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Words he’d already heard tonight. The same words the woman had played for him.
It was too late because the blade was already in his stomach.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ella was abruptly jolted from her slumber by the shrill ring of her alarm clock at seven-thirty. Between the few minutes that seemed to pass between two a.m. and now, Ella had been wandering a desolate wasteland in some abstract dreamworld. She’d been transported to some war zone filled with crumbling buildings and dead bodies, and only when she found a headless statue of Abraham Lincoln did she realize it was the remains of Washington, D.C. Her brief time in this hellhole had taken her to all of her once favorite locations, including her own home where she found the bodies of her loved ones piled up on her apartment floor. To her surprise, she was thankful to be back in the real world.
She hurried out of bed and got ready in record time, because if she knew Ripley, ten minutes early was right on time. In the bathroom mirror, Ella tied back her hair and face-creamed the hell out of her wrinkles because she seemed to be fighting an uphill battle with these things. Even with this overpriced cream and serum that promised anti-aging in a matter of weeks, the creases were fast winning the war. It smelled like lavender, and that was always nice, but one year into this FBI game had rendered her youthful complexion a thing of the past. The grays were sprouting like mushrooms after a summer rain and the bags below her eyes gave them depth she didn’t want. Was this what age looked like, or was it a product of stress?
Once she was ready to face the day, Ella sat on her bed and checked her phone. Her only notification was an alarm clock saying she was twenty-four minutes past wake up time, and the lack of any others was a good thing. No urgent texts from Ripley, no missed calls from the precinct, no emails from the boss. It meant nothing had happened since last night, and right now that was the best thing she could hope for.
Despite the lack of rest, Ella had a new optimism in her. Maybe it was the heavy sun peeping through the curtains or her acceptance of her dead relationship, but she felt that today would bring some kind of good news. Sleep had a way of organizing the chaos running through your brain,likean invisiblelibrarian carefully slotting each book back into its rightful place ontheshelf. With everything neatly arranging in your subconscious, you could see connections you couldn’t before. Ella was already beginning to see things in a new light and concoct new ideas, like how they might able to track down David Harper’s creditors, or how they could target Joanne Gustafson’s rehabilitation groups. She was also considering rummaging through the trash at Securicall Storage to try and locate some of David’s destroyed paintings. She hadn’t forgotten about those yet, either. The same went for the strange man who’d lashed out when he’d heard the voice sample. She had plenty of questions backed up for that guy.
Ella checked the time. One minute past eight. It marked the first time in history that Ripley had ever been late to anything, but then as if summoned by Ella’s surprise, there was a knock at the door. Ella peeped through and saw her partner waiting for her.
“One minute late. That’s rare for you,” Ella said as she swung open the door with a flourish.
“Retirement mindset,” Ripley said. “I’m going to get one minute later every morning until one day I just never show up.”
“Lucky you. Are we ready to go?”
“No. Can I use your bathroom? Sudden urge. It’s an age thing.”
“Sure.” Ella widened the door and let Ripley through. Mia rushed past.
“It’ll happen to you when you hit fifty,” she said.
Ella shut the door and began rummaging through her bag. It was minimal on necessities, but one necessity that was missing was her laptop charger. Ella found it on her nightstand, threw it in. Before she’d gone to sleep, she’d made some notes about her potential novel in the works, and that little thought prompted a topic of conversation she’d planned on bringing up at an opportune time. Now seemed better than any other.
“Ripley,” she called, “I’ve got a question.”
“The answer is no,” her partner shouted from the bathroom, “this stuff won’t make you look any younger.”
“What, moisturizer?”
“Yup.” Ripley emerged from the bathroom to the sound of gushing water. “Tried it all. Cream, oil, gasoline. You can’t fight nature.”
“You’re not so bad for what, fifty-six? Maybe it worked and you didn’t know it.”
Ripley pointed to her forehead and said, “I once got my face burned in a bomber case in Ohio, must have been around fifty years ago. To fix it, the docs used Botox. When I recovered I looked about ten years younger. I’m putting it down to that little miracle.”
Ella nodded. “Never had you down for plastic surgery.”
“Once and once only,” Ripley said, “or you end up looking like Joan Rivers. We ready to go?”
“Yeah, but I just wanted to know why you think I’m the angel of death. Do I give that impression?”
“Huh?”
“Last night. You mentioned it.”
“Oh, jeez. It was a joke, Dark. You heard of jokes?”
“Fair enough,” Ella said. “Ready when you are.”
They headed out of the door into the hallway, and checked up and down for any sign of the stranger from the previous night.
“You’re looking for that guy, aren’t you?” Ripley asked.
