He Traveled to Texas to Meet His 22-Year-Old Online GF, He Killed Her After Seeing She Had a P#nis | HO!!

Before we break down the crime scene, the lies that led to it, and how everything unraveled in less than 24 hours, hit that subscribe button because these are the stories the mainstream won’t tell.

Drop a comment and let us know where you’re watching from.

We see you.

And if you want to understand what drives people to kill the ones they claim to love, check the pinned comment for our best-selling book, The Psychology of a Killer Spouse.

Sometimes it’s not just heartbreak that kills you.

It’s the truth you never saw coming.

Richard Delmare had never thought he’d be alone at 66.

3 years ago, he held his wife’s hand while she took her last breath.

Breast cancer, stage 4.

It came fast, and it didn’t care that they had been married for 38 years.

One moment they were watching TV after dinner, the next they were planning hospice.

She was the only person who ever really saw him.

Her name was Marlene.

She made the house feel like more than drywall and carpet.

After she died, the silence grew thick, too thick to sit in.

Their two kids stopped coming around, too busy, too bitter.

After the funeral, his son had said, “You’ll be okay, Dad.

You’re strong.” Then disappeared.

His daughter had argued with him over the will.

Something about who got what.

She never called again after that.

Now Richard sat alone in a quiet suburb outside Akran, Ohio.

A worn recliner, an old TV, and a fridge that buzzed louder than his phone ever did.

He had a pension.

He had a paidoff house.

But none of it mattered at 3:00 a.m.

when the memories came crashing in and the silence pressed against his chest like a weight.

That’s when the app started.

First it was YouTube watching younger couples vlog their lives, laugh, argue, cook, kiss.

Then it was Facebook, then dating apps, ones for mature singles, companionship, and finally ones that just promised attention.

And one night while scrolling through Instagram reels, he saw her, Jasmine Star.

At first, he thought she was a celebrity.

long jet black hair, almond eyes with lashes that seem to touch the sky.

Full lips, high cheekbones, and skin like silk.

Every video was carefully lit.

She wore velvet satin body hugging dresses.

She danced, she smiled, she whispered sweet nothings to the camera.

And then she went live.

Richard clicked in.

She was talking to her fans, laughing at comments, answering questions.

When she read his, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” She paused, smiled at the screen, and said, “Thank you, Angel.

That made my whole night.

That was it.” He followed her.

He subscribed to her private page.

He sent a message.

She replied within minutes.

That’s how it started.

Small, sweet, safe.

Good morning, Richard.

Sleep tight, my angel.

Wish you were here.

I’d cook you dinner.

Richard felt himself coming alive again, like someone had pulled him up from underwater.

She told him about her goals, her dreams, how she wanted to open a spa, how she’d gone to school but dropped out because of toxic exes and trauma.

How she’d been hurt before, taken advantage of, and just wanted someone to treat her right.

Jasmine Star wasn’t born into glamour.

She was born Jamal Ree in a small weatherworn house on the east side of Houston.

One of five kids to a church-going mother who quoted scripture louder than she said I love you and a stepfather who preferred belts over bedtime stories.

From the age of six, Jamal was different.

Softer, quieter, loved his mom’s heels more than his brother’s basketballs.

That softness didn’t go unnoticed, and it didn’t go unpunished.

He was 13 the first time he was dragged by the collar into the basement, locked inside for two nights without food.

just a Bible and a bucket.

They called it deliverance.

By 16, Jamal had learned how to shrink, how to smile and nod and walk straight to avoid the beatings.

But inside, a woman was waiting.

A woman who wouldn’t be quiet forever.

At 17, she left.

Stole her stepfather’s cash, caught a greyhound, and never looked back.

She became Yasmin.

Not all at once, but in pieces.

Piece by piece, she carved herself out of pain.

hair first, then nails, then hormones, then lips, then voice training, then finally surgeries.

She waited tables, did bottle service, and eventually found something that paid more than anything else ever had.

Attention.

It started with a webcam, late nights, soft lights, scripted giggles, and a fake name.

She would sit in front of a camera, tell older men what they wanted to hear, and let them imagine whatever version of her they needed most.

It paid bills, bought clothes, fixed her teeth, and over time, she built an audience.

First hundreds, then thousands, then 200,000 followers on Instagram.

She learned how to pose, how to dress, how to say thank you with just the right emoji.

But every now and then, someone came along who wasn’t just another follower.

someone like Richard Delmare.

He didn’t slide into her DMs with crude comments or selfies.

He sent a simple message.

You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Thank you for making an old man smile.

She almost ignored it, but something about his tone made her pause.

It wasn’t needy.

It wasn’t creepy.

It was sincere.

She clicked on his profile.

A quiet man, few photos, a dog, a faded wedding picture.

It wasn’t her usual type, but something about his message stuck.

She replied, “You’re sweet, Angel.” That made my night.

He messaged again the next day and the next.

She didn’t expect much, but he kept showing up, asking questions about her day, saying good night every night, sending little e gift cards, $10, 20, then 50.

