Page 32 of Girl, Fractured

‘Mia, check this.Remember how Ramsey mentioned Frank had been talking to an author?I found her.’

Ripley checked the laptop screen.‘Sarah Webb, huh?’

‘Yeah.And she’s doing a talk tonight about an old murder case.’

‘Ugh.The ‘98 burials.I remember it well.’

‘Wanna go hear about it again?’

‘No, but something tells me you’re going to drag me there.’

‘Yes I am.’Ella grabbed her things.‘If she was close to Frank, she might be able to give us some info about his last few weeks.Or maybe point us in the direction of someone who might want to kill him.’

‘Fine.But if this Webb woman starts spouting half-baked theories about the ‘98 burials, I might have something to say.’

‘Wouldn’t have it any other way.Let’s go.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Ella had hit every red light on the way tothePalm Harbor Community Hall, andit was pushing 9 PM by the time they hit the parking lot.Ella and Ripley hustled across the parking lot as fat raindrops pelted them from above.Florida’s weather had decided to get moody; the sky went from clear to apocalyptic in the time it took to drive across town.

From the outside, the venue looked like a New England town hall that had been dropped into Florida by mistake.The brick exterior had gone the color of a smoker’s teeth, and the letters on the marquee board hung at drunken angles.One read ‘SARAH W BB PRES NTS’ because someone had stolen the letters, presumably some teenagers bored of living in a place where the average age was 70.

‘We late?’Ripley asked.

‘Better late than never.’Ella ducked as a gust of wind tried to steal her badge.‘If we’re lucky, we can catch Webb in the back area.’

The double doors squeaked as they pushed into the lobby.A man in a suit guarded the entrance to the auditorium.Ella flashed her credentials.

‘Police?’he asked.‘What’s the issue?’

‘No issue.We just need to speak with Sarah Webb.’

The guard glanced towards the glass doors that led to the main area.‘She’s giving a talk,’ he said, as though no further explanation was necessary.

‘Then we’ll meet her when she finishes.Where’s good to wait?’

‘Can I ask what this is about?’

‘Not right now.’

There was little resistance on his part, which Ella appreciated.He summoned a worker in a purple shirt and asked him to lead the way to the backstage area.Ella and Ripley followed him across a narrow walkway that hugged the perimeter of the auditorium.From here, she could see both the audience and flashes of Webb’s presentation.There were about 50 people in this 200-seater auditorium, which wasn’t a bad turn out for a Monday night, Ella reasoned.When she’d spoken at NCU a few months ago, the organizer had told her that the Monday night slot was the kiss of death because most people were at home watching the NFL.

An image lingered on the projector screen behind Webb.A grainy, faded photograph.It showed a wide stretch of pale beach under an overcast sky.A crime scene photo from the ‘98 Beachside Burials.Ella had seen it before but tried not to think about it.She had enough unsolved cases clogging up her brain capacity already.

‘The killer’s methodology reflects a profound understanding of tidal patterns,’ Webb was saying.‘Each victim was buried at precisely the correct time to ensure maximum suffering before the eventual drowning.’

Ella caught the subtle eye-roll from Ripley as they sidled towards the backstage area.Ripley had clearly heard this kind of speculative profiling before, probably had delivered some version of it herself during the original investigation, before reality had worn down the sharp edges of theoretical certainty.

When they reached the green room, which was actually just a large open space behind the stage, the purple-shirt worker said, ‘You can wait here.Is that okay?’

‘Great.Thank you.’

‘She’s due to finish about 9:30.There’s still a Q&A session to go.Do you want me to tell her you’re waiting?’

‘No,’ Ella said.‘We’ll surprise her.’

They waited.The minutes passed slower than Ella would have liked.Ten years ago, she’d have been front row with a notebook in hand.Now, she couldn’t wait for the show to finish.The main portion of Webb’s talk had concluded and now she was fielding questions about victimology and modus operandi and signature.Ella’s bread and butter, but she found herself oddly unpassionate about such things tonight.

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