Page 85 of Girl, Fractured

Ella hung up and found herself being drawn back towards her car.She needed to see this wreckage for herself, and by some miracle, there might be a clue that pointed to Sarah’s final destination.Ella was back outside when she turned around and saw a row of porches.

She counted from the building’s edge.One, three, five, seven.The fourth patio would be apartment 7.

Robert Lawrence’s balcony and porch were right in front of her.It was a sliding glass door with vertical blinds drawn across it.One plastic chair occupied the corner, with an ashtray overflowing with butts.No plants, no decorations.

She’d come all this way to interview Robert, so she couldn’t leave with nothing.There was still a chance thatsomethingin his apartment could clue her in on Sarah’s intentions.

Did she have a warrant?No.Was she going to let that stop her?No.

Ella planted one hand on the railing, launched herself up and over, and landed on Lawrence’s patio with a soft thud.

She froze.Nothing stirred inside the apartment.

Through the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass door, she caught only darkness.Her fingers found the handle, expecting resistance.

It glided open smoothly.

Only the overconfident left their patio doors open at night, but Ella wasn’t complaining.And it made the eventual paperwork easier to fill in when the bosses asked her to clarify how she obtained access to a person of interest’s residence.

‘Robert Lawrence?FBI,’ she called out.

No response came.Combined with the darkness, Ella could safely conclude that no one was home.She grabbed her phone and switched on the flashlight.She crossed the hardwood floor and found the living room light switch next to the door.She flicked it and the room bathed in artificial brightness.

The living room was as spare as it came.A generic sofa, a coffee table littered with what looked like unpaid bills and fast-food wrappers.A large, dark television screen stared back at her like a dead eye.There was little to inspect, little to give away who Robert Lawrence – this man who’d apparently only manifested into existence five years ago – really was.

Next came the bedroom.Ella half-expected to find a sleeping Robert in the queen-sized bed, but no such luck on her part.The bed was still unmade from the last time he’d crashed here, and given the stale air, that could have been days ago.

The bathroom held nothing of note.A tiny bath, sink, toilet.A grimy cabinet with toothpaste, face cream and a razor inside.

Lastly, Ella came to a spare room.There was an exercise bike in one corner, a guitar in the other and a bookshelf lining the wall.Finally, things with personality,Ella thought.She began rummaging through the spines.

‘Know someone by what they read,’ she said.

Horror paperbacks seemed to be the dish of the day.The classics; King, Barker, Straub, followed by what Ella assumed were newbies.Amongst the horror was true crime too.She pulled one out:The Butcher of Boston: America’s Forgotten Serial Killer.The back cover bore a small, stylized logo: a black silhouette of a scarecrow against white background.Scarecrow Press.

All of Sarah Webb’s books were present too.

‘Girlfriend writes them, boyfriend publishes them,’ Ella whispered.‘Cozy little arrangement.’

Alas, there was nothing in this apartment to help her.If she wanted to find Ripley, she’d just have to put boots to the pavement and cover every damn inch of this whole town.With the help of Bauer’s men, maybe they could cover twenty miles of ground before the night was out.

Ella was about to take her leave when her peripheral vision snagged on an anomaly.

On the top shelf sat a book noticeably thinner than the others.It had been wedged between two monster hardbacks, almost purposely so, as though the aim was concealment, not display.

Ella stretched up on her toes and worked it free with her fingertips.

She stared at the cover.

For one surreal moment, her brain refused to process what she held.

The book was at least thirty years old.The glossy cover was worn at the edges.It had bright colors that seemed obscene in this monochromatic apartment.

Ella was staring at a children’s book.

But not just any children’s book.It had a purple cover – and a bookmark sticking out of the middle.

Ripley’s voice echoed in her head.

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