Page 90 of Girl, Unseen

Ella's Glock never wavered as she stared down its barrel at Amelia Blackwood. The Alchemist herself, caught like a rat in a trap. The only way out of here was fifty feet down.

‘Show me those pretty hands, Amelia. Nice and slow.’

Amelia's eyes burned with fury hotter than her fiery element. But she complied, raising pale fingers that bore the same flakey skin as her cheeks and forehead. The thick layer of concealer on her face cracked like old paint.

‘You. The bitch from NYU,’ Amelia spat.

‘Got it in one.’ Ella's aim held steady. ‘And since you asked so nice before, I'll answer your question. Female serial killersaren’t changing. They’re the same as ever. Case in point - you.’

Amelia’s gaze darted from one corner to the next. She stole a glance over the railing, down to the concrete floor of the auditorium below. ‘I'm not a serial killer.’

‘Really? Four bodies says different.’

Amelia's lip curled into a. ‘You don't understand. It's not that simple.’

‘Then enlighten me. What's a nice girl like you doing in a cult like this?’

That struck a nerve. Amelia's hands flexed like she wanted to wrap them around Ella's neck. Ella took a few steps closer to her prize. She could put a bullet in her leg right here and now, but there were still a thousand people down below. Ella could vaguely make out Luca directing traffic down there. A stray bullet could be catastrophic.

‘You think you're so smart. You and your profiles, your textbook theories. But you don't know what it's like. To look in the mirror and see a stranger staring back.’

Ella's pulse pounded in her ears. Keep her talking. Buy time for backup. Once enough bodies got here, Amelia would understand that the only way out of here was in the back of a squad car. ‘The scars. That's what this is about.’

‘You think this is about vanity? About looks?’

‘Yes. I think you’re taking after your idol.Hermes Trismegistus.’

‘No. I only found Hermes because I had to.’ Amelia's control slipped. ‘I was normal once. Pretty, even. Then the accident... the chemicals...’

Something clicked in the back of Ella’s brain. A connection she should have made earlier. ‘The chemicals? You handled sodium thiopental.’

‘Yes I did, genius.’

Understanding smacked Ella around the skull. The sodium thiopental – the very weapon that Amelia had used – was the thing that originally scarred her. She’d turned her trauma into a weapon. There was no such thing as a unique serial killer.

Ella's finger tightened on the trigger, itching to put this rabid dog down. But she needed a confession, not a corpse. She’d begun this investigation because of a compulsion to find a missing person, and now she had to know every little detail of this woman’s psychopathology and motivation. In her peripheral vision, movement flickered. Security guards flanking the balcony, hands on holsters, waiting for the word. Fifty feet below, gawking audience members had caught wind of the altercation in the dress circle.

‘Whatever happens, Amelia, you’re not getting out of here. We’ve got evidence that ties you to four murder victims. We know you tried to frame Ezra. We know you tormented your own brother.’

‘So?’

‘So you’re leaving here in handcuffs. We’ve got guards at every exit.’

Something broke behind Amelia's eyes. The mask of control shattered to reveal something raw underneath. She'd come so close to completing her ritual only to watch it crumble at the finish line. Her hands clawed like she could tear reality to confetti.

‘You think you've won? You haven't stopped anything. Nothing can hold me.’

Then Amelia moved with the liquid speed of a mamba striking. She hit the railing like a fullback slamming the line and swung one leg over. Ella’s gun jerked in her hands.

Her stomach turned three revolutions.

When mission-oriented killers were backed into a corner, they responded one of two ways. All guns blazing or the coward’s way out.

'Don't do it, Amelia. Come back over.' Ella's mind flashed back to the previous day when she'd knocked Amelia's brother off a catwalk in a barn. But this was a lot higher with a more permanent landing. Concrete didn't give much leeway.

‘So shoot me. Shoot me or I jump.’

Ella's finger tightened on the trigger, but logic overrode instinct. One wrong move and gravity would finish what alchemy had started. Was there a preferable outcome here? Suicide by cop or suicide by concrete?

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