Page 34 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

The faucet runs, and beside a rose-colored cellphone and a tube of dark purple lipstick I’ve seen her wear, a few flecks of red dot the stark white sink.

Hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and I rack the chamber of my gun, pulling back the curtain of the bathtub.

Jesus Christ.

Gina’s vacant eyes stare back at me, completely devoid of life. Blood is smeared all over the porcelain of the tub where she lies sprawled out with the mark of suffering still etched in her expression. A long slice along her forearm tells me she slit her wrists, but the blood on the tiles and curtain liner suggests a struggle. I kneel down beside the tub and eye a faint ligature mark at her throat, careful not to touch anything.

I’m not convinced Gina committed suicide.

Under normal circumstances, I’d nab her cellphone and offer some cryptic message for the cops to deal with finding her killer. In this case, there’s too much of a connection to me, to Emily, and possibly to Dylan. I can’t risk it, so I head back down the stairs and dial Lou’s number instead. Sucks that Gina won’t get a proper burial, but that’s the nature of life in the underbelly. People die and no one gives a fuck.

“Lou,” I speak low into the phone. “Reservation for one. Gina’s place.”

“Got it.”

I don’t say anything more before hanging up the phone.

I’d put off calling Emily, not wanting to worry her and throw her back into old ways, but I’m not taking any chances.

I scroll through numbers and click on Emily’s, one I’ve called on so few occasions, I don’t even recognize it at first.

She answers on the third ring, and by the quiet trepidation in her voice, she knows something’s wrong.

“You need to leave.” We have a code that we established a while ago. I don’t tell her where, and she knows not to say the location aloud.

“Okay,” is all she replies before hanging up the phone.

13

Dylan

There’s something about snowfall in April. It almost seems forbidden in the realm of spring, like an ex-lover who won’t let go. Tonight’s snowfall is exceptionally beautiful, though, light enough to feel against my skin, but mild. So mild, I’m surprised it’s cold enough for snowflakes.

With my hand slung out the window, I catch one in my palm, letting it melt away, as I wait for Ripley. He could be inside fucking Gina for all I know, but still I sit here, charmed by simplicity.

I could run. Right now, I could bolt from this car without so much as a glance back, and I set my hand on the handle to do just that, when I catch sight of Ripley tromping down the staircase of Gina’s condo. Dressed completely in black, he embodies his nickname, just like The Ripper, and I brace my heart for the next slice of accusations I’ll have to defend myself against.

He rounds the vehicle and falls into the driver’s seat beside me, quiet at first, until he rubs a hand down his face. “She’s dead.”

“How?”

“Slit her wrists. Or so it was made to look.”

“Someone else did it?” At his silence, I direct my stare to my fidgeting hands. “You still don’t trust me, do you?”

“I trust no one, Dylan. The sooner you accept that the easier this will be for you.”

“The easier what will be?” I glare at him, studying the sharp, unyielding lines of his face as he stares out the windshield. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

“The fuck do you want from me?”

“Your honesty. Do you want me to stay? Or should we part ways here?”

“Honesty? It’s your honesty that’s in question.” The lines from before somehow turn impassive and completely devoid of reaction. “I promised you twenty grand. I like to keep my promises.”

“You’re an asshole, Ripley.” When I open the door, a harsh grip of my arm tugs me back, but I twist out of it and stumble from the car into the thin layer of snow.

I push to my feet and tromp off with a wet ass.