was him.
Roy felt the blood drain from his face.
His hands trembled.
He stared at the screen, unable to look away, and fragments of thoughts raced through his head, disjointed and chaotic.
“When was this filmed? How long had she been doing this?” “Why?” “Turn it off,” he said horarssely.
Boston immediately stopped the video and put the phone away.
“Roy, I’m sorry I showed you this, but I thought you should know.
I thought you were doing this together and I wanted to make sure everything was okay, but judging by your reaction, I didn’t know anything about this.
Royy’s voice was hollow, distant.
She never said anything, never asked.
He leaned back in his chair, staring into space.
His mind raced between shock, disbelief, and something else.
Something dark that was beginning to boil [music] deep inside.
Olivia was filming them, selling them, using his body, his intimacy, his trust, and she was doing it behind his back.
Maybe it’s a misunderstanding.
Boston tried to find an explanation, though he didn’t believe [music] his own words.
Maybe she was going to tell you.
Roy slowly shook his head.
It wasn’t a misunderstanding.
Cameras aren’t installed by accident.
Videos aren’t uploaded by mistake.
It was intentional, consciously.
She did it knowing he wouldn’t agree.
She did it because she didn’t care.
Waitress.
Roy raised his hand, [music] beckoning the woman over.
When she approached, he said, “Whisy double, and keep bringing them.
” Boston looked at him with concern.
“Roy, maybe you shouldn’t.
” “Shut up, Boston.
” Roy interrupted him, but without anger, more with weariness.
Just shut up for a minute.
The waitress brought the whiskey in a thick glass.
Roy drank it in one gulp, feeling the alcohol burn his throat, and spread warmth through his chest.
He put the empty glass on the table, caught the waitress’s eye, and nodded.
She brought another, then another.
Boston sat across from him, not knowing what to say.
He saw Royy’s face darken, his jaw clench, something hard and cold appear in his eyes.
This wasn’t the Roy he had known all his life.
This was someone else, someone whose anger and pain had turned him into something frightening.
Roy, listen to me.
Boston leaned across the table, trying to reach his friend.
I understand how you feel right now.
It’s disgusting what she did, but let’s think calmly.
Maybe she had her reasons.
Maybe she needed the money and didn’t know how else to earn it.
That doesn’t excuse what she did.
But it doesn’t, Roy repeated, his voice even.
But beneath the calmness, there was anger.
You’re right.
[music] It doesn’t.
Nothing justifies it.
Talk to her, Boston suggested calmly.
Find out why she did it.
Maybe you can talk it out and decide what to do next.
But don’t do anything you’ll regret later.
” Roy didn’t answer.
He stared into his glass of whiskey, watching the light from the lamp refract in the amber [music] liquid.
His head was empty and noisy at the same time.
Thoughts collided, interrupting each other.
[music] He saw Olivia’s face, her smile, heard her voice, and now it was all tinged with lies.
Time dragged on.
Boston tried to talk about something else to distract his friend, but Roy hardly reacted.
He drank whiskey silently, glass after glass, and Boston didn’t dare stop him.
Maybe that’s what Roy needed right now, to just turn off his brain, drown out the pain with alcohol.
Around 9:00 in the evening, Roy abruptly rose from his chair.
The movement was unexpected, and the chair scraped across the floor.
Boston flinched and looked at his friend.
Roy, where are you going? I have to go.
Roy took a few bills out of his pocket and threw them on the table.
His words were clear despite the alcohol.
It hadn’t clouded his mind, but only revealed something primitive that was usually hidden under a layer of civility.
Home.
Boston stood up too.
Let me drive you.
You’ve had a lot to drink.
I’ll be fine.
Roy headed for the exit.
Boston followed him, his anxiety growing.
Something in Royy’s gate, [music] in the way he held his shoulders, in the expression on his face.
All of it suggested that he wasn’t going home to sleep.
Roy, wait.
Boston caught up with him at the door.
Tell me you’re not going to do anything stupid.
Please.
Roy stopped and turned around.
His eyes met Boston’s and Boston saw a coldness in them that made him take a step back.
“Go home, Boston,” Roy said.
“This is between me and her.
” He walked out of the bar and the cold evening air hit his face.
Boston stood in the doorway watching Roy walk to his pickup truck.
Part of him wanted to follow, to stop him, to prevent him from doing something that could ruin his life.
But another part, the part that remembered the years of friendship, loyalty, and shared experiences, held him back.
It was Royy’s business, his choice.
Roy got into the pickup truck and started the engine.
For a few seconds, he just sat there, staring straight ahead.
Then he shifted into gear and drove off.
Boston watched the red lights of the car recede down the street, his chest tight with anxiety.
Roy drove mechanically, not thinking about the road.
His hands turned the steering wheel.
His feet pressed the pedals.
Only one question echoed in his head over and over again.
Why? Why did she do that? Was he a bad guy? Didn’t he treat her well? Did he deserve to be used? He passed the turn to his apartment without even slowing down.
He wasn’t going home.
He was going where the answers were, where Olivia was.
The streets grew emptier as he approached the outskirts of the city.
The street lights were few and far between with stretches of darkness between them.
Roy turned onto Cypress Street and drove slowly along the houses until he saw the familiar one-story house with peeling paint.
Olivia’s house.
He parked on the side of the road a few meters from the house and turned off the engine.
