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Puder's head snapped toward her,his eyes narrowing into slits of malice.
‘Oh, it's you again,’ he spat thewords like venom. ‘Come to apologize?'
‘Far from it. We've got a lot todiscuss, you and I,’ Ella replied as she moved closer to the bars, close enoughto feel his heat.
Puder leaned forward and put hisface beween two rows of iron. A harsh laugh burst our of his chest. ‘You thinkyou can break me? I'm not some riddle for you to solve.’
Ella met his gaze, unflinching. Shecould see the tempest raging behind those cold eyes. Frustration. Fury. Itbubbled beneath the surface of his skin, threatening to erupt. He was a coiledspring, wound tight with potential violence. And yet, it was precisely thisvolatile nature that made him such a plausible suspect for the murders of DonnaShepherd and Rebekah Holden.
‘Maybe not,’ Ella conceded withcalculated calm. ‘But we're going to talk all the same.’
‘Talk?’ Puder's laugh turned into agrowl, a sound born from the depths of his gut. ‘You've got nothing on me,whoever you are.'
‘Is that so?’ Ella challenged,refusing to be intimidated. Her instincts screamed that he was involved;everything about him screamed danger, a perfect embodiment of the profilethey'd constructed for the unsub. ‘Just because you're laughing now doesn't meanyou'll be laughing when this is over.’
‘Is that a threat? Puder's voicewas acid, his posture aggressive despite being caged. ‘Careful, or you mightjust find out how I deal with threats.’
‘Threats are your language, aren'tthey, Puder?’ Ella shot back, her voice a whip-crack in the tense atmosphere.‘But here, right now, you will talk, and you will listen. Because one way oranother, the truth will come out.’
Ella knew she was walking atightrope—pushing him for answers without setting off the explosive temper thathad already marked him as a menace. But she was determined to tread that lineuntil the truth was laid bare.
‘Why am I here?’ His voice was alow rumble, barely concealing the storm of anger beneath. ‘My case is closed.You dragging up old dirt now?’
Ella matched his gaze, unflinching.‘This isn't about your past,’ she said. ‘Like I told you back at your factory,this is about Donna Shepherd and Rebeka Holden.’
‘Who?’ Puder's shrug wasdismissive, his expression unreadable.
‘Two therapists,’ Ella continued,pressing on. ‘Murdered. Both in the last three days.’
Puder's reaction was subtle, but toElla's trained eye, it spoke volumes. There was a brief quiver of his lips, atwitch like a glitch in his otherwise stoic façade. His arms crossed over hischest—an instinctive barrier.
Her mind raced: was this a crack inhis armor?
‘Oh, those two,’ Puder's voicecarried a mock sympathy. ‘Tragic. But what's that got to do with me?’
‘Everything or nothing. That's whatwe're here to find out.’ She watched him, every microexpression a note in thesymphony of his body language. Was it the shock of hearing about death thatcaused his eye to twitch, or the fear of being ensnared in his own web of lies?
‘Look, whoever you are,’ Puderstarted, his voice taking on an edge, ‘You think you've got something on me?Let's hear it then. Because all this,’ he gestured to the enclosing walls ofthe holding cell, ‘is just wasting my time.’
‘Your time is the least of ourconcerns, Daniel,’ Ella replied coolly, her eyes never leaving his face. Thedance between them was intricate, a battle of wills where the slightest misstepcould mean failure—or worse, letting a killer walk free.
‘Careful,’ Puder warned, his voicedropping an octave. ‘You don't want to see me waste time.’
'Quit with the macho act, Puder.Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't I just kick your ass an hour ago?'
Puder sucked in air through histeeth. 'You had a gun.'
'And I didn't fire a single shot.'Ella arched an eyebrow, leaning forward until the cold metal of the bars was abreath away from her face. ‘Now, let's get to the bottom of this. RebekahHolden. You've had therapy sessions with her?’
‘Used to. Court’s orders. Not mydecision,’ Puder admitted with a shrug that seemed too casual. A flicker ofsomething crossed his features—was it remorse or irritation? ‘And one withShepherd. Didn't like how she worked, her style,’ he grumbled.
‘Her style?’ Ella asked, pressingfurther, her detective instincts piqued by the nuance of his disdain.
‘Too... confrontational,’ he spatout the word like it left a sour taste in his mouth.
'Confrontational?'
‘Yeah. She didn't help. Justaccused.'
