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The Granville Police Department looked like it had been built in an era when crime meant bootlegging and public indecency, then never quite evolved past that point. Now in their office for the foreseeable future, Ella plopped herself into a chair that leaned dangerously to the left.

‘At least they gave us a window,’ Ripley said.

They had a crystal view of the Kitty Kat Club across the road, which promised GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS in electric pink letters. Nothing said small-town vice quite like a strip club next to a police station.

Ripley had claimed the other desk, and Ella couldn't help but marvel at how naturally her old partner slipped back into the role. Five months of pruning rosebushes and chasing a toddler around a garden, and here she was, sorting crime scene photos like she'd never left.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Ella said.

‘You’re thinking out loud again.’

‘You could be watching daytime TV right now, but you’re in a grimy office in Ohio.’

‘Can’t grow raspberries in winter, and Max doesn’t finish nursery until next week. Let’s just say I’ve got nothing better to do.’

Ella doubted that. Ripley had spent the better half of their time together longing for retirement, so Ella still couldn’t grasp her decision to return. ‘What about your badge and gun?’

Ripley lowered the police report she was reading. ‘I don’t have – nor want – either. I’m not a federal employee, and we don’t have time to make me one again. Any bullets are going to have to come from you.’

‘Deal. What about clothes? Did you pack any?’

‘No. I need to go shopping while we’re here.’ Ripley checked her watch. ‘Actually, I better go now. You okay for an hour or two?’

‘Yeah. I’m going to dig into our vics’ lives and see if there’s any overlap.’

‘Before you get lost in this case, write up a list of everyone you know and send it to Edis. ’

Ella’s eyebrows slammed into her hairline. ‘Everyone I know?’

‘Yeah. Everyone that lives in D.C. anyway. Anyone who might be in danger.’

‘I already texted everyone I could think of. I told them to stay alert. What else can I do? I can’t put them all in safe houses.’ Ella decided not to tell Ripley that it was a pathetically-short list. Had her social circle always been this small, or was it a symptom of age?

‘Doesn’t matter. Edis can get cops out to them and give them the rundown.’

‘But where do I start? Where do I finish? I barely knew my landlord.’

‘Then it’s going to be a long list. The sooner you get it done, the sooner we can find this branding son of a bitch, yes?’

Ella watched Ripley collect her bag. The woman still had that economy of motion, that implicit understanding that in their line of work, everything was a zero-sum game. Time spent on one thing meant time taken from another. Emotional investment here meant emotional withdrawal there. Her brief retirement might have softened her skin, but her core was still titanium.

'Fine,' Ella said. 'Go and buy some clothes, you hobo.'

Ripley strode out of the room and left Ella alone. She mentally ran through everything they had so far; two victims, two letters, two messages.

NO EYE WILL SEE ME.

NO ONE SEES ME.

What connected a literature professor and a psychologist? Why brand one with L and one with P? Who was next in this strange alphabet, and most importantly, how could it help Ella catch the perp?

The answers lay somewhere in the lives of the deceased, perhaps in the intersection between their professional personas and private failings.

But first, the list.

Ella opened a new document. The cursor blinked accusingly at her, waiting for names. How many people in D.C. might be in danger because they'd had the misfortune of knowing Ella Dark?

She began to type the first name.

Luca Hawkins.

** *

Much to Ella's surprise, concocting a list of everyone she knew in D.C. had been disturbingly easy. Her social circle was less of a circle and more of a sad geometric anomaly with 36 sides, because that was how names she could come up with.

After the obvious names – Luca, Ripley, her aunt, some people from the Bureau and one her old employers, the well quickly ran dry. She'd never been one to accumulate social connections for the sake of it, but seeing it laid out so starkly renewed her appreciation for Ripley's reappearance. Some of the names on the list were questionable, too. Did she really know her butcher? She wasn’t sure if his name was Paul or Peter, but she’d spoken to him multiple times in the past few months. Did that qualify him as an acquaintance?

Ella sent the list to Edis along with a brief note explaining that these were all the people she could recall having significant contact with in D.C. over the past year. At least he couldn't accuse her of being too popular.

With her list of potential victims compiled and dispatched, Ella turned her attention to the two corpses that had brought her to Ohio. Chester Grant and Evelyn Summers. Professor and psychologist. L and P. No eye will see me versus no one sees me .

Ella pulled up the files Westfall had sent over. Credit card statements, phone records, utility bills, tax records – all the paperwork of lives that no longer existed. She began scouring Grant’s records first, and quickly discovered that his spending habits painted a portrait of scholarly austerity. $80 on groceries per week, no subscriptions, no routine splurges, nothing out of the ordinary.

She switched to Summers' records. More of the same mundane patterns but with a few forays into excess. Clothes boutiques, restaurants with names Ella couldn’t pronounce, subscriptions to every streaming service in existence.

