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Ella hurried out of Thomas Webb’s house, then froze at her car. The night air brought clarity, and Ella began conducting a question-and-answer session with herself.

Was Sarah Webb guilty? Yes. There was no alternative.

She was the common denominator in all of this, and she’d lied right to Ella’s face about her father.

If Thomas Webb had submitted a manuscript to Scarecrow Press – a publishing house run by Sarah’s boyfriend – then Sarah must have known that her dad was writing about this old case.

They met every week. It was improbable that they’d never discuss it, but Sarah wouldn’t want anyone to know this.

Why? Because then the trail would lead to Sarah.

What else was there? Now that Ella saw it clearly, there were plenty of interactions that had seemed minor at the time but now took on a different meaning in this new light.

Sarah had been the one to invite herself to Josiah Nicholls’ apartment, and Ripley’s confirmation of Nicholls’ innocence suggested Sarah had planted that evidence at his house.

She was the one who apparently ‘found’ the Marlowe report and alabaster stones in Nicholls’ apartment, while Ella was conveniently in the other room.

Throughout this whole case, Sarah had never once shown concern that she might be in the killer’s crosshairs.

And Sarah had been the one who insisted Ella come into her father’s house with her.

Why?

Because Sarah already knew her father was dead, and she wanted Ella to see it – because doing so would make Sarah appear innocent.

The only question Ella couldn’t answer involved a chicken dinner.

By all metrics, Thomas Webb had been killed when Sarah and Ella were together. How was that possible?

Ella didn’t know. There could have been an illusion at play, but Ella was going to find out.

Back in the car, she called Ripley one more time but it rang out again. God dammit, where was that woman and what was so important she couldn’t answer her cell?

She dialed Bauer instead. The trusty Sheriff picked up on the second ring.

‘Ella, where are you?’

‘Still at Thomas Webb’s house. Do you know where Ripley is?’

‘Pandemonium over here. Webb went outside, Ripley followed her and now I can’t find either of them. Receptionist said that two cars sped out of the parking lot, one of which was a cruiser.’

Webb fled, and Ripley is chasing her, Ella thought.

‘Do your cruisers have trackers?’

‘Yeah. I’ve got two guys following the trail.’

‘Can you send me the details?’ Ella asked. ‘I need to make sure Ripley’s safe.’

‘No can do. You need the software. It’s not something you can just download.’

Shit. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

Drive the streets and hope she came across a high-speed chase?

Ripley was supposed to just be a consultant here, and here she was, putting her life on the line even though she had no obligation to.

If anything happened to her, Ella would tear down the entire country until she found the person responsible.

‘You still there, Ella?’

‘Yeah, just…’

The obvious question arose: where would Webb go?

Home? No. Much too obvious.

Her workplace? No. She didn’t have one.

A hiding place? Maybe. But where?

Ella glanced back at Thomas Webb’s house, and thought of his manuscript, the one that would never be turned into a real book now. She thought of what Malcolm had told her.

Scarecrow Press.

The publishing house run by Robert Lawrence, Sarah’s boyfriend.

‘Bauer, you in your office?’

‘Barely.’

‘Could you check something for me? Search for Scarecrow House. It’s a publisher. Find the name of the person who runs it.’

Ella heard shuffling down the line, then the sound of a keyboard being brutalized.

‘Got it. Business was registered in 2018. Owner is a Robert Lawrence.’

That had to be right. Webb had said: It’s just Robert and a couple of staff members now. Like I said, he’s struggling. We both are.

‘Could you run the name on the database?’

‘One sec.’

She paced a circle around her car, because she needed to offset this adrenaline spike somehow.

She tried not to think of Ripley, out in God knows where, chasing down Webb without a gun at her disposal.

It wasn’t like she couldn’t kick Webb’s ass with her eyes closed, but if Sarah had a weapon, it distorted the odds significantly.

‘Got a Robert Lawrence out in Spring Orchard, about five miles from where you are.’

‘Address me up.’

‘Hold on.’ Bauer muttered. ‘This isn’t right.’

‘What is it?’

More typing. ‘Uhh… There’s something majorly weird here.’

Ella jumped into the driver’s seat. ‘Don’t make me beg, Sheriff.’

‘It’s just… this Robert Lawrence fella. He was only born a few years ago.’

‘Come again? If he’s three years old, you’ve got the wrong Robert Lawrence.’

‘No, he’s 37, but his filings only begin in 2018. Like he was grown in a lab at age 30.’

‘How’s that possible? What about tax records, birth certificates, school records.’

‘All empty prior to 2018.’

Ella’s brain fired like a faulty sparkplug. ‘People don’t just materialize out of thin air.’

‘Tell that to Robert Lawrence.’

‘I can, if you tell me where he lives.’

‘1488 Spring Orchard. Apartment 7.’

Ella plugged the address in the GPS. Ten minutes away, if she ignored lights and speed limits.

The digital dashboard read 9:00 PM. Green numbers, unnaturally bright.

Marking time in neat little boxes while somewhere in the Florida night, Ripley – who should’ve been putting her grandkid to bed instead of chasing killers – might be running out of it.

‘Monitor the Ripley situation, sheriff. I’m going to pay Sarah’s boyfriend a visit.’