He told her she reminded him of someone he once loved, someone he lost, and that made her feel powerful, but also wanted.

She began to message more.

She called him baby, sent voice notes when her pitch was high enough to sound feminine.

Never facetimed, always said her camera was broken.

She told him she’d gone to college but had to drop out after a bad breakup.

She told him she worked as a brand ambassador, but the money was slow.

She never told him her real name or that her ID still said mail or that her voice dropped if she wasn’t careful.

She told herself it didn’t matter.

He was happy she was making rent and it wasn’t like she was hurting him until the money got serious.

Richard offered to help first with $250, then $800, then $2,000.

He said he wanted her to feel safe.

Said he hated the thought of her living with loud neighbors.

that she should get a new place, a fresh start.

She cried after that call, not because she felt guilty, but because she actually wanted that fresh start.

For real.

She took the money, moved out of the roachinfested complex into a better place near Third Ward.

Still small, but clean, quiet, secure.

She never told the landlord her full name, just Jasmine Star.

She didn’t want questions.

Her roommate Koko helped her move.

Koko had known her since she was Jamal, back when they both worked coat check at a strip club.

Koko had seen all her phases, all the surgeries, all the men.

But even Koko was surprised when she found out about Richard.

Girl, he’s 66? Koko asked, raising an eyebrow.

66, generous, and emotionally available, Jasmine said, smiling.

That’s rare.

Yeah, but what’s his expectation, babe? You know, he’s not wiring you that kind of money just for good morning texts.

He thinks he loves me, Jasmine replied.

I’m just giving him what he needs.

No, Koko said flatly.

You’re giving him a fantasy, and fantasies come with expiration dates.

Jasmine didn’t want to hear that, so she didn’t.

Instead, she kept building the illusion.

She posted more selfies, always edited, sent him little videos of her blowing kisses, always wore the necklace he sent her during the clips.

She told him she wanted to go back to school, said she needed help with tuition, said her wisdom teeth were infected, said she was just trying to heal.

Every time she sent a sad story, Richard sent another wire, and the guilt faded.

She started to believe her own lines that maybe this was real, that maybe he could love her even after the truth came out.

Because deep down a part of her wanted that, not the money, the acceptance, but that meant eventually she had to tell him.

Koko brought it up again.

Jazz, this man is planning to come down here.

He’s booking a hotel.

He thinks he’s about to get a honeymoon.

I know, Jasmine said softly.

Then tell him.

I will when the time is right.

You’re out of time, babe.

This isn’t a live stream.

This is real life.

He wouldn’t hurt me.

You don’t know that.

Jasmine stared at her reflection in the mirror that night.

Everything about her looked feminine, smooth, polished, perfect.

But there was still that truth she couldn’t erase.

And that truth could destroy everything.

She texted Richard.

I can’t wait to finally meet you, baby.

I hope you’re ready for me.

He replied instantly.

I’ve waited all year.

Nothing will ever come between us.

She stared at the screen, heart pounding.

And that night, for the first time in months, she couldn’t sleep.

Richard didn’t sleep the night before he left.

The suitcase had been packed since Tuesday.

Shirts ironed, socks rolled.

He even polished his shoes.

It felt silly dressing up for someone half his age.

But he wanted to make a good impression.

This wasn’t just any trip.

This was his shot at something most men his age gave up dreaming about.

Love.

Real love.

The kind that sends you messages when you wake up.

The kind that makes you feel seen again.

He printed out the directions even though his car had GPS.

Brought two bottles of wine.

packed the diamond bracelet in a red velvet box.

He even stopped by the bank to pull out $500 in cash just in case she needed anything.

The road from Akran, Ohio to Houston, Texas stretched out over 1,200 m.

Richard planned to take breaks every 4 hours, but once the engine started humming and the radio filled the silence, he just kept going.

18 hours, no sightseeing, no distractions, just one destination.

Jasmine Star.

She’d sent him a voice message the night before.

Soft, sweet.

Drive safe, baby.

I can’t wait to finally hold you.

He must have replayed it 20 times on the road.

The highway melted into long stretches of trees, trucks, and time.

Rest stops, fast food, cheap coffee.

But Richard barely noticed.

His mind kept drifting to her, to the photo she’d sent last week.

red dress, silver heels, lips pursed in a playful kiss to her giggle on the phone when he called her queen to her text from two nights ago.

We’ve waited so long for this moment.

He smiled every time he read it.

When the Houston skyline finally appeared, it was nearly 7:00 p.m.

He felt exhausted but wired, like he was dreaming and driving at the same time.

He pulled into the Royal Palms Inn, a no frrills roadside motel near Third Ward.

The lobby was small but clean.

Faint smell of bleach and air freshener.

The desk clerk, a board-looking teen, handed him the key card without making eye contact.

Room 112, ground floor, two double beds, tiny TV, a rust stained sink.

He didn’t care.

