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But this door, unlikethe others, was firmly shut. Ella's hand hesitated on the knob before turningit; the door swung open silently, a silent invitation into another world. Shestepped inside, and her breath caught in her throat.
Immaculate.
Untouched.
Unlike every otherroom in the house.
It was as if the chaosthat reigned outside this sanctuary dared not encroach within. The air wasfresher here, free from the oppressive decay that saturated the rest of thedwelling. Sunlight filtered through clean, unbroken curtains. The bed was made,its linens crisp and white. Beside it, a nightstand bore a solitary vase offake, colorful flowers.
A dresser stoodagainst the wall, its surface free from the clutter that dominated every othercorner of the house, adorned only with a neatly arranged set of brushes and aframed photograph of a smiling woman, the glass dusty but unsmudged.
Her eyes traced thecontours of the space, taking in the personal touches that breathed life intothe room. A small bookshelf held rows of well-thumbed novels. A cozy armchairby the window suggested hours spent lost in those pages, a peaceful retreat fromthe world.
Ella felt anunexpected pang, a connection to the unknown woman who had created this havenamidst chaos.
Ripley's footstepssounded behind her. She rushed into the room and stopped at the threshold.
'He kept it pristine,'Ella said.
Ripley looked around.'He couldn't bring himself to destroy his mother's things.'
'He needed to keep apart of her alive.' Ella moved closer to the dresser, her focus narrowing onthe photograph of Cassandra Sawyer. 'He destroys everything that angers him,everything that represents his failures and frustrations. But this... this representshis ideal.'
'He's a mommy's boy,Dark. Nothing more.'
Ella's introspectionwas cut short by the need to continue their search for this nameless child. Sheleft the untouched sanctum, the image of Cassandra Sawyer's joyful faceimprinted in her mind. With Ripley beside her, she moved to the next door inline, this one slightly ajar, hanging off its hinges as if in defeat. The roombeyond was revealed in increments as she pushed the door open, the scene insideunfolding like a tragic play.
The space was amaelstrom of destruction, far removed from the preserved serenity of themother's bedroom. Here was the lair of a young soul turned tempest. Splinteredfurniture, broken toys that seemed too infantile for a person of age to keep.Textbooks lay torn and scattered, pages ripped out and strewn about as if in afit of rage or despair. Candy wrappers and empty bottles formed a carpet ofneglect, suggesting countless hours spent in solitude and frustration.
Ella steppedcautiously into the room, her boots crunching on the debris. Every surface wascovered in the detritus of a childhood locked away, a youth stunted by unseenforces. Her eyes caught on notebooks lying amidst the ruin, their covers bentand pages curled. She picked one up, flipping through the scrawled entries, thehandwriting oscillating between childlike scribbles and anguished, jagged lines
‘Trapped,’ Ellamurmured. She envisioned a child's soul confined within these walls, longingfor the world outside, yearning for the warmth of maternal love never granted.
'A kid that never grewup,' Ripley said.
‘Look around,’ Ellagestured to the ruins surrounding them. ‘This is where it all began. Thebirthplace of our monster.’ Her eyes met Ripley's, conveying a truth that wordscould never fully express—their quarry was a fractured soul, seeking to reclaimwhat was lost. She picked her way through the chaos, her hands deftly shiftingthrough piles of broken frames, their glass faces splintered like spiderwebs.
She could feel thedesperation that clung to the scraps of the past. Ella flipped over thephotograph, the edges jagged where it had been torn from its frame. A woman'sface smiled back at her, frozen in time, blissfully ignorant of her fate.
‘This is the axis ofhis world,’ Ella said, passing the photo to Ripley. ‘Everything revolves aroundher.’
‘Where's he in all ofthese pictures?’ Ripley's question sliced through the quiet, her eyes scanningthe room, devoid of any self-portraits.
‘Can't stand his ownreflection,’ Ella answered. ‘He's trying to erase himself, piece by piece.’
‘One thing's for sure.He doesn't live here anymore and hasn't in a long time.'
‘He's trying to moveon,’ Ella affirmed, standing amidst the debris, her mind piecing together thefragments of a shattered childhood. ‘Looking for someone new to fill the voidafter he killed her.’
Ripley's phoneshattered the stillness. She glanced at the caller ID before answering. Ellawatched Ripley’s features harden, the lines around her mouth deepening.
‘Caldwell,’ Ripleysaid tersely, her voice barely more than a whisper. Ella's pulse quickened,anticipation coiling tight within her. Chief Caldwell wouldn't call withoutcause. Ella watched, noting the tightening of Ripley's features, the subtlestiffening of her posture. She didn't need to hear the conversation to know;the change in Ripley's demeanor said it all.
Ripley ended the call,her face grave, eyes meeting Ella's with a look of dread. ‘That was the chief,'she said. 'A therapist has gone missing. A woman named Gail Banks.'
'What?' Ella shouted,her frustration boiling over. She slammed her palm against the wall, the impactswirling up a cloud of dust. The gesture was futile, but the anger, the sheerhelplessness demanded some form of release.
'She triggered asilent alarm,' Ripley said. 'Cops got there, but she's not home.'
