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Death didn’t clock out at midnight. It didn’t take coffee breaks or call in sick. It stayed on shift long after the living had surrendered to exhaustion, working overtime in the empty spaces between heartbeats.

In room 14 of the Granville Motor Inn, Ella Dark couldn't escape its timecard.

The digital alarm clock said it was 1:47 AM. Too late to be awake, too early to call it morning. The perfect hour for doubt to sink its teeth into whatever confidence she'd managed to salvage from the day. Through the paper-thin walls, she could hear Ripley in the adjoining room. Her restless sleeping hadn’t ceased since retirement, either that or it was her muscle memory kicking in from being in a motel. Ella guessed it was the former, because Ripley was indeed stubborn enough to try and remain vigilant even in sleep.

Ella sat on her bed with the case files spread around her like the aftermath of a paper tornado. Now she had three victims to work with, three brandings, three messages.

First was the letters. L, P and G.

All signs pointed to the L representing lust. Chester Grant had been involved in a high-profile scandal, and the corresponding message at his crime scene indeed hinted that he’d been judged for his extramarital activities. The full message, according to the painting in Jeremy Caldwell’s house and Ella’s double-checking, was: The eye of the adulterer waits for the twilight, saying, 'No eye will see me,' and he covers his face. The line referred to an adulterer who waited for nightfall to avoid being caught.

Next was Evelyn Summers. Branded with a P, and admittedly, Ella had been reluctant to assign that P a name. But now, with the new letter tonight, Ella could confirm that the P must stand for pride.

Summer's accompanying message, scrawled in blood in her own book, was: No one sees me .

The full message, Ella had discovered, was: Secure in your wickedness, you said, ‘No one sees me .' The line was from Isaiah 47:10 and spoke to the sin of pride. The kind that fools you into thinking you're untouchable.

Until now, Ella had thought that no eye will see me and no one sees me were messages directly from the killer to the world. But they weren’t. The messages were bylines for the victims. Chester Grant all but got away with his transgressions, still kept his job, continued living his life without repercussion. He thought no eye saw him – until this unsub came along.

The same went for Evelyn Summers. By all accounts, the woman was a poor psychologist. She’d hidden her failures behind books and glossy photos, but the killer had seen her for who she really was. She thought no one saw who she really was, except one person.

Now Ella had Rebecca Torres. Council president. Top of the political food chain here in Granville. Probably earned a hundred enemies from her job alone.

But small-town politics wasn't a gangland paradise. Ella doubted anyone would kill Rebecca Torres just for her seat. Rebecca Torres was guilty of more than just holding a position of power, and Ella needed to find out what.

Then there was the G on her forehead. This one was a coin flip because it could either stand for greed or gluttony.

Her accompanying message, NO ONE SERVES TWO MASTERS , didn’t point to one or the other. The full proverb, from Matthew 6:24, was: No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other.

The verse nagged at her. Not just about greed or gluttony, but about divided loyalties. About trying to walk two paths at once. What had Rebecca Torres been juggling? What competing masters had she tried to serve? The answer might be sitting in her office or on her laptop, written in spreadsheets and emails that would take days to decrypt.

But they didn't have days. Somewhere in Granville, their killer was probably already choosing the next letter for their divine alphabet. And back in D.C., someone was collecting more of Ella's hair, preparing to sew shut another set of lips.

Had Edis followed through on his promise to protect the people on her list? Those thirty-six names she'd managed to scrape together represented every significant connection in her adult life. A pitifully short list for someone her age, but each name represented a life that might be snuffed out simply for knowing Ella Dark .

And what about the people she hadn't thought to list? The casual acquaintances, the faces she recognized but couldn't name, the invisible support network that formed the architecture of her daily existence without ever registering in her conscious awareness?

How many would die because she'd failed to remember them?

Her phone lay on the nightstand, and Luca's name floated at the top of her mind. Hopefully he was asleep in his old house now, far away from the roaming eyes of a mysterious predator in D.C. It would be easy to call him, even at this hour. He'd answer, voice thick with sleep but immediately alert. He'd listen as she untangled her thoughts, offering insights where appropriate, silence where necessary.

But Luca wasn't just her sounding board anymore. He was the man who slept with his arm draped over her shoulder, who knew exactly how she liked her coffee on bad days versus good ones, who had seen her at her most vulnerable and hadn't flinched. Calling him now would cross the boundary between professional consultation and emotional need, and Ella wasn't ready to admit just how much she needed him.

The clock now read 2:03 AM. Her body craved unconsciousness, but her mind refused to surrender, running endless variations of what-if scenarios that all ended the same way: with Rebecca Torres dead in an alley, branded with the letter G.

Her eyelids had grown heavy over the past hour and her thoughts becoming less linear and more associative. The way they always did right before unconsciousness claimed her. The human brain had limits that even Ella Dark couldn't override with willpower alone, and somewhere between the letter G and Torres’ laptop, the darkness she'd been fighting off finally pulled her under.