He unpacked slowly, hung his shirt, laid the wine bottles on the desk, took out the velvet box, and placed it on the pillow like a crown.

This was it.

After 11 months of digital affection, whispers, emojis, and transfer receipts, he was finally here.

He opened his phone.

“Just checked in, sweetheart.

Ready whenever you are,” she replied a minute later.

“Pick you up in 15.

I’m so nervous.” “Me, too,” he typed back.

“But in the best way.” At exactly 7:34 p.m., a gray Honda pulled into the lot.

Richard’s heart pounded as he stepped out of his room.

The sun was low, casting a golden haze over everything.

He stood by the railing, smoothing his shirt, clutching the motel key like it might disappear.

The car door opened, and there she was, Jasmine Star, more beautiful than any photo, tall, radiant, long black hair curled softly over her shoulders, wearing a white off-shoulder blouse, jeans that hugged her curves, and open toe heels.

She was glowing.

For a moment, Richard forgot how to breathe.

She walked toward him slowly, smiling, her eyes glassy.

“And then she hugged him tight like she meant it.

You came,” she whispered.

“Of course I did,” he murmured.

“I told you I would.” When they pulled apart, she was crying lightly, just enough to make his chest ache.

He offered her a handkerchief.

She laughed and said, “Old-fashioned.

I like that.” They drove to a taco spot not far from the motel.

Laasa Verde, a small colorful joint with fairy lights strung across the patio.

Live guitar music played from a corner speaker.

The air smelled like cilantro, lime, and street corn.

They sat in a booth by the window.

Yasmin ordered tacos al pastor.

Richard got chicken fajitas and sweet tea.

She teased him for not trying the margaritas.

He said he’d rather keep his head clear.

She smiled and held his hand across the table.

“You really are as sweet as I imagined,” she said.

“You’re more than I imagined,” he replied.

They talked for hours about everything, about nothing.

“She asked about his dog, Charlie.

He asked about her apartment.

She joked about how bad she was at cooking, and he offered to teach her.” He found himself laughing again.

really laughing.

That full body, forget your pain kind of laugh he hadn’t felt in years.

She giggled too, leaned in, touched his arm, called him babe in front of the waitress.

For those two hours, the world didn’t exist.

No apps, no wires, no secrets, just them.

After dinner, they walked along a nearby stretch of shops.

Jasmine showed him the mural wall where she took some of her photos.

They stopped by a fountain.

She dipped her fingers in the water.

He sat beside her, staring at her profile under the street lights.

She looked so young, so alive, and yet she made him feel seen.

You know, he said, I didn’t think I’d feel this way again.

Not after Marlene.

Your wife? She asked? He nodded.

She was everything.

But the last few years, I felt like I was just a waiting to fade.

Jasmine looked at him.

Her face softened.

You’re not fading, baby.

You’re finally living.

He wanted to kiss her then, but she pulled back gently.

Tomorrow, she whispered.

Let’s not rush.

Back at the motel, she walked him to the door.

Before he went inside, he pulled the red velvet box from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

“For you,” he said.

“It’s not much, but it’s real.” She opened it slowly inside a delicate diamond tennis bracelet, thin, elegant.

She gasped.

Richard, this is beautiful.

You didn’t have to.

I wanted to, he said, because no one’s ever made me feel the way you do.

She looked down, swallowed hard, then hugged him again.

Thank you, she whispered.

You don’t know what that means to me.

She stepped back, cheeks flushed.

Get some rest, she said.

Tomorrow will be even better.

I promise.

He watched her drive away, then went inside and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door for several minutes.

His phone buzzed.

I can’t stop smiling.

“Sweet dreams, Angel,” he replied.

“You have no idea how much I needed this.

I haven’t felt alive in years.” He set the phone down and laid back on the bed.

A grin crept across his face.

For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like an old man in a dusty house.

He felt chosen, desirable, seen.

But down the road in that gray Honda, Yasmin wasn’t smiling.

She was quiet still.

Koko had texted three times already.

You tell him yet? You need to do it now, Jazz.

He’s falling hard.

Don’t wait too long.

Jasmine looked at the bracelet in her lap.

Diamond sparkles catching the glow of passing street lights.

She thought about the way Richard looked at her, how his hands trembled when he gave it to her, how his eyes searched her face like he was memorizing it.

She didn’t want to break that, but she knew what tomorrow meant.

There would be no screen between them, no filters, no distance, no lies.

Tomorrow, everything she’d hidden would be standing in the same room as the man who paid to love her.

Tomorrow was either a beginning or an explosion.

and either way, she wouldn’t be able to take it back.

The next evening arrived with a strange kind of silence.

Richard spent most of the day pacing his motel room, opening and closing drawers, fixing things that didn’t need fixing, rearranging the wine bottles, refolding his shirt, straightening the hotel notepad on the desk.

His heart had been pounding since he woke up.

It wasn’t just nerves.

It was the feeling of being on the edge of something, something life-changing.

She was coming tonight finally.

