Page 73 of Girl, Accused

Vulgata,Ella thought. Polish? German?

No. Latin.

Latin.

A connection sparked. The kind of connection that starts as a whisper and builds to a scream.

Something Canton had said about Biblical translation. About Latin versions of sin.

Ella's neck muscles tensed.

She took in the rest of the room. The place was sparse, like someone had cleared out the essentials and left their luxuries behind. She couldn’t see any clothes or food or shoes. There was a fridge-freezer combination in the kitchenette, but inside was just a row of sauces and some fruit that hadn’t yet gone rotten. Which meant Sister Mary still lived here – or someone did.

She circled the place again in just a few steps, then she moved to the curtained-off sleeping area and pulled back the fabric. There was a narrow cot against the wall with their blankets pulled military-tight across the thin mattress.

Ella turned and scanned the floor. The concrete had been polished to a dull sheen, but around the center of the room, she spotted faint scuff marks. The seam was almost invisible, but up close she could see a slight depression where a panel met the surrounding floor.

A basement.

Ella hooked a finger into the hole, pulled. The trapdoor resisted at first, then lifted with a reluctant groan. Cool air rushed up from below.

‘Sister Mary? Anyone here?’

She peered into the darkness. A wooden staircase descended about eight feet to a concrete floor. Ella pulled out her phone and activated the flashlight. The beam cut through shadows to reveal what appeared to be a basement room roughly the size of the living quarters above.

Curiosity and duty warred within her. Every second she wasted here was another second Thomas Walsh had to stalk another victim or flee the state or brand another forehead. She needed to call Ripley and see if she’d found anything at Walsh’s house, but Ripley would have text her if there were any signs of life at his house.

Then Ella heard a sound.

Scuffling. Clinking.

Coming from where? The basement? Outside? Concrete walls didn’t make for the best acoustics.

‘Hello?’

Ella began descending the stairs on autopilot. When the maw beckoned, Ella couldn’t resist going on. When her feet touched concrete at the bottom, she swept the beam around the space, and any anticipations were shattered when she found emptiness. She’d expected furniture or storage boxes or a ladycave but was sorely disappointed.

No.

There was something.

Her beam caught something at the far end of the room.

Ella illuminated in full and found a full-length mirror. The kind that might hang on a bedroom door propped up against the wall. It drew her closer, if only because it was the sole item in this place. Her reflection approached in parallel, and now Ella stood three feet from the mirror, close enough to make out her own silhouette but not the details. She was in that liminal mental state where the mind filled in what the eyes couldn't discern.

Something glinted in the upper corner of the glass itself. A marking, etched or scratched into the surface. It wasn’t deep enough to compromise the integrity of the mirror, but it drew the eye no less.

Ella first suspected it was a brand name. A manufacturer’s initial.

Then realization came hurtling towards her.

First, the Latin Bible.

And now the fact that Ella’s reflection had a W branded into her forehead.

W for Wrath.

The illusion froze her. This was Sister Mary's mirror. And Sister Mary had used this mirror to brand her reflection and conceive an alternate version of herself. Sister Mary saw herself as Wrath incarnate.

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