Page 18 of Girl, Accused

‘I don’t like this one bit,’ Luca said. ‘But I can stay with my mom in Mass. It’ll be good to go home, for once.’

Relief flooded her system. ‘Perfect. Go there. Today if possible.’

‘Thank God the police left me some clothes to pack. Gonna need my roomy shorts for that six-hour drive though.’

‘Good. Let me know when you get there. I’ll text you when I get to Ohio.’

‘Alright. Stay safe.’

‘You too. I kind of like having you around.’

She ended the call and stared at her phone for a moment, wondering if that would be the last normal conversation they'd ever have. Then she pulled open the Volvo's door and slid into the passenger seat. Morning sun hit the windshield at an angle that turned the whole world gold.

Ripley slapped Ella’s knee. ‘Ready for round nineteen? Twenty? Whatever the hell we’re at now?’

Ella snapped her seatbelt in. ‘One more time around the block. Let’s go.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

First class felt wrong. Like putting fresh paint on a haunted house. Ella sat across from Ripley, a fold-out table between them, trying to reconcile the woman before her with the partner she'd known. Five months of retirement had changed things. The Ripley she remembered wouldn't be caught dead in a cream sweater, wouldn't order sparkling water instead of coffee, wouldn't be thumbing through a gardening magazine instead of a case file while they flew towards another dead body.

‘You're staring,’ Ripley said without looking up.

‘Just trying to figure out why you're really here.’

‘Already told you. Someone left your DNA on my doorstep.’

‘No.’ Ella leaned forward. ‘Why are youhere? In first class, flying to Ohio with your supposed-to-be-retired ass when you should be home with your grandson.’

Ripley closed the file and met Ella's gaze. ‘Guess.’

‘Either you missed this crap, or Edis asked you to keep an eye on me.’

‘Bingo, but I actually told Edis I wasn’t going to keep an eye on you. You’re not guilty of anything, and we all know it.’

‘Thanks.’

Ripley leaned in. ‘Don’t think for a second that hereallybelieves you killed two of your friends. It was a knee-jerk on his part. A moment of desperation. We’ve all had them. But anyway, enough of that, you going to tell me what you think of this case or not?’

The plane banked right and knifed through a wall of clouds. Sunlight strobed through the cabin, turned Ella's coffee the color of weak blood. Ella opened the manila folder in front of her, and just like that, the world shifted into familiar territory. She was transported, her mind slipping free of the confines of metal and gravity to roam the blood-spattered contours of a dead man's living room.

Inside the folder were twelve crime scene photographs and two police reports.

The first photo showed a man sprawled on a beige carpet. Blood had sprayed up the wall behind him in an arc that suggested arterial spray. His eyes were open, fixed on whatever final horror had filled his vision. But it wasn't the dead-fish stare or the crimson collar around his neck that seized Ella's attention.

It was the letter branded into his forehead.

A perfect capital L, burned deep enough to blacken the flesh. The kind of mark that spoke of purpose or message or mission.

This was victim number one. Chester Grant, according to the preliminary report. Age 50, tenured professor of Medieval Literature at Denison University. Divorced last year. He was found by his cleaning lady at 8:47 AM on a Tuesday morning, already gone cold on his living room floor.

‘See something interesting?’ Ripley asked.

Here, in the space between evidence and intuition, Ella felt oddly at ease. The usual background chatter of doubts and second guesses quieted, replaced by a crystalline clarity. It was a world of violence and tragedy, yes, but also one of patterns and logic, where every sin had its consequence and every killer, no matter how smart, left a trail begging to be unraveled.

‘I see something alright. This guy, Chester Grant, throat slit and skin branded.’

‘Like a cow.’

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