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She just had to wait eleven more minutes and, if she knew this unsub as well as she thought she did, he’d have no choice but to reveal himself.
The countdown was on.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Two minutes to midnight. 23:58.
Ella sat motionless, her eyes locked on the clock, the ticking seconds echoing through the silent house like a steady heartbeat. Her senses were heightened, attuned to every creak of the house, every rustle of the wind outside. The front door, sturdy and unassuming, had become the focal point of her vigil. Yet, she knew better than to fixate on a single point of entry. The killer was cunning, unpredictable; he could emerge from the shadows at any angle, any moment.
Imagined scenarios played out in rapid succession. Would he try the back door, slipping in silently like a wraith? Or would he appear at a window, a ghostly figure seeking retribution? The possibility of him drawing her outside, as he had done with James Gorton, lingered in her thoughts. But she was prepared, ready to counter his every move.
The house felt like a fortress and a trap all at once, its walls enclosing themselves around her. Ella remained still, her posture relaxed, yet inside, she was supercharged with adrenaline, ready to unleash at the first sign of danger. Her weapon lay within easy reach, but Ella designated it as a last resort in case her life was on the line. Better to be alive and unemployed than a hero six feet under.
The clock’s hands inched closer to midnight, each minute stretching longer than the last.
One minute to go.
Suddenly, there was a faint noise so slight it could have been a figment of her imagination. Ella's head snapped towards the sound, her body tensing. Her eyes scanned the darkness beyond the frosted glass in the door, searching for any sign of movement, any hint of the killer's approach. She instinctively reached for her pistol then thought better of it. Judging by the previous victims, this killer preferred to do things with his bare hands – the personal touch. At least so far, she hadn't met a serial killer she couldn't take down in a fair fight.
Ella watched the clock on the wall tick down, taking deep breaths, staying in the present. She couldn’t afford to be distracted for a second, because this killer had proven that he had the cunning and strength to take down people without the need for weapons.
At last, midnight struck.
Ella remained motionless, her ears straining for the slightest indication of another presence outside the house. In the stillness, Ella’s thoughts threatened to overwhelm her, but she prioritized situational awareness over anxiety, a technique she’d developed from early morning plunges into ice water. She discarded the invading thoughts – the details, the evidence, the faces of the dead.
Ella's eyes flitted from shadow to shadow, her vision piercing the darkness. Every corner could conceal a threat, every sound a potential signal of the killer's approach. She’d infiltrated a domestic battleground, and yet, nothing stirred.
Ella shifted her position slightly, her muscles taut. The killer was out there, she was sure of it. He was watching, waiting for the right moment to strike. But Ella was not going to let him dictate the terms of this encounter. She was the hunter now, and she would end this night on her terms.
The silence stretched on, Ella’s concerns mounting with each passing second.
Two minutes past midnight now.
Where was he?
His absence was as unnerving as his presence would have been. Could he have seen through her ruse? Ella had kept the lights dimmed, her silhouette obscured out of fear that he’d realize she wasn’t his final target. But if he’d already spied her through the window, why did he still push the envelope underneath the door? The killer had shown an uncanny ability to adapt, to change his methods to suit his needs. He wasn't just a mindless brute; he was a strategist, a manipulator. Ella knew she couldn't underestimate him.
She considered her options. To step outside and search for him was to play into his hands, to become the hunted. Yet, staying inside, waiting, felt like yielding control. If she stepped outside, there was a chance he’d jump her right there and then, perhaps lock a vacuum bag around her head, or stab or shoot her.
Four minutes past midnight.
Ella moved cautiously to the window, her movements deliberate, silent. Peering through the corner of the glass, she scanned the darkness outside. The street was a vista of shadows and faint moonlight, a landscape where danger could lurk in every patch of darkness. But there was no movement, no sign of the killer.
A mounting wave of frustration. Had she miscalculated? Had her presence scared him off, or was he simply biding his time, waiting for her to make a mistake? The uncertainty was gnawing at her, but she pushed it aside. She couldn't afford doubt now, not when lives were at stake.
She weaved through the possibilities in her head. The time to solve the riddle had elapsed, but she’d solved it. She knew where the killer wanted her to head, but would he still be watching her even if she’d run out of time?
A new plan began to crystallize, born of necessity and a deep understanding of the killer's psyche. He wanted to confront his past, to return to where his torment began. The junkyard – the one that Lauren Phillips had said was next to Lincoln High, the scene of his near-death, where his transformation from victim to predator began.
Did his compulsion state that his story needed to end there regardless of whether Ella – or Trinity – solved the puzzle or not? Seeing the universe through the unsub's eyes, he'd already killed four of the six people present at his trauma scene. If he didn't kill the mastermind, would he feel unfulfilled? Perhaps he'd keep trying until someone finally confronted him at the place where it all began.
Ella paused, considering the implications of her next move. She was about to step into the lion's den to face the killer on his chosen ground. It was a calculated risk, but one she was willing to take. This was no longer just about catching a killer; it was about understanding him, unraveling the threads of a life twisted by cruelty and abandonment.
Seven minutes past midnight.
She grabbed her phone, her fingers working swiftly over the screen. She sent a concise text to Ripley, updating her on the change of plans. She checked her weapon, ensuring it was loaded and ready, reminding herself it was a form of insurance and nothing more. In case of oncoming death, break glass.
At the front door of Trinity’s home, she peered beyond the frosted window one last time.
