Page 56 of Girl, Accused

Nothing.

‘Your call,’ said Ripley.

Ella weighed her options. Protocol demanded a warrant or probable cause, but protocol didn’t account for a killer with a divine timetable. If Canton was their unsub, every minute they delayed was another minute he might be preparing his next brand. It was better to apologize for trespassing than to find another body at their feet.

She tried the handle. It turned without resistance. She exchanged glances with Ripley, who nodded and positioned herself to one side of the doorframe. Ella nudged the door with her shoulder and went in Glock-first.

‘Canton?’ she called again. ‘FBI. We're coming in.’

The apartment revealed itself in increments: first a slice of living room with faded furniture, then a kitchenette visible through an archway. Ella skirted along the walls until she reached a tiny hallway. There was a door on either side and another at the end.

Her first stop was the bathroom, and bathrooms always told the truth. Kitchens lied and living rooms posed, but bathrooms revealed. Adam Canton's was surgical in its cleanliness, not a stray hair or damp towel in sight. It existed in a state of such pristine emptiness that Ella found herself checking the toilet tank for hidden evidence

‘Nothing,’ she called to Ripley, who was searching the living room.

The bedroom came next. Another exercise in absence. A single bed and a nightstand boasting a leather Bible. A closet of identical black shirts and clerical collars hung with such perfect spacing that Ella briefly wondered if Canton measured the distance between hangers.

Only the final door remained, centered at the hallway's end. Unlike the others, this one bore scratches around the keyhole – evidence of frequent locking and unlocking. Ella tried the handle.

Unlocked.

She pushed inside.

The shock wasn't immediate. It built like a wave gathering force offshore, rising as her brain processed what her eyes were seeing. Every vertical surface; walls, the backs of doors, even portions of the ceiling – bore photographs of Rebecca Torres.

‘What the f…’

Torres laughing with city council members. Torres kissing her husband on their lakeside deck. Torres slid into the passenger seat of a car. Torres at fundraisers, at restaurants, at the salon. Torres through the windows of her home.

‘Uh, Ripley…. Get in here.’

Her partner appeared next to her. She peered inside. ‘Wow.’

‘What the hell is this?’

‘Someone has a thing for Rebecca Torres.’

Some images bore the crisp clarity of professional equipment; others the grainy texture of smartphone telephoto lenses. The collection spanned seasons – Torres in sundresses and winter coats, in morning light and evening shadow.

Time crystallized in Canton's murder shrine. Ella couldn't tear her eyes from the mosaic of Rebecca Torres's life. Torres laughing. Torresarguing. Torres unaware she was performing for an audience of one. The photographs created a timeline of surveillance so meticulous it could only be born from obsession or hatred, or that particular toxic cocktail where the two become indistinguishable.

Ripley said, ‘We need to find Canton. Now. I’ll call Westfall, get his boys on the search.’

‘Tell him to get cops here, in case Canton comes home.’

As much as Ella wanted to dissect this murder shrine, every second spent here was time spent letting a killer roam free. The priority was to find the man behind this mess, then she could worry about the rest later.

Ripley pressed her phone to her ear. ‘No signal.’

‘Call him outside. Come on, we don’t have time to hang around.’

They bolted from the room, Ella leading the way down the stairs, her mind six steps ahead of her feet. She was already planning the manhunt, mentally positioning officers at Canton's known locations, calculating how quickly they could establish surveillance on his potential next victims.

They burst through the narrow hallway with its Sunday school room and vacant office. The sanctuary waited beyond, its stained glass throwing kaleidoscope patterns across empty pews.

Except something was different on the return journey.

Ella's hand moved to her weapon before her conscious mind registered why.

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