Page 32 of Girl, Reformed

Okay, maybe he was wrong. Maybe life wasstill funny sometimes.

He scratched at his arm, nails digginginto the pale, pockmarked flesh. Flakes of dry skin fell like snow, litteringthe desk, the keyboard. He needed to focus, needed to concentrate. The video,that was what mattered. The key to his masterpiece.

Frame by frame, second by second, hescrutinized the images. Or did he? Maybe he was just staring at a blank screen.It wouldn’t be the first time he’d admired a piece of abstract art orshimmering lake, only to find that he was actually gawking at the tiles on hisbathroom floor.

It hadn’t always been like this. Once upona time, the sun rose in the east and set in the west, just like his oldgeography teacher had taught him. There was a time when women would look him inthe eye without sniggering. Used to be he could show his face in public and notget side-eyed by half the population. Life had been normal, until one nighteverything had changed for the worst. The night the laughter had died, chokedoff by a tightness in his chest and a roaring in his ears.

He had fled then, wandered the streets forwhat might have been days. He lost himself in a fugue state, and when hefinally found his way back to his apartment, he found he inhabited a differentworld. One where artistry, laughter and entertainment took a back seat tohumiliation and cruelty. He had foolishly believed that society had left theVictorian freakshow in a bygone era, but it had simply evolved and adapted.Instead of gawking at unfortunate souls in dingy tents and seedy back alleys,the masses could point and laugh and jeer from the comfort of their own homes.

Now all people wanted was to captureanother's shame, another's downfall and showcase it to the world. The court ofpublic opinion had become a colosseum, where hapless souls were thrown to thelions and torn to shreds for the sheer amusement of it. Big mouths had replacedbig brains, and the loudest, most obnoxious voices drowned out all others.

Memories kaleidoscoped through his feveredbrain, but he benched them and focused on the task at hand.

He turned back to the screen, to the imageof the next unwitting character in his story of retribution. In this theater ofthe grotesque, there could be no rehearsals, no second takes. Every performancewas opening night and closing night all in one - a one-time-only engagement,never to be repeated.

But first, the preparations. The stagemust be set, the props gathered, the players positioned just so.

However, there was a problem. He’d usedtwo pillory stocks, and if the police had half a brain on them, they’d havemade the connection by now.

So, he needed to make a change. He neededsome new material.

Either way, his audience would be laughingbefore the night was out. They’d heckle, scream and beg, but in the end, thejoke would be on them.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mia raked through the files like astarving dog tearing into a T-bone. She'd been at this for three, four, fivehours. She wasn’t sure. Time had a funny way of slipping through the crackswhen your world was crashing down around your ears.

Every scrap of paper, every crypticscribble from Martin's pen - she'd pored over them all, searching for some clueto the storage spot. The place he supposedly stashed that damn kerosene. Thesame one found on Trevor’s corpse. If she could find Martin’s storage place,she might just find Martin.

But the files she'd seen Martin elbow-deepin just last night? Vanished into the ether like a puff of smoke. Along withany crumb of evidence that might prove Ella's crackpot theory right - or bangit tight into a coffin.

Ripley shoved back from the desk hardenough to send the chair skidding. It screeched across the hardwood like a catgetting its tail stomped, but she barely heard it over the drumbeat pounding inher skull. She lurched to her feet, paced the floor like a caged tiger.

What'sthe play, Mia?The little voice in her head piped up. Burning daylight chasing fairy taleswhen there're real monsters running wild out there?

Ripley shook her head like she couldrattle the doubts loose. But they clung like ticks, burrowing deeper with everystep.

She couldn't shake it - this bone-deephunch that the storage spot was the key. The linchpin holding this whole messtogether. If she could just get eyes on it, just see for herself what skeletonsMartin was hiding in his closet, then maybe she could unravel this mess.

Andthen what?The voice needled. Say you do find some musty old shed packed with gas cansand guilty secrets. What's that prove? That Ella's on the money about your manbeing a guardian angel with a body count?

Therewere two ways this could go. Either Ella's hunch was right, and Ripley had beenliving alongside a secret monster for the past few months, or this was all abig misunderstanding.

‘Shut up,’ Ripley snarled. She slammed herpalm against the doorframe and relished the pain. She couldn’t just stay here,devouring Martin’s belongings like a jilted lover. She had to get out into theopen, inspect every bar, every corner, every fishing hotspot. Martin was outthere somewhere, and as a woman who’d spent her life finding people who didn’twant to be found, how hard could it be to track the man she shared a bed with?

Keys. She needed her keys. And her Glock.

Mia strode down the stairs into thekitchen, grabbed her equipment and made for the door. She burst out into theunusual sucker-punch heat and unlocked her car. She yanked the door open, threwherself behind the wheel and fired up the engine.

No destination, no plan. Just an animalneed to move, to put distance between herself and the doubts nipping at herheels. She'd rattle every cage in this town if she had to. Chase down everylead, every whisper. Throw herself against the walls of Martin's secrets untilsomething cracked.

Storage lots. Abandoned factories. Somebackwoods cabin where the screams wouldn't carry. Wherever he'd burrowed, she'ddig him out. Drag the truth into the light, kicking and screaming if need be.

And then what?

The question hit her like a freight train.For the first time, Ripley let herself really picture it. Imagine the look onMartin's face if she actually found him. Dug up his hidey-hole and shone alight on all the dark, twisted things he'd kept buried.

Betrayal. Shame. Maybe even relief, in asick way. Like lancing a boil, letting all the poison out.

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