“We followed him to a shopping center, watched him go into a store, but he never came out.
We checked the store, the surrounding area.
He’s gone”.
How is that possible?
You had eyes on him the whole time.
There must be a back exit we didn’t know about.
We’re canvasing now, but he had at least a 15-minute head start.
Detective Briggs cursed under her breath.
Put out a bolo on his vehicle, alert all units, and get someone to Ellen Vance’s house immediately.
If he’s running, he might go after the families.
She returned to the conference room, trying to keep her expression neutral.
Ellen, I need you to stay here for a while.
We’re taking some additional precautions.
Ellen studied her face.
Something’s wrong.
What happened?
We’ve temporarily lost sight of our suspect.
It’s probably nothing, just a miscommunication, but I want you somewhere safe until we locate him again.
Ellen stood, her fear evident.
You lost him.
The man who killed my sister, who’s been photographing me, and you lost him.
We have officers searching everywhere he might go, Detective Briggs assured her.
But I need you to trust me and stay here where we can protect you.
Before Ellen could respond, Captain Morrison rushed into the room.
We found his truck abandoned in a parking garage downtown.
No sign of Nicholls.
Detective Briggs felt her stomach drop.
He’s running.
Pull his credit cards, his bank accounts.
Check traffic cameras.
I want to know where he went.
Morrison hesitated.
There’s something else.
We got the results back on those hair samples from the shrine room.
The DNA analysis is complete.
And the hair belongs to Gerald Nicholls as expected.
But there’s another DNA profile, too.
A female.
We ran it through Cotus and got a familiar match.
Detective Briggs waited, dreading what was coming.
The female DNA is related to Bethany Cross.
Morrison said quietly.
It’s her daughter.
Ellen gasped.
Bethany had a daughter.
Bethany was pregnant when she disappeared.
Detective Briggs said the pieces falling into place with horrifying clarity.
The medical examiner mentioned she found evidence of a pregnancy in the remains early term.
We assumed the fetus didn’t survive.
But if there’s a daughter, Morrison said.
Detective Briggs finished the thought.
He kept her.
Gerald Nicholls took Bethany Cross’s baby and kept her alive all these years.
The room fell silent as the full horror of that revelation sank in.
Somewhere out there was a young woman approximately 25 years old who had no idea she was the daughter of a murdered flight attendant, a woman who had been raised by her mother’s killer.
“We need to find her,” Ellen said urgently.
If Nicholls is running, he might hurt her.
Detective Briggs was already pulling up Nicholls file, looking for any information about family members or dependent.
He listed himself as single, no children on all his employment records.
Check property records, Morrison suggested.
Maybe he has a second residence we don’t know about.
Torres called back.
We pulled his bank records.
There’s a recurring payment every month to a storage facility in Grand Prairie.
Unit 247.
The account’s been active for 23 years.
Detective Briggs grabbed her jacket.
Get me the address and send backup.
If he’s been hiding someone there, she didn’t finish the sentence.
They all knew what they might find in that storage unit.
Either evidence of another victim or a young woman who had lived her entire life as the captive of a serial killer.
Ellen stood.
I’m coming with you.
Absolutely not.
Detective Briggs said firmly.
You need to stay here where you’re safe.
If Bethy’s daughter is out there, she deserves to know her mother didn’t abandon her.
She deserves to know the truth.
Detective Briggs wanted to argue, but she saw the determination in Ellen’s eyes.
This woman had spent 26 years searching for her sister, and now there was a chance to save someone else’s daughter.
“You stay in the car,” Detective Briggs finally said.
“No matter what happens, you stay in the car with an officer”.
“Understood”.
Ellen nodded.
20 minutes later, a convoy of police vehicles pulled into the storage facility in Grand Prairie.
The manager met them at the gate, nervous and confused.
Unit 247 that’s been rented by the same guy for over 20 years.
Never laid on a payment, never any complaints.
Open it, Detective Briggs ordered.
They made their way through the maze of storage units to number 247.
It was larger than most, a climate controlled unit at the back of the facility.
The manager unlocked the padlock and rolled up the metal door.
Inside was not the dungeon Detective Briggs had feared.
Instead, she found what looked like a small, carefully maintained living space.
