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Rebecca Torres' office didn't look like it belonged to a dead woman. It looked like its occupant had just stepped out for coffee and might return any second to catch Ella rifling through her things. And unlike Frank's casual admissions on the deck this morning, nothing in the office openly screamed corruption.

Ella felt that peculiar vacuum that forms when someone exits the world without warning. Not just the absence of Torres herself, but the absence of a thousand small sounds she would have made. Heels clicking on the floor, rustling papers, the soft exhale of someone accustomed to power.

Torres’ desk calendar showed appointments scheduled through next week. The computer screen saver cycled through photos of Torres shaking hands with men in expensive suits. An empty mug sat on a coaster with a lipstick print on its rim. Rebecca Torres was still performing, even from beyond the grave.

The office itself was a performance, too. It was a display of what Rebecca Torres had wanted people to see. Dark mahogany desk positioned to catch the morning light at the most flattering angle. Degrees and certificates arranged on the wall. Family photos positioned where visitors could see them, not where Torres herself might glance at them during the day.

Ella crossed to the window and looked down at the alleyway where Rebecca Torres had been transformed from person to evidence. Yellow evidence markers still dotted the scene, and her blood had dried dark brown. Strange, seeing a murder scene from the victim's last vantage point. Had Rebecca looked out this window in her final hours, unknowingly surveying the spot where she'd bleed out?

She turned away from the window, surveyed the room again and landed on Torres' bookshelf. People revealed themselves through what they chose to read. Or at least through what they wanted others to think they read. Ella inspected a few spines and found the usual suspects. The Art of War. The Prince. Power: Why Some Have It and Others Don't. In a perfect world, she'd find Evelyn Summers' book amongst them, but life rarely offered such gift-wrapped connections. The shelves yielded no such link.

‘Agent Dark?’

A young woman stood in the doorway, her body half-in, half-out of the room as if uncertain she had permission to enter. The woman had a folder under her arm.

‘That's me.’

‘Got those files you asked for. The minutes for Friday meetings from June through August.’

Ella took the stack. ‘How many meetings?’

‘Three. The council only met on first Fridays of the month during summer.’ The woman twisted her hands together. ‘I can't believe she's really gone. I mean, I saw the news, but being in her office...’

‘I know it's difficult.’ Ella studied the young woman. There was actual grief there, not just professional courtesy. ‘How long did you work for Mrs. Torres?’

‘Two years. She was...’ Her voice caught. ‘She wasn't always easy to work for, but she taught me a lot.’

About what, Ella wondered. Creative accounting? The fine art of municipal graft? But that wasn't fair. Rebecca Torres might have been corrupt, but she'd still been human. Still inspired loyalty in some people.

‘The empty office next door is free if you want to review those.’

‘Perfect. Thank you.’

***

Ella quickly learned that the human mind wasn't designed to process fifty-six pages of municipal meeting minutes in a single sitting. She now knew the excruciating vocabulary of municipal bureaucracy better than she ever wanted to. Who knew local government could generate so many words while saying so little? References to subsection this, amendment that. Motions carried, motions denied. Death by procedural minutiae.

‘Moved to approve... seconded... carried unanimously,’ Ella muttered, rubbing her eyes. ‘Jesus Christ.’

The minutes read like an encyclopedia of pointlessness. Discussions about parking meter rates. Debates over the appropriate width of bike lanes. An eighteen-minute argument (helpfully transcribed verbatim) about whether the town's Fourth of July banners should be navy blue or royal blue. And so far, not a single confrontation matching Frank's description. No religious zealot standing up to denounce Rebecca Torres for giving ‘the middle finger to God.’

Ella tried to focus, but she kept drifting. Back to D.C., where someone with her DNA was killing people in her orbit. Back to Luca, hopefully safe in Massachusetts by now. Back to Ripley, resurrected from retirement like some avenging angel who'd traded her flaming sword for a Glock 17. The cases weren't connected – she knew that logically – but they pulled at the same frayed edges of her psyche.

She forced her attention back to the minutes. The June meeting offered nothing but the standard procedural dance. July mentioned the power station for the first time:

Council President Torres introduced Resolution 273-B for preliminary approval of the Granville South Power Station Modernization Project, with an initial budget allocation of $6 million. President Torres cited the need for ‘infrastructure that can carry Granville into the mid-21st century’ and ‘reduce dependency on the regional grid during peak usage periods.’

