Page 22 of Girl, Fractured

Ella scanned the office again, not for clues, but for the feel of the man.The meticulous order.The true crime paperbacks.The photo of him and Ripley frozen in their prime.He lived in the past, professionally speaking.His identity was bolted to his career.What numberwasFrank Sullivan?What sequence represented the core of him, the part that wouldn’t change even when the world outside did?

Then it hit her.

The plane ride here.Something Ripley had said.

‘His badge number… He had it tattooed on his shoulder right before he retired.Said if he ever got dementia, if he ever forgot who he was, that number might trigger something.’

A number literally etched into his skin.The ultimate identifier.

‘Mia,’ Ella said, turning from the safe.‘What was Frank’s badge number again?’

‘Eight-three-seven-four-two-nine.Do you think…?

‘I do think.’Ella turned back to the keypad.Her fingers felt steady as she pressed the small, responsive buttons.

8…3…7…4…2…9

She hit the small ENTER key below the sequence.

For a heartbeat, nothing.Then, a quiet electronic thump resonated from within the metal box.A small green LED blinked once above the keypad.The heavy little door clicked and sprang outward, just a fraction of an inch, and released the scent of old paper.

Ella felt a jolt of pure adrenaline dumping into her system.Her pulse kicked against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She reached inside and carefully slid out the topmost bundle.It was heavier than it looked; a thick manila folder, yellowed at the edges, held together by two thick rubber bands that looked ready to snap from sheer age.

Then she saw the name of the file.

JENNIFER MARLOWE – PALM HARBOR P.D.CASE #76-1109 – UNSOLVED.

This was it.The anchor point her memory had been snagged on.

Ella tore off the rubber bands and pulled the file open.

The first page wasn’t typed text.It was a photograph.A flimsy, dark reproduction, maybe a photocopy of a photocopy, bleeding into shades of gray.It showed a woman slumped in an armchair.The room around her was a time capsule of dated décor; dark wood, fussy patterns.Mundane suburban death, almost.

Except for one thing.

Where vibrant, living eyes should have been, two milky-white, perfectly round stones were nestled deep in the sockets.

The white stones.They weren’t a phantom memory.They weren’t a distorted detail from some other case.

They were real.

And Frank Sullivan had known about them.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ella had been in a thousand precincts over the years, and they all seemed to follow the same template.However, the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office added its own flourish to the format: suffocating heat.

Sheriff Bauer steered them through the main artery of the station.Most deputies kept their heads down as she and Ripley passed by, but a few of them regarded the agents with flat curiosity.They were temporary oddities in this ecosystem.One officer gave them a brief nod before turning back to his monitor.

Bauer stopped beside a door marked ‘Interview 3.’The number was peeling slightly at the corner.Ella wondered how the heat in this place hadn’t stripped everything off the walls.

‘This should do.Quieter back here,’ Bauer said.

The room was small, windowless, and stiflingly warm.Two chairs faced a cheap laminate table bolted to the floor.The thermostat on the wall read 78 degrees, which apparently qualified as ‘room temperature’ in Florida’s twisted meteorological lexicon.

‘Thanks, Sheriff,’ Ella replied.She and Ripley began the setup ritual while Bauer stood in the doorway.

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