There was a cot with clean bedding, a small refrigerator, bookshelves filled with novels and textbooks, a portable television.
In the corner sat a desk with a laptop, and neatly organized school supplies.
On the wall hung a bulletin board covered with photographs, certificates, and awards.
Detective Briggs stepped closer and felt her heart sink.
The photos showed a young woman at various ages, a child at a school play, a teenager accepting an academic award, a young woman in a graduation cap and gown.
She’s real, Morrison breathed beside her.
He really kept Bethy’s daughter alive.
But the unit was empty now.
Whoever had been living here was gone, and so was Gerald Nichols.
On the desk, Detective Briggs found a note written in neat feminine handwriting.
Dad said we had to leave.
He said it wasn’t safe anymore.
I don’t understand what’s happening.
I’m scared.
The note was dated that morning.
The laptop sat on the evidence table at airport police headquarters, its screen glowing in the dim conference room.
The tech specialist, a young man named Kevin Park, typed rapidly while Detective Briggs, Captain Morrison, and Detective Torres watched over his shoulder.
The browsing history is extensive, Kevin said.
Lots of educational sites, community college course pages, job search websites.
Whoever used this computer was trying to build a normal life.
What about emails?
Detective Briggs asked.
Social media.
Kevin shook his head.
That’s the strange part.
No email account, no Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, nothing.
It’s like she didn’t exist online beyond these educational sites.
He kept her isolated, Morrison said grimly.
No digital footprint means no connections to the outside world.
Wait, Kevin said, clicking on a folder.
There’s something here.
A journal kept as word documents.
entries going back years.
He opened the most recent file dated November 13th, 2018, just yesterday.
Detective Briggs leaned in to read.
Dad has been acting strange all week.
He keeps staring at me like he’s trying to memorize my face.
Tonight, he told me we have to leave the storage unit tomorrow, that it’s not safe to stay here anymore.
He won’t tell me why.
He won’t tell me anything.
I’m 25 years old and I’ve never had a real home.
Never had friends.
Never been allowed to go anywhere without him watching.
He says it’s because the world is dangerous because people would hurt me if they knew about me.
But I’m starting to wonder if the danger is him.
I found something in his truck last week.
A photograph of a woman who looks like me.
She was wearing a uniform, a flight attendant uniform.
When I asked him about it, he got angry in a way I’ve never seen before.
He said I was never supposed to see that.
He said I reminded him of someone he lost.
What if I’m not his daughter?
What if everything he’s told me is a lie?
The room fell silent.
Detective Briggs felt a weight settling on her chest.
This young woman had spent her entire life in captivity, never knowing her real mother, never knowing the truth.
Keep reading, she said quietly.
Kevin scrolled to an earlier entry from 6 months ago.
Dad got me enrolled at community college.
I start next month.
I can’t believe it.
After all these years of homeschooling in this storage unit, I’m finally going to meet other people.
He’s nervous about it.
Made me promise not to tell anyone about where we live or about him.
He made me memorize a fake address in case anyone asks.
I have to use the name he gave me, Sarah Nichols.
But sometimes I wonder what my real name should be.
Sometimes I have dreams about a woman with dark hair singing to me.
When I wake up, I can almost remember the song, but then it fades away.
Morrison touched Detective Briggs’s shoulder.
We need to find her before he does something drastic.
if he thinks we’re closing in, if he’s panicking.
He won’t hurt her, Detective Briggs said, though she wasn’t entirely sure she believed it.
He’s kept her alive for 25 years.
She’s important to him.
She’s a liability now, Torres countered.
She’s evidence, and according to that journal entry, she’s starting to ask questions.
Detective Briggs’s phone rang.
It was the officer stationed outside Ellen Vance’s house.
Detective, you need to know something.
I’ve been reviewing the security camera footage from Ms.
Vance’s neighborhood.
There’s a white pickup truck that’s driven past her house four times in the last week.
Same truck we IDed as belonging to Nicholls.
He’s been stalking her in person, Detective Briggs said.
She turned to Morrison.
We need to find out if Sarah Nichols enrolled at any local community colleges.
If she did, she might be there right now.
Kevin was already searching.
Dallas County Community College has a Sarah Nichols enrolled.
Started classes in September.
