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‘You liked that, didn’t you?’ Ella asked.

‘A little bit.’

The Granville precinct didn’t have a dedicated interrogation room, so they’d commandeered an office that had a lock on the outside. Jeremy Caldwell could break the windows and climb out if he was desperate enough, but Ella doubted he’d get far given the sea of armed cops on the other side.

‘How’s your hand?’

Ripley said, ‘Still attached. How’s yours?’

‘I’m uninjured, for once. Don’t let this guy know that you’re not a real agent, by the way.’

‘Technically, it was just two civilians fighting,’ Ripley said. ‘The law’s in my favor.’

Ella stared at Jeremy Caldwell through the glass. It wasn’t one-way glass, but Caldwell was pretending he couldn’t see Ella and Ripley regardless. The shame of being captured – in front of audience no less – was clearly too much for him.

Westfall strode up with a grin on his face and a stack of papers under his arm. He slapped them into Ella's hands.

‘Autopsy reports for Grant and Summers. Coroner has narrowed down their times of death.’

Ella speed-read the contents. ‘10PM Monday night for Grant. 1AM Thursday morning for Summers.’

Ripley said, ‘So if Caldwell can’t confirm his whereabouts for these times, we’ve got cause to hold him for as long as we like.’

‘Do you know who Caldwell is, detective? Has he ever popped up on your radar?’

‘I’ve seen his record, but I don’t remember him.’ Westfall nodded at Ripley. ‘Heard you took him down real good.’

‘It was alright.’

‘She’s downplaying it,’ Ella said. ‘Ripley 3:16 kicked his ass .’

‘Good one. Still, innocent people don’t run. Especially not through packed tents. ’

‘No, they don't.’ Ella traced the shape of Caldwell's outline. Could this be him? She imagined the crime scenes, and Caldwell's profile slotted perfectly into both of them. He wasn't the most physically imposing guy in the world, so he'd naturally be more inclined to go for an abrupt kill. He had religious delusions, the link to Summers, the need for medication, and a message from one of the crime scenes literally hanging on his wall.

'No one sees me,' Ripley said, as if reading her mind. It still amazed Ella how she did that. If Ella wasn't so scientifically inclined, she'd think Ripley had some ability the rest of the world didn't.

‘Yeah. It’s circumstantial evidence, but it’s good circumstantial evidence.’

‘The only kind that actually holds up in court.’

‘That and the link to Summers are the best shots we’ve got, so let’s zone in on them.’

Westfall said, ‘I’ve got two guys checking out Caldwell’s place right now. Anything you want me to tell them?’

'If they could find a branding iron, that would be ideal,' Ella said. 'But I doubt we'll get that lucky. Tell them to look for keys or documentation for a garage or storage unit he might own. Caldwell might be a criminal, but he's no dummy, so he wouldn't keep his murder tools in his house.'

Westfall nodded and stepped away to make the call. Caldwell raised his head suddenly, as if he'd heard them through the glass. There was no malice in his expression, just something adjacent to confusion, or a damn good imitation of it.

‘You want to take the lead?’ Ella asked Ripley.

‘Do I hell. This is all yours.’

Ella nodded slowly. Caldwell was clearly a religious zealot, which made him both the perfect suspect and, paradoxically, almost too perfect. In her experience, the real monsters rarely advertised their darkness so openly. But then again, sometimes the obvious answer was the right one. Sometimes a guy who scrawled Bible verses after branding sinners really was exactly what he appeared to be.

The case could be over. They could wrap it up neat and clean, go home heroes. Ella could get back to DC and deal with whoever was framing her there.

But there was, of course, the ever-present nagging in her gut that wouldn’t quieten down .

Ripley tapped Ella on the shoulder. 'Ready to make him confess his sins? Oh, the irony.'

‘Something like that. Let’s find out if Brother Jeremy practices what he preaches.’

***

Ella sat close enough to Jeremy Caldwell to smell the same incense he’d been burning in his apartment. His cheap blue button-down had acquired a constellation of blood spatters – his own – that fanned across the left collar. Ripley's punch had left its signature in purples and blues across his jaw.

‘Beginning interview,’ Ella said. ‘Agent Ripley, please turn on the recorder.’

Ripley pushed the button on the recording device and placed it in the middle of the table.

‘Mr. Caldwell, you know why you're here,’ Ella said.

‘Do I?’ His voice was raspier than it had been at the revival tent, as if the chase had scraped something raw in his throat. Or maybe it was just fear, drying him from the inside out.

