“Falcon, Cheyenne.” Molly rushed after Wyatt. “Hawkins is usually in his office. Check there. I’m going to look at his safe.”

There were unwashed dishes in the sink. Dried, burnt food in pans on the stove. It looked a lot like it had when she’d started as a housekeeper here.

Pounding up the stairs with Wyatt on her heels, she found a mess. Clothes strewn about. The bed unmade. Ignoring all that, she went straight to the safe, dropped to her knees beside the dresser, and flipped open the cunningly hidden floorboard.

Sheriff Corly came into the room behind Wyatt, and Molly was glad he was here. She wanted a witness to what was in the safe. Someone who didn’t have a grudge against Hawkins, as she knew every member of the family did.

John was a step behind him.

Reaching in, she dialed the combination and opened the iron safe. It was still full of packets. Whatever had happened, Oliver hadn’t taken time to clean it out.

“Sheriff, you take these out. I want you to know I haven’t done a thing to tamper with them.”

The sheriff knelt beside her and drew out envelope after envelope.

“Did he create a packet and write a poem for each woman he killed?” Wyatt crouched beside the sheriff.

“B-but there are a dozen or more of them.” Molly eased back. She pressed her hand to her twisting stomach. To think of so many murders.

“The top one says your name, Miss Garner.” The sheriff held it up for her to read. “And there’s one for Miss Hobart. Those show he intended harm but didn’t do murder.”

“Because we got away,” Molly said grimly.

The sheriff nodded. “Let’s hope more of these packets are the same.” He got everything out of the safe, then lifted all the contents up to spread them across the top of the dresser.

“This is the one down the farthest,” the sheriff said. “It’s got two names on it. A man and a woman. Last name Hunt.”

“He kept a record of his parents’ murders?” Molly didn’t look anymore. The rest of them, save Falcon and Cheyenne, who hadn’t come up yet, began combing through what they’d found.

“The next one has his wife’s name on it.” Wyatt tore open the sealed letter and pulled a small painting out. He held it up, a small oval painting about two inches wide and maybe three high. “The woman in this picture looks a lot like Win. And there’s a poem.

“My beloved wife, my betrayer.

My heart aches for what she made me do.

No greater serpent have I nurtured to my bosom, save my own mother.

Do not ask my forgiveness for you are not worthy.

Now I must go on alone.”