AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Ella took the device,her eyes scanning over the digital log, noting timestamps and GPS location thatcorroborated his story. If the data was accurate, Chester had indeed been milesaway when Penelope Olson met her end.
‘Looks legit to me,’Ripley conceded, 'but I'm no tech expert. One of the guys here will need todouble-check this.'
‘Fine. I promise, Iwas miles away. I have receipts and delivery notes from out of town too.'
Ella handed back thephone, watching as he clutched it close, a lifeline in a sea of chaos. She'dmade a career off reading the subtle tells in people's unconscious language,and yet, as she observed Chester Lawler, every nuance of his demeanor spoke notof guilt, but of loss.
'Okay, so this husbandof Penelope's. Where can we find him?'
'I don't know, but hehas to be responsible for this. He's hated me and Penelope ever since we...'Chester trailed off. The veneer of a man wronged, a lover spurned, crumbledaway, revealing a deeper, more complex web of emotions. His eyes, once defiant,now shimmered with unshed tears.
Ella observed thetransformation, processing each shift in his posture. It was a dance she hadseen many times before, the delicate balance between truth and fabrication, butChester's performance was different. There was an authenticity in his despair, arawness that couldn't be feigned. This was the moment of truth, the point wherelies met reality, where the facade fell away to reveal the person beneath.
And beneath thesurface, Chester Lawler was not the cold, calculated killer they had beenhunting; he was a man lost in the throes of unrequited love, a man who fearednot for his freedom but for his life at the hands of the real perpetrator.
This was his way ofprotecting himself.
He might have beenupset at Penelope's death, but he was more concerned about his own safety.
Ella turned to herpartner, who looked equally unconvinced regarding Chester's guilt.
'Please come upstairswith us, Chester,' Ripley said. 'We'll get a member of our team to confirm youralibi.'
As Chester Lawlerrose, a shadow of his former self, Ella felt a wave of unspoken frustrationwash over her. She remembered the oath she took to seek justice, to find thetruth. But in moments like these, the truth seemed like a mirage, always on thehorizon but never within reach.
And now, with thislead evaporating into the ether, Ella felt the familiar grip of defeat.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
Ella's cursor blinkedmockingly on the empty digital page. The wall clock ticked with relentlessprecision. It was well past when the streetlights outside would have flickeredto life, bathing the sidewalks in orange. Her eyes were gritty from staring atthe same reports, crime scene photos and toxicology reports that had circledher mind like vultures throughout the day.
The confirmation ofChester Lawler's alibi had been a well-aimed punch that had left her reeling.She had hoped, no, needed him to be their man, but the universe, it seemed, hadother plans.
According to theprecinct’s tech expert, Chester was innocent, at least of Penelope's murder,and Paul Olson, the husband Chester had been so sure had a part to play, wasequally untouchable, shielded by the irrefutable fact that he’d been overseasfor the past two weeks.
Across the room, MiaRipley's laughter trickled into Ella's consciousness. Ella glanced over,watching as Ripley leaned back in her chair, phone cradled between shoulder andear, the corners of her eyes creased in genuine contentment. A year ago, such asight would have been inconceivable—Ripley, the veteran special agent whosesmile was as elusive as the criminals she chased, was now a woman reborn.
The chasm between themwidened with each passing moment, the camaraderie they once shared now replacedwith a strange sense of alienation. Ella fought the bitterness creeping intoher chest, a bitter brew of jealousy and something akin to mourning. For solong, she and Ripley had been united in their cynicism, their belief that thejob was all-consuming. To see Ripley step away from that edge, to embrace lifebeyond case files and interrogations, left Ella feeling adrift in unfamiliarwaters.
She watched asRipley's fingers danced over the desk, absentmindedly tracing patterns as shespoke with Martin. It was a simple act, one of subconscious comfort and ease,but to Ella, it was a demonstration of the gulf between them. Ripley had foundsomething—or someone—who could reach her in ways the job never could.
And Ella? She was leftgrappling with a loneliness that seemed to stretch out before her, an endlesscorridor with no doors, no escape from the echo of her own doubts.
The irony of thesituation wasn't lost on Ella. Here she was, chasing shadows and phantoms inthe depths of the night, while Ripley had somehow found a way to step into thelight. The transformation was more than just sobriety; it was as if Ripley haddiscovered a secret path to a contentment that Ella couldn't even begin tocomprehend. And what stung the most was that Ella couldn't bring herself toreach out, to ask how she did it, for fear of exposing her own vulnerability,her own desperate need for something beyond the confines of their grim work.
It should have been amoment of celebration, witnessing Ripley's ascent from the depths of her ownpersonal hell. But instead, Ella felt a deep-seated longing for the bond theyused to share, the nights spent over old files and older whiskey, finding solacein their shared despair and determination.
Ella couldn't help butfeel as if she were being left behind. She loved Ripley, respected her morethan anyone else in this godforsaken place. Ripley had been her mentor, herconfidant, the closest thing to family she had known in her adult life. But now,as she watched Ripley laugh again, a sound so rare and precious, Ella couldn'tshake the feeling of loss, as if Ripley's newfound happiness was a personalaffront, a reminder of everything Ella was missing.
The realizationbrought a fresh wave of guilt. How could she begrudge Ripley this slice ofpeace, this chance at a normal life? It was selfish, a petty emotion that hadno place in their relationship, and yet Ella couldn't help but feel adrift, cutloose from the one anchor she had relied on in the tumultuous seas of theirprofession.
Ella's hand hoveredover the sleek surface of her phone, the screen a black mirror reflectingnothing but her own troubled gaze. She had hoped for some sign from Ben, asingle message that might shatter the silence stretching between them. But thedigital void offered no solace, no whispered reassurance—only the coldindifference of technology.
She contemplatedreaching out, initiating a connection that she knew would only magnify thechasm of his non-response. Her thumb caressed the edge of the device, tracingthe familiar contour as if it were a talisman capable of summoning him to herside. Yet, deep down, Ella harbored the certainty of disappointment; sheenvisioned the unanswered texts, the calls diverted to voicemail, the grimreality of morning's light revealing an unchanged, empty screen.
The office around herwas quiet, save for the muted clicks of Ripley's keyboard and the occasionalrustle of paper. Each sound seemed to echo with a resonance that magnifiedElla's isolation—a symphony for one, conducted by the remnants of a day'sunyielding investigations. The walls of their office, adorned with case notesand crime scene photos, felt like barriers rather than the tools of justicethey were meant to be. They enclosed her, a labyrinth constructed of dead endsand false leads.
With a sigh thatcarried the burden of her frustrations, Ella stood, pushing the chair back withmore force than necessary. It scraped along the floor.
