Page 38 of Girl, Accused

‘What the….?’

Ella tracked every microexpression that crossed Caldwell's face. The initial shock appeared genuine. The momentary cessation of breathing, the autonomic vascular response, the unconscious recoil. These weren't easy reactions to fake, not even for the most accomplished psychopaths. The human body always betrayed itself in crisis, regardless of what mask the mind attempted to wear.

‘Yes, Dr. Summers is dead, but that’s not all.’ She nudged Ripley again and a photo of Dr. Summers book appeared, complete with its blood writing on the cover. The photograph had been cropped tightly to the bloody script, deliberately framed to exclude surrounding details that might provide context. ‘Someone left this message.’

Caldwell leaned in, eyes narrowed, lips shaking a little. ‘No one sees me. That’s Isiah 47:10.’

‘We know. We saw this same proverb in your apartment.’

Surprise rippled across Caldwell’s face like a stone dropped in still water. The distress of knowing that his therapist was dead seemed to have quickly vanished, now replaced with concern that he was a suspect in her murder. ‘My apartment? Where?’

‘There’s a painting of a city in your living room. There are some proverbs written underneath. This is one of them.’

'Oh, that.' Recognition smoothed some of the alarm from his face. His shoulders lowered a fraction, the involuntary relaxation that came with explanation rather than obfuscation. 'I only got that last week. I've barely looked at it.'

Ella tilted her head slightly, recalibrating. The timeline was interesting. Recent acquisition, not long-term devotion to that particular scripture. Whoever this killer was, they’d been planning this mission for a long time.

‘You're saying it's new to your collection?’

‘It’s not a collection if it’s just one painting.’ Caldwell’s chains clinked on the table. ‘Wait a minute, you think I killed Dr. Summers? And wrote Isiah 47:10 on the walls?’

It wasn’t the walls, Ella thought. It was in her book. Was Caldwell playing her, or was he genuinely not involved in this? Right now, Ella was in two minds. Ella had interviewed enough guilty people to recognize authentic confusion when she saw it. Caldwell's reaction didn't fit the profile of a man caught in his own clever game.

‘The coincidence is rather striking,’ Ripley said. ‘Your therapist ends up dead with your favorite Bible verse written at the scene.’

‘It's not my favorite verse,’ Caldwell protested. ‘I barely knew it before I bought that painting. I liked the image. It’s Babylon.’

Ella exchanged a quick glance with Ripley. Truth often had a specific cadence to it, a rhythm of details that flowed naturally rather than being constructed for effect. Caldwell's explanation had that samequality. It had the meandering specificity of actual memory rather than the streamlined narrative of fabrication.

She decided to try again from a different angle. ‘What about Chester Grant? Local professor. Heard of him?’

‘No.’ Caldwell snuck a glimpse of Dr. Summers’ death pose again. ‘Why is there a... P? On her forehead?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Any ideas?’ Ripley asked.

‘I don’t know. This is insane,’ he whispered. ‘I didn't do this. I couldn't have.’

‘Why not?’ Ella's question was simple. It was an invitation for Caldwell to provide something beyond mere denial.

His eyes met hers, and in them she saw something she hadn't expected: not the calculated innocence of a skilled liar, but the genuine bewilderment of someone watching their world transform into something unrecognizable.

‘Because Dr. Summers was helping me,’ he said quietly. ‘She was the only one who saw me as more than my mistakes. Why would I kill the one person who believed I could be better?’

It was a good question. One that had been scratching at the edges of Ella's certainty since they'd first connected Caldwell to the case. If Summers was truly helping Caldwell, his motivation for murder grew considerably more complex. Less straightforward than religious zealotry run amok.

'Let's establish your whereabouts, Mr. Caldwell,' Ella said, shifting tracks. 'Where were you Monday night around 10 PM?'

Caldwell straightened slightly, as if relieved to have a question he could answer with certainty. 'Monday night, I was at New Life Church with Pastor Mitchell. We've been preparing all week for the revival. Monday was especially late.

‘Until what time?’

'Past midnight. Pastor Mitchell drove me home around 1 AM because my car's in the shop.'

Ella made a mental note. The timing was precise and easily verifiable. 'And what about last night? Early Thursday morning, around 1 AM?'

Caldwell's face tightened. ‘I was home. Online.’

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