Silence descended on him, heavy and oppressive.
Roy sat in the darkness of the car staring at the house.
The lights were on in the windows.
So, she was home.
So, she was there behind those walls, maybe uploading a new video right now, maybe laughing at how easy it was to fool him.
Roy got out of the car and closed the door quietly.
The cold air sobered him, but did not calm him.
The anger he had drowned [music] in whiskey now rose with renewed force, sharp and burning.
He walked slowly toward the house, his steps heavy on the asphalt.
The street was empty.
No one was in sight.
Only the light in Olivia’s windows and darkness all around.
Roy stopped at the porch, staring at the front door.
His hand rose to knock and froze in the air.
Glattis Coleman lived alone in a small house across the street from Olivia Herrell.
Her husband had died 5 years ago of a heart attack.
They had no children and now her life consisted of measured days filled with small household chores, reading, and occasional visits to friends.
Olivia was one of the few neighbors with whom Glattis [music] had any kind of relationship.
Not close, but friendly.
They greeted each other when they met.
Sometimes Glattis brought Olivia homemade baked goods, and Olivia helped her carry heavy bags from the car.
A few days ago, Glattis borrowed a cast iron skillet from Olivia.
Hers had broken, [music] and she wasn’t going to the store until the weekend.
Olivia willingly gave her hers, saying she didn’t need it right away.
Now, having finished her coffee, Glattis decided it was time to return the skillet.
She washed it until it sparkled, dried it, and left the house around 7:45 a.
m.
The morning air was cool, the sky gray, and low.
Glattis crossed the street, holding the pan in both hands.
Olivia’s house looked the same as usual, old with peeling paint, but cozy.
Glattis climbed the porch steps and was about to knock when she noticed that the door was a jar, not wide open, but the gap was noticeable enough.
Glattis frowned.
It was strange.
Olivia always locked her door, especially at night.
The neighborhood was quiet, but still not safe enough to leave doors open.
“Olivia,” Glattis called, pushing the door wider.
“Olivia, are you home?” No one answered.
Glattis stepped over the threshold and into the hallway and froze.
Olivia was lying on the floor right by the door.
She was on her side, one arm stretched out in front of her, the other pressed against her body.
A dark pool was spreading around her.
It took Glattis a few seconds to realize that it was blood.
A lot of blood.
It had soaked through Olivia’s clothes, a gray t-shirt and jeans, and spread across the lenolium, almost reaching the threshold.
The frying pan fell from Glattis’s hands and hit the floor with a dull thud.
The woman stepped forward, feeling her legs buckle.
“Olivia,” she cried, falling to her knees beside the body.
Her years of nursing experience kicked in automatically.
Glattis reached for Olivia’s neck and felt for a pulse.
It was weak and uneven, [music] but it was there.
The girl was breathing barely, horarssely, [music] but she was breathing.
Glattis looked around trying to understand what had happened.
Olivia’s clothes were torn in several places, dark spots of blood showing through the fabric, knife wounds, multiple.
Glattis took her phone out of her pocket and dialed 911 with trembling fingers.
12 minutes later, though it seemed like an eternity to Glattis, sirens wailed in the street.
An ambulance and two police cars pulled up in front of the house.
Paramedics rushed inside with a stretcher and medical equipment.
Glattis stepped aside, giving them room to work.
Female, 26 years old, multiple stab wounds.
One of the paramedics quickly reported to his partner.
Pulse 38, blood pressure 70 over 40, shallow breathing.
Prepare an IV.
They worked quickly and efficiently, inserting an IV catheter, applying pressure bandages to the wounds, and securing a neck brace.
Glattis watched from the sidelines, her hands covered in Olivia’s blood, her cardigan hopelessly ruined.
Police officers began to cordon off the area and one of them, a young man with a crew cut, approached Glattis.
“Ma’am, did you find the victim?” “Yes,” Glattis nodded, her eyes fixed on the paramedics.
“I came to return her frying pan.
The door was open.
I went in and found her here.
” “You’ll need to give a statement,” [music] said the officer.
“But first, let’s go outside and let the medics do their work.
” The paramedics were already lifting Olivia onto a stretcher and securing her with straps.
The girl’s face was hidden by an oxygen mask and IV tubes stretched to bags of saline solution.
We’re taking her to St.
Luke’s.
One of the paramedics told the officer, “Her condition is critical.
She needs emergency surgery.
” They carried the stretcher out of the house and loaded it into the ambulance.
The siren went off again.
The car sped away and raced down the street.
Glattis stood on the porch, wrapping her arms around herself, and for the first time that morning, she felt tears running down her face.
Detectives Carrie Wilks and Wanda Rivers arrived at the crime scene at 8:30 a.
m.
They were called in 20 minutes after the first officers had examined the scene and confirmed that it was a cold weapon assault.
Wilks, a 42-year-old man with graying temples and a tired look, had worked in the homicide division for 20 years.
His partner, Wanda Rivers, 35, was younger and more energetic with a sharp mind and a talent for finding details that others missed.
They got out of their sedan and headed for the house, passed the police tape, and a group of curious neighbors who had already gathered to watch the proceedings.
The officer at the entrance wrote down their names and let them in.
The house was small and cramped.
The hallway led to the living room with a door to the kitchen on the right and a door to the bedroom on the left.