Ella soon determined that Chester Grant and Evelyn Summers’ lives intersected only in the vaguest sense of geography; they shopped at different stores, filled their tanks at different gas stations, operated in different tax brackets. If they'd ever so much as driven down the same street, their Visas didn't show it. Any connection they might have had didn’t leave a paper trail .

Maybe social media would provide some answers. Ella typed Dr. Evelyn Summers' name into Facebook and was rewarded with an easy hit. She clicked into it.

Summers’ page was clearly crafted for maximum self-promotion. It was an endless barrage of professional photos and constant updates, so much so that Ella wondered where she found time to fit in her day job. Her posts contained just enough self-deprecating humor to mask the obvious grandiosity. Just finished another marathon writing session on the new book! Coffee is my co-author at this point. #WriterLife #Psychology #SelfHelp . Ella thought it would be in bad taste to cringe at a dead woman's Facebook posts, but impulse won over sensitivity.

Ella scrolled through Summers' friends list and scanned for any connection to Chester Grant but the professor's name didn't appear. She tried a direct search for Grant on Facebook but came up empty. Either he didn't have an account, or it was under a different name.

Next, she tried every other social media platform she could think of. Dr. Summers had a presence on all of them. Chester Grant didn’t.

She moved to the police database. A search for Evelyn Summers came up empty. Then she threw in Chester Grant’s name.

One match.

No criminal record. No restraining orders. No court appearances.

Except – a divorce filing from eighteen months ago.

Ella clicked in. The addendum loaded.

Petitioner (Claudia Grant) contends that Respondent (Chester Grant) did knowingly and willfully engage in an extramarital affair with a student at his place of employment (Denison University). Said affair was conducted without discretion and became a matter of public knowledge, causing Petitioner significant emotional distress and social embarrassment.

Ella's pulse picked up. She typed ‘Chester Grant affair scandal’ into the search bar and waited for the algorithms to work their magic.

The results spilled across her screen in a torrent of schadenfreude and moralizing. The story had made its way across state lines given that places like NBC and CNN had briefly covered it. Ella read the first article on the list, and it claimed that Chester Grant, tenured professor of Medieval Literature, had engaged in a romantic and sexual relationship with a 24 graduate student in his department .

A sudden connection sparked in her brain, and she was about to call Ripley when her partner materialized in the doorway, arms laden with boxes.

‘Jesus, Mia. How much stuff did you buy?’

‘This isn’t my new clothes, you gimp. It’s evidence from Evelyn Summers’ office. Forensics have finished with it.’

Ella noticed Ripley had changed clothes. The cream sweater was gone, replaced by a charcoal turtleneck and dark jeans that made her look like the agent she'd been five months ago. The civilian disguise was slipping away by the hour.

‘I miss the Grandma Ripley getup,’ Ella said, nodding at the outfit. ‘The evidence clean?’

‘As a whistle, but that doesn’t mean we can’t use it.’ Ripley planted the boxes on the desk and slowly removed the contents. There were pens, Dr. Summers’ book and endless pieces of paper, each one individually wrapped in plastic.

‘Summers’ therapy notes?’ Ella asked.

‘Yup.’

‘Hmm. And reading them would violate multiple privacy laws, I guess?’

‘No. Not unless things have changed since I’ve been gone.’

‘They haven’t.’

'Well, in this case, we wouldn't be reading a victim's therapy notes. We'd be perusing evidence that was in plain sight during a homicide.'

Ella caught on to Ripley's implication. These therapy notes had evolved from private records to evidence in the wake of Summers’ death, and if that evidence happened to shed light on Summers' client list, including anyone who might have had motive to kill her, well, that was just good police work. If it led to a capture, then the ends would justify the means.

Ripley continued, ‘We could obtain this paperwork legally, but it would take days.’

‘Good thinking.’ There was something beautiful about Ripley’s elegant dance between legality and necessity. Ella had missed this particular brand of moral gymnastics. ‘By the way, I figured something out while you were gone.’

‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

Ella tapped her screen. ‘Chester Grant had an affair with one of his students. It was pretty big news.’

‘Guess we were too busy with serial killers to hear about that.’

‘Yeah, so think about that. What did the killer brand on Grant’s forehead?’

‘L.’

‘L for Lust,’ Ella said.

Ripley’s face lit up. ‘Lust. Damn. That could be it. Maybe our unsub thinks he’s God with a branding iron.’

‘Right? So we need to find his ex-wife. And the girl he had an affair with.’

Her partner tapped the boxes. ‘You dive into Summers’ dirty laundry. Leave the admin to me. I’ll find Grant’s harem. Nothing makes a woman talk faster than the chance to piss on her cheating husband's grave.’

‘Deal. I’ll look through Summers’ stuff, see if I can find any link to Grant in there. Or anyone who sent up red flags.’

‘Yeah. Boundary-crossers. Control freaks. Someone who thinks they got the moral authority to brand foreheads.’

The revelations buzzed under her skin like a chemical high. This was the part she lived for, when the pieces started slotting together and the bigger picture swam into focus.

This killer had a body count of two, and Ella was going to make sure it stayed that way.