Page 49 of Girl, Reborn

Ella took a deep breath, centeringherself. Then she hit the door with her shoulder, channeling every ounce ofpent-up frustration into the impact. The wood splintered with a satisfyingcrack, swinging inward to reveal the bar's murky interior.

The stench hit her like a physical force –stale beer, moldy peanuts, and the lingering ghosts of a thousand brokendreams. Ella blinked rapidly, willing her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Her handfound her Glock, and she trained it on the darkness up ahead.

The kitchen stretched out before her in agraveyard of abandoned cookware. Dust coated every surface, thick enough towrite her name in. Ella moved through the space like a wraith, each footstepmuffled by years of accumulated grime. Her nerves sang with tension, because inplaces like this, danger lurked in every shadow. One false move, and she'd bedancing with the devil before she could blink. The thought should haveterrified her, but instead, it sent a perverse thrill down her spine. This waswhere she thrived – in the thick of it, where instinct and training merged intoa finely-honed weapon.

The door to the main bar area loomedahead. A portal to potential answers or certain doom. Ella's hand tightened onher Glock, finger resting just outside the trigger guard. She pressed her earto the old wood and strained for any sign of life beyond.

At first, nothing but the hollow silenceof abandonment.

Then – a creak.

Faint, barely audible, but unmistakable.The sound of weight shifting on old floorboards.

Ella's spine stiffened, every musclecoiling like a spring ready to release. She wasn't alone.

Another sound. A clink of glass on wood.Someone was in there, waiting for her, having no doubt heard her intrusion.

This was it. The moment where everythingcould go sideways faster than a greased pig at a county fair. But there was nobacking down now. Not when she was this close.

The floorboards creaked again, closer thistime. Whoever was in there was moving towards the door. Towards her.

It was now or never.

Ella pressed her back against the wall,took a steadying breath, then burst through it like the angel of death comingto collect.

The words died in her throat, strangled bythe sight before her.

A man stood behind the bar, trembling likea junkie in withdrawal. But it wasn't his presence that stopped Ella cold. Itwas the gun in his hand, pointed straight at her chest with the unsteady aim ofthe truly desperate.

For a heartbeat, time seemed tocrystallize. Ella's finger hovered over her trigger, muscle memory warring withthe analytical part of her brain that screamed this wasn't their killer. Maybesome junkie or squatter. One wrong move and this dump would have a fresh coatof paint – blood red, straight from the tap.

Then recognition slammed into her like afreight train, nearly knocking the wind from her lungs.

It was the same man she was looking atpictures of an hour ago. A man who’d made big promises for this town and neverdelivered.

‘Greg Dawson?’ she asked.

He was a far cry from the slick politicianshe'd seen in news clips. His face was a roadmap of misery, eyes sunken andhaunted in a way that spoke of sleepless nights and whiskey-soaked regrets. Ascraggly beard clung to his jawline, more patchwork quilt than fashionablestubble. He looked like he'd been put through a wood chipper and reassembled bya blind man with a grudge.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Dawson's voice cracked,his gun hand shaking so badly Ella was surprised he could keep it pointed inher general direction.

‘Special Agent Ella Dark, FBI.’ She kepther tone steady, soothing, like she was talking down a jumper on a ledge. Everyinstinct screamed at her to disarm him, to take control of the situation. Butsomething in Dawson's eyes – a mixture of fear and bone-deep exhaustion – toldher that aggression would only make things worse. ‘I'm here to help, Mr.Dawson. Why don't you put that gun down so we can talk?’

Dawson blinked, his addled brain visiblystruggling to process the situation. Then, much to Ella’s amazement, he sagged.The gun clattered to the bar top, and Dawson collapsed into one of the chairs.It was a sorry sight. A lone man in an empty bar, nothing but stale alcohol andan unplugged jukebox for company.

‘FBI,’ he mumbled, the fight draining outof him faster than beer from a punctured keg. ‘Christ. Guess my number'sfinally up, huh?’

Ella lowered her own weapon, but didn'tholster it. Not yet. The situation was too volatile, balanced on a knife's edgebetween resolution and catastrophe. ‘No one's number is up, Mr. Dawson. I justwant to talk.’

She pulled up a bar stool, its legsscraping across the floor with a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. Dawsonlooked all the world like a beaten dog waiting for the next kick. The sightstirred something in Ella's chest – not quite pity, but a grim understanding.She'd seen that look before, on the faces of men and women who'd hit rockbottom and kept on digging.

‘So talk,’ Dawson said, his voice ashollow as his eyes.

‘Two homicides. Two men from Bristol,drowned and left in this town. Your town.’

‘Hah. My town? Half of this place wants medead.’

Ella noted Dawson’s dismissal of the twomurders. ‘I’m sure they do, but I’m more interested in these aforementionedhomicides.’

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