The floor in the hallway was covered in blood, dark spots drying and turning brown.
Forensic technicians were already at work photographing the scene and collecting samples.
What do we have here? Wilks addressed one of the officers, a young man who was taking notes in a notebook.
The victim is Olivia Harrell, 26 years old.
The officer checked his notes.
A neighbor found her here on the floor at 7:45 a.
m.
Multiple stab wounds.
Taken to St.
Luke’s Hospital around 8:05 a.
m.
Condition critical.
“Is she alive?” Rivers asked, writing the information in her notebook.
So far, yes.
But the doctors aren’t optimistic.
The wounds are serious.
Wilks crouched down, examining the floor.
Blood.
Lots of blood.
The splatters on the walls indicated that the attack had been brutal.
The blows delivered with force.
He looked at the outline where the body had been lying.
[music] The position suggested that the victim had tried to crawl to the door, perhaps to call for help.
“Where’s the weapon?” he asked.
The forensic scientist in the white protective suit pointed [music] to a knife that had already been marked and photographed.
Here, detective.
A kitchen knife apparently from the victim’s set.
We found similar ones in the kitchen.
One is missing from the block.
So, [music] they didn’t bring it with them, Rivers muttered.
They grabbed whatever was handy.
Wilk stood up and [music] went into the kitchen.
Sure enough, there was a wooden knife block on the countertop with a clear gap in one of the slots.
He returned to the hallway and examined the door.
“No break-in,” he stated.
“The lock is intact.
The door is undamaged.
Either she opened it herself or it wasn’t locked,” Rivers [music] said, moving closer to examine the door frame.
“There are no signs of forced entry.
” “She knew the attacker,” Wilks said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
She let him in voluntarily or he had access.
They moved further into the house.
The living room was relatively calm.
No signs of a struggle.
The furniture was in place and the laptop on the coffee table was closed.
The bedroom was also tidy.
The bed was made and the clothes were neatly folded.
Only the hallway was covered in blood and chaos.
We need to talk to the neighbor who found her.
Wilks headed for the exit.
Glattis Coleman sat in the patrol car with a cup of coffee brought to her by one of the officers.
She had already managed to pull herself together a little, but her hands were still shaking as she brought the coffee to her lips.
The detectives approached and introduced themselves.
Mrs.
Coleman, my name is Detective [music] Carrie Wilks, and this is my partner, Detective Wanda Rivers.
We need to ask you a few questions about what happened.
I’ve already told the officers everything.
Glattis looked at them with tired eyes.
But I’ll repeat it if necessary.
Tell us what you saw when you came to Miss Herold’s house, Rivers asked, ready to take notes.
Glattis slowly recounted the events of the morning, how she went to return the frying pan, how she found the door open, how she saw Olivia on the floor.
The detectives listened attentively, occasionally asking clarifying questions.
“Did you know Miss Harold well?” Wilks asked.
“Not very well, but we were neighbors for several years.
” Glattis shrugged.
“I know she worked as a cashier at the supermarket.
She lived alone.
She has no parents.
They both died several years ago, as far as I know.
Did she have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to harm her?” “I don’t know of any.
” Glattis shook her head.
She was a quiet girl.
Didn’t cause any trouble.
What about a boyfriend, a husband, someone close to her? She had a boyfriend, Glattis recalled.
Roy, I think Roy Preston.
I saw him a few times when he came to visit her.
Tall, strong man.
Works as a mechanic.
I think they didn’t live together, but they were dating.
Rivers wrote down the name.
Did you see him last night? No.
Glattis frowned, trying to remember.
I went to bed early last night, around 10:00.
I didn’t hear anything.
Nothing unusual.
I didn’t wake up until morning.
What about the other neighbors? Did anyone see or hear anything during the night? I don’t know.
You’ll have to ask them.
The detectives questioned the other residents of Cypress Street.
No one had seen or heard anything.
The houses were far apart and the street was deserted at night.
If someone had come to Olivia’s house, if she had screamed, if there had been a struggle, it had gone unnoticed.
A dead zone, Rivers stated when they finished questioning them.
No witnesses.
Let’s go to the hospital.
Wilks headed for the car.
Let’s see what the doctors say [music] and let’s try to find Roy Preston’s contacts.
St.
Luke’s Hospital was a 20inut drive from the crime scene.
It was a large gray building and the emergency room was bustling with activity.
Doctors, nurses, [music] patients on stretchers.
The detectives approached the reception desk and showed their badges.
We need information about Olivia Herrell, who was admitted this morning with stab wounds, Wilk said.
The nurse at the desk checked the [music] computer.
She’s in the operating room, she said.
The surgeons have been working for an hour and a half.
Her condition is extremely serious.
Can we talk to the doctor? Wait here.
I’ll pass on your request.
10 minutes later, the surgeon came out to meet them.
[music] A man in his 50s with a tired face and a bloodstained gown.
He took off his surgical cap and rubbed his face with his hands.
“Detectives?” He looked at them.
“I’m Dr.
Simon Collins.
I operated on Miss Harold.
” “How is she?” Rivers asked.
“Alive, but barely,” the doctor said slowly, choosing his words carefully.
[music] “She has multiple stab wounds.
Her liver, spleen, and stomach are damaged.
We stopped the bleeding, removed her spleen, and sutured the other organs, but she lost a lot of blood and fell into a coma.
