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‘He’s confident,’ Ellasaid. The word felt inadequate to describe someone who could walk into thesanctity of another person's workspace and leave it a tomb. This killer haddone so not once, but twice, without leaving so much as a fingerprint behindaccording to the casefile. ‘You don’t just walk into someone’s office and killon a whim,’ Ella said.
Mia flipped throughher own file, legs crossed. ‘I don’t know. These therapy sessions could havebeen genuine, but something might have ticked over inside.’
Ella had to disagree.‘If that was true, we’d have our killer’s name already. But we don’t, so hemust have finessed his way in with an appointment under a fake name. And he’sdefinitely got strength on his side.’
Despite its portrayalin films and TV, strangulation was no easy task. It required notable upper bodystrength, not to mention that it took two to three minutes to fully choke thelife out of someone. Ella had never met a strangler that couldn’t do twentypush – ups in a row.
‘Good point,’ Ripleysaid. ‘Either way, our guy’s got balls of steel, as much as I hate to say it.It takes a particular type of audacity to invade someone’s comfort zone likethis.’
‘Bold or reckless?’ Ellaasked. The question nagged at her. To leave biological evidence behind spoke ofeither supreme confidence or a lack of concern for being caught. The latterseemed unlikely; his meticulous planning suggested he reveled in the game of itall. Perhaps he wanted to be seen, understood even. Or maybe he sought to mockthem, the agents chasing ghosts in his lethal wake.
‘Why therapists?’Ripley asked. ‘Does he have a vendetta against them? Is he jealous of them? Isit a middle finger to mental health?’
‘Vendetta,’ Ellarepeated. The word hung heavy in the air, its weight settling in Ella's chest.A vendetta against mental health workers, but what pain or perceived betrayal couldfuel such rage? Was he lashing out at an institution, striking at symbolsrather than individuals?
‘Could be an insult.There’s nothing psychopaths hate more than people who think they can figurethem out.’ Ella shook her head, trying to dispel the eerie chill that creptalong her forearms. Just as she was about to delve deeper into thepsychological labyrinth, Ripley's voice cut through her thoughts.
‘When we land, we'regoing straight to the most recent scene. PD are waiting for us.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’Ella replied. She’d never been to Wisconsin before, and though she hated toadmit it, the case was a welcome distraction from the doubts that clawed at her– the unspoken fears about Logan Nash, Randall Carter’s abrupt death, and theuncertainty of her own heart.
The killer, with hismacabre challenge, had unwittingly thrown her a bone. She was ready to immersein the grisly details, letting the pursuit of justice shield her from thequestions that had no answers – at least not yet.
CHAPTER FIVE
As the first ribbonsof dawn stretched across the horizon, Ella’s pickup sedan glided to a stop atthe edge of the crime scene. Beside her, Mia Ripley adjusted her jacket – oneof her nervous habits, Ella noticed – but her expression was resolute.
Ella stepped out intothe crisp morning air that carried the scent of salt and fish from SturgeonBay. The building before her, a nondescript edifice of glass and steel, seemedincongruent with the quaint coastal town, like a stranger that didn't belong.
Ella noted the swarmof local law enforcement who had cordoned off the site with clinical precision.Yet, an undercurrent of unease rippled through them. She’d only been in thistown for an hour, but she sensed that violent homicide was not the norm here.She could see it in the way their eyes kept darting up to the second floor,where behind one of those windows, Rebekah Holden's office held the grimanswers to questions Ella had yet to ask. She knew that if this situationescalated any further, the entire town might erupt in panic.
Ella led the way withRipley close behind. They paced past the officers stationed at the perimeter,their presence a tangible barrier against the morbid curiosity of early morningonlookers. She knew the importance of what lay within the walls – answers mingledwith the silent cries of the departed.
‘Agent Dark, and thismust be Agent Ripley,’ came a gravelly voice, weathered by time and tides. Ellaspun on her heels to face a middle–aged gent, his skin bearing the texture ofold leather, etched by years of squinting into the sun and winds of LakeMichigan. A silver badge pinned to his chest seemed to carry the weight ofevery case he'd ever closed, albeit it with one exception.
‘Chief.’ Ella extendedher hand, her grip firm as she met his weary gaze. ‘We appreciate you callingus in.’
‘Thanks for coming.I’m Chief Caldwell. The man’s voice cracked like aged parchment, ‘And believeme, I wouldn't have reached out if we weren't out of our depth.’ He glancedback toward the building, a frown creasing his brow. ‘This isn't somethingwe're used to dealing with.’
The chief’s eyesbetrayed a flicker of relief at their arrival, a hope that these agents frombeyond the bay could make sense of the senseless. It was a look Ella recognizedall too well – the same one she’d seen reflected in the mirror during her firstcase, when the world's shadows had first revealed themselves to her.
‘Let's get to workthen,’ Ella said, It was time to peel back the layers of this tragedy andconfront whatever darkness they found beneath. ‘Who called the scene in?’
‘Rebekah'sreceptionist found her,’ Caldwell replied, his voice weary, perhaps a symptomof a sleepless night. ‘She was out for lunch during an afternoon session. Cameback to... well, you know.’ He gestured vaguely towards the building with atrembling hand.
‘Convenient timing fora killer,’ Ella observed, her mind already whirling. The isolation of thetherapist in her office was no coincidence; it had to be an orchestrated move,a predator ensuring there were no prying eyes. ‘Any CCTV footage?’
‘Reviewed it. Sawnothing but a blurry figure. A hat, black clothes – could be male, that's ourbest guess.’ Caldwell's lips pursed.
‘Dead end? No suchthing,’ Ella countered. ‘I need to see that footage myself.’ There could be adetail, however minute, that Caldwell and his team had missed – a nuance only atrained eye might catch.
‘Alright,’ Caldwellacquiesced, nodding stiffly as he turned on his heel and began leading themthrough the lobby. ‘Scene’s this way.’
Ella and Ripleyfollowed into a lobby, sterile and quiet, save for the muted footsteps of theirprocession. Sunlight struggled through the windows, diluted by the morningmist. It was too early for the usual bustle of professionals, leaving the spacefeeling hollow, abandoned – a mausoleum of daily life interrupted by tragedy.
Caldwell led them pastthe unmanned reception desk, its surface clean and impersonal, through ahallway lined with doors bearing names and titles.
‘Here we are,’Caldwell announced, stopping before a door that was decidedly more austere thanthe rest. The plaque read 'Rebekah Holden, M.S., LPC.'
