The air in Tom Barker's office was stale, like dirty laundry had festered here and nobody had opened a window in weeks.However, there was no sign of any filth in here.In fact, the place was hospital-levels of clean.
Ella stepped inside and closed the door behind her.It didn't match what Miranda had described.A man with secrets, a drinking problem, insomnia.This room looked like it belonged to someone who had their life together.A desk with a computer and a bookshelf with every spine flush with the next.Books on business, a few on art, and some on personal development.
She suffered a pang of solemnity as she began her search.There was an intimacy in rifling through a deceased person's belongings, so she told herself she’d be as respectful as possible and leave the place as she found it.She began her search for this mysterious scrapbook at the desk, but she found nothing but the usual office supplies.In the bottom drawer lay a few personal items: a wristwatch, a couple of old photographs, and a small, intricately carved wooden box.
She opened the box.Keys inside.Five of them, all different sizes.No labels.She had no idea what they opened.She closed the box and put it back.Another question for another time.
The bookshelf was next.Ella scanned the titles, pulled a few out at random, checked behind them.Nothing.Between two books on project management, she found a framed photo: Tom with Miranda and a girl who must've been their daughter.Another photo showed Tom at some corporate event, shaking hands with a man in a suit.He looked younger in that one, and certainly happier.She scanned every visible book spine but found nothing resembling a sketchbook, no amateur creations.
She moved to the computer.Checked behind the monitor, underneath the keyboard, on top of the tower.Clean.She thought about turning it on, but that would require a warrant.She'd have to come back for it.
Another drawer.This one had envelopes.Unopened.All from the same bank.Ella flipped through them and found mostly overdue notices.Tom had been behind on something.She put them back and closed the drawer.
The office was revealing itself in pieces.Tom Barker wasn't just a guy with a drinking problem.He'd been drowning financially, hiding things from his wife, spending his nights doing something in this room that he couldn't talk about.
Ella stood in the center of the room and tried to think like Tom.If she were hiding something personal, something she didn't want anyone to find, where would she put it?It would need to be somewhere accessible, yet not immediately noticeable.She reflected on his character - a man who cherished order and precision, yet maintained a chaotic inner life.Such a man might hide his deepest secrets amongst the mundane and everyday.He would hide it amongst similar items and use anomalies as misdirection.She remembered how, as a kid, she'd keep her fake diary in the top drawer of her dresser, but she'd keep her real diary in a secret compartment in that same drawer.If her mom or dad ever found her diary, they'd read through her purposely-boring ramblings and their curiosity would be satisfied.Yet in the diary below sat her real thoughts, the ones she kept hidden from everyone.
Instinct brought her back to Tom’s wall-to-ceiling bookshelf.The framed photographs and business books were typical, almost expected in an office like this.But what if they were part of the misdirection, just like her childhood fake diary?Ella scrutinized the bookshelf again, this time with a keener eye, searching for any subtle signs of concealment.
Ella's eyes were drawn to the top shelf.It was packed with books, but unlike the rest of the shelves, it was two rows deep, thus creating a space between the front and back rows.On tiptoes, Ella carefully began to remove the books from the front row.As she worked her way through the row, her fingers brushed against something that felt out of place amidst the hardcovers.
Leather.Worn smooth.
She pushed the remaining books aside and pulled it out.
A sketchbook.
Her blood rushed hot.
Black cover, spiral binding, pages dog-eared and stained.
Ella climbed down and set it on the desk.
Opened it.
One by one, page by page, Ella took in every drawing.
At first, Ella thought her mind was playing tricks on her, projecting her inner thoughts onto the page.But her body and mind responded in a way that confirmed that none of this was imagined – everything in front of her was very real.
This was no projection.
A surge of dread crept in as she lingered on the final page.It was a crude scene that seemed to leap from the deepest recesses of a psyche in disarray.
The images were not just illustrations.
They were manifestations of a crippling phobia.
Ella’s fingers began to tremble as she realized that she’d misinterpreted everything so far.She thought about Julia Dawson.The rats.The cabin.Cardiac arrest from extreme stress.She thought about Tom Barker.The coffin.The unsealed lid.The restraints that made escape impossible.
They hadn’t been killed using ancient torture techniques.
She wasn’t chasing a medieval obsessive.
She was hunting a predator who preyed on the fears of his victims.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ella burst through the office door like she'd been shot out of a cannon.Ripley, hunched over her laptop at the desk, nearly fell out of her chair.
