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Ella exchanged a brief, terse lookwith Ripley, a silent communication of readiness and alert. They followed theforeman deeper into the heart of Silvermill Industries where the din ofproduction grew louder—a cacophony that concealed the pounding of Ella's pulsein her ears. It wasn't just another perp they were after; it was a potentialkiller whose next move could be as unpredictable as the machines thatsurrounded them.
‘Daniel's at the lathe machine, farend,’ the foreman said, gesturing vaguely toward the bowels of the factory. Theair was thick with the scent of oil and metal shavings, a mechanical miasmathat settled on everything within its walls.
‘Want me to page him for you?’ theforeman offered, his hand hovering over a worn walkie-talkie clipped to hisbelt.
Ella shook her head, her eyesscanning the labyrinth of machinery ahead. ‘No, we can't tip him off. Could behe'll bolt if he thinks we're onto him.’
The foreman frowned, clearlyuncomfortable. ‘Alright, but you can't just barge in there. We haveregulations. You need glasses, ear defenders. You can’t come in hereunprotected.’
Ripley snorted. ‘Sounds familiar.’
Ella barely spared her partner aglance, her focus razor-sharp. ‘This is urgent. Trust me; we're well aware ofthe risks.’
‘Fine,’ he said with a sigh. He ledthem through the cacophony, the clanking and grinding of machines crafting asymphony of industry. Above, chains and hooks moved like mechanical vultures,carrying hefty loads with an effortless glide. The air vibrated with energy,pulsing against Ella's skin.
‘Keep your weapon ready,’ Ripleymurmured, her voice barely audible over the factory's roar. ‘Puder’s not thetype to come quietly.’
Ella's hand instinctively brushedagainst the cold steel of her sidearm. She knew the weight of it, trusted itspromise of defense. Her heart beat a steady tattoo against her ribcage as sheprepared for what might come next.
‘Backed into a corner, these guysare liable to lash out,’ Ripley continued. ‘Stay sharp.’
‘Always am,’ Ella replied tersely,her gaze never leaving the path ahead.
The foreman halted beside acolossal lathe, its spindle whirring in a hypnotic dance. Beyond it, men andwomen operated their machines with a detached efficiency, oblivious to thepotential danger brewing in their midst.
‘Over there,’ the foreman pointed,‘that's Puder's station.’
‘Thank you,’ Ella said, dismissinghim with a nod. She stepped forward, Ripley at her side, moving with purposethrough the metallic forest. Each step brought them closer to the man who couldunravel the mystery of two deaths—or tighten its coils even further.
Ella's eyes locked onto thebroad-shouldered silhouette of Daniel Puder from across the cavernous factoryfloor. The distance did nothing to disguise his imposing frame; muscles rippledunder his work-stained overalls as he maneuvered the handles of the lathemachine with a brute finesse that spoke volumes about his physicalcapabilities. Ella's gaze traced the contours of his shaved head, down to thenape of his neck—thick enough to suggest he could throttle life with ease. Herpulse quickened, not with fear, but with the adrenaline of a hunt reaching itsclimax.
‘Daniel Puder!’ she called out. Hervoice cut through the cacophony of industry like a lifeline thrown intoturbulent waters. He didn't respond. She tried again, louder, with an edge thatdemanded attention. ‘Puder!’
This time, the man's movementsstilled, and the lathe slowed to a halt under his reluctant hands. Hestraightened up, turning to face them slowly, deliberately, as if every secondcounted towards some unspoken strategy. His eyes met theirs—a stark, cold glimmerof recognition flashing beneath the surface. He said nothing, but the disdainetched in the lines of his face spoke volumes.
‘Feels a bit like staring down awolf in its den,’ Ripley muttered beside her, hand hovering discreetly near herown weapon.
‘Let's hope this one's more talkthan bite,’ Ella replied, taking a step forward to bridge the gap between themand Puder.
‘Need a word with you, Puder,’ Ellastated, her tone brooking no argument. There was a flicker of annoyance in theman's stance, a slight tensing of his jaw that betrayed his irritation at beinginterrupted.
‘Can't you see I'm busy?’ Puder'svoice held a dismissive grunt, his glance fleeting back to the now silentmachine as though it were his alibi.
‘More than busy, I'd wager,’ Ellapressed on, her words crisp and clear. ‘It's about Donna Shepherd and RebekahHolden.’
The mention of the names seemed tohit a nerve. A shadow passed over Puder's features, an involuntary tell thatElla cataloged with clinical precision. ‘What about them?’ he grunted, the edgeof apprehension barely concealed.
‘Last time you saw them?’ Ella's questionhung in the air, probing for the truth amidst the tension.
‘Months... months ago,’ Puder'sreply came, his eyes darting away for a fraction of a moment too long.
‘Trouble is,’ Ella leaned incloser, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that only Puder couldhear, ‘they're both dead.’
For a heartbeat, the world seemedto pause, machinery and voices fading into a dull, distant hum. Ella watchedPuder intently, his expression shuttered, giving nothing away. But she knew—thedance had just begun, and every step from here on out was a deadly one.
Ella's gaze was like a scalpel,dissecting the man before her for any hint of guilt, any shard of remorse. YetDaniel Puder's eyes were voids, barren landscapes where emotion should'veroamed. His body language, however, told a different tale—each muscle seemed totwitch with its own nervous energy as he leaned against the cold metal of hislathe machine.
‘Are you saying I'm a murderer?’Puder's voice had risen to a near growl, a feral undercurrent rippling beneaththe surface.