Jasmine, the woman who made him feel younger, wanted, seen, alive again.

She had texted him in the afternoon.

I’ll be there around 8.

Wear something you feel good in.

He shaved twice, changed shirts three times, dabbed on cologne he hadn’t touched since Marlene’s funeral.

The scent made him feel guilty for a moment, but that faded as soon as he thought about Yasmin’s voice in his ear and the way her hands had wrapped around his arm the night before.

This was real.

This wasn’t fantasy anymore.

He lit the candles, turned on soft jazz from his phone.

Kenny G classic.

He dimmed the bedside lamp, and sat on the edge of the mattress, hands clasped, eyes on the door.

At exactly 8:06 p.m., he heard a knock.

When he opened the door, everything else melted away.

She stood there in a floorlength red silk dress that clung to her in all the right places.

Hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, gold hoops in her ears, and heels, tall, thin, elegant.

“She was breathtaking, and for a second, all Richard could do was stare.” “You clean up nice, Mr.

Delmare,” she whispered, stepping inside.

He stepped back, letting her pass.

She walked slowly, hips swaying, eyes scanning the room.

The candles flickered.

The jazz hummed softly in the background.

“This is cozy,” she said with a soft smile.

“You make it look better,” he replied.

She turned to him.

“You nervous,” he laughed awkwardly.

“A little.

Don’t be,” she said, moving closer.

“It’s just me.” He reached for her waist, his fingers trembling slightly as they settled on the silk fabric.

I’ve waited so long to touch you, he said barely above a whisper.

I know, she said softly.

He leaned in slowly, eyes half closed, his breath shallow.

He was about to kiss her, and then she flinched.

Just a tiny movement, barely noticeable, but enough.

Richard stopped.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling back slightly.

She stepped away, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

It’s nothing, she said quickly.

Just nerves, he smiled.

You nervous? I don’t believe it.

I’m serious, she said, voice thinner now.

I didn’t think it’d feel this real.

He took her hands in his.

You’re safe.

I promise.

We’re finally here.

Yeah, she said quietly.

We are.

There was a pause, a silence heavy enough to press against the walls.

Jasmine looked down at her feet, then at him, then back down again.

“Richard,” she began, her voice unsteady.

“Before we go any further, “I need to tell you something.” “Okay,” he said, unsure, suddenly cold, she pulled her hands away from his, took a breath, and another.

Then, with her voice cracking, “I was born male.” The words hit the air like gunfire.

She continued quickly, trying to fill the space between them.

My name was Jamal.

I transitioned when I was 17.

I’ve lived as a woman for years, but I never told you because I was scared.

I didn’t want to lose you.

Richard didn’t say anything.

He didn’t blink.

He just stared.

The soft jazz in the background kept playing, but it sounded distant now, hollow.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Jasmine stepped closer.

Please say something.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

He took a step back, then another.

He looked at her face, the one he had memorized in photos and filtered clips.

And now all he could see was the words.

I was born male.

I wanted to tell you, she said again more urgently.

I swear, but every time I tried, I imagined you vanishing and I couldn’t bear it.

You lied, he finally said.

His voice was low, shaky.

No, she said quickly.

I never lied about how I felt.

“You let me fall in love with someone who doesn’t even exist.” “I do exist,” she said louder now.

“I’m still Jasmine.

I’m still the woman you talk to every night.

That was real.

You’re a man.” He snapped.

“You tricked me.

You’re a goddamn man.” Jasmine’s eyes filled with tears.

“It’s 2025, Frank.

Grow up.” Silence.

That was the last thing she should have said.

Richard’s face hardened instantly.

The softness in his eyes vanished.

Don’t talk to me like I’m some fool, he said through clenched teeth.

I’m not, she whispered.

I’m trying to tell you the truth.

I owe you that.

You owed me the truth a year ago.

He growled.

She didn’t move.

He pointed at the door.

Get out, Richard.

Get out.

Jasmine wiped her cheek and picked up her clutch.

She walked to the door, paused.

Everything we shared was real.

You know it was.

He said nothing.

She opened the door and stepped out into the night.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Richard stood there in the flickering candle light, staring at the door like it had betrayed him, too.

The room felt colder now, smaller.

He walked to the mirror and looked at himself hard.

This wasn’t how the night was supposed to go.

He had driven 1,200 mi.

He had bought the wine, the flowers, the bracelet.

He had told himself this was it.

That all the loneliness, all the years of silence, all the grief had led to this one moment.

And now, now all he could feel was humiliation.

He thought of his daughter, her warning, “Dad, you’re being played.” He remembered his son saying, “You’re old and desperate.

That’s all they see.” He had defended Yasmin every time.

Every time.

And now he was standing in a motel room alone, heart pounding, throat burning, and wondering if every word she ever said was scripted.

Outside, Yasmin sat in her car, hands trembling.

She stared at her phone, Koko’s texts still unread.

The air felt heavy, her chest tight.

She didn’t know what she had expected.

Maybe not acceptance, but not that look in his eyes, that rage.