The prognosis is extremely poor.
The next 24 hours will show whether she will survive.
Will she regain consciousness? Will she be able to speak? The doctor shook his head.
It’s unlikely in the near future.
Even if she survives, the coma could last for days, weeks.
The brain is trying to protect itself from trauma.
I can’t promise she’ll wake up.
Wilks and Rivers exchanged glances.
The key witness, the only person who could say who attacked her, was out of reach.
Can we take her personal belongings? Wilks asked.
Her phone, her wallet.
Sure, they’ll bring them right over.
A nurse brought out a plastic bag with Olivia’s belongings.
The detectives put on gloves and took out her phone.
Contacts.
Rivers opened the list.
Here it is.
Roy Preston, listed [music] as Roy with a heart.
Wilks took the phone and looked at the number.
It was already around noon.
I’ll call him, he said.
He dialed the number and held the phone to his ear.
After a few rings, someone picked up.
Olivia.
The man’s voice sounded sleepy.
A little horse.
Baby, what’s wrong? This isn’t Olivia, Wilk said calmly and formally.
My name is Detective Carrie Wils, Redford Police Department.
Who am I speaking to? Pause.
Then a voice now alert.
Roy Preston.
What? What’s going on? Where’s Olivia? Mr.
Preston? Olivia Harrell is at St.
Luke’s Hospital.
She was attacked this morning.
She’s alive, but in critical condition.
There was a sound from the receiver, something between a sigh and a groan.
What? How? How did this happen? Who did this? Royy’s voice trembled, betraying [music] his genuine shock.
We don’t know yet.
Mr.
Preston, you need to come to the hospital.
We need to talk to you.
I I’m on my way, Roy said quickly, his [music] words jumbled.
I’ll be there in 40 minutes.
God, Olivia.
The connection was cut off.
Wilks put down the phone and looked at Rivers.
He’s on his way.
Judging by his voice, he either really didn’t know or he’s a great actor.
We’ll see when he gets here.
Rivers put away her notebook.
A person’s reaction in the first few minutes says a lot.
They went to the intensive care unit where Olivia had been transferred after surgery.
She was lying in a hospital bed connected to a multitude of monitors and machines, IVs, a ventilator, wires everywhere.
Her face was pale, almost transparent.
Her lips lifelessly blew under the oxygen mask.
The monitors showed a weak heartbeat and low blood pressure.
The detectives stood by the window of the ward watching.
Minutes passed.
Nurses came and went, checking readings and adjusting IVs.
Wilks and Rivers waited.
43 minutes later, quick footsteps echoed in the hallway.
A man entered the ward.
Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing jeans and a wrinkled t-shirt.
His hair was tassled, his face unshaven, his eyes red and inflamed.
He looked around, saw the detectives, and approached them.
“I’m Roy Preston,” he said horarssely.
“Where’s Olivia?” Wilks nodded toward the glass enclosed ward.
“In there, but you can’t go in right now.
The doctors are working.
” Roy walked to the window and looked inside.
What he saw hit him like a blow.
His knees buckled and he leaned against the wall to keep from falling.
[music] His face contorted and a choked sound escaped his throat.
“My god, Olivia!” The detectives watched him silently.
His reaction seemed genuine.
It wasn’t feigned shock.
It was real pain.
Roy pressed his palms against the glass, staring at the motionless body on the bed, tears streaming down his face.
“Who did this?” he whispered, still staring at the window.
Who dared? After a while, the nurse came out of the room and said that Roy could go in, but only for a short time and without touching the patient.
Roy went inside, and the detectives followed him, staying at the door.
Roy approached the bed and sat down on a chair nearby.
He looked at Olivia, at her pale face, at the tubes and wires, at the monitor with its slow heartbeat rhythm.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he made no attempt to hide them.
He reached out his hand, stopping a few inches from her hand without touching her.
“Olivia, I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry.
Please forgive me.
I didn’t mean to.
I didn’t know.
” His voice broke [music] and he lowered his head to the edge of the bed and cried deeply inconsolably.
The way a person cries when they have lost something irreplaceable.
Detectives Wilks and Rivers stood at the door watching the scene.
Each of them had seen many such moments over the years.
Relatives, partners, [music] friends weeping over the bodies of crime victims.
Sometimes it was genuine grief.
Sometimes it was a skillful performance by the guilty.
The question was, “Which was it now?” Rivers glanced at Wilks and raised an eyebrow.
Wilks shrugged slightly.
It was too early to tell.
They needed more information.
Roy Preston spent almost an hour at Olivia’s bedside before the detectives decided it was time to ask some questions.
Wilks approached him and put his hand on his shoulder.
Mr.
Preston, we need to talk.
There are questions we need to ask.
Roy looked up, his face wet with tears, his eyes red and swollen.
Now I can’t leave her.
She’s in good hands, River said softly but firmly.
The doctors are doing everything they can, and we need your help to find the person who did this.
Roy slowly stood up, took one last look at Olivia, then nodded.
The detectives led him down the hall to a small empty interview room.
Four walls, a table, a few chairs, a window overlooking the parking lot.
They closed the door and the atmosphere immediately changed.
The sympathy they had shown a minute ago gave way to professional detachment.
Have a seat, Mr.
Preston.
Wilks pointed to a chair.
