Page 70 of Girl, Reformed

The window shrieked like a stepped-on catas she forced it up. She clambered through, ass-first and graceless. Tumbled toa linoleum floor that hadn't seen a mop in years.

The kitchen was a ruin. Peeling Formicaand nicotine-stained walls, empty bottles and crusted dishes teetering in thesink. Ella held her breath, picking through the detritus towards the door. Shepalmed the knob, swung the door wide for Luca and his highfalutin protocol.Bless him for wanting to do things by the book, she thought, but sometimes youhad to break the rules to get ahead.

The place was a mausoleum. Peelingwallpaper, faded photos. Threadbare carpets gone bald with age. Ella ghostedthrough the hall and into a living room that smelled like mothballs and Bengay.

And there, in the corner – a figure.

Huddled and still, slumped in a wheelchairlike a forgotten coat on a rack.

Ella's heart kicked, adrenaline dumpinginto her bloodstream like a hit of bad speed. Her piece was in her hand withoutthought, muzzle trained on that silent shape.

‘Sebastian Doyle?’ Ella shouted. ‘Handswhere I can see them.’

A beat. Two. Then a rusty creak as thewheelchair swiveled, as a face emerged.

Not Sebastian. Not by a long shot, unlesshe'd aged fifty years since his disastrous comedy set at the Laughingstock cluba few months ago.

An old woman, white hair and rheumy eyes,skin sagging off her bones like cold oatmeal. For a second, Ella thought she'djust stumbled on a corpse propped up like some sick conversation piece.

Then the granny opened her yap and startedscreaming bloody murder.

‘Out!’ she howled, claw-hands plucking atthe ragged afghan on her lap. ‘Out, out, get out! I’ll call the police!’

Luca’s hands up in surrender. Ella fumbledfor her badge, held it up like a shield against granny's sonic assault. ‘Lady,we are the police. We’re looking for,'

But the broad was too far gone. Lights on,nobody home. She just kept hollering, voice like rusted hinges swinging in acyclone.

‘Police? Liars! Seb warned me about you!Oh yes he did!’

It all clicked together like a cocked .45.The wheelchair. The one their sick puppy had used to cart his victims around,tuck them into those freak show stocks. Borrowed from this old woman, whoevershe was.

‘Seb?’ Luca asked. ‘You mean Sebastian?’

The old biddy pursed her lips, gumssmacking wetly. ‘My boy. Wouldn’t hurt anybody, not like you!’

Ella held up placating hands, took acareful step forward. ‘Easy there, Mrs. Doyle. We just need to have a word withSebastian. Is he here?’

That got her attention. Granny's milkyeyes narrowed, lips curled back over her pink gums. 'No, he ain’t! Now get outbefore I-,‘

Luca stepped up, hands out in a soothingsort of way. Like he was gentling a startled mare. He had a set of peepers onhim that could charm the habit of a nun, this kid. Ella could practically hearthe wheels turning under that high-dollar haircut.

‘Ma'am, please. It's really important wefind Seb. He could be in a whole mess of trouble.’

‘Trouble? No, no, not my boy. Not Sebby.He's a good kid. Always has been.’

Luca flashed a grin, cheeks dimpling. Hestepped closer, every inch the gentleman caller came to pay his respects. Hepulled out his phone, scrolled until he found the headshot that had beenblasted to every badge in a fifty mile radius. He held it up to granny, gentleas a pediatric nurse.

‘This him? This Sebastian?’

The woman squinted. ‘Yes. That’s my boy.But he’s not here. He’s-,’

She clamped her lips shut so fast herdentures clacked.

‘He's what? Where'd he go, ma'am? Please.’

Granny's eyes darted around the room likea pair of cracked-out pinballs. Ella could practically see the dementiajellying between her ears, memories slipping and sliding around without ahandhold.

‘He’s out,’ the old woman cried.

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