Page 64 of Girl, Reformed

First, she saw the barrel. Squat andblack, dominating the small space with its chemical musk. A sweet-sick bite ofkerosene that coated her tongue, seared her sinuses and watered her eyes.

There must have been gallons of the stuffin there, Ripley reasoned. Enough accelerant to turn a body into a grease-spot.To erase a man so thoroughly, even dental records would be hard-pressed toidentify the crispy critter left behind.

Just like Martin had tried to do tohimself. Dousing his life in gasoline and striking a match, leaving nothingbehind but scorched earth and questions without answers. Burning his bridges,salting the earth so nothing could grow in his wake.

Opposite the barrel – a wooden chair.Straight-backed and sturdy. At its base was a red stain, a rust-brown smearsoaked deep into the concrete.

Ripley's gorge rose, her gut twisting likea fist around a knife.

She didn't know what this was, so shestood there, paralyzed, afraid to take a step in any direction. She breatheddeep, letting the sting of kerosene scour her nasal passages raw.

What now? What did you do when the worldtilted on its axis, when the foundations of your reality crumbled like so muchsodden drywall? When you feared the man you loved was a monster in a humansuit?

There was no protocol for this. Notraining manual, no procedural handbook for navigating the bombed-out ruins ofyour own psyche. She wanted to scream. To rage, to tear at her hair and rendher clothes. To give voice to the black, seething thing clawing at her insides,ripping her apart from the inside out.

Had she missed the signs? The red flags,the warning klaxons blaring in the night? Had she been so blinded by her owndesperate need, her aching loneliness, that she'd ignored the snake in her bed?

Or had he just been that good? Theconsummate chameleon, the silver-tongued serpent. Spinning his lies, hishalf-truths and obfuscations, weaving a web so silky-sweet she'd gladly steppedinto it.

Grim laughter bubbled up her throat. Somedetective she was. Some profiler, some hunter of monsters. She'd welcomed oneinto her heart and let him sip from her veins. Now, she was paying the pricefor her own stupidity.

Ripley's thoughts cut out at the harshtrill of her cell phone. The ringtone reserved for Ella. Fumbling it out of herpocket, she stared at the screen, at her friend's name flashing insistently.

Ella. Ella, who'd tried to warn her. Who'dseen through Martin's mask, who'd begged Ripley to open her eyes. Ella, whomust be worried sick. Who'd moved heaven and earth to find her, to bring herback from the brink of...what? Madness? Oblivion? The kind of heartbreak therewas no coming back from?

Ripley's thumb hovered over the button.The urge to answer, to unburden herself, was overwhelming. She needed Ella likeshe needed air right now, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't face the concernor the pity in her friend's voice. And beneath it all was a flicker of shame,wounded pride and the tattered shreds of her ego bristling at the thought ofadmitting that Ella had been right. That Ripley had been a fool, a patsy, justanother mark for a con man to fleece.

No. She had to do this alone. Had to faceher demons on her own terms, in her own time. She owed Ella that much - a cleankill, a monster put down and a mess mopped up before her partner ever had toglimpse the carnage.

The phone fell silent. She slipped it backinto her pocket.

And so, Ripley did the only thing shecould.

Ripley crossed to the barrel in a daze,one foot in front of the other like a dead woman walking. She levered herselfon top of it, sat down, and wouldn't move until all of this was over.

And she waited.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The dream hit Ella like a fist between theeyes. Ripley's face swam in her vision, eyes wide, mouth open in a silentscream. And behind her, Martin, smile on his face, barrel of his gun pressed toRipley’s temple.

No, Ella tried toshout. Tried to move, to lunge, to do something, anything. But she was frozen,paralyzed, stuck in the molasses of her own subconscious. Helpless as shewatched that silver-haired devil pull the trigger. Watched Ripley's head snapback, a spray of crimson and gray matter painting the wall behind her.

Ella jolted awake with a gasp. For asecond, she didn’t know where she was. The dream clung like cobwebs, but thenthe world came into focus – the dingy office, the tower of paperwork, therumble of bodies in the main area beyond the glass partitions. She was hunchedat her desk, spine and neck screaming bloody murder.

Christ, she felt about a hundred yearsold. Like Methuselah's little sister; creaky joints and crow's feet and atiredness that a catnap in the office couldn’t touch. She scrubbed a hand overher face and felt leathery skin. She needed a shower and enough caffeine tokickstart a Clydesdale.

She snatched up her cell, squintedblearily at the screen. No missed calls. No new messages, no voicemails from acertain redhead that may or may not be in the throes of despair right now.

Ella had called her last night, aftertheir adventure in that S&M club. Hoping against hope that Ripley wouldpick up, that she'd let Ella explain. Maybe with Ripley’s blunt insight, theycould put their heads together and untangle this snarled mess of a case.

But Ripley had let it go to voicemail.

Ella's fingers itched to dial again. Tokeep calling until Ripley answered, until Ella could hear her voice, brusqueand bullheaded as ever. But she knew it was useless. Ella had to admit that itstung. They were partners, dammit. Ride or die, two against the world. But nowRipley had disappeared to Parts Unknown in a quixotic quest for answers thatcould very well lead to her demise.

She wanted to hammer the table infrustration, perhaps break her knuckles to give her something to dilute thepain in her gut. But really, what would that solve? She could break apartlater, perhaps fall apart in the privacy of her own shower.

Now she had to work. Had to put one footin front of the other until she reached the finish line or fell off the edge ofthe map.

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