Page 76 of Girl, Sought

Out of curiosity, she peered around the wall into the little narrow passage that separated the sunroom's exterior from the fence, the miniature alleyway where the creatures took up residence.

The usual detritus lay there. Leaves, weeds, a hosepipe, some of her niece’s toys that had been there forever.

The alleyway felt like a photograph where everything was perfectly arranged except for one detail that didn't belong. Vanessa's appraiser's brain kicked in - the same instinct that could spot a forged signature at fifty paces or detect modern paint on a so-called antique canvas.

Something lurked in that narrow space. A shadow that didn't match the wall's dimensions.

Her neurons fired warning shots across her consciousness:Get back inside. Lock the door. Call someone. But twenty years of authenticating humanity's darkest artifacts had trained her to look closer when everything screamed retreat. You couldn't spot a fake by running away from it.

The shadow moved.

No -resolveditself. Like ink bleeding through paper in reverse, negative space becoming terrifyingly positive. A figure peeled away from the wall and lunged at her.

The mask hit her first. Blank white porcelain where a face should be, with its features smoothed away like death had taken a belt sander to reality. The kind of thing she'd authenticate for obscene amounts of money if it crossed her desk. Theatre prop, circa 1920s, excellent condition, museum quality.

She opened her mouth to scream, to bargain, to offer whatever price this collector wanted to name, but something thin and cold wrapped around her throat. Piano wire, her mind helpfully supplied. Probably vintage. It would fetch a fortune at auction if properly authenticated.

The wire bit deeper. The mask watched with the impassive interest of a curator examining a new acquisition. Darkness crept in from the edges, but somewhere in that gathering void, a spark of professional pride refused to gutter out.

Make it look good, she thought as consciousness began to slip.I've got a reputation to maintain.

The woods kept their secrets, and winter swallowed what remained of the light.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

‘Call attempt number nine, no joy.’ Ella killed the connection as Vanessa's phone rang into the void. Her voicemail message was starting to feel like a personal insult:

Hello, you've reached Vanessa Blackburn of the Curated Value Group. I'm either authenticating priceless artifacts or avoiding your calls.

‘Jesus, how far out is this place?’ Luca muscled their SUV around another curve in the country road. Their journey had taken them through miles of barren land flanked by dead trees, windmills and the odd group of cows. They'd left civilization behind twenty minutes ago.

‘Another mile.’ The GPS showed their little blue dot crawling through a dead zone where cell reception went to die. ‘Why the hell isn’t she answering?’

‘Let’s hope she’s busy. Appraising or whatever the hell she does.’

Ella tried not to think of the worst case scenario, because it usually turned out to be true. Instead, she thought of the unsub – Lawrence Winters – or at least who she hoped was her unsub. 'This guy fits the profile to a tee, Hawkins. We knew he'd be a desk jockey, we knew he'd feel inferior to these collectors. That's why he's doing this because he wants to inherit their prestige. I told you – he's a cannibal without the consumption.'

The GPS chimed.Destination ahead.

‘There.’ Ella pointed to where the treeline broke. ‘Hang a left.’

Vanessa's house rose from the winter-dead landscape like a glass castle. Three stories of architectural hubris wrapped in floor-to-ceiling windows. The kind of place that screamedricher than youto anyone with eyes. It was one of only about four houses she’d seen in the past ten minutes, and out in the sticks, no one could hear you scream.

The SUV jounced up the pitted gravel drive and skidded to a stop by the front steps. She was out of the car before conscious thought caught up, Glock drawn and feet churning wet earth. Leaped the porch steps two at a time and caught a flash of Luca doing the same in her peripheral.

There was no time to take in the scenery. Ella hammered on the front door and yelled, ‘Vanessa! It’s Dark and Hawkins. Open up!’

The wind snatched her cries away. Ella moved to the front windows, peered in, and caught sight of a front room with a modest set up.

‘Vanessa!’ Luca shouted as he pounded he door. ‘Answer!’

Nothing. Just the sigh of the wind, the patter of rain on sagging gutters. Ella slammed a fist into the door. It rattled in its frame but held fast, unyielding as the woman Ella prayed was somehow oblivious to their intrusion on the other side.

No time for pleasantries, or proper procedure. She stepped back, raised one booted foot. Felt Luca tense beside her, ready to add his own considerable bulk to the effort.

Then she heard it.

A scuffle, a scrabble. A choked-off gasp, a sound like meat slapping stone.

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