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‘Jesus,’ Ripleymuttered, leaning against the table and raking a hand through her hair. ‘So allwe've got is a record of him being born and... nothing else?’
‘Nothing,’ Ellaconfirmed. ’And that tells us something about how he might have lived. If hismother didn't bother to register his birth properly, chances are she was hisentire world. No school records, no doctor visits. She could have kept himhidden away from everything and everyone. A shut-in.’
‘Which explains thelack of a criminal record. If he never stepped foot outside...’ Ripley trailedoff, her eyes narrowing as pieces of the puzzle began to visibly fall intoplace.
'Exactly,' Ella said.'No friends, no job, no life outside of what Cassandra provided. And there's nomention of a father anywhere on any document. It was just the two of them untilthere wasn't.'
‘Until he killed her,’Ripley said.
‘Until he killed her,’Ella echoed. She stepped back and surveyed the whiteboard. The names, dates,and connections sprawled across its surface like the threads of a sinisterspiderweb. Her mind was as frenetic as her hand had been moments before, but inthe disarray, a pattern was emerging—a lineage of tragedy leading back to onepoint.
‘But why?’ Ripleyasked. ‘Why kill his own mother? Especially one who cared for him?'
'Same reason anyonecommits matricide.' Ella thought of Edmund Kemper, the serial killer whodecapitated his own mother, buried her head in his back garden and flushed hervocal cords down the waste disposal. 'Because their overbearing mothers aren'tthe saviors they think they are.'
‘Okay, so how do wefind him?’ Ripley pushed.
Ella turned toward herdesk, rifling through a manila folder until she found what she was looking for.‘I'm not sure,’ she admitted, pulling out a printout of an old police report.‘But I have a starting point.’ She handed the paper to Ripley. ‘Their oldhouse.’
Ripley scanned thedocument. It was a faded police database entry listing a previous address forCassandra Sawyer. The ink was barely legible, the paper worn at the edges, asif the secrets it held were trying to escape into oblivion.
‘Sturgeon Bay keepsits ghosts close,’ Ella continued. ‘If we want to understand our killer, wemight find some answers there. It's a long shot, but it's all we have.’
‘Then that's wherewe'll start.’ Ripley jumped to attention. She glanced at the clock. 'It's sixAM.'
'Perfect. If anyonelives there, they'll be home,' Ella grinned.
'Let's do it,' Ripleysaid.
Somewhere out there, anameless son continued his search for a perfect mother, leaving only death inhis wake.
Ella wasn't sleepinguntil she'd met him in the flesh.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
He loomed at thethreshold of the opulent home on Broadway Avenue, where wealth whispered fromeach meticulously landscaped corner. The house stood there, arrogantlygrandiose—boasting of the kind of life he could have shared with his mother, anecho of a dream that decayed into nothingness.
Jealousy gnawed at himas he surveyed the imposing façade with its looming columns and expansivewindows that promised warmth and laughter from within. His hands trembled, notjust from the autumnal chill but from the volcanic urges surging beneath his skin,desperately clawing for an outlet. Sleep had been an elusive companion thenight before, leaving his thoughts frayed and agitated.
For an hour now, he'dbeen lingering nearby, his gaze tracing the movements inside, watching shadowsflit across curtains. With a deep breath that did little to calm his nerves, hereached out and pressed the doorbell. After a minute that stretched taut withanticipation, the door swung open.
There she stood.
He was struck by therecognition, as if an arrow had pierced his heart.
She was the mirrorimage of his late mother—right down to the delicate silver necklace that restedagainst her collarbone and the scent of her perfume that wafted toward him in aghostly caress. Only her eyes, a different hue from his mother's, served as areminder that this was another person entirely.
'Hi, Simon, is it?'she asked.
He nodded. 'Yes. I'mSimon.' He'd all but forgotten what name he was using today.
She gestured for himto follow, leading him through a lavish hallway adorned with art and plushcarpets that muffled their footsteps. They arrived at her office, a sanctuaryof calm with book-lined walls and a large desk that held only a few carefullychosen items. He took the seat she indicated, sinking into a soft leather couchthat seemed to envelop him.
Rather than taking herplace behind the desk as he expected, she settled beside him, close enough thathe could feel the warmth radiating from her. This proximity, a stark deviationfrom the professional distance maintained by others, unnerved him. Still, heremained seated, muscles taut, mind whirling with dark possibilities as hefought to keep the beast within him at bay. Her calm demeanor acted as a balm,yet the tempest inside him refused to subside.
She folded her handsin her lap, an elegant motion that drew his gaze to the silver band on herfinger—a ring much like the one his mother used to twist around her finger whenshe was deep in thought.
‘Thank you for coming,Simon. I'm Gail,’ she said softly. ‘You seemed quite urgent on the phone. Tellme, what brings you here with such immediacy?’
