Page 46 of Girl, Accused

Ella stepped back from the body, letting the scene rearrange itself in her mind. Council president. Branded with a G. Killed in an alleyway. High-profile victim. Most of the pieces were there – all but one.

‘We’re missing a component. Again.’

‘Don’t tell us our Biblical friend’s gotten shy. Where’s his message?’

There were brick and shadow and rust-spangled metal, but no crimson proselytizing. The walls were canvas, but the artist had declined to paint.

‘He must have done what he did with Summers. The walls are too dark. Or he was worried the message might wash away by the time we found her.’

‘So where'd he put it?’

That was the question. Where would a zealot with a taste for Old Testament justice leave his benediction? He wouldn't simply abandon a key component of his signature because of logistical difficulties. He would adapt.

Her gaze fell on Torres' possessions, scattered like fallen leaves around her body. White laptop. Purse. The accouterments of power, now just so much evidence to be cataloged and bagged.

Laptop.

White.

A bright canvas.

‘Ripley, gloves.’

Her partner passed her a pair. Ella slipped them on, bent down and inspected Rebecca Torres’ laptop. It had fallen with the lid against the floor, so only the underside was visible.

Ella gently picked it up by the corners, flipped it over.

And there, scrawled in the same red calligraphy as the other scenes, was another message.

NO ONE SERVES TWO MASTERS.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Death didn’t clock out at midnight. It didn’t take coffee breaks or call in sick. It stayed on shift long after the living had surrendered to exhaustion, working overtime in the empty spaces between heartbeats.

In room 14 of the Granville Motor Inn, Ella Dark couldn't escape its timecard.

The digital alarm clock said it was 1:47 AM. Too late to be awake, too early to call it morning. The perfect hour for doubt to sink its teeth into whatever confidence she'd managed to salvage from the day. Through the paper-thin walls, she could hear Ripley in the adjoining room. Her restless sleeping hadn’t ceased since retirement, either that or it was her muscle memory kicking in from being in a motel. Ella guessed it was the former, because Ripley was indeed stubborn enough to try and remain vigilant even in sleep.

Ella sat on her bed with the case files spread around her like the aftermath of a paper tornado. Now she had three victims to work with, three brandings, three messages.

First was the letters. L, P and G.

All signs pointed to the L representing lust. Chester Grant had been involved in a high-profile scandal, and the corresponding message at his crime scene indeed hinted that he’d been judged for his extramarital activities. The full message, according to the painting in Jeremy Caldwell’s house and Ella’s double-checking, was:The eye of the adulterer waits for the twilight, saying, 'No eye will see me,' and he covers his face.The line referred to an adulterer who waited for nightfall to avoid being caught.

Next was Evelyn Summers. Branded with a P, and admittedly, Ella had been reluctant to assign that P a name. But now, with the new letter tonight, Ella could confirm that the P must stand for pride.

Summer's accompanying message, scrawled in blood in her own book, was:No one sees me.

The full message, Ella had discovered, was:Secure in your wickedness, you said, ‘No one sees me.' The line was from Isaiah 47:10and spoke to the sin of pride. The kind that fools you into thinking you're untouchable.

Until now, Ella had thought thatno eye will see meandno one sees mewere messages directly from the killer to the world. But they weren’t. The messages were bylines for the victims. Chester Grant all but got away with his transgressions, still kept his job, continued living his life without repercussion. He thought no eye saw him – until this unsub came along.

The same went for Evelyn Summers. By all accounts, the woman was a poor psychologist. She’d hidden her failures behind books and glossy photos, but the killer had seen her for who she really was. She thought no one saw who she really was, except one person.

Now Ella had Rebecca Torres. Council president. Top of the political food chain here in Granville. Probably earned a hundred enemies from her job alone.

But small-town politics wasn't a gangland paradise. Ella doubted anyone would kill Rebecca Torres just for her seat. Rebecca Torres was guilty of more than just holding a position of power, and Ella needed to find out what.

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