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The confession hungthere. Ella exchanged a glance with Ripley, both women attuned to thediscordant notes in Chester's story.
Ripley steppedforward.’Any proof to back up this claim? This is a serious accusation.’
‘Proof?’ Chesterechoed hollowly, as if the word were foreign to him. ‘No, I just... I feel itin my gut.’
Ella prowled closer,the pieces clicking into place with an unsettling ease. ‘A gut feeling,’ sherepeated, her voice low and edged with a predator's calm. 'That's all?'
'Yes,' Chester said.'Look, I know what he's like. He resented her for what she did.'
Ella folded her arms.‘Or is it guilt, Chester? Are you projecting your own obsession onto Paul?’
‘Obsession?’ Chester'shead snapped up.
‘Come on,’ Ellapressed, leaning in so close she could see the dilation of his pupils. ‘Youbroke into her house not long ago. That sounds more like obsession than love tome.’ Her words were a verbal jab, testing his defenses for a telltale flinch.
Chester's lips parted,but no sound emerged. He seemed cornered, caught in the snare of his ownnarrative. Ella watched him carefully, every line of his body speaking volumesmore than his silence ever could. She needed no confession; the truth—or atleast a part of it—was written in the tremble of his hands and the desperationclouding his eyes.
Chester's composureshattered like fragile glass under the weight of Ella's probing gaze. Colordrained from his face, leaving a pallor that seemed to devour any remnants ofthe confident man who had walked into the precinct mere minutes ago. His throatworked visibly as he swallowed hard, eyes brimming with sudden, unshed tears.
‘Penelope was... shewas everything,’ Chester said. ‘I loved her. I never wanted to hurt her,just... to be close, that's all.’
Ella observed him, hermind running through the details. The grief displayed before her might havebeen genuine, but it didn't absolve him of suspicion. She leaned against anearby desk.
‘Where were you aroundmidday today, Chester?’
Chester joltedupright. ‘Are you saying... You think I'm involved?’ Chester’s tone wasincredulous.
Ripley steppedforward. ‘Yes, Chester,’ she said, not a hint of sympathy in sight. ‘You hadmotive. An intense attachment to Penelope. Maybe too intense. Did you snap whenshe moved on?’
‘No!’ The denial burstfrom Chester with vehemence, his hands raised as though to ward off theaccusation. ‘I would never harm her. I just needed to see her, that's all. Toexplain.’
‘Explain what? How youwent from lover to stalker?’ Ripley's retort was swift, her skepticism evidentas she narrowed her eyes at him.
‘Stalker is a strongword...’ Chester faltered, his sentence trailing into silence as he realizedhow damning his actions must look from the perspective of two detectives.
‘Seems fitting though,doesn't it?’ Ella interjected, her voice low but carrying an edge that slicedthrough the air between them. She watched for any sign of deceit or deflection,her instincts honed from years of unraveling lies and half-truths.
‘Penelope was scaredof you, Chester,’ she continued, each word deliberate, ‘Scared enough to cutyou out of her life completely. What did you do when she rejected you? When yourealized you couldn't have her?’
‘I...’
‘Think carefully aboutyour next words,’ Ripley warned, her stance uncompromising. ‘They might justdetermine the rest of your life.’
Chester seemed todeflate, the fight draining out of him. It was a silent battle between truthand self-preservation, playing out on the canvas of his distraught features.
But then Chester'sdenial burst forth like a levee breaking, his words tumbling out in rapidsuccession, a desperate bid to cleanse himself of suspicion.
‘I wasn't even here,’he said, the pitch of his voice climbing with each syllable. ‘I have dash-camfootage, logs from my van, even cams inside my cabin. I was working, drivingall day. You’ll see me on the footage.’
Ella took in everyinch of his figure, her gaze scrutinizing the tremble in his hands as theyfumbled with the hem of his well-tailored jacket—a garment that seemed at oddswith his current disheveled state. He was a man clutching at straws, drowningin the reality of his sorrow and seeking any lifeline to prove his innocence.
‘You'll need to proveit,' Ella said.
‘Of course, I can dothat,' Chester stammered, pulling a smartphone from his pocket with fingersthat betrayed a faint quiver. His thumb swiped over the screen, a symphony oftaps and scrolls filling the silence as he retrieved the evidence.
Ella remained silent,her analytical mind sifting through the possibilities. She observed the wayChester's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, how his breaths came inshallow bursts. Yet beneath the surface-level anxiety, she perceived somethingelse—an unmistakable aura of genuine grief. It gnawed at her, this sense thatthe man before them was more heartbroken lover than calculated killer.
‘Here,’ Chesterfinally said, offering the phone across the table with a record of hismovements displayed on the screen.
