Page 94 of Girl, Fractured

‘No, but I recognized that I recognized him, if that makes sense.’

‘Yeah.Anyway, you want to go home?It’s nearly Christmas, and I don’t want to spend it in Florida.’

‘You read my mind.Not about Christmas, just about not being in Florida.’

‘Let’s go.’

They hauled themselves up and made their way across the sand, up the ramp and back onto the access path.There was an endless line of police cruisers parked up, and the first two had a pair of familiar faces in them.In one, Sarah Webb.In the other, Nathan Taylor.

‘You want to go say goodbye?’asked Ella.

Ripley wrinkled her nose, then swallowed a lump in her throat.‘Yes, actually.’

‘He’s over there.’

‘No, not Taylor.I want to speak to Webb.’

‘You do?’

‘Yeah.I’ve got some things I want to say.’

Ripley approached the car containing a beaten, bloody, and probably-concussed Sarah Webb.She yanked open the back door.

‘Evening, Sarah.’

Sarah huffed.‘Come to apologize?’

‘No.I’ve come to tell you that you’ll be going to prison, but probably not for life.You’ll be charged with conspiring to commit murder, reckless driving, assaulting a federal agent.You’re looking at around 20 years in jail.’

‘You think I don’t know how sentencing works?’

‘I’m just saying that one day, you’ll be out, and if I see you trying to profit from your ordeal by writing another book, I’ll personally track and burn down every copy, okay?’

Ella had to hide her grin.Of course there was an ulterior motive to Ripley’s conversation.

‘I get it.You don’t like writers.You don’t have to rub it in.’

‘No, Webb.You’ve got it wrong – again.See, I don’t hate writers at all.I don’t even hate true crime writers.What I hate is pretentious pseudo-intellectuals who, behind those big glasses and stupid turtlenecks, are really just brainless idiots with egos too big for their empty heads.And you know what?Just to prove I’m telling the truth.I’mgoing to write the book on this case, got it?’

‘What?You?You can’t-’

Ripley slammed the door in Sarah’s face and walked off, leaving Ella alone, staring at a downtrodden Sarah Webb through glass.They were two sides of a coin, really.Both occupying opposite ends of the same spectrum.One consumed by the stories, the other relentlessly pursuing the truth behind them.

But no, Ella felt no flicker of sympathy for the author in the back seat.Ella offered a small nod, then turned and left.There was nothing more to say.

Time to go home.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

The departure board at Tampa International Airport displayed a cruel fact: their flight to D.C.was delayed by ninety minutes.Ella had seen worse, but the thought of spending more time on Florida soil made her want to claw her skin off.

Ella slid a paper cup of what the vendor laughably called coffee across the table to Ripley.‘Here.It’s terrible.’

‘Thanks.I need terrible right now.’Ripley accepted the cup with hands that bore the faint traces of sand beneath the fingernails.She’d scrubbed up at the police station, but some evidence of Paradise Point Beach remained, embedded in the microscopic landscapes of her skin.

They sat at a gate populated by a dozen other bleary-eyed travelers.A businessman dozed with his laptop open in front of him.A mother tried to quiet her toddler with an iPad.An elderly couple sat perfectly still, as if conserving energy for the ordeal ahead.Everyone seemed caught in their own private holding pattern, awaiting permission to proceed with their lives.

Ripley took a sip of coffee and winced.‘Wow, you’re right.’