Page 61 of Girl, Bound

Ripley shook her head,disgust written all over her face. She turned to Holbrook, voice sharp as arazor. ‘Sheriff, you're making a mistake. This bag isn't from our crime scenes.It's too old, too beat up. You're chasing the wrong lead.’

But Holbrook justwaved her off. ‘Save it, Ripley. We've had our eye on Shawcross for years.Always knew he'd crack one day, start carving up the locals for kicks. Guesstoday's the day.’ He straightened up, brushing imaginary lint from his shirt.‘Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a press conference to attend to. Gotta letthe good people of Millhaven know that their sheriff's department is on thejob, keeping them safe from the big, bad FBI.’

Ella was a volcanoready to blow. She wanted to punch Holbrook in his smug, self-satisfied face,watch him crumple like a cheap suit. But she knew it wouldn't do any good,wouldn't change the fact that an innocent man was about to go down for crimeshe didn't commit.

She turned back to theman in the cage. He was curled up on the cot now, his knees drawn up to hischin like a frightened child. She could see the tremors wracking his body, thetears streaming down his face.

‘Eddie,’ she saidsoftly, crouching down to his level. ‘Talk to me.’

Shawcross sat upright,his eyes glassy and unfocused. ‘They won't believe me. I’m just a crazy oldvet.’

Ella reached throughthe bars, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. ‘Tell me the truth. Thosebody bags. What are they?’

She watched himclosely, committing every movement to memory. Every twitch, every tremble. IfShawcross was lying, she’d know.

‘My friends. They weresent home in them.’

‘You swear?’

Shawcross put his handon his heart, then saluted.

Ella’s gaze dropped tothe floor, then back to Ripley.

She had to dosomething. She wouldn't let Holbrook railroad an innocent man just to strokehis own ego. This was more than the FBI versus a local police department. Thiswas real life, real injustice.

A rush of purposepushed out the fatigue and frustration. Ella had a job to do, a mission tocomplete. And she wouldn't rest until justice was served, until the realmonster was brought to heel.

She needed to fixthis.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Ella waged war withher whiteboard, slashing at it like a butcher carving a carcass.

She'd been at this foran hour, spilling out every thought, her eyes burning and her brain buzzingwith a million half-formed thoughts and theories. Nightfall was already here.If she didn’t figure something out soon, she’d be shipped back to D.C. while thelocal cops took over.

She couldn’t let ithappen.

Eric Saunders, KaraMurphy, Christian Maddox. Names that would appear in next week’s obituaries.Three bodies, each one wrapped up like a gruesome gift in a pristine, sterilebody bag.

It didn't make sense,no matter how many times she ran it through the blender of her mind. A pharmaexec, a working girl, and a two-bit magician. They couldn't have been moredifferent if they'd tried. Their paths had only in the deranged mind of a serialkiller.

And what a twistedkiller he was. Sneaking up on his victims like a ghost, putting them down witha dose of animal tranquilizer before trussing them up in those damn bags.Leaving them there to suffocate, to die alone and afraid in the dark.

It was the kind ofcruelty that made Ella's blood boil, the kind of evil that made her want to puther fist through a wall. But she couldn't let the rage consume her, couldn'tlet it cloud her judgment. She had to stay sharp, stay focused. Because if shedidn't, if she let the bastard slip through her fingers, she’d be letting aninnocent man take the fall.

‘Dammit, Dark, you'regonna wear a hole in the floor.’

Ripley's voice cutthrough the haze of Ella's thoughts, yanking her back to reality. She glancedup, blinking owlishly at her partner.

‘We're missingsomething,’ she said, voice rough with frustration. ‘There's gotta be aconnection, a thread that ties these victims together. But I'll be damned if Ican see it.’

‘We’re dealing with anorganized psychopath, someone who can blend into any setting. Let’s play theodds here. We’ve got nothing else to go on. Pretend you’re our unsub. What doyou look like?’

Ella put herself inthe unsub’s head, saw the world through his eyes.

She was a killer,someone with a compulsion to stuff his victims into body bags. A symbol ofrebirth, of metamorphosis.

‘He’s functional. Nosocial anxiety. If anything, he’d thrive socially. He’s well aware that hedoesn’t think like a regular person, so he’ll compensate for it with socialoverkill. He works a normal job. Not a butcher or hunter or anything like that.Psychopaths are typically white-collar, well-to-do. He can stalk, watch, learnthese people’s routines. He’ll be quick to cover his tracks, maybe too eager tocover his tracks.’

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