Page 35 of Girl, Fractured

‘We had… a group.’

Ella’s eyebrows climbed her forehead.‘What kind of group?’

‘I guess you could say we were amateur investigators.We’d look into cold cases, things like that.’

‘But you’re a journalist,’ Ripley said.‘Shouldn’t you be doing that kind of stuff anyway?’

‘No.Well, yes, but I’m a freelance journalist, and journalism is dead.I strive for integrity, but people don’t care about integrity anymore.We’re competing with sensationalist pieces, opinion pieces, podcasts, YouTube videos, documentaries, mini-series.’

Ella couldn’t argue.Despite the tangent, Sarah Webb had a point.Just a couple of months ago when Ella had caught the Laughing Stock killer, the details had made YouTube before it hit the New York Times.

‘What’s your point?’Mia asked, clearly still having not warmed up to this woman.

‘That I’m not a journalist anymore.I’m just an amateur investigator.I live off my books.’

‘Okay, fine.Tell us about this group,’ Ella said.

‘There are only six of us, but we help each other out.We share theories, use each other’s resources, that kind of thing.’

‘What’s the name of this group?’

‘The White Whale Club.’

Ripley laughed.‘White whales, huh?And yours is the ‘98 Beach Burials, I assume.’

‘Correct.Frank’s was Jennifer Marlowe.Diana’s is the Ferryman.All the cases we work on are in Florida too.’

‘The Ferryman,’ Ella repeated.‘I know that one.’

She accessed the grim file stored away in her memory.The Ferryman was an uncaught serial killer from Jacksonville.In 2001, he’d decapitated three women in their homes.All of the bodies were discovered floating in the ponds or swimming pools in their gardens.Their heads were never found.The only concrete connection the police ever made was one morbid staging detail; each victim had some kind of water feature in their backyard.

‘Yes.Diana worked the case when it happened.’

‘Right.And Frank was a card-carrying member of this White Whales Group?’

‘Yes he was.’

Ella felt the case shift beneath her feet.Amateurs playing detective.The thought should have irritated her more than it did.But the FBI wouldn’t exist without civilian tip lines, without people who noticed what professionals missed.

Still, a group dedicated to cold cases meant a concentrated pool of individuals who knew about Jennifer Marlowe, about white stones, about Frank’s obsession.The suspect and victim lists had just expanded and contracted simultaneously.Six people with intimate knowledge of the case that had haunted Frank Sullivan for half a century.Six people with access to crime scene photos, to witness statements, to the signature detail that had shown up in Frank’s own murder.

‘Frank spoke about the Marlowe case freely to this group?’

‘Very much so.But I don’t think he wanted help solving it.’

‘No?’

‘No.Frank just wanted to talk about it.He understood better than anyone that it was unsolvable.’

Ella watched Webb’s hands as they twisted together.Nails trimmed.Writer’s callus on the middle finger of her right hand.People still wrote longhand, apparently.No wedding ring.

‘We need names of everyone in your group.’

Sarah’s face clouded.‘I wish I could give you complete information, but I’m new to the group.Only joined about eight months ago.’

‘But you must know their names,’ Ripley pressed.

‘First names, sure.Diana, Jeremy, Gus, Michael, Tracy, Elliott.But beyond that...’She shrugged.‘We meet at Diana’s house, and most of our communication happens through an app.Privacy is kind of the point.’

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