Roy sat down, and the detectives sat across from him.
Rivers took out a notebook and prepared to take notes.
Wilks folded his arms on the table and looked Roy straight in the eye.
Mr.
Preston, we understand that this is difficult for you, but we need to ask you a few questions.
This is standard procedure.
Do you understand? Yes.
Roy wiped his face with his hand.
I understand.
Good.
First, how long have you been dating Olivia Harold? About a year.
Roy leaned back in his chair.
We met at the supermarket where she worked.
I went in to buy some groceries and we started talking.
We started dating soon after that.
Do you live together? No.
Roy shook his head.
I have my own apartment on Maple Street.
I rent it.
Olivia lives in her own house on Cypress Street.
We saw each other several times a week, but we didn’t plan to live together.
Not yet, anyway.
Where were you last night? I was meeting a friend, Roy replied without hesitation.
Boston Hartwell.
We agreed to meet at the Horseshoe Bar in the industrial district.
I got there around 7:00 in the evening.
We sat, talked, had a beer.
We left around 9:00.
What did you talk about? A little bit of everything.
[music] Roy shrugged.
Work, life, nothing special, just friends getting together.
Where did you go after 9? home to my place on Maple Street.
I got there, took a shower, and went to bed.
I woke up when you called.
“Can anyone confirm that you were home after 9:00?” Rivers asked without looking up from her notebook.
“No,” Roy shook his head.
“I live alone.
My neighbors might have heard me come home, but I didn’t talk to them.
” Wilks and Rivers exchanged glances.
He had an alibi until 9:00, but after that there was no confirmation and a vague feeling that Roy was not telling the whole story.
Mr.
Preston, how was your relationship with Olivia? Wilks changed the subject.
Were there any arguments or conflicts? No, everything was fine.
[music] Roy looked at the detective.
We didn’t argue.
It was a normal relationship.
You know, sometimes we disagreed on little things, but nothing serious.
Did she have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to harm her? I don’t know of any.
Roy frowned as if trying to remember.
Olivia was quiet, calm.
She worked, came home, spent time with me.
I don’t know of her having any problems with anyone.
What about you? Rivers looked up from her notebook.
Do you have a criminal record, Mr.
Preston? No.
Roy shook his head firmly.
I’ve never had any trouble with the law.
You can check.
We will, Wilks assured him.
One more question.
Do you know who might have had access to Olivia’s house? Who had keys? Roy thought for a moment.
I didn’t have keys.
Olivia always opened the door herself when I came over.
I don’t know if she gave keys to anyone else.
Maybe her neighbor, the one who found her.
The detectives wrote down the information.
Wilks stood up and signaled to Rivers that the interview was over.
Thank you for your cooperation, Mr.
Preston.
That’s all for now.
You can return to Miss Herald, but please stay in town.
We’ll contact you if we have any further questions.
Will you find the person who did this? Roy looked at them desperately.
Will you? We’ll do everything we can, Rivers promised.
Roy left the room and the detectives remained.
Wilks closed the door and turned to his partner.
His alibi until 9:00 p.
m.
will be valid if his friend confirms it.
Wils rubbed his chin.
After 9:00 p.
m.
, nothing.
[music] We don’t know the exact time of the attack, but judging by the blood, which had already begun to dry by morning, it was in the evening or at night.
Let’s go to his friend’s place and check his story.
They left the hospital and headed for the warehouse where Boston Hartwell worked.
The warehouse complex was on the outskirts of town with huge hangers and loading docks.
The detectives showed their badges to the security guard [music] at the entrance and asked where they could find Boston Hartwell.
They were directed to an office on the second floor of one of the hangers.
Boston was sitting at a desk piled high with invoices and documents.
When the detectives entered, he looked up, saw their badges, and tensed.
“Boston Hartwell?” Wils asked.
Yes, that’s me.
Boston stood up.
What’s going on? We’re detectives Wilks and Rivers investigating the assault on Olivia Herrell.
Do you know her? Olivia? Boston pald.
What happened to her? She was attacked this morning.
She’s in the hospital in serious condition.
We need to ask you some questions about your friend Roy Preston.
Boston sank back into his chair and ran a hand over his face.
Oh my god.
Does Roy know? Yes, he’s at the hospital right now.
Rivers took out her notebook.
Mr.
Hartwell, did you meet with Roy Preston last night? Yes.
Boston nodded.
We met at the Horseshoe Bar around 7:00 in the evening.
We sat and talked.
We parted around 9:00.
What did you talk about? Boston hesitated, his gaze darting to the side, then returning to the detectives.
work life, nothing special.
I told him about problems at the warehouse.
He told me about the workshop.
Just ordinary conversation.
Rivers noticed how his shoulders tensed, how his fingers gripped the edge of the table.
He was nervous.
That was obvious.
But many people get nervous when talking to the police, even if they’ve done nothing wrong.
How was Roy acting? Wilks asked.
[music] Was he upset, angry, worried about something? No, he was normal.
Boston shrugged.
Maybe a little tired after work, but overall fine after 9 when you parted ways.
Do you know where he went? Home, I think.
Boston avoided direct eye contact.
He said he had to get up early tomorrow.
We said goodbye at the bar.
He got in his pickup truck and drove away.
I went to my car and drove home, too.
The detectives recorded his statement.
