Page 42 of Girl, Accused

A figure moved in the shadows, illuminated intermittently by what appeared to be a small fire.

Rebecca grabbed her glasses and took a closer look.

The fire wasn't in a trash can as she'd first assumed, but some kind of metal container. A brazier, maybe. The figure huddled beside it was shrouded in layers of mismatched clothing.

Ah yes, another one of the town’s lost souls. Urban furniture, she sometimes joked. The homeless situation had become Granville's festering wound, and Rebecca had built her political brand on being tough but fair. Her comprehensive strategy last year hadn’t worked. A strategy that had involved relocating services to the outskirts of town rather than expanding them in the city center where they impacted property values and business interests. The fact that she owned threerental properties in the downtown area was, of course, immaterial to her position on the matter.

Rebecca watched the figure put something into their fire, then sit down against the wall. Rebecca could go out there and demand this person leave since the alley was council property, but December in Ohio wasn’t exactly tropical. It was a bad night to be homeless, and the human side of Rebecca didn’t have it in her to banish this person elsewhere.

The sight of the figure with their tattered, mismatched robes stirred something in her. Rebecca wasn’t sure if it was sympathy or anxiety. Maybe news of the killer was making her paranoid. Maybe it was time to go home. She could get this work done at home. Frank would probably be asleep by the time she got back too, meaning no interruptions.

Decision made.

Rebecca grabbed her jacket, packed up her laptop and slid it under her arm. She gathered the rest of her papers, double-checked that her desk was clear of anything sensitive, and switched off her desk lamp.

The hallway outside stretched in darkness. This late, even the most ambitious staffers had gone home. All that remained was a cleaner and a lone security guard on the front desk.

As she descended the stairs, she remembered with a sinking feeling that she'd parked in the back lot today. Which meant passing the alley. Passing the homeless person.

‘Goddamn it,’ she muttered.

She reached into her purse and felt around for loose change. A politician, even one as pragmatic as Rebecca Torres, couldn't be seen refusing a homeless person. She could already imagine the headlines:COUNCILWOMAN TORRES IGNORES CITY'S VULNERABLE, accompanied by some unflattering photo where she appeared to be sneering. She conjured up a few coins, probably a few dollars’ worth. That would do.

The municipal building's back exit deposited her exactly where she didn't want to be: ten feet from the mouth of the alley. The night air hit her with its December bite. From here, she could see the fire more clearly. Not a trash can, but some kind of portable metal container. She could make out the shape of the man, too, hunched by the dumpster.

Rebecca gripped her keys in her right hand, points outward between her fingers – a self-defense technique she'd learned in a women's safetyworkshop she'd attended for the photo op. The change jingled in her left pocket, ready for deployment.

As she approached, the figure stirred.

‘Spare something, ma'am?’

The voice was soft and oddly cultured. Not the slurred request of an alcoholic or the desperate plea of an addict. Still, Rebecca didn't slow her pace. She fished the coins from her pocket and tossed them in the general direction of the outstretched hand.

Rebecca was three steps past when the voice came again. ‘I didn’t mean money.’

The comment stopped Rebecca in her tracks. Throughout her political career, Rebecca Torres had learned never to back down from a threat, and what Rebecca Torres just heard was a threat.

She turned to find the figure had risen to full height. The layers of clothing now seemed less like rags and more like loose-fitting garments chosen for freedom of movement.

And in the figure’s hand, something glinted. Not a begging cup. Not a drug needle. Something with purpose. Something with a blade. The keys lodged between Rebecca’s fingers seemed woefully inadequate.

Rebecca opened her mouth to offer a rebuttal, but the first word died in her throat.

Pain exploded across her throat. Her hands threw up and found liquid, and then her high heels betrayed her one last time as she stumbled backward. Above her, the figure moved with deliberate calm, returning to the fire.

As Rebecca's vision tunneled, she saw what rested in those flames: a metal rod with some kind of brand on the end.

A brand. Just like Detective Westfall had mentioned in this morning’s meeting.

Rebecca Torres’ final thought wasn't of Frank, or her career, or even fear. It was an absurd realization that tomorrow's headline wouldn't be about her refusing to give change to the homeless. It would be something much more final.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The problem was that Ella’s brain had fallen off the genetic assembly line before they’d installed an off switch. Everyone else in her field – Ripley, Luca, all those one-time agents she’d been paired with – had the ability to concern themselves with mindless tasks unrelated to solving mysteries. But for Ella, a case without a solution was like listening to half a song. You never felt right until you’d finished it.

And that was why she was still sitting at her laptop at midnight. Since she’d interviewed Jeremy Caldwell, she’d gotten some answers – just not the ones she wanted.

Three people had confirmed that Caldwell had been at the county fairgrounds on Monday night, and digital timestamps proved that he was live streaming until the early hours of this morning. That meant his alibi checked out, so he was innocent, at least of murder.

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