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‘Make sense, Faulkner,’ Ripley said. ‘Talk any more shit and I’ll lock you up for life.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Harry. ‘Look, here’s the truth. I didnotkill these women. I amnotthe Director.’ He clutched the photograph. ‘This mask is for the character in my film, but I don’t own this mask. I’ve neverseenthis mask in the flesh, only in pictures.’
Ella wrapped a palm around her face, embracing the darkness within. She quickly ran through the events in a linear fashion, taking Harry’s word at face value.
‘Pictures?’ she asked.
‘Uh huh. In fact, I’ve never posted pictures of the Director’s mask anywhere. It was going to be a surprise for everyone on set, but we never got to that point.’
Ella considered the implications. She came to a quick conclusion. 'So, who else knows what the mask was supposed to look like? Because one of those people has to be our killer.'
‘A few people saw the concept art. But…’
Ripley leaned forward, ‘But?’
‘But, well, concept art and latex are two different things.’
‘Harry,’ Ella said. ‘How many victims are there in your film?’
‘Four,’ Harry said.
One left to go, Ella thought. She checked the time. Seven PM. It was fast running out.
‘And how does it end?’
Harry scoffed. ‘You think I’m going to reveal that? You’re out of your mind.’
Ella wanted to reach over the table, knock the idiocy out of him. There were lives at stake, and he was more concerned with the sanctity of a film no one would watch.
‘Now’s not the time for games. I need to know the ending to your film.’
‘Detectives, I know I’m a suspect, but I’m innocent, and the attention my film will get from this is going to be insane. My character is real – and actually taking lives. Don’t tell me it doesn’t piqueyourinterest.’
Ripley stormed out of her seat, leaned across the table and grabbed Harry by his shirt. She yanked Harry to a standing position. Ella felt the recoil.
'Listen to me,' Ripley said in a low voice, her fiery stare locked on his. 'I could care less about your stupid film. I never watched Halloween, and I certainly won't watch your trash. Now, you better start talking. Whoever has seen your mask is our killer, so who is it?'
She thrust him back into his chair. Harry gripped the arms to keep himself from toppling. Sometimes, it looks like a little physical encouragement to truly break a suspect down.
Harry wiped himself. ‘They say art imitates life. I guess it’s the other way around here.’
Still no dice. Ella’s patience was rapidly wearing thin. Every second Harry decided to revel in the spotlight was another second closer to another potential murder.
Ripley slammed her fist on the table, making Harry jump slightly. ‘Enough with the theatrics! Tell us what we need to know.’
Harry's lips curled into a smug smile. ‘Why should I? You need me. You need my story.’
Ella's mind raced. The weight of every detail, every sentence spoken, every reaction observed seemed to bear down on her all at once. Memories, recollections, and facts started to form a spiral in her head. It was like she was standing in the center of a vast puzzle, each piece a shimmering fragment of evidence. As they danced around her, she began to pluck them out of the air, forming a picture that should have been visible two days ago.
The room seemed to grow quieter, the fluorescent lights humming softly in the background. Ripley’s impatient tapping, Harry’s anxious breathing, they all faded as Ella's thoughts honed in on the singular task of making sense of it all.
And then it clicked.
She wasn’t going to get anything useful out of Harry Faulkner, and if she had to put money on it, she’d bet that he wasn’t her killer. He was too smug, too pretentious, too artificial. He was a dreamer, someone who thought he was owed a career in the arts because he’d consumed other people’s creations.
But their killer was a real creator – in more ways than one.
Ella shot to her feet, making for the door. ‘Mia, enough of this clown. We need to go.’