Boston’s version matched Royy’s.
His alibi was confirmed, but something about Boston’s behavior was alarming.
The way he avoided eye contact, how he chose his words, how he tensed up when they started asking about his conversations with Roy.
Have you been friends with Roy Preston for a long time? Rivers asked.
Since college? Boston relaxed slightly, answering a more neutral question.
We studied together, but we both dropped out after our sophomore year.
We remained friends, though.
Roy is a good man, reliable.
Thanks for your help, Mr.
Hartwell.
Wilks stood up.
If you remember anything else that might be important, give us a call.
He handed him a business card.
Boston took it and nodded.
I’ll call if I remember anything.
And Olivia, will she survive? The doctors are doing everything they can, Rivers replied.
evasively.
The detectives left the office and went down to the car.
Wilks started the engine but didn’t move, staring straight ahead.
He’s hiding something, he said.
Yes, Rivers agreed.
But what exactly? Maybe they really were just sitting in a bar, but they were discussing something he doesn’t want to tell us about.
That doesn’t make him an accomplice.
Or he’s covering for a friend.
Wilks put the car in gear and drove out of the parking lot.
Either way, we can’t do anything without evidence.
Let’s go to the station and check everything we have.
The Redford Police Station was an old red brick building built in the 1960s.
The detectives went up to the second floor where the homicide department was located.
Their office was small, two desks facing each other, computers, shelves with folders, a evidence board on the wall.
Wilks sat down at his desk, turned on his computer, and began checking the databases.
Roy Preston, 28 [music] years old, he read aloud from the screen.
No arrests, no charges, not even a speeding ticket, clean as a baby’s bottom.
No criminal record doesn’t mean he couldn’t have committed a crime now.
Rivers sat at her desk, reviewing Olivia’s [music] financial records, which they had requested from the bank.
Most murders are committed by people with no criminal record.
Emotions, anger, impulse.
Motive.
Wilks turned to her.
We need a motive.
Roy says they had a good relationship.
No conflicts.
Why would he kill the girl he’s dating? Rivers looked up from the documents.
There’s something interesting here.
Olivia Harold’s bank statements.
Over the last 3 months, she received regular transfers.
The amounts varied from $50 to $300 several times a week.
The source was the Only Fans platform.
Wilks frowned.
Only Fans? That’s where people sell adult content, right? Among other things, yes.
Rivers nodded.
It looks like Olivia Harold had an account there and was making money.
Over the past 3 months, she received about $4,000.
This could be important, Wilks thought.
Maybe one of her subscribers became too intrusive.
A stalker possibly.
Rivers wrote down a note.
We’ll need to request the account data from the platform to see if there were any threats or strange messages.
Or Wilks continued, maybe Roy found out about her activities on Only Fans and didn’t approve.
That’s a motive for conflict.
But he didn’t mention anything about that.
Rivers shook her head.
When we asked about conflicts, he said everything was fine.
Either he didn’t know or he’s hiding something.
Wilks leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples.
Too many unknowns.
They spent the rest of the day gathering information.
They checked the surveillance camera footage in the area where Olivia lived, but there were no cameras there.
The quiet residential suburb was not considered a priority for the installation of city surveillance cameras.
They interviewed Olivia’s co-workers at the supermarket.
They all said she was quiet, hardworking, and didn’t get into conflicts with anyone.
No one knew of any problems in her life.
By evening, the detectives were sitting in the office staring at the evidence board, which had disappointingly little information on it.
They left the station on a cold October night.
The city was falling asleep.
[music] The streets were empty.
Somewhere in St.
Luke’s Hospital.
Olivia Harold was fighting for her life, hooked up to machines, surrounded by doctors.
Detectives Carrie Wilks and Wanda Rivers walked to their cars, knowing that tomorrow they would have to return and continue the investigation, which [music] had yet to yield any leads.
The case of the attack on Olivia Harrell had reached a dead end.
October 16th began with an alarming call from St.
Luke’s Hospital.
Detective Carrie Wilks took the call at 8:00 in the morning before he had even finished his first cup of coffee.
The nurse on duty’s voice was professionally restrained, but he detected a note of hopelessness in it.
Detective Wilks, this is St.
Luke’s Hospital.
Olivia Harold’s condition has deteriorated rapidly overnight.
The doctors are doing everything they can, but the prognosis is critical.
If you want to be here in case in case the worst happens, you should come in.
Wilks called Rivers and 40 minutes later they were both standing in the intensive care unit hallway looking through the window at Olivia’s room.
Inside doctors and nurses bustled about, monitors showed falling readings and alarm bells pierced the silence.
Roy Preston sat on a chair at the far end of the hallway, his head in his hands.
He had spent the entire night at the hospital, refusing to leave.
Time dragged agonizingly slowly.
Doctors entered and left the room with worried expressions.
At 11:10 a.
m.
, the chief surgeon, Dr.
Collins, came out into the hallway.
He took off his mask, and it was clear from his face that the news was bad.
He approached Roy and sat down next to him.
Mr.
Preston, I’m very sorry.
We did everything we could, but her body couldn’t cope.
Olivia Harold passed away at 11:20 a.
m.
Roy froze.
For a few seconds, he just sat there staring into space.
Then a cry escaped from his throat, deep, anim animalistic, full of pain.
