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Ella didn’t like it.
Ripley said, ‘Nice little reference to your film there, Harry.’
‘Well, sometimes you have to… you know…’
‘Have to what?’
‘Plant the seeds.’
Ella needed to dig deeper. There were plenty of details about each crime scene that only the killer would know, and if Ella could make Harry slip up, it would be as good as a confession. She just needed to get there.
‘Tell us about your film, Harry,’ she said.
'In Hell? It was gonna be a masterpiece. Pure social commentary on the state of the film industry.'
‘How so?’
Harry suddenly became a lot more animated, color in his cheeks, conviction in his tone. ‘Tropes turned on their heads. Discomfort at every turn. It was going to question everything the audience thought they knew about morality, artistry, right and wrong.’
Ella didn’t buy it. ‘Harry, come on. It was about a masked guy hacking up women. Not exactly the Sixth Sense, is it?’
‘Wasabout?’ Harry snarled. ‘Don’t talk about my film in the past tense. Itwillbe finished. I filmed some scenes for it, just the simple ones. The set for the finale is still standing. I just need… interested parties.'
‘A set?’
‘Yeah. Nice place I rented out in Hollsworth. I spent a fortune on it.’ Harry gazed longingly at the two-way mirror. ‘It was for the final scene. Was going to be… something else.’
Ripley jumped in, never one for grandstanding. 'Faulkner, I'm going to get serious here. We've got three dead women, and a lot of signs say that you have something to do with it. Any comments?'
Harry leaned back, staring at the ceiling as if searching for the right words. ‘Comments? You want comments? Detective, in this world, there's perception and there's reality. You see me as a killer, but I see myself as a creator. In my hands, these women became something greater than themselves, something eternal.’
Ella's temples began to throb, Harry's word vomit constricting her skull. She was hearing words but none of them registered.
‘Harry, you obviously know how to sit on a fence, but we’re not here for that. Give us a yes or no. Did you kill these women?’ Ella sweetened the deal with a flurry of crime scene photos. She flung them across the table one by one. ‘Look, here’s Kathleen Carter. Gorgeous young girl. Eviscerated, intestines pulled out like silly string. Looked a bit like Kirsty from Hellraiser. Not so pretty anymore is she?’
Harry took one look at the photo then cast it aside. ‘No.’
'How about Jessica Owen? Impaled through the chest with a shotgun, straight out of the Michael Myers playbook, apparently. Maybe her killer couldn't get it up, so this was his way of penetrating her. Real strong girl, Jessica. An athlete. Could have kicked her killer's ass in a fair fight.' Ella threw another glossy picture at Harry. His eyes lowered, then rose within a second.
And now a third. 'Ginny Mathers. See this photo? The poor girl was babysitting when she was killed. You know what'll happen when the prison gangs get word you put kids at risk?'
Harry's lips were shut tight. Ella watched his movements, scrutinized every inch of his punchable face. He stayed silent.
Ripley jumped in, ‘A famous serial killer in prison,andone who put minors in danger? Sheesh.’
Harry’s expression began to harden. Something was changing in him.
‘To borrow from a famous horror movie, your suffering would be legendary, even in hell,’ Ella said. ‘So tell me, Harry Faulkner…’ she found a picture of the third mask, the nameless mask, and thrust it in his face. ‘Is this you? Are you the Director?’
Harry's once defiant eyes widened as they locked onto the photograph. For a moment, all his bravado and posturing vanished, replaced by genuine shock. With a trembling hand, he took the photograph and laid it neatly on the table.
‘He’s…’ Harry began. ‘He’s alive.’
Ella didn't take her eyes off Harry, watching the internal battle play out on his face. She’d finally dug beyond the surface. ‘Who’s alive?’
‘The Director. This is him, but… he shouldn’t exist.’
Ella and Mia exchanged a look of confusion. More word-vomit? More grandiosity?
