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The office was a cryptic jigsawpuzzle, with pieces scattered by both killer and law enforcement. The crimescene markers, those small numbered tents, dotted the landscape of chaos, eachone signifying that the police had already scoured the area for evidence.Ella's hope of uncovering some overlooked clue about Donna Shepherd's clienteledwindled with every new marker she encountered.
With a sigh, she paused, her gazesweeping over the disarray. The markers might as well have been tombstonesmarking the death of leads in the case. Desperation clawed at her; it wasimperative to understand the relationships Donna had with her client. Were anyvolatile enough to end in murder?
Her frustration bloomed like a darkflower within her chest as she turned from the ravaged desk and approached theleather chair—a focal point of her investigation. She perched on its edge, theleather cool and smooth beneath her. This was where he sat, the unsub, beforethe storm of his violence broke free.
Ella closed her eyes, willing herheartbeat to slow, to not echo the drumming pulse of frustration. Whatpressures coiled within him, waiting to spring forth in such fury? She imaginedherself in a therapy session, vulnerable, seated across from Donna. What wouldshe reveal? Her thoughts drifted unbidden to Ben, the raw edge of their lastencounter still tender.
She reached into her pocket, herhand almost moving of its own accord, and pulled out her phone. The screen litup, barren of the message she yearned for. No words from Ben. No digital olivebranch extending across the void of their separation.
Ella's thumb hovered over thescreen, the desire to reach out wrestling with the need to maintain her focuson the case. Logan Nash and Randall Carter, shadows from her past, flickered inher mind's eye too. But this was no time for distractions, no time for personalentanglements to muddy the waters.
Opening her eyes, she stared at thechair opposite, half-expecting to see a specter of Donna there, ready to guideher to the next breakthrough. The chair remained empty.
Ella got to her feet and sweptthrough Donna Shepherd's office one final time. Her instincts, honed bycountless hours dissecting scenes just like this, whispered that something wasamiss—something more than the chaos that had already been cataloged and markedby the diligent officers before her.
Despite her thorough search,Donna's notes were as elusive as whispers in the wind. It seemed inconceivablethat a therapist of her standing didn’t keep records, yet the evidence—or lackthereof—suggested otherwise.
Just as she turned towards thedoor, resigned to the idea that this visit might yield nothing, a glint caughther eye.
At the far end of the room, almostcloaked by shadows, was the modest outline of an air vent situated behind theclient’s chair.
A mundane feature, perhaps, but toElla, it sparked a flicker of curiosity.
Ella's strides lengthened as shecrossed the room, closing in on the vent. She told herself not to get tooexcited—it was probably another dead end, another disappointment. Yet shecouldn't ignore the tingle of anticipation that raced through her veins.
Ella crouched down, her keen eyesnarrowing as they traced the contours of the vent.
And there, nestled within the dustand darkness, was the unmistakable sheen of a wire—a wire that had no businessbeing there.
Her pulse quickened, adrenalineflooding her system as the implications of her discovery began to unfurl in hermind.
‘Damn,’ she murmured under herbreath, her fingers working to pry the vent from its moorings. It gave way witha gentle groan of metal against metal, revealing its secret.
Her breath caught in her throat asher hand snaked into the narrow space, fingertips searching until they madecontact with the object.
It was small and unassuming, yet itpulsed with potential—the kind of potential that could shatter alibis or unveilmotives.
With a careful touch, she extractedthe object, feeling the weight of its significance settle into her palm. Thedevice was compact, no larger than a deck of cards, its casing matte black andnondescript.
The front was dominated by acircular lens
It was a recording device.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ella's heels clicked a steadyrhythm against the linoleum floor of her office. She had handed the small,unassuming recording device to the closest thing the precinct had to a tech expert—anironic title in a place where modern technology seemed as out of place as acell phone at a séance. He was holed up somewhere amidst the labyrinth of beigecubicles and humming machines, trying to extract secrets from this potentialsilent witness.
Mia Ripley sat, observing Ella'srelentless circuit. The chair creaked under slight shifts of weight, andRipley's eyes followed Ella's path with a measured calm.
‘Illegal as hell doesn't even beginto cover it,’ Ripley said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.‘But it shows why Donna didn’t keep notes. She recorded everything instead.’
Ella halted mid-pace, turning toface her colleague. ‘Illegal or not, if it gives us the unsub's voice...’ Shetrailed off, the unsaid it's worth it hanging between them. But even asshe spoke, Ella knew the gravity of what they were dealing with. A device likethis wasn't just evidence; it was a Pandora's box, its contents capable ofunraveling careers or worse. If it came out that Donna Shepherd had beensecretly recording her sessions, it could add indignity to her death.
Ripley leaned forward, elbows onknees, hands clasped together. ‘While you were out, I got a text.'
'About what?'
'About Randall Carter.'