He lunged for the door of the ward, but the detectives and nurses stopped him.
Roy struggled, trying to break free, shouting her name.
“No, no, this can’t be [music] true.
Olivia!” His voice broke into sobs.
Wilks and Rivers helped hold him back while the nurse prepared a sedative.
Roy resisted, but eventually allowed the injection.
Gradually, his cries subsided, turning into quiet sobs.
He sank into a chair, wrapped his arms around his head, and cried.
The detectives stood aside, watching.
Wils had seen many deaths in his career, many grieving relatives and partners.
Royy’s reaction seemed genuine.
It wasn’t an act, but Wilks knew that the guilty could cry, too.
Especially if they hadn’t planned to kill, if it was an impulsive decision whose consequences had caught up with them later.
“We need a breakthrough,” Rivers said quietly, standing next to her partner.
“Otherwise, this case will remain unsolved.
” Wils nodded but said nothing.
They left Roy in the hospital under the supervision of medical staff and returned to the station.
The day promised to be long and fruitless.
At 2:30 p.
m.
, as the detective sat in the office going over the case files once again, the sergeant on duty knocked on the door.
Detective Wilks, there’s a man here to see you.
He says he has information about the Olivia Herrell case.
Boston Hartwell.
Wilks and Rivers exchanged glances.
Royy’s friend, the one who confirmed his alibi and was clearly hiding something.
“Take him to the interrogation room,” Wilks said.
5 minutes later, they entered the room.
Boston Hartwell sat at the table, his hands clasped in front of him, his face pale and tense.
He looked as if he hadn’t slept all night.
The detectives sat down opposite him.
“Mr.
Hartwell,” Wilks began.
“You wanted to talk to us?” Boston nodded and swallowed.
I want to tell the truth.
Now that she’s gone, I can’t keep quiet anymore.
I heard the news this morning that Olivia had passed away.
And I realized I had to tell you everything.
Rivers turned on the tape recorder on the table and recorded the date and time.
We’re listening, Mr.
Hartwell.
Tell us what you know.
Boston took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts.
When he spoke, his voice trembled.
When I met Roy at the bar on the evening of October 14th, I wasn’t just talking about work.
As I told you earlier, I showed him something.
The night before on the 13th, I went to the Only Fans website, just browsing, you know, nothing special.
And I stumbled upon an account.
The video there was of Olivia and Roy.
[music] I recognized them both, even though their faces were blurred.
But I knew Olivia’s room.
I had seen it before when I visited Roy and he visited her.
I was sure it was them.
The detectives listened without interrupting.
Boston continued.
I thought they were doing it together, making money.
Some couples do that.
I don’t judge.
But when I met Roy at the bar, I decided to ask him directly.
I showed him the video on my phone.
And then I realized he didn’t know anything.
He was in shock.
Complete shock.
his face.
I’d never seen him like that before.
He stared at the screen and I could see something breaking inside him.
“What did he say?” Rivers asked.
“Nothing at first.
” Boston rubbed his face with his hands.
He just stared.
Then he started drinking whiskey one after another.
I tried to calm him down, told him he should talk to Olivia calmly, find out why she did it, but he wouldn’t listen.
He [music] just drank and said nothing.
Then around 9:00, he suddenly got up and left.
I could see he wasn’t going home.
Something in his eyes.
I was scared, but I didn’t stop him.
It’s my fault, too.
What happened next? Wilks leaned forward.
I went home.
Boston took his phone out of his pocket.
And late at night at 11:47, Roy sent me a message.
Here it is.
He showed the screen to the detectives.
The message was short.
Bro, please don’t tell anyone about what you showed me today, especially if the cops ask.
I’ll explain later.
Rivers took a photo of the screen with her work phone.
Did you reply to that message? No.
Boston shook his head.
I didn’t know what to say.
I went to bed and in the morning I found out Olivia was in the hospital and I knew right away.
I knew Roy had done it.
He went to her that night.
They had a fight and but I couldn’t turn in a friend.
We’ve been friends since college.
He’s like a brother to me.
When you came to question me, I lied.
I said we were just talking about work.
I covered for him.
Even knowing he might be guilty of attempted murder.
Wils’s voice sounded accusatory.
I thought she would survive.
Boston lowered his head.
I hoped she would wake up and tell everything herself, that I wouldn’t have to betray my friend.
But when I heard this morning that she had died, I couldn’t keep quiet anymore.
It’s murder now, and I can’t live with that on my conscience.
The detectives exchanged glances.
Finally, a breakthrough, a motive, a connection, proof that Roy had lied to them.
“Mr.
Hartwell, you made the right choice in coming here,” Rivers said.
Even if it was late, we’ll record your statement officially.
You’ll have to repeat all of this under oath.
I’m ready.
Boston nodded.
After the statement was recorded, the detectives contacted Only Fans legal department and obtained a warrant to access Olivia Herrell’s account.
An hour later, they had the videos.
Wilks and Rivers watched several of them.
The faces were blurred, but the details of the room, the silhouettes, even the tattoo on Royy’s shoulder that they had noticed when he was in the hospital wearing a t-shirt, everything matched.
Enough for an arrest warrant, Wilks said, closing his laptop.
They got the warrant from the judge 2 hours later.
By 6:00 that evening, detectives Wilks and Rivers, accompanied by two patrol officers, arrived at Roy Preston’s apartment on Maple Street.
