Page 78 of Girl, Unseen

Time felt like sand slipping through her fingers. Somewhere out there, a killer was preparing for their final transformation. And here she stood, surrounded by the ashes of evidence that might have led straight to them.

She needed Felix. Needed names, faces, something to narrow down which of Ezra's female followers had decided to turn alchemy intoperformance art. But why would this killer be burning evidence at Felix's farm? Either Felix was involved deeper than they'd thought, or someone close to him was.

Ella headed for the barn's entrance, trying not to think about Victor Ashford's final moments or about who might be next on the killer's elemental hit list.

Three more outbuildings to search. Three more chances to find Felix before time ran out.

***

Luca was somewhere just outside of Bedford Hills. The road unspooled before him, but his eyes weren't tracking the double-yellow lines or the 'last gas for 50 miles' signs.

No, Special Agent Luca Hawkins, FBI's resident Golden Boy, was too busy mentally tearing himself a new one over letting his partner waltz off solo to confront their only lead.

Nice work, Hawkins. Letting Ella fight this battle alone while you twiddle your thumbs and angst about a glorified Scooby-Doo chase. Some partner you're turning out to be.

He should be there with her, backing her up, not playing errand boy on a wild goose hunt for some mythical lost book of woo-woo wisdom. But no, Ella 'I can handle anything' Dark had given him marching orders, and like a good little soldier he'd snapped off a crisp 'yes ma'am' and peeled rubber before the words had a chance to cool.

He’d spent the last twenty miles trying to wrap his head around the steaming pile of horse apples their investigation had become, and the only thing he'd figured out was that thinking too hard while driving was a great way to miss his exit.

Okay, Hawkins. Get it together. Ella's a big girl, she can handle one scrawny goth kid.

Right. Because no FBI agent had ever run into trouble chasing a lead on their lonesome. Not like there was an entire memorial wall in Quantico dedicated to that exact flavor of optimism.

Luca's molars resumed their mating dance as the SUV gobbled up mile after mile of scenic nothing. His fingers itched for something to do besides strangle the life out of the synthetic leather.

He was doing it again - spinning his mental wheels like a hamster on espresso, chasing his own tail in tighter and tighter circles until hedisappeared up his own ass. He needed to focus, to channel his inner Quantico and start thinking like a real FBI agent.

The book. Gotta find the book.

Because apparently their perp had been getting their inspiration from some long-dead mystic with a hard-on for the periodic table. And Ella, in her infinite wisdom, had decided that the key to cracking this case lay not in boring old forensics or witness statements, but in translating a bunch of medieval mumbo-jumbo from the original Crazy into modern English.

And who better to tackle that little chore than yours truly?

‘Yeah, I'll just learn Latin real quick,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe throw in some Greek. Could probably master Sanskrit by dinner.’

What had started as a simple missing persons gig had turned into an elemental scavenger hunt from hell, complete with ritual murders, cult weirdos, and more red herrings than a Communist sushi bar.

And now Ella wanted him to crack it. Find some clue about the final element - spirit, quintessence, whatever they were calling it. But the afternoon was bleeding away, and all he had to show for it was eye strain and the beginning of a migraine.

Luca glanced out of the window and saw a sign for New York University. His mind drifted back to their first visit here, to Dean Harper in her oak-paneled office. To what she'd said about their restricted collection.

The memory hit him like a shot of clarity.

We have a collection of materials in our archive, down in our basement. Old books. Mostly the English translations.

Within a second, Luca had pulled over. His phone was already in his hand before the engine died.

It was a long shot. The kind of desperate play you only made when the clock was running down and you were out of better options.

But if NYU had an English translation of this thing, then it might just save a life.

He hit dial before he could talk himself out of it. The phone rang once, twice, three times.

‘Dean Harper's office.’

Luca took a breath and prepared to either save the day or make a complete fool of himself. Again.

At least this time, he wouldn't be wearing an airsoft mask while he did it.

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