Page 60 of Girl, Deceived

Ella had asked and she had received. She felt like she’d crossed a boundary of some sort. ‘Did you never question him?’

Ripley went back to her laptop. ‘No, I never got the chance. Like I said, bullets in the head create problems.’

Ella felt a twinge of guilt, regretting ever prying into Ripley's past, but it had enlivened something in her. ‘Sorry, Mia. I had no idea.’

‘It’s fine. You deserve to know. Now get us caffeine.’

‘On it, captain. Let’s fuel up then forge our path out of here.’

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Ella had walked and walked, and try as she might, could not locate a single coffee shop around these parts. She now found herself walking parallel with the Huntington River, a serene landmark that helped settle her thoughts into something coherent. Buildings grew sparse, replaced by stretches of green and the gentle lapping sounds of water against the bank. Every now and then, a rower would glide by, their paddles breaking the water's stillness, or a couple would be walking their dog, the animal excitedly sniffing around, pulling its owners along. Yearnings for caffeine had now been replaced by a desire to see the world as the unsub saw it, warts and all.

Three victims over three nights, all young women, all resembling final girls in one way or another. At each crime scene, he’d left a mask behind. This was his signature.

He had filmed each of his murders, or at least portions of them. He was confident in revealing these videos to the police through underhanded means, which meant he was either cunning or reckless. Every death had occurred through different killing methods – something almost entirely unheard of in the realm of serial homicide. To Ella’s knowledge, there hadn’t been a single serial killer in history who’d altered their modus operandi with every single killing.

It was not the serial killer’s design. They chose their preferred method and stuck with it, only changing things up to experiment or appease their evolving urges.

‘For the first two murders, he was not a serial killer,’ Ella said. ‘He was merely playing the role of one.’

As she walked, the soft whisper of the river served as a backdrop to her thoughts. In her mind's eye, Ella played the haunting scenes over and over. The victims, the masks, the macabre signature. The echoing screams, the twisted pleasure in his eyes as he watched the life drain out of each victim.

Ella stopped for a moment, leaning against the railing and gazing into the water. The river reflected the evening hues, a shimmering mirror of the world above. She saw her reflection distorted by the ripples. It made her think of how everyone had multiple facets, layers beneath what was presented to the world.

Far in the distance, she saw the old cabins, the scene of Kathleen Carter’s death. Ella moved closer to them, drawn to them. She knew the killer had returned to the scene the day after he killed Kathleen, but she doubted he’d come back. Besides, they now had a cop at every scene for that very reason, and none of them had reported any suspicious activity.

Ella recalled the finer details, the nuances that cinema-goers would overlook on first watch, then realize the truth had been in front of them the whole time. She thought of the unsub's video, the one where he impaled Jessica Owen with a rifle. She'd heard his voice on that clip, but it was so indistinct that it couldn't be traced.

I’m going to finish what we started, he’d said.

Was it just a throwaway comment? A one-liner before committing his first ever homicide? Perhaps it was a nod to the fact he'd been stalking Jessica Owen for a while?

No. This unsub was too careful for that. Every detail had been meticulously planned out beforehand. After all, he was following his own script.

Now that Ella thought about it, the chances that the killer had literally written all of this out in a script was very high.

Closer to the cabins, she relished the flow of the river. With its constant motion, it seemed to mirror the constant churn of thoughts in her mind. The ebb and flow of water, like the ebb and flow of memories and theories. Ella felt that she was onto something, a thread that might lead her to the very core of the unsub's psyche.

‘If hehaswritten a script, what would that make him? A scriptwriter? A visionary?’ Ella was talking aloud but to herself. On the other side of the river, the cabins came into view. Three old wooden shacks in an off-center line, exteriors having eroded from time and river swells.

What had the coroner said again?

I'm not sure if you're familiar with the history of those cabins, but back in the day, they were part of a film set. A film was shot there in the eighties. The production wrapped up, and the cabins were never destroyed. Instead, they've just been left there, decaying over time. It was just a B-movie horror film, if memory serves me correctly.

She’d looked into movie and found it was some forgotten exploitation piece. Supernatural horror with a religious angle – nothing to do with the current goings-on. The location might be symbolic of something, but the old movie itself was irrelevant.

Ella stood still, the world around her fading into a hazy background. The weight of the investigation burdened her, but in this moment, she felt the grip of its hands beginning to loosen.

Her brow furrowed, deep lines etching across her forehead. The corners of her mouth turned down slightly, not in frustration, but in deep concentration. Every clue, every piece of evidence, every statement swirled in her mind like individual pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, desperately seeking their rightful place. Her fingers tapped rhythmically on her thigh, an outward expression of the rapid cadence of thoughts within. The whispering wind and the distant hum of the city disappeared, replaced by the silent echo of her thoughts ricocheting off one another. Eyes unfocused, she delved deep into the recesses of her mind, trying to connect the dots.

It was as if the answer was right there, teasingly hovering at the edge of her consciousness. Obvious, yet elusive. Her breaths became shallower, each inhalation pulling her closer to that critical realization, each exhalation pushing away the unnecessary clutter.

Then, as if a switch had been flicked, a light went on. The pieces snapped together, forming a clear image.

In horror movies, secrets were often hidden in plain view from the beginning.

Ella's mind was alive with electricity, every neuron firing rapidly. It was like a storm inside her head; blinding flashes of understanding and resonant claps of realization. The sensation was almost dizzying, but she welcomed it, letting it wash over her.

---