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“My side of the story? Are you kidding?”
“I gave you mine.”
“I trusted you. You stomped that trust to bits. If the shoe was on the other foot, I’d have communicated with you. Not bottled everything up and exploded on you.”
A whirlwind reaction swept through her head, storming down to her stomach. Not rage but frustration. Even if Ben did have a murderous secret, she just wanted to hear it out of his mouth. Unanswered questions were worse than horrid revelations.
“This isn’t fair, Ben.”
The haggard young man sunk into the wall, a portrait of despair. “Fair? Please don’t talk to me about fair. I did everything for you. I walked through war zones with you, and now you accuse me of not being fair?”
His words hooked right into her veins, like an injection of harsh reality. He made a good point.
“You’re right,” Ella said. She queued up the next words in her head because she knew it wouldn’t be long before she was staring at a door again, but before she could get them out, her phone began to ring in her pocket.
Ben said, “You should get that.”
Ella let the call ring out. Then it buzzed with either a text or a voicemail. “I don’t care. I came to make things right with you. Could we…”
“I’m really sorry Ella, but I can’t go down that road again. I can’t face it.” Ben let the comment breathe then said, “Answer your phone. Other people need you more than I do.”
And Ben disappeared, replaced with a door. It locked from the other side and Ella heard Ben retreat into his apartment.
She had her answer. One of the few lights in her life had been extinguished. She backed away from the door, as much as she wanted to keep trying to do whatever it took to have a meaningful conversation with this man. But he’d made his decision and any further interaction on her part would be tantamount to harassment.
Another buzz. Ella checked her phone and found one missed call from HQ and one text message from Ripley. A week ago, they’d parted on pretty bad terms, but Ella hoped the break might have mended things.
The message just said:Director’s office now.
CHAPTER THREE
How many times had Mia Ripley sat in this office, staring at an overworked man in a suit asking her to put her life on the line one more time? More times than she could count. More directors than she could count. Names and faces had come and gone in droves, most of whom had fallen prey to the stress of the job, some of whom had been unable to resist the temptation of a noose. Ripley, an FBI employee of thirty years, could scarcely believe she’d come out on the other side, although she too had her fair share of wounds.
But still, retirement was less than four months away. Once an FBI legend, soon to be a woman of leisure. She had to give six months’ notice before she could officially hang up her Glock .22, and during this intermittent period, the director had given her two options. Either ride her remaining weeks out behind a desk or spend her final days passing her knowledge onto the next generation. The latter came with a lot more risk, but as a career field agent, the idea of sitting at a computer made her itch. She’d rather face serial murderers in the flesh than subject herself to torturous office work.
A furious knock at the door interrupted the unusual tranquility of the director’s office. Behind the frosted glass, Ripley made out the familiar outline of her partner and friend. A great agent, and if she wasn’t so headstrong, she could even be a good one. Ella Dark walked in and slammed the door with unnecessary force, shattering the peace and quiet that Ripley and the director had been relishing. You could always rely on Ella to ruin a perfectly good silence.
“Miss Dark, thank you for coming,” said director William Edis. Ella sat on the opposite side of the room, not making eye contact with either soul as she spoke her greetings.
“How are you, Dark?” Ripley asked.
“Fine. You?” said Ella.
“Better.” Ripley had been partnered with Ella for just over a year now, and together they’d closed eleven active cases, some within a couple of days of hard investigative work. They’d lived and nearly died by each other’s sides and even brought down the number one on the FBI’s Most Wanted list six weeks ago. It was a fantastic record for such a young rookie, and in around five years she’d be on her way to legendary status.
But Ripley had her doubts. If she carried on the way she had, the rookie wouldn’t make it that far. This job had a way of blackening your heart and twisting your worldview. Every time you journeyed into the abyss, you unknowingly chipped away at your core. Every day was an axe blow to your very being, and eventually it would split your soul in two if you didn’t find light amid the darkness.
But conveying that fact to absolutely anyone was an impossible task. Everyone thought they had the mettle. They all believed they were mentally strong enough to see the world’s most disturbing sights and remain unaffected. The hero fantasy was all well and good until a masked psychopath locked you in a basement, until you found piles of children’s shoes in a killer’s hideout, until you saw the white eyeballs of a drowned girl in the Mississippi River. In this game, the test came before the lesson, and most people failed it. The rookie had always struggled to master the work-life balance, and in this job, you needed a good amount of life to offset the death. If you didn’t, you ended up finding more detrimental ways to cope. Booze, pills, self-destruction. Ripley herself had taken to the bottle and vented her frustrations out on her ex-husbands, resulting in a lot of pointless fights and failed marriages. Ripley could see that same resentment festering in the rookie now.
“We’ve got something strange going on in West Virginia,” Edis said. He passed brown folders to each agent. “Two victims in three days, found within three miles of each other.”
Ripley scanned the details, starting with the most recent victim and working back. One crime scene photo showed a middle-aged man on his knees in some kind of building. Another showed a pool of blood coagulating around his knees.
Edis continued, “The most recent victim was a gentleman, discovered last night in a storage unit where he was apparently living.”
“On his knees. Odd position to be left dead in,” said Ripley.
“Indeed.”