‘Give me a clue. Why do you think you’re here?’

‘Because I’m not a real minister.’

‘What?’

‘Call it what you like. Minister, priest, reverend. I’m not one.’

Ella and Ripley exchanged a glance. ‘Why would we arrest you for that?’

‘Why wouldn’t you arrest me for that?’

She took in Caldwell’s body language at a glance. Nothing suggested he was putting on an act, but the best psychopaths always made it look natural.

‘Jeremy, we’re the FBI.’

‘And?’

‘We hunt murderers, terrorists, actual criminals. You can call yourself the Pope for all we care.’

Caldwell turned and looked out into the precinct as though a camera crew might jump out of hiding and shout gotcha. He tested the strength of the chains around his wrists and found they were, in fact, unbreakable. ‘So why’d you chase me through the fairground? ’

‘Chases only happen when one person runs. Are you telling us you ran because you thought we were concerned about your lack of priesthood credentials?’

‘Yes.’

Ripley cut in, ‘Sorry Jeremy, but that sounds like a lie.’

‘It’s not!’

By Ella's deduction, Caldwell seemed to be unaware of the severity of his situation. It also took a special kind of ego to assume the biggest law enforcement agency in America cared about a small-town religious nut's designations. Either that, or he was trying to weasel his way out of this by acting the fool.

‘Let’s cut to the chase. You were a patient of Dr. Evelyn Summers, weren’t you?’

‘Yes I am.’

Ella cursed under her breath. She’d tried to catch him out with the old past tense trick. ‘How’s that going?’

‘Good,’ Caldwell smiled. ‘Lots of pills, but it keeps me out of trouble.’

‘Those sessions don’t come cheap, do they?’

‘No, but I make okay money now. Through my online channel. Have you seen it?’

‘Afraid not. When did you last see Dr. Summers?’

'Yesterday. 2 PM. We had a one-hour session. Why?'

Ella nudged Ripley. Her partner pulled out a folder from under the desk. She opened it up and showed Caldwell the top photograph. It was Dr. Summers’ body in her office cabin.

‘Because someone killed Dr. Summers last night.’

Caldwell's response was immediate and visceral. The blood evacuated his face so rapidly that the bruising along his jaw stood out in violent contrast. His pupils dilated, swallowing the pale blue of his irises. For three full seconds, he stopped breathing entirely.

‘What the….?’

Ella tracked every microexpression that crossed Caldwell's face. The initial shock appeared genuine. The momentary cessation of breathing, the autonomic vascular response, the unconscious recoil. These weren't easy reactions to fake, not even for the most accomplished psychopaths. The human body always betrayed itself in crisis, regardless of what mask the mind attempted to wear .

‘Yes, Dr. Summers is dead, but that’s not all.’ She nudged Ripley again and a photo of Dr. Summers book appeared, complete with its blood writing on the cover. The photograph had been cropped tightly to the bloody script, deliberately framed to exclude surrounding details that might provide context. ‘Someone left this message.’

Caldwell leaned in, eyes narrowed, lips shaking a little. ‘No one sees me. That’s Isiah 47:10.’

‘We know. We saw this same proverb in your apartment.’

Surprise rippled across Caldwell’s face like a stone dropped in still water. The distress of knowing that his therapist was dead seemed to have quickly vanished, now replaced with concern that he was a suspect in her murder. ‘My apartment? Where?’

‘There’s a painting of a city in your living room. There are some proverbs written underneath. This is one of them.’

'Oh, that.' Recognition smoothed some of the alarm from his face. His shoulders lowered a fraction, the involuntary relaxation that came with explanation rather than obfuscation. 'I only got that last week. I've barely looked at it.'

Ella tilted her head slightly, recalibrating. The timeline was interesting. Recent acquisition, not long-term devotion to that particular scripture. Whoever this killer was, they’d been planning this mission for a long time.

‘You're saying it's new to your collection?’

‘It’s not a collection if it’s just one painting.’ Caldwell’s chains clinked on the table. ‘Wait a minute, you think I killed Dr. Summers? And wrote Isiah 47:10 on the walls?’

It wasn’t the walls, Ella thought. It was in her book. Was Caldwell playing her, or was he genuinely not involved in this? Right now, Ella was in two minds. Ella had interviewed enough guilty people to recognize authentic confusion when she saw it. Caldwell's reaction didn't fit the profile of a man caught in his own clever game.