She felt ashamed, not of who she was, but of how she let it get this far.

She put the car in reverse.

Back in the motel, Richard stood in the same spot, unmoving.

Then he grabbed the wine bottle and slammed it against the dresser.

It shattered.

He didn’t even flinch.

He picked up the pieces slowly, methodically, as if cleaning up glass could fix the way everything had cracked inside him.

The candles had burned out.

The jazz had stopped playing hours ago.

Now the only sound in the motel room was the slow hum of the mini fridge and the occasional distant hiss of tires against the wet street outside.

Richard sat on the bed, fully dressed, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together, pressing hard enough to hurt.

He hadn’t moved since Jasmine left.

He hadn’t blinked much either.

The room smelled like wax and wine and something else, something bitter, like loss or rage left to rot.

His eyes were fixed on the cracked screen of his phone, as if it would offer a different version of reality.

A version where none of this had happened, where she hadn’t said what she said, where he hadn’t heard it, but it had happened.

I was born male.

Those words didn’t just echo.

They multiplied, bounced around his skull, looping louder and sharper each time.

And then came the last thing she said.

It’s 2025, Frank.

Grow up.

That was the part that stung.

Not just the lie, not just the money, but the tone, the dismissal, the implication that he was the one in the wrong for being blindsided, for being devastated, for being tricked.

He leaned back and let out a dry, humorless laugh.

Grow up.

He had been through war, had buried his parents, his wife, raised two kids who now barely looked him in the eye, worked every day of his life until his knees gave out, paid off every debt, never took a hand out, and this child, this boy in a dress, had the nerve to tell him to grow up.

He stood abruptly, the sudden rush of movement making him dizzy.

His hand brushed the bracelet box on the nightstand.

He snatched it and hurled it across the room.

It hit the wall and popped open.

The diamonds scattering across the floor like broken promises.

He walked to the bathroom and stared into the mirror.

His reflection looked foreign, old, hollow.

What had he done? What had he given up? He opened his banking app, typed in his passcode with trembling fingers.

There it was.

Wire transfers.

$210,645 to her to Jasmine Star over 11 months.

He scrolled back through the receipts.

Jaw surgery, tuition, apartment deposit, emergency dental, self-care, groceries.

It was all there.

Every lie documented, every illusion itemized.

He punched the wall hard.

hard enough to split the skin on his knuckles and cracked the cheap motel drywall.

The pain didn’t register.

His breath came in short, shallow bursts.

Now his chest rose and fell like a man trapped underwater.

He grabbed his phone again, went to Instagram, searched her handle, am Jasmine Star.

There she was, still perfect, still flawless, still a lie.

He scrolled.

vacation photos, luxury bags, lashes, filters, lingerie, all bought with his money.

Then he saw it, a new post just uploaded.

She was posing in front of a white BMW, hand on the hood, wearing a green jumpsuit and oversized shades.

Standing next to her was another man, tall, shirtless, muscular, grinning like he just won the lottery.

The caption read, “New car, new season, new energy.” Richard’s vision blurred.

His hands shook.

He clicked on the man’s profile.

More gym pics.

Jasmine in the background of a few.

They’d been seeing each other.

He’d bought her a car and she was letting some other man drive it.

The shame hit him like a freight train.

He felt castrated, humiliated, robbed.

He saw his son laughing in his head.

You gave your life savings to a catfish.

His daughter’s voice followed.

You’re so naive, Dad.

You want love so badly, you’ll fall for anything.

And then Marlene, I always told you, don’t go looking for what’s already gone.

He dropped the phone, sank to the floor, clutched his knees like a child, and wept.

But it didn’t last.

The tears dried fast.

What followed wasn’t grief.

It was clarity.

A dark, heavy kind.

At 2:45 a.m., he picked up his phone and typed a message.

I need to see you.

I forgive you.

Just come talk.

No punctuation, no hesitation.

He stared at it, hovered over send, then pressed it.

The delivered check mark popped up instantly, but the read never came.

He waited.

5 minutes, 10, 15, nothing.

By 3:10 a.m., he was pacing the room.

He opened the dresser drawer, pulled out the 38 revolver he had bought on the drive down.

No background check, no paperwork, just a quick conversation behind a gas station in Arkansas.

He hadn’t planned on using it.

Not really.

He told himself it was for protection.

But tonight, it felt different in his hands.

He slid it into his coat pocket, looked around the room one last time, then opened the door and stepped out into the night.

The streets were quiet.

Street lights flickered overhead.

A light drizzle had started, soft and warm.

The air smelled like wet pavement and jasmine.

He walked briskly.

His legs knew where they were going, even if his mind had gone numb.

12 minutes.

That’s how far she lived from the motel.

12 minutes to the complex she had shown him in pictures.

He passed a 7-Eleven, a gas station, a graffiti tagged wall that read, “Love is a trap in black spray paint.” He laughed under his breath.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Each step pounded like a drum beat in his chest.

Every footfall matched with a thought.

