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Ella had seen enough corpses to recognize the nuances of death from a mile away. Dr. James Harper's body spoke its own particular dialect of death. One that told her he'd been gone less than two hours by the time she, Ripley, and Westfall arrived at the scene. Fresh enough that the blood pooled around Harper's head like a halo was still wet.

Victim number four.

The scene pulled Ella in two directions. Usually, the body would be the first port of call, but this time, the unsub had left their message in plain view.

On the far wall that doubled as a plain white canvas was another blood memo. This one was hastily scrawled, like the killer had been on the clock. Maybe they had.

WHOEVER POURS OUT LIES WILL NOT GO FREE.

And at the base of the message lay the body of who Ella had come to learn was Dr. James Harper, Granville’s number one and only plastic surgeon.

And branded on his forehead was the letter B.

'You said he'd go for high-profile people. Higher than Rebecca Torres.'

‘Best surgeon in town not high profile enough for you?’ asked Ripley.

‘Yeah, it’s just… not what I expected. What does this mean for Adam Canton? He can’t be in two places at once.’

‘James Harper’s been dead for a few hours. We caught Adam Canton about an hour and a half ago. Do the maths.’

‘Don’t do any maths,’ Ella interrupted. ‘Focus on this scene. What happened? Who found the vic?’

‘Jenny, his assistant. She’s outside now.’

‘Did she see anyone come or go?’

‘No. Harper sends her on an errand when certain people come in. Anonymity purposes. Standard procedure.’

‘Dammit to hell. Does she know anything about Harper’s last client? Any notes or anything?’

Westfall pointed to Harper’s mahogany desk. ‘It’s all on his computer. He takes bookings himself. Jenny doesn’t do that, apparently.’

The scenario was forming with grim clarity. ‘So our killer posed as a client, arranged a private consultation, then killed Harper when they were alone.

‘The question is who,’ Ripley said. ‘And how they got an appointment on such short notice. Places like this usually have waiting lists months long.’

‘Because our unsub’s been planning this for months, Mia. The t ech team needs to get into Harper's appointment system. Find out who he was expecting this morning.’

Westfall grimaced. ‘That'll take time. Search warrants for electronic records, court orders. It’s a nightmare. I’ll have to-‘

‘No,’ Ella cut him off. ‘This is a business device, not a personal one. His assistant can give us permission to access the clinic's records as an authorized employee. We don't need to wait for the estate.’

‘Good thinking,’ Westfall said. ‘But is it worth it? We’ve got someone back at the precinct who literally confessed to at least one of these murders. If he confesses to this one too…’

‘Detective. Please trust me.’

Westfall sighed. ‘Alright. I’ll get on it.’

As Westfall left to make the necessary calls, Ella returned her attention to Harper's body. Death had caught him mid-life. A man in his fifties, fit for his age, silver hair expertly styled even in death.

‘Ripley said, ‘So, James Harper is B.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You see a problem there, Dark?’

'Yes, I do. There's no deadly sin beginning with B.'

‘No. What’s left? Sloth, Envy, Gluttony, Wrath? I’m not seeing a B there.’

Serial killers followed patterns. They had to. It was part of their psychological makeup. But this B refused to slot into the framework.

‘Maybe we were wrong about the sins,’ Ella said.

‘You don’t believe that. I don’t either.’

‘Then what does B stand for? Because right now, all I've got is Botox, and our guy’s not that literal.’

‘Let’s keep looking.’ They moved towards Harper’s body. Ripley knelt beside the man’s head and studied the brand. ‘You seeing how this is off-center? The other brands were dead center in the forehead. This is slightly to the left. Why would they botch the job now, after three perfect brands?’

‘Because they were rushed,’ Ella said, pieces clicking into place. ‘Harper's assistant was due back. The killer couldn't take their time like they did with the others.’

Ella gestured to the wall. ‘Whoever pours out lies will not go free.’

‘So Harper was lying about something.’

‘All of our victims have lied about something. Grant lied about his affair. Summers lied to her clients. Torres lied about everything.’

‘True.’

Ella leaned closer, careful not to disturb the evidence but needing a better look. The dot above the 'I' in LIES wasn't a dot at all. It was a tiny, perfect cross. ‘Doesn’t the message look a little off too? Like he had to rush?’

'Yeah, the strokes are different. And lighter than they should be. The walls at Grant's house were a similar color, and that text was much darker.'

‘So our guy got in and got out ASAP.’

‘This was an efficient kill, alright. His first daytime kill too, barely what, twelve hours after killing Torres?’

Ella stared at the bloody text until the letters began to swim. The B branded into Harper's forehead. The message about lies. The rushed execution. All the pieces were there, but they refused to form a coherent picture.

‘I don't know,’ she finally admitted. ‘I don't know what B stands for. I don't know if it fits the pattern. I don't know if we're dealing with one killer or two. Hell, I don't even know if Canton's telling the truth about Torres.’

‘That's a lot of not knowing for someone who usually knows everything.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe that's the point.’ Ella turned back to Harper's body. ‘Maybe we're supposed to be confused. Maybe the killer wants us to question everything we think we know.’

‘Or maybe,’ Ripley said, ‘you're overthinking it because you don't want to admit the simple answer.’

‘Which is?’

‘That sometimes a B is just a B. And we won't know what it means until the killer tells us.’

If the pattern held, there should be three more victims waiting in the killer's divine ledger, but with the accelerated timeline – Torres and Harper killed within twelve hours of each other – Ella sensed they might not have the luxury of methodical investigation anymore.

‘So what now?’ Ripley asked. ‘Wait for Westfall to access Harper’s files?’

Ella stepped away from Harper’s body. Crime scenes were black holes. Stay too close for too long and they pulled you into orbital patterns around the victim when you needed to see the wider universe. She was swimming in information but drowning in confusion.

‘We don’t have time to wait. First it was two days between kills, then one day, now it’s twelve hours. He’s not even a serial killer anymore. He’s a spree killer. We could be looking at another victim before nightfall. I’m going back to the precinct. I’ve got something thinking to do.’