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‘Hi, is that… Malcolm?’

‘Yes it is. Who’s this?’

Ella found herself pacing Thomas Webb’s kitchen. She hadn’t expected the stranger to answer at this hour, but he’d picked up on the third ring.

‘My name’s Ella Dark, I’m with the FBI. I found your number attached to a contract you’d sent to a Mr. Thomas Webb. I’m sorry for calling you so late.’

‘Ah, no problem. I’m Thomas’s assigned editor. I’m holding his hand through the final process. You said you’re with the FBI?’

‘Yes, FBI. I’m afraid I need to tell you something difficult about Thomas Webb.’ Ella’s stomach performed the familiar death-notification plummet. She tried to be as formal as possible. The verbal equivalent of bracing someone before pushing a dislocated shoulder back into place.

‘Oh? Has something happened to Tom?’ Malcolm’s voice was tinged with the budding anxiety of someone who already knew the answer but was desperately hoping to be wrong.

‘I’m very sorry to inform you that Thomas Webb was found murdered in his home tonight.’

Three, four, five seconds unspooled while electrons carried the news across whatever distance separated them. Ella could hear the soft whisper of Malcolm’s breath catching, then the subtle click of a throat constricting around words that wouldn’t form.

‘Murdered? Is this some kind of joke?’

‘Afraid not, sir.’

‘You’re not Thomas’s daughter playing a trick?’

‘Sarah? No. Although she is assisting with our investigation.’

‘I’m… I don’t know what to say. This is terrible. I’m so sorry.’

Ella decided to keep the finer details of Thomas’s death to herself.

This poor gentleman didn’t need to know that Thomas had been killed in the same manner as a case he’d written a book about.

‘Would you mind if I asked you some questions? Mostly about this manuscript? If you need to verify my identity with a callback to my office, please do.’

‘It’s fine. I just searched your name online. Please ask anything you need to.’

She took a breath. ‘So, this might sound like an odd question, but how did Thomas contact you?’

‘He emailed me, initially. Then we spoke on the phone.’

‘Did he ever say how he wrote his manuscript? Like, on a laptop? Tablet?’

‘Desktop,’ Malcolm said. ‘These certainly are odd questions.’

So, he did have a computer, Ella thought. And she guessed that the killer removed it because this manuscript had been written on it, and was presumably still saved on it.

But why didn’t the killer want anyone finding this manuscript, especially as the historical details around the Marlowe and Ferryman cases were made obvious at Frank and Diana’s scenes.

And given that the so-called Crucifixion Murder of 1986 was so obscure, the killer had to be someone who’d read Thomas’s manuscript.

‘How many people at your publishing house would have read Thomas’s work?’ she asked.

‘Two. Just me and the commissioning editor.’

‘Have you ever met Thomas?’

‘No. We’re based in Manhattan. The closest we got to meeting is video calling.’

She mentally mapped the geography. Manhattan to Pinellas County was over a thousand miles.

Commercial flight. Rental car. Hotel paper trail.

The logistics alone made Malcolm and the commissioning editor unlikely candidates for Thomas Webb’s murder, not to mention the other two victims. This killer had to be local.

Someone with intimate knowledge of the victims, their obsessions and their vulnerabilities.

Who else would have read this God damn book?

Her brain threw fragments at her like shrapnel until she realized the obvious. Publishers. Other publishers. Thomas Webb wouldn’t send his passion project to just one potential buyer.

‘Malcolm, do you know if Thomas shopped his manuscript around?’

‘I’m sure he did.’

It was a long shot, but long shots scored the best goals. ‘Do you have any idea which publishers he sent it to?’

‘Publishers generally don’t discuss submissions,’ Malcolm said. ‘Confidentiality agreements and all that.’

‘Please, sir. This is crucial. I need to know whose read this book, because somebody may think this manuscript is worth killing for.’

Malcolm went quiet. Ella could picture him now, maybe sitting at home, probably glancing around with newfound terror that being adjacent to a real-life murder could somehow put him in the crosshairs too.

‘I… don’t know what to tell you.’

‘You could help us catch a serial offender, sir. If you need to verify my identity before you give anything out, we can do that, but I need this information quickly.’

‘I just searched your name online. I believe you are who you say you are, but I would be violating privacy agreements if I-’

Ella had paced herself out of the kitchen and into the living room. ‘Malcolm, three people are dead. I’m looking at Thomas Webb’s blood smears right now, and you’re worried about industry politics.’ The comment came out sharper than Ella intended, honed on the whetstone of frustration.

The hallway clock ticked five times before Malcolm spoke again. ‘Very well. Bear with me a moment.’

‘Thank you.’ Ella had no idea if Malcolm would have any insight into Thomas Webb’s submission history or not. Thomas could have queried dozens of agents or publishers before landing at Talisman House. She heard the faint sound of typing down the line.

‘Hold on. Just going through my correspondence with Thomas. I must say, this is all a lot to take in.’

‘I’m sure it is, sir. I’m sorry to burden you with this so suddenly.’

‘I understand. I only hope that…’ Malcolm trailed off. More typing down the line. ‘Wait a minute. I’ve got exactly what you need here.’

Ella’s pulse rate spiked. ‘You do?’

‘Yes I do. In my initial conversation with Thomas, he told me where else he’d pitched to. It’s quite common, in case of acceptance elsewhere.’

‘Can you list the publishers for me?’

Ella braced herself. If Malcolm was about to list off a hundred names, then this case could take her into the next decade. Please be a manageable amount, she thought.

‘Yes. Do you have a pen? There are three names.’

Relief washed over her. She didn’t have a pen, and given how her memory had failed her recently, she probably needed one. ‘I’m ready,’ she said.

‘Seraphim Books, True Crime Realm and Scarecrow Press.’

A cold hand slithered up Ella’s spine. One name was not like the others. Because she’d heard it recently, and that couldn’t be a coincidence.

‘Scarecrow Press. Are you sure?’

‘Very much so. I’ve never heard of them though, and Thomas didn’t list who exactly he’d contacted.’

‘No, that’s fine,’ Ella breathed. She’d suddenly developed the adrenaline shakes, because that one little confirmation had cleared the static and brought a blurry picture into view.

A lot of people in this town weren’t who they said they were, and Ella was going to rip their masks off before the night was out.

‘Malcolm, you’ve been a great help, but I need to go.’

‘You’re welcome. Call me if you need anything else.’

Ella said goodbye and hung up in haste. As she jabbed the button, she saw that Ripley had texted her while she’d been on the phone.

Nicholls is innocent, confirmed.

She mashed Ripley’s name in her contacts and stuck the receiver to her ear. Her feet, apparently with a mind of their own, had started weaving a path from the hall to the kitchen and back again, like a caged animal that had just smelled freedom, or maybe more blood.

‘Come on Mia, pick up, pick up, pick up! ’

Eight rings later, the voicemail answered. You’ve reached Mia Ripley. Leave a voice message, or don’t, it’s your choice.

God dammit. She killed the connection and hammered out a text message instead. She just hoped that Ripley saw it before it was too late:

DO NOT LET SARAH WEBB LEAVE THE PRECINCT.