They went up to the second floor and knocked on the door.
Roy opened it almost immediately.
He looked devastated, his eyes red, his face gaunt.
Roy Preston Wilks showed him the warrant.
You are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Olivia Harrell.
You have the right to remain silent.
Anything you say can be used against you in court.
You have the right to an attorney.
Roy didn’t resist.
He allowed [music] himself to be handcuffed and walked silently to the car.
During the ride to the station, he didn’t say a word, just stared out the window.
At the station, he was taken to an interrogation room and seated at a table.
The detectives gave him time to compose himself, then entered.
Wilks placed a folder of evidence on the table.
Screenshots from Only Fans, Boston’s testimony, Royy’s message.
Mr.
Preston, we know the truth.
Wilks began, “Your friend Boston Hartwell told us everything about how he showed you the video, how you reacted, about the message you sent him that night.
We have evidence.
You can continue to remain silent, and we will build a case based on circumstantial evidence, or you can tell your side of the story.
The court will take your confession into account.
” Roy sat silently for several minutes.
Then his shoulders slumped, his face contorted.
I didn’t mean to kill her.
His voice was quiet, broken.
I swear to God, I didn’t.
I just I was so angry, so hurt.
Tell us what happened.
Rivers asked gently.
Roy covered his face with his hands, took a deep breath, then began to speak.
When Boston showed me that video at the bar, I I couldn’t believe it.
Olivia, my Olivia.
She was filming us, filming me without my consent and selling it on the internet.
I felt betrayed, used, like our whole relationship was a lie.
I drank.
I drank a lot, but it didn’t help.
I couldn’t just let it go.
I had to talk to her, hear her explanation.
You went to her house? Yes.
Roy nodded.
Around 10:00 at night, I pulled up and saw the lights on in the windows.
I knocked on the door.
She opened it, surprised that I had come so late.
She let me in.
I asked her directly.
Was it true that she was filming us and posting it on Only Fans? At first, she denied it, then realized there was no point in lying.
She confessed.
What did she say? That she needed the money.
Royy’s voice trembled.
That her debts [music] were suffocating her.
That she couldn’t pay the rent or anything else.
that it was the only way out of her financial hole.
She said she wanted to tell me, but was afraid I wouldn’t understand [music] that she was going to stop as soon as she paid off her debts.
She cried and begged for forgiveness.
“But you didn’t forgive her,” Wilks stated.
“I couldn’t.
” Roy shook his head, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I couldn’t just forgive her.
She used me, my body, my intimacy, my trust.
And I I lost [music] it.
I started yelling at her.
She yelled back.
We were arguing in the hallway.
And then I saw the knife on the kitchen counter.
She must have been making dinner earlier and left it there.
I didn’t think.
I just grabbed it and and stabbed her.
The room fell silent.
[music] Rivers continued to record the testimony, her eyes fixed on the paper.
Wils looked at Roy.
How many times did you stab her? I don’t remember exactly.
Roy covered his eyes.
Several times.
She fell down and stopped moving.
There was so much blood.
I was scared.
I thought she was dead.
I wiped the fingerprints off the knife, ran out the back door, got in my car, and drove away.
I was shaking the whole way home.
At home, I took a shower, tried to wash it all away, but I couldn’t.
I hardly slept that night.
And in the morning, you got a call from the hospital.
Rivers continued.
Yes.
Roy nodded.
When you called and said she was in the hospital, I I didn’t know how to feel.
Part of me was glad she was alive.
I hoped she would survive, that she would forgive me someday.
But another part was afraid.
Afraid that she would wake up and tell everyone what I had done.
When I saw her in the hospital, saw the state she was in, I realized what I had done.
That I had killed the person I loved.
And when she died today, I realized that my life was over, too.
[music] The interrogation went on for several more hours.
The detectives recorded every detail, every word.
Roy signed a confession.
He was formally charged with firstdegree murder, premeditated murder, with aggravating circumstances.
The trial took place 8 months later.
The proceedings were brief.
Roy Preston’s confession, Boston Hartwell’s testimony, examination of the murder weapon, and the only fans video as a motive.
The defense tried to prove that it was a crime of passion, that Roy did not plan to kill Olivia, that it was an impulse caused by extreme emotional stress.
But the prosecution insisted on first-degree murder, pointing out that Roy deliberately drove to Olivia’s house, deliberately took a knife, and stabbed her multiple times.
The jury deliberated for 2 days.
The verdict was unanimous.
Guilty of firstdegree murder.
The judge handed down the sentence, 25 years in prison without the possibility of parole.
Roy Preston accepted the sentence without emotion.
He simply nodded when the judge finished speaking and allowed the guards to take him away.
None of his relatives were in the courtroom, only detectives Wilks and Rivers watching the conclusion of the case they had worked on.
The Olivia Harrell case was officially closed the following summer.
The house on Cypress Street was sold at auction to pay off debts.
The new owners renovated it, repainted the walls, and replaced the floors.
No traces of the tragedy remained within the walls of the house.
Boston Hartwell continued to work at the warehouse.
He could never forgive himself for showing Roy that video, which had set off the chain of events that led to Olivia’s death.
He tried to visit Roy in prison once, but Roy refused to see him.
The friendship that had lasted more than 10 years ended on that night of October 14th.