Liar.

Thief.

Man.

He saw her apartment complex up ahead.

The gate was a jar.

He slipped through.

The hallway was silent, wrapped in early morning shadows.

Apartment 3B’s porch light flickered slightly, casting a golden hue across the threshold.

Crickets chirped.

Somewhere nearby, a faucet dripped.

Richard stood there in the quiet, coat zipped up, one hand buried in his pocket, fingers wrapped around the cold steel of the .38 revolver.

His face was blank, not angry, not panicked, just flat.

The way a man looks after something inside him has snapped.

He didn’t knock this time.

He tapped gently twice.

The kind of knock that doesn’t wake up the neighbors.

The kind that says, “It’s me.” Inside, Jasmine was half asleep on the couch.

She had dozed off with the TV still playing.

An old romantic comedy flickered in front of her, colors dancing across her face.

Her phone buzzed on the table.

One unread message.

She hadn’t seen it.

She woke to the knock, blinking slowly, groggy, disoriented.

She checked the clock.

3:24 a.m.

Another knock.

She stood up, pulling her oversized t-shirt down over her thighs.

Her hair was messy, eyes heavy with sleep.

“Who is it?” she called softly.

“No answer.” She patted barefoot to the door, looked through the peepphole, saw him, Richard, standing alone under the porch light, still silent.

She hesitated, then opened the door.

Just a crack.

Frank, it’s late.

What are you doing? That’s when the first shot came.

Population clean.

Muffled.

Quick.

It hit her in the upper chest just below the collarbone.

She staggered backward, a gasp catching in her throat.

Her hands went to the wound as if trying to rewind the moment.

She stared at him in confusion.

Disbelief, eyes wide, mouth open, blood already soaking through the thin fabric of her shirt.

Wait, Richard, please.

Pop.

The second shot came fast.

Lower near the ribs.

Her body folded.

She collapsed backward onto the kitchen tile, knocking over a chair as she went down.

A red trail streum as she tried to crawl, fingers stretching toward the wall.

Her lips moved, forming words that never made it out.

In the hallway, Koko screamed, “Jasmine!” She rushed toward the kitchen, barefoot, panicked, shouting her name again and again.

“Jazz! Jazz! Oh my god, Jazz!” She found her on the floor, curled slightly, blood pooling beneath her.

And standing above her, Richard, gun still raised, arm outstretched, breathing heavy.

For a second, he didn’t move, didn’t speak.

He just looked down at what he had done.

Like he was waiting for something.

Like maybe he expected her to get up and say it was all a test.

But she didn’t.

Jasmine blinked twice, then once, then not again.

Koko lunged.

You monster.

Richard snapped back to life, turned, ran.

He bolted through the living room, past the broken chair, through the open front door.

Koko chased after him barefoot, screaming, “Help! He shot her! He shot her!” 3:27 a.m.

The building CCTV caught it.

The grainy black and white footage showed him exiting the apartment complex front gate.

He jogged at first, then sprinted, still wearing the coat, gun tucked inside.

He disappeared around the corner.

Back inside 3B, Koko was on her knees beside Jasmine, shaking her.

Stay with me, Jazz.

Come on, look at me.

Blood soaked through the front of her shirt.

Her breaths came in short, shallow gasps.

Her eyes were open, but distant.

Koko grabbed her phone with one hand, used the other to press down on the wound.

The screen was slippery with blood.

She dialed 911.

Please, my friend’s been shot two times.

She’s not breathing right.

Please send someone.

Dispatch logged the call at 3:29 a.m.

Officers arrived at 3:37.

EMTs at 3:41.

They performed CPR for 11 minutes, applied pressure, started a line, but it was too late.

At 4:02 a.m., the lead medic pronounced her dead on the kitchen floor.

Yasmin Star was 22 years old, shot twice.

One bullet passed through her chest and punctured a lung.

The other tore through her liver.

The blood loss was massive.

The pain brief, but searing.

According to the autopsy, she had no chance.

Not at that range.

Not with that weapon.

Police took Koko’s statement right away.

She was still in shock.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He was just standing there like a statue.

I yelled and then he just ran.

She told him about the argument the night before.

She said he freaked out, that she finally told him the truth, that he looked at her like she was trash.

She handed over the text, the Instagram screenshots, the message from him that night.

I need to see you.

I forgive you.

Just come talk.

She showed them the bracelet, too.

Still on the counter.

Red velvet box cracked open, diamonds untouched.

Detectives reviewed the footage, mapped the timing.

They noted the walk from the Royal Palms Inn to 3B, approximately 12 minutes.

Witnesses said they saw a man matching the description, fleeing around 3:30.

A B went out within hours.

The walk back to the motel was colder than before.

Houston’s humidity clung to Richard’s coat, but he barely noticed.

His legs moved on their own.

Each step echoed louder than the last.

By the time he reached the Royal Palms Inn, it was nearly 4:00 a.m.

The motel was quiet, one light on in the manager’s office.