Councilman Robert Spears requested clarification on the ‘unusually rapid timeline’ for project approval. President Torres noted that delays would increase costs and potentially jeopardize federal matching funds.

Resolution passed 4-1, with Councilman Spears dissenting.

Interesting, but not what she was looking for. Ella flipped to the August minutes. She caught on a section labeled ‘PUBLIC COMMENT PERIOD.’ The text described seven citizens who spoke about various issues – four supporting the power station project, two opposing it on environmental grounds, and one elderly woman complaining about teenagers skateboarding on the war memorial.

Ella stifled a yawn then flipped the page.

Then her brain snapped to alertness.

Speaker 8: Adam Canton, Pastor of First Light Assembly, approached the podium at 7:43 PM.

‘Thank you, Council Members, for allowing me to speak tonight. My name is Adam Canton. I am the pastor of First Light Assembly on Wexford Street, and I'm here to address the destruction of our church to make way for your so-called 'modernization' project .

‘Our church has stood on that corner for 112 years. Three of us work there. Myself, Father Thomas Walsh and Sister Mary, who are here with me [Indicates]. We've weathered floods, fires, and the Great Depression. We've fed the hungry and sheltered the homeless when this city turned its back on them. And now you're telling us you're tearing it down for a substation? So that what? People can run their air conditioners a few degrees colder in summer?’

The transcript continued with Rebecca Torres's response:

President Torres: ‘Pastor Canton, the city has offered fair market value for the property, plus relocation assistance. The electrical substation is a critical component of the modernization project. I understand your emotional attachment, but progress requires sacrifice.’

Canton: ‘Sacrifice? Easy for you to talk about sacrifice when you're not the one being sacrificed. This isn't about emotional attachment. This is about a community being bulldozed for profit. This is about greed.’

There was the word again. Ella was suddenly engrossed. She continued on.

President Torres: ‘I'm going to have to ask you to keep your comments germane to the issue at hand.’

Canton: ‘This IS the issue! You're serving money, not people. You're willing to destroy a house of God for what? A few more dollars in some contractor's pocket? The Bible says that no one can serve two masters, and we all know which master you've chosen. This is a middle finger to God.’

Ella nearly dropped the paper. No one can serve two masters. The exact words left at the murder scene, written in blood on Torres' laptop.

At this point, President Torres requested security to escort Pastor Canton from the podium due to ‘personal attacks and inappropriate conduct.’ Pastor Canton continued speaking while being removed:

Canton: [Partially unintelligible] ‘...will answer to a higher power for this! Greed is a sin that consumes from within! God sees what you're doing, even if they don't!’ [Indicates audience].

Security removed Pastor Canton from chambers at 7:49 PM. President Torres called a ten-minute recess to restore order.

Ella's hands trembled slightly as she set the paper down. This was it. This was the confrontation Frank had mentioned, with details he'd either forgotten or deliberately omitted. Adam Canton hadn't just objected to the power station project, he'd publicly accused Torres of corruption and embezzlement, using the same biblical references found at the murder scene.

She scanned the rest of the transcript, looking for any follow-up. A handwritten note had been added to the bottom of the page:

Pastor Canton banned from future council meetings by unanimous vote. Security incident report filed with GPD. No charges pressed.

Ella pulled out her phone and dialed Ripley. She picked up on the first ring.

‘Talk to me.’

‘Adam Canton. Pastor of First Light Assembly on Wexford Street. Had a major confrontation with Torres at the August meeting. Mentioned the exact verse that was left on Torres's laptop.’

‘I’ll run him.’ Keyboards clattered in the background. ‘Instant match. Adam Canton, 54. Two priors. Misdemeanor trespassing during a pipeline protest in 2013. Disorderly conduct at a zoning board meeting in 2019.’

‘Any violent history?’

‘No, but even serial killers have to start somewhere.’

‘Any address for him?’

More typing. ‘His last known was an apartment above the church.’

‘Then that’s where we’re going. Text me the address and I’ll meet you there?’

‘On it. Mugshot and address coming over.’

Ella hung up and gathered the files. The connection was undeniable now; the same man who'd shouted about Torres serving the wrong master had carved that message into her legacy.

Three victims were branded with their cardinal sins. A man who'd publicly denounced one of them using the exact language found at the crime scene. A church is scheduled for future demolition.

The clock was ticking, but for the first time since arriving in Granville, Ella felt the hunter's advantage.