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Mia sat opposite her,her sharp eyes briefly lifting from the casefile spread across her lap. Thepages were filled with haunting details of the new case they were flying into –two therapists dead in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin, their lives brutally snuffedout within the sanctuary of their own offices according to Ella’s quick perusalof the casefile.
‘Both strangled, bothin their forties,’ Mia continued, her tone clinical yet not devoid of empathy.It was a balancing act Ella knew all too well. ‘Offices five miles apart. Itdoesn't take a profiler to smell a pattern.’
Ella remained fixed onthe crystal clear window, but she could feel Mia studying her, reading thesigns of distress that she worked so hard to conceal. Unfortunately, youcouldn’t hide anything from Mia Ripley.
‘Earth to Ella,’ Miaprodded. ‘I can see you're somewhere over the rainbow with your thoughts. Youholding up okay with the whole Ben situation?’
It was a direct hit,and Ella felt the sting. She wanted to retreat back to the safety of her mentalfortress, to the place where her emotions were locked away under layers ofrationale and duty. But even stone walls have cracks, and Mia's concern was theivy that found its way through.
‘I'm fine,’ Ellamanaged, the words sounding brittle even to her own ears. The dossier in Mia'shands suddenly appeared as a lifeline, a tangible distraction from theemotional maelstrom threatening to drown her.
Ella's fingers curledinto fists, her knuckles blanching against the tension coiled within. Theghostly reflection of her face on the plane’s window pane betrayed the turmoilthat swirled like a tempest behind her eyes. With every passing cloud that mirroredthe icy treetops below, she grappled with the haunting echoes of RandallCarter's death and the uninvited demise of Logan Nash.
‘Ripley,’ Ella'swhisper sliced through the cabin's hum ‘There's something about Carter'sdeath…’ She trailed off.
Mia set down thecasefile, her gaze sharp as cut glass. ‘Ella, we’ve been through this oncealready today. You can't let this consume you.’
‘Consume me?’ Ella'slaugh was a hollow note amidst the symphony of her inner disquiet. ‘It'salready there, Mia. Like a shadow just out of view. I've tried to dig deeper,but the details are locked tighter than Pandora's box, even to us.’
‘You tried to lookinto it?’
Ella nodded. ‘Yup.Barely got past the official case number before I got stonewalled.’
‘Stop it, Ella,’ Mia’svoice was stern, barbed with ire rooted in worry. ‘You're not tasked withCarter's case. Chasing ghosts won't bring him back or give you closure. Samegoes for Nash. Besides, Nash was a career assassin. Carter, for all his faults,wasn't living in that world. He was a jerk, someone who played politics withpeople's lives, but he wasn’t a God damn killer.’
Ella felt the weightof Mia's words press against her chest, a boulder she couldn't lift norsidestep. The drone of the engines encapsulated her thoughts, each vying fordominance. Carter was dead; so was Logan Nash. And here she was, caught in theriptide of their legacies, searching for connections in the murky waters ofsecrecy and lies.
Resignation settledover Ella like ashes from an extinguished flame. Ripley was right – some linesweren't meant to be crossed, and paths that led only to dead ends. For now, atleast, those mysteries would have to remain unsolved puzzles, pieces of alarger picture she wasn't permitted to complete.
With a sigh of defeattempered by resolve, Ella leaned back against her seat, the leather cool andunyielding beneath her. The plane banked gently, a silent signal of transitionsand new horizons. And though the shadows of Carter and Nash loomed like spectersover her shoulder, Ella knew she had to lock them away. Fresh horrors wereawaiting her attention, victims who deserved justice, and a killer whoseconfidence bordered on audacity.
Ella's fingers, indesperate need of a manicure, tentatively reached for the manila folder restingon the small airplane table before her.
The faint whisper ofthe pages turning filled the silence that had settled between her and Ripley.As she flipped through the casefile, each photograph was a stark window intothe violence hidden behind the facades of normalcy in Sturgeon Bay. The officeswhere lives were supposed to be rebuilt now stood as silent sentinels totragedy.
‘You’re right. Let’sfocus on this case.’
Ella turned to thephotographs in her casefile – the elements that told the deepest story.
The first crime scenephoto showed an office – books on psychology and human behavior neatly linedthe shelves. A once–comforting space, with its soft lighting and plush chairsmeant to ease troubled minds, now disrupted by the violent disarray. Ella'seyes traced the outline of the body, slumped gracelessly on a hardwood floor.
She swallowed hard,her throat tight. She’d seen enough dead bodies to last eons, yet every time,it struck anew – the brutality exerted upon those who had devoted their livesto helping others.
Ella shifted her gazeto the second set of photos. Another office, different yet hauntingly similar –a mirror to the first in its intention and outcome. This therapist, too, hadbeen found strangled, the life choked out of her amidst a scattering of patientfiles and therapeutic aids. It was a chilling echo, the signature of a killermethodically carving terror into the heart of a community.
As she digested theimages, Ella's analytical mind began to weave connections from the tangle offacts and speculations. She considered the victims: two women, both therapists,both in their forties. Their careers had led them to probe the darkest recessesof the human psyche, but what twisted strand of fate had drawn them into thefinal, fatal embrace of a murderer?
‘What do you think?’Ripley asked.
The notion that thekiller had sought his victims through the guise of seeking help gnawed at her.It would have been easy, all too easy, for him to blend into the roster ofclients seeking guidance – a name among many, a face without a story. Ellamentally scoured the potential avenues of investigation. Appointment bookswould be scrutinized, of course, but if he had indeed used a pseudonym, thetrail could quickly turn cold.
‘Untraceable,’ Ellamurmured. ‘I doubt our guy was too dumb to use his real name for thesesessions.’
‘One hundred percent,’Ripley agreed.
Local PD was right tosuspect a pattern, Ella thought. The consistent victimology, the uniformity ofthe killing method, the proximity of the locations. It spoke of purpose, ofdesign. But to what end? What insidious thread bound these therapists to theirkiller?
The plane's hum was aconstant companion as Ella leaned back in her seat, the casefile spread acrossher lap like a grim map. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, traced the lines oftext, absorbing each detail with forensic precision. She began to forge the unsub’sbehavioral profile.