‘The coincidence is rather striking,’ Ripley said. ‘Your therapist ends up dead with your favorite Bible verse written at the scene.’

‘It's not my favorite verse,’ Caldwell protested. ‘I barely knew it before I bought that painting. I liked the image. It’s Babylon.’

Ella exchanged a quick glance with Ripley. Truth often had a specific cadence to it, a rhythm of details that flowed naturally rather than being constructed for effect. Caldwell's explanation had that same quality. It had the meandering specificity of actual memory rather than the streamlined narrative of fabrication.

She decided to try again from a different angle. ‘What about Chester Grant? Local professor. Heard of him?’

‘No.’ Caldwell snuck a glimpse of Dr. Summers’ death pose again. ‘Why is there a... P? On her forehead?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Any ideas?’ Ripley asked.

‘I don’t know. This is insane,’ he whispered. ‘I didn't do this. I couldn't have.’

‘Why not?’ Ella's question was simple. It was an invitation for Caldwell to provide something beyond mere denial.

His eyes met hers, and in them she saw something she hadn't expected: not the calculated innocence of a skilled liar, but the genuine bewilderment of someone watching their world transform into something unrecognizable.

‘Because Dr. Summers was helping me,’ he said quietly. ‘She was the only one who saw me as more than my mistakes. Why would I kill the one person who believed I could be better?’

It was a good question. One that had been scratching at the edges of Ella's certainty since they'd first connected Caldwell to the case. If Summers was truly helping Caldwell, his motivation for murder grew considerably more complex. Less straightforward than religious zealotry run amok.

'Let's establish your whereabouts, Mr. Caldwell,' Ella said, shifting tracks. 'Where were you Monday night around 10 PM?'

Caldwell straightened slightly, as if relieved to have a question he could answer with certainty. 'Monday night, I was at New Life Church with Pastor Mitchell. We've been preparing all week for the revival. Monday was especially late.

‘Until what time?’

'Past midnight. Pastor Mitchell drove me home around 1 AM because my car's in the shop.'

Ella made a mental note. The timing was precise and easily verifiable. 'And what about last night? Early Thursday morning, around 1 AM?'

Caldwell's face tightened. ‘I was home. Online.’

‘Alone?’ Ripley asked.

'Alone, but… I was streaming. Live streaming on my ch annel. I do late-night prayer sessions every Wednesday. It went from midnight until almost 3 AM.'

Ella's eyebrows lifted slightly. If true, it was the kind of alibi that came with dozens of digital witnesses and an unalterable timestamp. ‘Your channel has viewers at that hour?’

‘Between sixty and a hundred usually. Insomniacs, night shift workers, people in different time zones.’ A hint of pride crept into his voice. ‘I keep the chat open, respond to prayer requests in real-time. The whole thing is archived on the channel.’

‘What's the channel called?’ Ripley asked.

‘New Light Ministries. It's on YouTube and ChristianConnect.’

Ella committed the names to memory. Digital alibis were becoming increasingly common, and without them, there’d be a lot more wrongful convictions out there.

‘We'll verify that,’ she said. ‘The streams can't be pre-recorded or edited?’

‘Not livestreams. I'm responding to the chat the whole time. You can see the timestamps of the questions and my answers.’ Caldwell sat back slightly, a fraction of tension leaving his shoulders. ‘You can’t fake them.’

Ripley made a skeptical sound. ‘Technology makes anything possible.’

‘Even Jesus couldn’t be in two places at once.’

Ella studied Caldwell with renewed interest. Two solid alibis. Combined with his apparently genuine shock at seeing the photographs, the case against him was beginning to fracture.

But before she went to check out his alibis, Ella was going to milk everything she could from this man.

‘Jeremy, let’s say we believe you. I need to ask; do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt Dr. Summers?’

Caldwell shook his head, vehement. ‘I don’t know anyone else who knows her. She’s science, I’m faith. Our paths never crossed outside her office.’

‘Think harder,’ Ripley interjected. ‘Did she ever mention feeling threatened? Uncomfortable with anyone?’

‘We didn't talk about her life. She kept it professional.’ Caldwell shifted in his seat. ‘Our sessions were about my problems, not hers.’

Ella tracked his subtle movements as he accessed different memory centers. He seemed to be genuinely searching, not constructing or deflecting.

‘What about your circles, then? The revival crowd, your prison ministry. Anyone there seem a little too eager to cast the first stone?’

Caldwell twitched. ‘No. They’re good people.’

