Page 37 of Girl, Reformed

‘Trust me,’ Carmine said. ‘You guys want aBella Napoli special? It’s on the house.’

Ella asked, ‘Is that a bribe?’

‘If you want.’

She slid out of the booth, her appetitewell and truly murdered. ‘I’ll pass. Hawkins?’

‘I’m good, but thanks for your time.’

‘We’ll be in touch,’ Ella finished andmade for the door. Luca fell into step beside her as they strode outside. Thecold seeped into her bloodstream, but she barely felt it over the frustrationsimmering in her veins.

A dead end. A lead crumbling to ash. Itwas like trying to nail Jell-O to a wall.

They climbed into the car. Ella shot Lucaa glance as she cranked the engine. His pretty boy face was a study indisappointment.

‘Don’t sweat it,’ she said. ‘Sometimesit’s one step forward, two steps back, sometimes in a bed of thumbtacks.’

Luca huffed and jabbed his fist into hisstomach. 'It just hurts right here. Thought we had something. Thought we couldhead back to the families and give them some good news.'

Ella's heart did a little shimmy in herchest. The kid had empathy, miles of it. In this line of work, that was both ablessing and a curse.

‘It’s early days,’ she said, surprised atthe conviction in her own voice. ‘We'll dig into Newman and Bolton's lives 'tilour fingers bleed. Someone's gotta know something.’

Luca nodded, but there was somehesitation in those dangerously blue eyes of his. ‘About that. I was wonderingif you could take the reins on it. Something that's been rattlin' round mybrain pan. There’s another angle I’m thinking of taking.’

Ella cocked an eyebrow, curiosity piqued.‘Care to share with the class, Hawkins?’

But Luca just shook his head. Lips zippedtight. ‘Not yet. Just want to make sure I’m not putting stock in a whole loadof nothing.’

Ella studied him for a long moment, tryingto suss out what cogs were turning behind those pretty peepers. But the kid hada surprisingly good poker face.

Her mind spun like a roulette wheel asflashes of the past bled through the din of the present. All the times, Ellahad done the same thing to Ripley, revealing things little by little as theyslotted into the overall jigsaw piece. It had driven Ripley nuts, probably, butRipley had always given her the benefit of the doubt. Never mothered her, neverforced her to spill what was on her mind.

And now, watching Luca's jaw work, seeingthe gears turning, Ella felt a pang of something bittersweet. Understanding,maybe. Or just the ache of familiarity, of history repeating itself in thepassenger seat.

‘Alright, Columbo, keep your ideas underwraps for now,’ she said as she guided the car into the flow of traffic.

Luca flashed her a grin, quick and brightas a muzzle flare. ‘Just trying to take the initiative, partner.’

The initiative. As much as Ella lovedRipley with that black pit she called a heart, she couldn’t remember the lasttime Ripley had taken the initiative. Ripley was content to watch and guide andshout instructions, so Ella struggled to contain the flutter of warmth in herchest. The sense that maybe, just maybe, the universe had thrown her a bonehere. A partner who could keep up, who had the chops and the moxie to run withthe big dogs.

Careful,Dark,a little voice whispered in the back of her head. Remember what happenedthe last time you let someone get too close.

But Ella shoved that voice back into itsbox, slammed the lid and tossed away the key.

There was work to be done. Right now, shehad a precinct to get to, a boss to update, and a ton of legwork to do.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ella squinted at the case files until thewords blurred together like smudged ink on a doctor's notepad. She'd been atthis for hours, combing through every scrap of intel on Georgia Bolton andArchie Newman, trying to find the thread that would unravel this whole bloodymess.

But so far, nada.

Aside from their shared love of gettingtanked up and visiting Bella Napoli Pizzeria, these two had about as much incommon as a priest and a porn star. Different crowds, different haunts. It waslike trying to mix oil and water and praying for a Molotov cocktail.

Ella leaned back in her chair. Shescrubbed a hand over her face, feeling the grit of exhaustion sanding hercorneas. Christ, when was the last time she'd gotten a decent night's sleep?Four hours here, a catnap there. Life seemed to be a never-ending barrage ofcities, cases and serial killers. Her eyeballs felt like overripe grapes, readyto burst at the seams.

The numbers in the corner of her laptopswam in and out of focus. Nine PM. Witching hour for the workaholics andmasochists.

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