Her schedule shows she has a psychology class this morning at 10:00.
Detective Briggs checked her watch.
It was 9:15 a.
m.
Which campus?
Brook Haven in North Dallas.
They were in the car within minutes.
Torres driving while Detective Briggs called ahead to campus security.
The traffic was mercifully light and they made it to the college in 25 minutes.
The campus security director met them at the main administration building.
Sarah Nichols is listed in Dr.
Marshall’s introduction to psychology class.
It meets in building C, room 214.
Class started 15 minutes ago.
They made their way quickly across the campus trying not to draw attention.
Detective Briggs’s mind raced with scenarios.
If Gerald Nichols was here, if he had come to get Sarah before they could reach her, there was no telling what he might do.
Building C was a modern structure with large windows and open hallways.
They took the stairs to the second floor and approached room 214 cautiously.
Through the small window in the door, Detective Briggs could see approximately 30 students seated in rows listening to a professor lecture about behavioral psychology.
And there in the third row sat a young woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
She was taking notes diligently, completely absorbed in the lecture.
Her profile was unmistakable, the shape of her face, the set of her eyes.
She looked exactly like the photographs of Bethany Cross.
“That’s her,” Detective Briggs whispered.
They waited outside the classroom, not wanting to cause a scene.
Detective Briggs positioned uniformed officers at all the building exits just in case Nicholls tried to grab her.
The hour crawled by with agonizing slowness.
When the class finally ended and students began filing out, Detective Briggs stepped forward.
Sarah Nichols.
The young woman looked up startled.
Up close, the resemblance to Bethany Cross was even more striking.
She had the same warm brown eyes, the same delicate features.
“Yes,” she said uncertainly, clutching her textbooks to her chest.
Detective Briggs showed her badge.
“I’m Detective Sandra Briggs with the airport police.
I need you to come with me, please.
You’re not in trouble, but we need to talk to you about your father”.
Sarah’s face went pale.
What’s happened?
Is he okay?
Let’s go somewhere private where we can talk.
They led her to a small office that the campus security director made available.
Sarah sat down, her hands shaking.
Please, you have to tell me what’s going on.
Where’s my dad?
Detective Briggs pulled up a chair opposite her, trying to figure out how to explain a horror that had spanned over two decades.
Sarah, what I’m about to tell you is going to be very difficult to hear.
We believe that the man you know as your father, Gerald Nicholls, is responsible for a serious crime.
What kind of crime?
Sarah’s voice was barely a whisper.
In November 1992, four flight attendants disappeared from Dallas Fort Worth airport.
Their bodies were discovered 3 weeks ago.
We have evidence that connects Gerald Nichols to their murders.
Sarah stared at her uncomprehending.
That’s impossible.
My dad works at the airport, but he would never.
He’s not a murderer.
One of those four women was Bethany Cross.
Detective Briggs continued gently.
She was 23 years old when she disappeared, and she was pregnant.
Sarah went very still.
Detective Briggs could see her mind working, making connections she didn’t want to make.
We ran DNA analysis on evidence from the crime scene.
Detective Briggs said, “Your DNA was found there, Sarah.
your Bethany Cross’s daughter.
“No,” Sarah said, shaking her head.
“No, that’s not possible.
My mother died when I was born.
That’s what he told me.
She died and he raised me alone”.
“Your mother was murdered,” Detective Briggs said.
“Hating the brutality of the words, but knowing Sarah deserved the truth”.
“Gerald Nichols killed her and three other women.
He took you from her and has been keeping you hidden all these years.
Sarah stood abruptly, backing away.
“You’re lying.
This is some kind of mistake.
He’s my father.
He raised me.
He took care of me”.
“He kept you prisoner,” Torres said from where he stood by the door.
“You lived in a storage unit,” Sarah, “You had no friends, no real identity.
That’s not a father.
That’s a captor”.
Tears streamed down Sarah’s face.
But he loved me.
He taught me to read.
He made sure I ate healthy food.
He got me into college.
Why would he do those things if he was a monster?
Because you looked like your mother, Detective Briggs said softly.
You were his connection to Bethany.
In his twisted mind, he was keeping her alive through you.
Sarah sank back into the chair, her whole body shaking.