The rest of the rooms dark.

No one saw him slip inside room 112.

He didn’t bother turning the lights on.

The candles had burned down to puddles.

The gift box still lay open on the floor.

The room smelled like old wax and wine.

Richard sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, blood on his sleeve.

He didn’t wipe it off.

At 4:10 a.m., just before sunrise, Richard walked out of the motel and climbed into his Buick Lacrosse.

It was parked two spots from the ice machine, still where he left it the day before.

He started the engine.

The radio came on softly, am news crackling through static.

He turned it off, put the car in drive, and left Houston behind without looking back.

The highway stretched wide and empty.

He passed roadside diners, gas stations, faded billboards for oil changes and gospel stations.

None of it registered.

His hands stayed at 10 and two.

Eyes forward, mind blank.

It was over.

It had happened.

And now he just needed to get home.

He crossed into Louisiana by noon.

Tennessee by sunset.

He didn’t stop except to fuel up.

Paid cash each time.

Kept his head low.

didn’t speak unless he had to.

In Arkansas, he pulled off at a small fishing bridge just outside Little Rock.

There, he reached into the back seat, unzipped a duffel bag, and pulled out the .38 revolver, the same one that had taken two shots to end a life.

He stared at it for a moment, then walked to the edge of the bridge and threw it into the river below.

No hesitation, no fanfare, just a splash and silence.

By the time he made it back to Akran, Ohio, two days had passed.

He parked in the garage, closed the door, and went inside his house.

Same faded carpet, same lazy ceiling fan, same fridge buzzing like it always did.

Nothing had changed, but Richard had.

For the next two days, he stayed inside.

Phone off, curtains drawn, lights dim.

He watched local news with the volume low.

Nothing about Houston.

No mention of a young woman shot in her apartment.

No headlines about trans identity, love gone wrong, or a 66-year-old man crossing state lines to commit murder.

He thought maybe he’d gotten away with it.

Maybe no one had seen him.

Maybe Koko hadn’t said anything.

Maybe.

But denial only works when you don’t know what’s coming.

Houston detectives were already moving.

CCTV footage from the Royal Palms in showed Richard leaving the property around 3:15 a.m.

Walking in the direction of the victim’s apartment complex.

Security video from the front gate at 3:27 a.m.

showed him leaving again, hurried, looking over his shoulder.

The timeline was airtight, but the nail in the coffin was the traffic cam across from the complex.

It captured a crystal clear image of a silver Buick Lacrosse driving away just minutes after the shooting.

They ran the plates.

The car was registered to a Richard Franklin Delmare of Akran, Ohio.

Retired, widowed, no criminal history.

A quick records check revealed over $210,000 in wire transfers sent to one Jasmine star.

The same name now listed on a homicide report in Harris County.

They connected the dots fast.

On the next day, Richard left the house.

He needed groceries.

He wanted something normal, something routine.

He got dressed, combed his hair, and drove the Buick to the same grocery store he’d been visiting for decades.

He walked the aisles slowly, reading every label like he hadn’t seen food in years.

Bread, milk, raisin bran, crackers, bananas.

The store was quiet.

No alarms, no whispers, no tension in the air.

It felt like life had reset, as if the past few days were just a long, strange dream.

But not far from the checkout counter, someone else noticed him.

A woman in her 40s had been following true crime forums on Facebook.

She remembered the post, blurry security footage and a screenshot from a live stream.

The man looked just like him.

She pulled out her phone, took a quick photo, then approached the manager at the front of the store and whispered, “I think that man’s wanted in a murder investigation from Texas.” The manager stepped aside and called the non-emergency police line.

Dispatch took the tip seriously.

Two patrol cars rolled up within 10 minutes.

Richard was standing in line when he felt the tap on his shoulder.

Two plain closed detectives, one male, one female.

They didn’t raise their voices.

They didn’t pull weapons.

They flanked him calmly.

“Mr.

Richard Delmare?” the male detective asked.

He turned.

Didn’t resist.

Didn’t flinch.

He just looked at them and said, “Yeah, we need to speak with you.

Please come with us.” He nodded.

Didn’t ask why.

Didn’t play dumb.

Just left the cart where it was and walked between them, slow and quiet.

As they exited the store, one officer read him his rights.

When they reached the patrol car, Richard turned to the female detective and said, “I wanted to be loved.

I didn’t know I was being hunted.” They placed him in the back seat.

No cuffs in front of the store, no struggle, just silence.

As the car pulled away, he looked out the window like a man who had finally accepted the cost of his decisions.

Back in Houston, the case file was stamped.

Suspect in custody.

No national headlines, no protests, no documentaries, just another name added to the system, another moment of rage that couldn’t be reversed.

It started with a message, just one.

A simple compliment in an Instagram live chat that was never meant to become more than that.

One lonely man, one woman playing a role to survive.

But over the next 11 months, that message turned into a connection.

That connection became dependence.

And that dependence became something else entirely.

Something that would end in blood.

