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Cheap motels occupied a liminal space in Ella’s mind.

They were neither home nor fully alien, and the Paradise Inn in Palm Harbor was no exception.

The place was a chain motel with pretensions of beachside charm despite being fifteen miles from any actual beach.

But still, a bed was a bed, and Ella needed to reset her mental machinery before tackling whatever tomorrow would bring.

As she and Ripley navigated the hallways towards their rooms, Ella’s mind circled to everything and everyone. Frank Sullivan and Diana Jewell. Luca, hopefully sound asleep in his childhood bed, far away from any horrors.

And Ripley. Ella’s partner trailed behind her, and she hadn’t spoken since leaving Diana’s house, and that silence worried Ella more than any outburst could have.

There was something uncharacteristically fragile in her movements.

Ella wanted to ask her a few things, but there hadn’t been a suitable time.

‘Sounds like a plan. We’ll have to get Sarah Webb into the precinct to help us.’

‘Can’t wait. Goodnight, then.’

‘Wait.’ Ella’s hand shot out before Ripley could retreat into her room. The mention of Sarah had brought the question bubbling in her mind to the surface. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Depends.’

‘Who’s Nathan Taylor?’

The change in Ripley’s posture was subtle but immediate. Her stance didn’t crumple so much as collapse inward. The transition was so swift and complete that Ella instantly regretted the question.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

‘How do you know that name?’

‘Sarah Webb mentioned it. When you got out of her car, she said something about you talking about Nathan Taylor.’

Ripley took a deep breath that expanded her chest but seemed to provide no relief. She leaned against the door frame opposite Ella’s door, dropped her bag and crossed her arms. It was a defensive posture, but Ella couldn’t tell if Ripley was defending against the memory or against her.

‘Nathan Taylor was the son of the final victim in the ‘98 burials.’

The ‘98 Beachside Burials. Ella’s mental files supplied the grim summary.

Four men, abducted, buried alive in the sand just below the high-tide line on isolated beaches along the coast. Found days later, drowned by the incoming tide.

A particularly cruel way to go. The killer was dubbed the Sandman. Never caught.

‘Oh.’ Ella’s stomach twisted with regret for asking. ‘You don’t have to-’

‘I was there,’ Ripley continued as though Ella hadn’t spoken.

‘On the Paradise Point Beach, about twenty miles from here, actually. Fourth body in as many months. We secured the scene, put the tape up, and before long the media circus had arrived. Tourists, locals, news crews. And right there in the middle was this little boy.’

She paused, and Ella could almost see the memory playing out behind her eyes. Ella remained silent. She knew from experience that there were some memories people needed to excavate at their own pace, like archaeology performed on the self.

‘I’d never seen the kid in my life, but I just knew. He looked just like the victim we’d just found.’

‘So, you had to do the hard part.’

Ripley nodded. ‘It was my job to tell him. Walk over there, introduce myself, explain that his dad was never coming home because some sick bastard had buried him alive.’

‘Jesus.’ Ella wished she could retract the question, rewind the last few minutes.

‘I’ll never forget that day.’ Ripley blinked hard. Her eyes shimmered with something that might have been tears if Ella hadn’t known better. ‘He was standing under where the rock jutted out, like a cave.’

‘How did he react?’ The question escaped before she could stop it.

‘He didn’t cry. That’s what got me. Most kids that age would’ve broken down, but he just stared at me with those huge eyes and asked, ‘Did it hurt?’ And Christ, what do you say to that?

’ Ripley ran a hand through her hair. ‘I told him his dad probably fell asleep before the water came, which was a lie, but what else could I say? That his father clawed at the sand until his fingernails broke off? That he probably screamed until his lungs filled with saltwater?’

‘You did the right thing.’

‘Maybe.’ Ripley’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’ve notified hundreds of families over the years, but I’ll never forget that day. That boy, Nathan, had one of those books in his hand. You remember Goosebumps? Those scary stories for kids.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I remember it like it was yesterday. Purple cover, evil scarecrow on the front, bookmark sticking out of the middle. Weird the things that stick, huh?’

Ella felt a stab of guilt. She’d forced Ripley to reopen an old wound for what amounted to curiosity on her part.

‘I’m sorry I asked you to relive that.’

‘It’s okay. Comes with the territory, right? We see the worst, we carry it. Someone has to.’ She took a step back towards her room. ‘See you at eight.’

Ella watched Ripley take that step back towards the sterile solitude of Room 214.

The words were right, but the delivery was wrong.

The usual Ripley, the one who could compartmentalize Hell itself and ask if anyone wanted coffee, wasn’t standing there tonight.

This Ripley looked scraped raw. Seeing Diana Jewell, another career cop, another woman her age, ending up headless in a fishpond, had scraped her raw.

This was a mirror, and Ripley hated mirrors.

‘Mia,’ Ella said before she could talk herself out of it. ‘Do you want me to just… you know. Stay in your room tonight?’

Ripley stared at her for a long moment, then looked away, as if the panel on the door required intense scrutiny.

‘Yes. I’d like that.’

The admission seemed to physically cost her. Ripley almost never asked for help, let alone accepted it when offered.

Ella followed Ripley inside and set her bag down. Tomorrow they’d dive back into the investigation, but tonight they’d have a moment of human connection in a world that kept trying to strip it away.

At least that’s what Ella told herself. She closed the door and left the paradise-that-wasn’t behind them.