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But it was the nextline on the screen that snatched the breath from her lungs.
Chester Lawler had acriminal past.
He'd been arrested forattempted breaking and entering three months ago.
'Ripley, check it. Ourman Chester's been on the wrong side of the law.'
'Whoa, burglary,' shesaid. 'Who was the victim?'
Ella scrolled throughthe notes, then had to stop and recalibrate when she found the name.
'Oh Christ,' she said.
The target residence belongedto none other than Penelope Olson.
Ripley's eyebrows shotright up to her hairline. ‘Son of a...’
Ella's grip tightenedaround the mouse. This changed everything. It wasn't just an affair; it wasobsession, it was proximity—it was motive.
'He's not just alover; he's an intruder,’ Ella said.
‘Damn right he is.Where is he now?’ Ripley asked
‘Let's find out.’Ella's fingers danced once more across the keyboard, pulling up recentaddresses, known associates, anything that could lead them to Chester Lawler'scurrent whereabouts. And then, there it was—a current address. Rochelle Street.Ella's quick map-checking told her it just a few miles from where they sat.
'Rochelle Street,'Ripley said as she grabbed her things. 'No time to waste.'
Ella sprung to herfeet. Chester Lawler was his name, and he had a connection to Penelope Olsonthat couldn't be ignored. He had a motive, a criminal history, and perhaps anunrequited obsession with the former therapist.
'That could explainwhy he destroyed Penelope's office worse than the others,' Ella said. 'He has aconnection to her, and connections always mean overkill. Penelope could havebeen the target of his rage all along.'
'And the other twovictims were practice. Or they were countermeasures to hide the real victim.'
Ella collected herthings and joined Ripley at the door. 'Let's see what this son of a bitch hasto say for himself.’
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
In his motel room, theman stared at himself in the mirror, the unease besting the Valium in hissystem.
He barely recognizedthe hollow eyes, the pallid skin stretched taut over sharp cheekbones, thatreturned his stare. His breath came in short bursts, fogging the glass beforehim as he leaned forward, hands braced on the edge of the dresser. Perspirationbeaded on his forehead, trickled down his temples. He straightened, steppingback until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and began to pace.
With each step, thethreadbare carpet absorbed the sound of his movements, though nothing couldquiet the cacophony in his mind. The man's thoughts were a whirlwind, careeningfrom one worry to the next. His fingers twitched at his sides, yearning for somethingto do, something to fix, to control. But there was nothing tangible to address,only the intangible fear that gripped him tighter with every passing moment.
He had covered histracks, hadn't he? Paid in cash for the motel, for each brief encounter thatcould tie him to his actions.
He replayed the scenesin his head: the crisp bills passed over counters, the latex that shielded hisfingertips from leaving any betraying prints. The same gloves that shielded hisprints from staining those women's necks.
He had beenmeticulous, or so he reassured himself, even as doubt gnawed at him like arelentless rodent within the walls of his conscience.
His chest tightened, avice of anxiety that made each inhalation a battle. Breathe, he commandedhimself, trying to impose order on the chaos within. Inhale. Exhale. Squareyour shoulders. Control. Yet control was slipping through his grasp like water,and all that remained was the primal surge of impulses that threatened to upendeverything.
The urge wasinsidious, creeping into the crevices of his resolve, prying them wider withrelentless force. He was a marionette, and these urges pulled the strings,jerking him towards actions he knew he should resist but found increasinglyirresistible. He clutched at the fabric of his shirt, feeling it stick to hisdamp skin, and squeezed his eyes shut.
‘Get a grip,’ hemurmured to the empty room, the words dissolving into the stale air. ‘You'vedone everything right.’ But the silent walls offered no reassurance, standingindifferent to his plight.
He pictured thepolice, their tracking, their incessant questions that could come his way atany moment. He could almost hear them, pieces clicking into place, a netdrawing ever tighter around a phantom they didn't yet know they sought.
‘No,’ he whisperedfiercely, ‘they have nothing on me.’