This wasn’t just a murder.

This was a slow collapse.

One that started with grief, deepened through fantasy, and detonated the moment a lie touched a wounded ego.

Richard Franklin Delmare sat in the courtroom with his head down.

His trial didn’t last long.

The prosecution had what they needed.

security footage, text messages, bank transfers, eyewitness testimony, and a weapon traced back to him through location metadata and ballistics.

The defense didn’t argue innocence.

They argued state of mind.

His lawyer called it a psychological break triggered by betrayal, emasculation, and prolonged emotional investment.

They painted a picture of a widowerower with deteriorating mental health, manipulated by a fantasy that cost him over $210,000.

and ended with a shocking revelation that shattered his identity.

They didn’t deny he pulled the trigger.

They just wanted the court to believe he hadn’t been in his right mind when he did.

But the prosecution focused on intent.

They showed how Richard had walked calmly to her apartment.

How he brought a weapon.

How he messaged her pretending to forgive her just to get her to open the door.

They showed the texts one by one.

I need to see you.

I forgive you.

Just come talk.

They showed the map of his walk, the video of him running afterward, the gun thrown in the river.

Every decision lined up, every movement is calculated, every action is final.

When the prosecution rested, Richard’s defense attorney called no witnesses.

They had nothing more to give.

The room fell still as the judge asked if he wanted to make a statement.

He stood slowly, looked down, then up.

I wanted to be loved, he said.

That’s all I wanted.

After my wife died, I felt invisible, empty.

When Yasmin came into my life, it was like someone turned the lights back on, but it wasn’t real.

None of it.

She lied.

She played me.

And when I found out, it broke something in me.

Something I didn’t even know was still there.

He paused, looked toward the jury.

I’m not asking for sympathy.

I’m asking for understanding.

I’m not proud of what I did.

I see her face in my sleep every night, and I still don’t know how I became the kind of man who would do this, but I did, and I’m sorry.

Then he sat back down.

During sentencing, his children were allowed to speak.

His daughter, Alicia, stood first.

She hadn’t seen him in over 2 years.

I warned him.

I told him this wasn’t real, she said.

But he didn’t want to hear it.

He cut me off.

Told me I was jealous.

That I didn’t understand.

I lost my father to a fantasy before he ever pulled the trigger.

I grieved him before he went to prison.

His son Marcus didn’t soften his words.

This wasn’t just about the money, he said.

This was about control, about shame.

My dad wasn’t a killer, but he became one the minute he decided that being deceived made him entitled to end someone else’s life.

That’s not grief.

That’s ego.

He didn’t just kill her, he erased himself.

On the final day, the judge addressed the court.

This case isn’t just about deception.

It’s about how fragile the human identity can become when wrapped in loneliness and illusion.

We are not punishing you for being hurt.

We are punishing you for what you did with that hurt.

Richard was sentenced to 40 years to life.

He showed no emotion, just a slow nod as the gavvel dropped.

But outside the courtroom, the headlines didn’t stop.

Man kills transgirlfriend after online romance turns deadly.

210,000 fantasy ends in murder.

A lie, a gun, and 24 hours of delusion.

Everyone had a theory.

Some blamed Jasmine.

Some blamed Richard.

Some blamed a culture that taught men their manhood was fragile.

But the truth, the truth was harder to sell.

Because Jasmine wasn’t a villain and Richard wasn’t innocent.

She had lied.

He had snapped.

The real crime wasn’t the deception.

It was what that deception unlocked inside him.

Years of grief, years of rejection, years of unresolved masculinity, pride, and identity.

Jasmine gave him affection, but not honesty.

Richard gave her money, but not emotional stability.

They were both playing roles until the curtain dropped.

One DM.

That’s all it took.

That’s where it started.

an emoji, a compliment, a man in a recliner and a woman behind a screen, both pretending to be whole.

But it was never about the money.

Not really.

It was about what he thought he was owed in return and what he did when he didn’t get it.

Because when a man builds his identity around an illusion, and that illusion collapses, he doesn’t always walk away.

Sometimes he pulls the trigger.

Now it’s your turn to weigh in.

Do you think Jasmine should have told Richard the truth before he ever stepped foot in Texas? Or was Richard already unraveling long before the lie ever surfaced? Was this a tragedy born from deception or from a man’s refusal to live in a world that no longer catered to his rules? We want to hear your thoughts.

Drop them in the comments.

We read every single one.

And if stories like this leave you shaken, questioning how love, identity, and control can turn lethal, grab our best-selling book, The Psychology of a Killer Spouse, linked in the pinned comment below.

It dives deep into the minds of people who say, “I love you,” with one hand and take everything with the other.

Because sometimes the most dangerous thing in a relationship isn’t the lie you’re told.

It’s the truth you’re not ready to face.

If you found this story gripping, disturbing, or even eyeoping, don’t scroll away.

Like, subscribe and turn on notifications so you never miss the next Twisted Case.

We are True Crime Files 247, where the darkest secrets always come to