Page 51 of Girl, Accused

The question was: who had decided Rebecca Torres' sins deserved death rather than prosecution?

'Thank you, Frank. If you think of anything else that might be useful, please call us.'

‘Will do. Please find who did this.’

Ella and Ripley left Frank Torres on his blood-money deck while he chain-smoked his way through grief and guilt. Lake Hudson sparkled below him like nothing had changed, but two things had shifted in Ella's understanding of the case.

One: the killer might have revealed themselves to Rebecca Torres in the past.

And two: the G on Rebecca Torres’ forehead stood for greed.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Rebecca Torres' office didn't look like it belonged to a dead woman. It looked like its occupant had just stepped out for coffee and might return any second to catch Ella rifling through her things. And unlike Frank's casual admissions on the deck this morning, nothing in the office openly screamed corruption.

Ella felt that peculiar vacuum that forms when someone exits the world without warning. Not just the absence of Torres herself, but the absence of a thousand small sounds she would have made. Heels clicking on the floor, rustling papers, the soft exhale of someone accustomed to power.

Torres’ desk calendar showed appointments scheduled through next week. The computer screen saver cycled through photos of Torres shaking hands with men in expensive suits. An empty mug sat on a coaster with a lipstick print on its rim. Rebecca Torres was still performing, even from beyond the grave.

The office itself was a performance, too. It was a display of what Rebecca Torres had wanted people to see. Dark mahogany desk positioned to catch the morning light at the most flattering angle. Degrees and certificates arranged on the wall. Family photos positioned where visitors could see them, not where Torres herself might glance at them during the day.

Ella crossed to the window and looked down at the alleyway where Rebecca Torres had been transformed from person to evidence. Yellow evidence markers still dotted the scene, and her blood had dried dark brown. Strange, seeing a murder scene from the victim's last vantage point. Had Rebecca looked out this window in her final hours, unknowingly surveying the spot where she'd bleed out?

She turned away from the window, surveyed the room again and landed on Torres' bookshelf. People revealed themselves through what they chose to read. Or at least through what they wanted others to think they read. Ella inspected a few spines and found the usual suspects.The Art of War. The Prince. Power: Why Some Have It and Others Don't.In a perfect world, she'd find Evelyn Summers' book amongst them, butlife rarely offered such gift-wrapped connections. The shelves yielded no such link.

‘Agent Dark?’

A young woman stood in the doorway, her body half-in, half-out of the room as if uncertain she had permission to enter. The woman had a folder under her arm.

‘That's me.’

‘Got those files you asked for. The minutes for Friday meetings from June through August.’

Ella took the stack. ‘How many meetings?’

‘Three. The council only met on first Fridays of the month during summer.’ The woman twisted her hands together. ‘I can't believe she's really gone. I mean, I saw the news, but being in her office...’

‘I know it's difficult.’ Ella studied the young woman. There was actual grief there, not just professional courtesy. ‘How long did you work for Mrs. Torres?’

‘Two years. She was...’ Her voice caught. ‘She wasn't always easy to work for, but she taught me a lot.’

About what, Ella wondered. Creative accounting? The fine art of municipal graft? But that wasn't fair. Rebecca Torres might have been corrupt, but she'd still been human. Still inspired loyalty in some people.

‘The empty office next door is free if you want to review those.’

‘Perfect. Thank you.’

***

Ella quickly learned that the human mind wasn't designed to process fifty-six pages of municipal meeting minutes in a single sitting. She now knew the excruciating vocabulary of municipal bureaucracy better than she ever wanted to. Who knew local government could generate so many words while saying so little? References to subsection this, amendment that. Motions carried, motions denied. Death by procedural minutiae.

‘Moved to approve... seconded... carried unanimously,’ Ella muttered, rubbing her eyes. ‘Jesus Christ.’

The minutes read like an encyclopedia of pointlessness. Discussions about parking meter rates. Debates over the appropriate width of bike lanes. An eighteen-minute argument (helpfully transcribed verbatim)about whether the town's Fourth of July banners should be navy blue or royal blue. And so far, not a single confrontation matching Frank's description. No religious zealot standing up to denounce Rebecca Torres for giving ‘the middle finger to God.’

Ella tried to focus, but she kept drifting. Back to D.C., where someone with her DNA was killing people in her orbit. Back to Luca, hopefully safe in Massachusetts by now. Back to Ripley, resurrected from retirement like some avenging angel who'd traded her flaming sword for a Glock 17. The cases weren't connected – she knew that logically – but they pulled at the same frayed edges of her psyche.

She forced her attention back to the minutes. The June meeting offered nothing but the standard procedural dance. July mentioned the power station for the first time:

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