Page 26 of Girl, Fractured

Or was Frank, lost in his fifty-year obsession as Ella suspected he might have been, simply projecting paranoia onto his old partner?

There was no way to know from the curb.

‘Ready?’she asked Ripley.

Ripley didn’t look ready.Her hand rested on the door handle but didn’t move to open it.Ella guessed it was the reluctance of confronting something deeply personal wrapped up in the professional.To her, this must have been like disturbing a friend’s grave.

‘Mia?I get it if you don’t want to-’

‘Just thinking,’ she interrupted.‘Come on.Let’s get this over with.’

Ella grabbed the manila folder containing Frank’s secret history.They got out and headed up the path.She rang the doorbell and chimes echoed inside.Not electronic ones.Actual brass tubes clanging together.Old school, like everything else about this place.

The door opened within a few seconds, revealing not Ramsey Cole but a woman who wore her seventy-plus years well.Silver hair cut in that distinctly Florida-retiree bob.Pastel blouse.Capri pants.Practical sandals that had probably never touched sand.

‘Can I help you?’Warm voice, roving eyes.The look of someone with a natural suspicion of door-to-door salesmen.

‘We’re looking for Ramsey Cole,’ Ella said.‘Is he available?’

The woman’s face changed.‘May I ask what this is concerning?’

Before Ella could answer, a man’s voice called from deeper inside the house.‘Who is it, Martha?’

The woman turned slightly.‘Two ladies, dear.’

Movement behind her.A shuffling approach.Then Ramsey Cole materialized in the entryway.One bony hand clutched a walking stick.The other braced against the wall.

‘Two ladies?Must be my lucky day,’ Ramsey laughed.

Any lingering thought Ella had entertained about this frail man overpowering Frank Sullivan evaporated instantly.His shoulders curved inward like parentheses.Liver spots dotted his scalp where hair had retreated decades ago.Ella doubted he could kill a cockroach without injuring himself.

‘Not quite.’Ella displayed her FBI credentials in their leather folder.She held it steady, knowing he’d scrutinize it properly; old cops always did.‘I’m Special Agent Dark.This is Special Agent Ripley.Can we come in?’

Cole squinted at the badge, then at their faces again.‘FBI?What’s this about?’

‘It’s about Frank Sullivan, sir.’

‘Frank?What’s that old bastard gotten himself into now?’The casual callousness of the question confirmed what Ella already suspected - Cole didn’t know.Ramsey turned to his wife.‘I’ve got this, Martha.’

His wife gave him a look that telegraphed decades of matrimonial skepticism, then retreated a few steps down the hall but stayed within earshot.

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but Frank Sullivan is dead, Mr.Cole.May we talk?’Ella said.

Cole didn’t move.Didn’t blink.Didn’t breathe visibly.For a terrifying moment, Ella thought the news might have stopped his heart mid-beat.

Then he exhaled.‘How?’

‘He was murdered.Last night.’

Cole absorbed this information with the stoicism of a man who’d spent decades absorbing bad news professionally.He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.

Cole stepped back, leaned heavily on his cane and said, ‘You’d better come in.I’ve been expecting you.’

***

Ramsey Cole’s living room defied Ella’s expectations.Where Frank’s home had been a shrine to his past, Ramsey’s space revealed a man who’d decisively turned the page.Former cops usually displayed commendations of their old jobs somewhere, but all Ella could see were photos of grandchildren and an impressive model train set.

She perched on the edge of a chair opposite Cole, who’d settled into what was clearly his permanent spot on the sofa.Ripley opted to stand.She hadn’t changed.When Ripley had something on her mind, she needed that little note of discomfort to keep her grounded.

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