The photograph in his truck, the woman in the flight attendant uniform.
That was her.
That was my real mother.
Detective Briggs pulled up a photo on her phone, one of Bethany Cross from before the murders.
This is Bethany, your mother.
Sarah took the phone with trembling hands and stared at the image.
I look just like her.
You do.
And your mother loved you, Sarah.
She wanted you.
What happened to her wasn’t her choice.
Where is he now?
Sarah asked.
Where’s Gerald?
We don’t know.
He disappeared this morning.
We think he might try to contact you.
Sarah wiped her eyes and when she looked up, something had changed in her expression.
The shock was giving way to something harder, more determined.
He will try to contact me.
He always does when I’m at school.
He texts me every hour to check on me.
He has your cell phone number?
Detective Briggs asked.
Sarah pulled out a simple flip phone from her bag.
He gave me this phone 2 years ago.
It can only call and text him.
No internet, no other contacts allowed.
Detective Briggs looked at Torres.
We can use this.
If he reaches out to her, “I can help you catch him,” Sarah said quietly.
“Tell me what to do”.
Over the next hour, they prepared Sarah for what might come.
The tech team set up equipment to trace any calls or texts that came to her phone.
A female officer dressed in civilian clothes would pose as a student and stay close to Sarah in case Nichols appeared in person.
As they worked, Detective Briggs learned more about Sarah’s life.
She had been raised in isolation, homeschooled using materials Nicholls purchased, allowed out only for carefully supervised trips to the library or grocery store.
He had controlled every aspect of her existence while telling her it was for her own protection.
I tried to run away once, Sarah admitted when I was 16.
I made it as far as a bus station before he found me.
He didn’t hit me or anything.
He just cried.
He told me that if I left, people would take me away and I’d never see him again.
He made it sound like I was the one abandoning him.
Classic manipulation, Detective Briggs said, making you feel guilty for wanting freedom.
At noon, Sarah’s phone buzzed.
A text from Nicholls.
Are you okay?
Where are you?
Sarah looked to Detective Briggs, who nodded.
Sarah typed back.
I’m at school.
Just finished psych class.
Where are you?
You were gone when I woke up.
The response came quickly.
Had to run an errand.
I’ll pick you up after your next class.
2:00 p.
m.
Wait for me in the usual spot.
Usual spot?
Detective Briggs asked.
The parking lot behind building B.
Sarah said.
He always picks me up there because there are fewer people around.
Detective Briggs immediately began coordinating with her team.
They would have unmarked cars in position, plain clothes officers strategically placed.
When Nicholls arrived, they would take him.
The hours until 2:00 dragged.
Sarah attended her next class with the undercover officer, trying to act normal while knowing her whole world had been turned upside down.
Detective Briggs positioned herself with a clear view of the parking lot, watching for Nichols’s white pickup truck.
At 1:55 p.
m.
, the truck pulled into the lot.
5 years after the trial, on a warm November morning, Sarah Cross stood at a podium in the main terminal of Dallas Fort Worth International Airport.
Behind her, a bronze memorial had been unveiled featuring the names and photographs of Patricia Vance, Denise Hullbrook, Yolanda Martinez, and Bethany Cross.
The inscription read, “In memory of four dedicated flight attendants who lost their lives in service, may their courage and kindness never be forgotten”.
Sarah, now 30 years old, had earned her degree in psychology and was working as a counselor specializing in trauma recovery.
She wore a simple blue dress and around her neck hung a gold cross that had belonged to her mother returned to her from the evidence locker.
5 years ago, Sarah began, her voice carrying across the crowd that had gathered.
I learned the truth about my origins.
It was the most devastating and liberating moment of my life.
Devastating because I discovered the depth of evil that exists in the world.
liberating because I also discovered the strength of love and resilience.
Ellen Vance sat in the front row, smiling through tears.
Beside her were Rachel Hullbrook, Captain Morrison, and Detective Briggs, all of whom had become important figures in Sarah’s life.
My mother, Bethany Cross, was 23 years old when she died, Sarah continued.
She was excited about becoming a mother.
She had dreams for her future.
All four of these women had dreams, had families who loved them, had so much life left to live.
She paused, gathering her emotions.
Gerald Nichols tried to erase them.
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