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'I work out of myhouse on Broadway Avenue. Number three-hundred. It'll be one hundred dollarstotal,' she said.
With trembling hands,he fished out his wallet from the jumble of clothes strewn across the motelroom floor. His fingers rifled through the sparse contents—some crumpled bills,a few coins that clinked mournfully against each other as if lamenting theirinadequacy.
‘Okay,’ he muttered,resigned, and ended the call. 'Thank you. I'll be there.'
The phone slipped fromhis grasp and thudded onto the carpet, the sound oddly muffled in the thick,musty air of the room. He slumped onto the edge of the bed, a nondescript pieceof furniture that had known countless backs but remembered none. With his walletsplayed open in his lap, he counted the money again, as if willing it tomultiply. There wasn't much—a couple of tens, a smattering of ones, barelyenough to cover the cost of the session that now stood between him and theabyss.
His heart sank as herealized just how close to the end he was. This was it; this session had to bethe turning point. Either this woman heals the fractures in his psyche, or hewould have to vanish once more, fleeing to another state, another identity. Hecould take the hundred back, but how far would it get him?
Exhaustion crept overhim, heavy and insidious, pulling his eyelids down. He lay back on the bedwithout bothering to undress, the springs creaking in protest under his weight.As sleep began to envelop him, his mind drifted to his mother—the only personwho had ever managed to stem the tide of darkness within him. Her absence wasan open wound, raw and throbbing.
Her face, lined withboth love and concern, the gentle cadence of her voice soothing his tumultuousthoughts, flickered like an old film before his closed eyes.
In the grip ofunconsciousness, he reached for her memory, and then everything went dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Ella's heart thumpedin her chest like a drum solo, adrenaline pumping through her veins as she andMia Ripley arrived at the Rochelle Street house. The bare branches of an oaktree swayed gently in the evening breeze, clawing at the twilight sky above ChesterLawler's residence. With swift movements borne from a cocktail of anticipationand nerves, Ella unbuckled her seatbelt and glanced over at her partner.
‘Let’s go,’ Ella said,her voice taut like a wire pulled too tight.
They exited thevehicle, each step towards the front door amplifying the silent dread thatclung to the air like humidity before a storm. The house loomed before them,its façade an enigma of shadows and secrets as the fading light refused toreveal its full countenance.
Ella rapped sharply onthe door, the sound echoing down the vacant corridor of the suburban street.She pressed her ear against the cool wood, listening for any hint of movementwithin, but was met with only silence. Her fingers itched with the need to confront,to unravel the mystery of Chester Lawler, to look into the eyes of a man whomight hold the key to the horrors Ella was fast becoming obsessed with.
‘Chester Lawler,’ shecalled out, ‘FBI. We need to talk.'
When no response came,Ella knocked again, harder this time, the thuds vibrating through her arm. Ashiver traced its way down her spine, not from the chill of the evening, butfrom the realization that something was amiss.
She moved to thenearest window, cupping her hands around her eyes and peering through theglass, searching for any sign of life.
‘Anything?’ Mia asked,her footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway as she drew closer.
‘Dark as the inside ofa coffin,’ Ella muttered, stepping back from the window. She could feel thethreads of the case tangling further with each passing second, the frayed endsslipping through her fingers. The absence of Lawler's car didn't escape hernotice either – the empty driveway an ominous void where they had expected atleast one link to the puzzle.
‘Where the hell ishe?’ she murmured. Ella's gaze swept over the property once more, trying tocoax out secrets from the stillness that seemed to envelop the house, as if itwere holding its breath, waiting for a revelation that refused to come.
Ella's fingerstwitched with impatience as she contemplated the front door before them. Sheturned to Ripley.’We can't just stand here. What if we found another way in?’
‘Without probablecause? Ella, you know as well as I do—we'd be overstepping.’ Even in theshadowed evening, Ripley's face held a look of caution, her stance rigid as ifbracing against a headwind only she could feel.
Ella clenched her jaw,frustration simmering beneath her skin.
‘Carter's not hereanymore. Edis wouldn't rake us over the coals,’ she countered.
'And what happens whenEdis is gone and the next director checks our case notes?' Suddenly, Ripley'sphone cut through the tension, its ringtone abrupt and jarring against thequiet of Rochelle Street. She glanced at the screen, her expression shifting. ‘It'sthe chief.’
'Please be good news,'Ella said.
Ripley swiped thescreen, bringing the phone to her ear. ‘Chief, what is it?’
Ella's hand hoveredover the doorknob, her body tense as she watched Ripley's face for any sign ofthe conversation's content. She glanced back at the house, its facade an enigmathat refused to yield its secrets.
‘Okay. Understood.’Ripley's words cut through the quiet, and she ended the call, locking eyes withher partner. ‘We have to go.’
‘Go? Why?’ Ella asked,her pulse quickening.
'Lawler's not here.'
