Ella pulled up outside Thomas Webb’s house and took a moment to admire his front lawn. It was the kind of lawn you never saw in D.C., with its generous spread of green that breathed easily.

‘You okay over there?’ Sarah asked. She’d directed Ella from Josiah Nicholls’ apartment to her dad’s house with barely a wrong turn. ‘I thought you’d be happier that we’d nailed Brooks, Nicholls, whatever his name is.’

‘Sorry. Just a moment of lawn envy.’

‘Dad hasn’t got much going on these days. He’s got all the time in the world for lawns.’

‘Lucky him. But yeah, I don’t know about Nicholls.’

‘What? You’re not serious. We’ve got everything we need to convict him.’

Ella couldn’t put her finger on why, but she was getting annoyed with Sarah’s constant usage of the term we. Yes, she’d helped out tremendously, but Sarah had begun to give off glory-hunter vibes.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Ella quickly glanced at the screen.

A text from Ripley.

Partial confession from Nicholls. Frank only. Doesn’t seem to know about Diana. Suss??

Ella stared at the double question mark at the end of the message. Ripley had always maintained a militant stance against excessive punctuation, which suggested that her gut was screaming foul play as much as Ella’s was.

And Frank only? How did that make sense?

Killers who broke, especially under interrogation, tended to spill everything or nothing.

A partial, specific confession was unusual.

It suggested Nicholls had compartmentalized his actions to an extraordinary degree, or he was holding back for a strategic reason, or he genuinely had nothing else to confess regarding Diana.

It didn’t track with the psychological profile.

Ella quickly thumbed a reply to Ripley, keeping the phone angled away from Sarah.

Motive?

Sarah gathered her purse. ‘Dad’s probably wondering where I am. You coming in to say hi?’

‘I probably shouldn’t. Need to get back and see to Nicholls.’

‘Aw, come on. He’ll love that I’ve buddied up with law enforcement.’

There it was again. That sting of irritation. Ella’s phone buzzed again and she waited until Sarah was preoccupied with checking her reflection in the visor mirror before glancing down.

Black Candle Murderer killed his mom. Says Frank failed him.

A believable motive, Ella thought, but it didn’t explain why poor Diana Jewell had wound up headless in a koi pond.

Where did she fit into Nicholls’s revenge narrative?

She didn’t. Unless Nicholls was lying about his motive, or lying about Diana, or he truly didn’t know about her.

Ella’s mind rushed through the possibilities, and none of them settled comfortably.

Ella was certain of one thing, though. No killer on this planet remembered driving stones into a man’s eyes on Sunday but forgot they decapitated a woman on Monday.

‘Why don’t you go and tell him you have a guest? I’d hate to just appear on his doorstep.’

‘He won’t mind, honestly.’

‘Please. I need to call Ripley about something anyway. I’ll be two minutes.’

‘Alright. Just come to the door when you’re ready.’

She glanced at Sarah’s retreating form. She wasn’t about to share these developments with her new civilian sidekick.

Not yet. Sarah had already inserted herself deeply enough into this investigation.

The line between helpful resource and liability was tissue-thin.

Sarah hurried across the lawn and disappeared inside the house.

Ella scrolled to her recent call list and found Ripley’s name. She just needed to hear her partner speak those reassuring words aloud; no, you’re not crazy. Not crazy for thinking that something didn’t add up here, despite hard evidence to the contrary.

Her thumb hovered over the call icon, ready to press it, ready for that gruff validation across the line.

Then Ella’s eardrums throbbed violently.

A sound shredded the suburban quiet with such intensity that her Ella’s bones recognized it before her brain did.

It was the sound that lived in humanity’s DNA and transcended languages.

Three-tenths of a second became an eternity as her brain decoded that sound’s terrible meaning:

Discovery. Horror. Loss.

Sarah Webb’s scream held a quality Ella had heard only twice before in her career. Both times had involved a daughter finding what remained of a parent.

The phone slipped from Ella’s fingers. Her feet carried her across Thomas Webb’s pristine lawn as her hands found her weapon.

A killer’s algorithm flashed through her mind: 4.

2 seconds for the average person to die from catastrophic blood loss.

2.9 seconds for a trained agent to cross thirty feet of lawn.

The numbers didn’t lie, and they said that whatever Sarah Webb had found in her dad’s house was too late to be saved.

Ella reached the door, and the screaming continued from inside. It held none of the theatrical peaks and valleys of movie screams. This was what happened when the human mind encountered something it was never meant to process.

She burst inside with her heart unforgivingly bashing her ribcage. She found Sarah Webb pinned to the wall in terror, staring at a trail of red on the carpet. The blood pattern told a simple story; someone was stabbed here, and then dragged down the hallway.

‘Stay back,’ she ordered Sarah. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

Sarah remained frozen, hypnotized by the crimson arterial spray. ‘But… My dad… Please don’t...’

Ella followed the trail Glock-first. The presence of blood permeated air, along with what a distant part of Ella’s brain recognized as cooked meat.

Chicken? Spices? The strange concoction suggested that whatever had happened here had happened very recently.

At the end of the hallway, outside a locked door, the blood pool thickened.

The doorknob boasted another red mark, this one as fresh as they came.

The adrenaline burned so much that Ella didn’t sense a hysterical Sarah creeping up behind her. Not until it was too late. The woman was shaking, barely able to keep herself upright. She lunged for the doorknob with a frenzied cry.

‘Sarah, don’t!’

Too late. Sarah pushed her way in.

It opened into what appeared to be a home office. The reek of concentrated blood hit her first, much heavier than out in the hallway. Then the shadows resolved into shapes. Then the shapes became comprehensible. Then comprehension became horror.

Chair. Man. Blood.

No, not just a man in a chair. Thomas Webb, Ella presumed, had been nailed into his seat.

Hands on the armrests with nails piercing both flesh and wood. Two more driven through the arches of his bare feet into the hardwood floor.

‘Dad!’ The word tore from Sarah’s throat, reduced to its most elemental form. A child’s plea for the impossible.

Ella caught Sarah as her knees buckled and she collapsed.