Ella hadn't played this game for as long as she had without learning to spot the tells. The way Caldwell's gaze slid left, the tic in his jaw. He was holding something back.

‘You sure about that?’

‘Yeah.’

She sized him up, then leaned across the table. ‘Jeremy, one of the first things they teach you in the FBI academy is how to spot a liar.’

Caldwell pushed back on his chair. ‘And?’

‘And all signs point to you telling the truth – at least up until now. There’s a twitch in your jaw that wasn’t there earlier. Your feet just shifted to face the door. Your shoulders have tensed up. Hell, my partner here can tell everything about you just from your thumb.’

Caldwell turned to Ripley, then inspected his thumb like he was just seeing it for the first time. ‘Really?’

‘Really,’ said Ripley.

He spread his hands on the table. ‘What’s my thumb say about me?’

Ripley barely glanced at it. ‘The toughened skin at the tip means you used to work a manual job once upon a time. Welding, maybe. You’ve trimmed your nails on every other finger except your thumbs, which means you get anxious when you’re alone. And something about it tells me you used to play the clarinet. But not anymore.’

The defensiveness that had tightened his features moments before gave way to admiration. It wasn’t the wide-eyed awe of someone witnessing a grand illusion, but the quieter recognition of expertise. He regarded Ripley with a new expression, reassessing the woman who'd bloodied his face and now dissected his character through the topography of his thumb.

‘How’d you know about the clarinet?’

‘Lucky guess.’

Ella studied Caldwell’s thumbs herself, and she could see the toughened skin and bitten nails. But desire for marriage? That little nugget was beyond observable evidence. Ella didn’t want to know how Ripley did it. Better to let it remain one of her inscrutable talents .

Caldwell stuffed his hands under the table, probably wondering what other secrets his body was giving away. ‘It was demolition, not welding.’

‘Point is, two people are dead, Jeremy. And if you want to get married one day, you can’t do it from inside a prison cell.’

‘Well, you can,’ Ripley said, ‘but you wouldn’t want to.’

'So if you know anyone who might have done this, it's in your best interests to tell us because you're our number one suspect.'

Silence stretched. Caldwell's throat worked as he swallowed. Then he glanced up at the ceiling, like he was asking permission before confessing.

‘There was... a man. At a support group I attended.’

Ella's heart kicked against her ribs. Finally . ‘What kind of support group?’

‘For... people with religious experiences. People who'd heard voices, had visions, that kind of thing. The line between divine revelation and psychosis can be... blurry.’

‘You’re not kidding. And?’

‘The groups were led by this guy. Very charismatic. He could talk the hind legs off a donkey, but there was something about him. Something off.’

‘Off how?’

‘Well, at first, he seemed okay. Standard testimony stuff. But after a few meetings, he crept into no-no territory. There are some things we don’t talk about.’

‘Like?’

Caldwell’s eyes saw something distant. Something beyond the room. ‘First it was things about cleansing, purification. Things that might make you think it was 1940 again. Then he started talking about confessions.’

‘Confessions? How do you mean?’

'Things people have revealed to him during confessional. Priests aren't supposed to do that. Then he'd use those people as examples and say they deserved to burn in hell.'

A chill walked down Ella's spine. The hairs on her neck stood at attention. This was it. This was the lead they needed.

‘What was this guy’s name?’

‘He didn’t have one.’

Ella cocked a brow. ‘He didn’t have a name? ’

‘I mean, he did, but he never told us what it was. He called himself Lazarus.’

‘What’d he look like?’

‘Wide. Like a tank. Jet black hair, always greased. Well-dressed. Always wore a brown suit.’

‘Tattoos? Identifiable marks?’

Caldwell wet his lips. ‘None that I remember.’

‘Got it. And he was a priest, you say?’

‘I don’t know. He said people confessed to him, but there are lots of places to do that these days. Doesn’t have to be in churches.’

Ripley asked, ‘And where did these meetings happen?’

‘St. Augustine's Community Center. The basement. Every Thursday night. The group was called Baptism Of Fire.’

Ella’s feet were itching. She needed to get out of here and find this Lazarus gentleman. ‘When did you last see him?’

‘Not since last year, now.’

‘And you’d recognize him if you saw him again?’

‘Definitely.’

Ella gathered her papers and nodded to Ripley. They had a silhouette now. Not yet a face, but a shape moving in darkness. Ella was all but convinced that Jeremy Caldwell was not their unsub, which meant the hunt would continue, and the next stop on the tour might just be a community center basement.