Page 48
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.’
‘For a change. You’re the one that’s been right all week.’
‘I am?’
‘Yeah.’ Ella listed the points on her fingertips. ‘You called it from the beginning. Don’t trust Sarah Webb. You hated that woman on sight.’
‘Ahem. I was actually right before that.’
‘How so?’ Ella asked.
‘I said watch out for snakes. They’ll get you.’
Ella smacked herself on the forehead with her palm. ‘Of course. You really meant what you said to Webb? About writing a book?’
‘Hell yeah.’
Ella’s head spasmed. ‘Mia, you’re talking about writing a book and saying hell yeah. Did this case drive you mad?’
‘I just think I’d be good at it.’
‘You hate true crime books.’
‘I hate shitty true crime books,’ Ripley corrected.
‘And you think you could do better?’
‘Definitely.’
Ella asked, ‘What would you call it?’
‘Go To Hell, Sarah Webb, And Other True Crime Stories.’
‘Catchy.’
‘Either that or I’ll write those children’s books I’ve always wanted to.’
‘Like Goosebumps?’ Ella asked.
‘Could be. Maybe I’m the next R.L. Stine in the making.’
Ella was suddenly reminded of her own youth. She’d devoured all of those books as a kid. She was sure she still had some in her lockup, and she had a sudden urge to dig them out.
‘What about the job?’ she asked.
‘What job?’ Ripley sipped her coffee again, then pushed it away. ‘I can’t drink that.’
‘This job. That’s two cases we’ve bagged since you’ve been back. Has the itch come back?’
Ripley scratched her shoulder, perhaps subconsciously encouraged by Ella’s phrasing. She blew out a breath and said, ‘The itch never went away, honestly, but Max was more important.’
‘Yes he is,’ Ella said. Did she want Ripley back full time? The selfish side of her did, but the moral side didn’t. One day, Ripley wouldn’t escape by the skin of her teeth, and Ella wouldn’t be able to live with that.
‘But Max is starting kindergarten in the new year. That’s five days a week I won’t be needed.’
‘Evenings? Weekends?’
‘Evenings he’ll be with his mom and dad. Weekends? Sure. He’ll be mine then. I guess I retired because I thought that’s what people did at my age. Normal people.’
‘Are you not normal?’
‘I thought I was.’ Ripley inspected her fingernails. ‘This sand is a pain in the ass. You get any on you?’
‘No, but I didn’t throw anyone into a sand hole.’
‘He fell in there.’
‘Because you hit him with a shovel,’ Ella said. ‘See? That’s not normal.’
‘True. I suppose consulting has its perks. I can pick my cases. I don’t have to fill out those stupid TPS reports. And I can tell bureaucrats to shove it whenever I want.’
Ella nodded in appreciation. ‘You did that anyway.’
‘True.’ Ripley conceded with a half-smile. ‘But I don’t know. On that beach, hitting those assholes with that shovel, I should have felt disgusted. But I didn’t. The world manufactures monsters faster than we can cage them. For every Nathan Taylor we stop, three more are forming right now.’
‘You always told me we couldn’t save everybody.’
‘And I stand by it, but saving one person is better than no people. Max deserves to grow up in a world where someone is still willing to hold the line. Even when it seems pointless. Especially then. My son will be happy if I go back to work. He’s worried that I’ll move in permanently.’
‘What if-’ Ella started, then paused, recalibrating. The terminal’s ambient noise provided convenient cover for the vulnerability in her tone. ‘What if next time, the shovel’s in someone else’s hands?’
‘Thirty years and no one’s beaten me yet.’
‘Fair point. Won’t you miss seeing your family, doing your garden, yoga, whatever.’
‘I’ll see my family the same amount as I would if I was retired. I used to think that doing this job kept me away from them, but now I realize I was doing it for them all along.’
‘But you’re not getting any younger.’
‘Neither are you,’ Ripley laughed. ‘Speaking of, what happens when you have kids, Dark?’
The way Ripley phrased it suggested it was a sure thing.
She’d never pictured herself as the maternal type.
Her job consumed too much, demanded too much.
She sometimes wondered if there was enough of her left over for a child.
Luca wanted kids someday, she knew that much.
The thought terrified and enticed her in equal measure.
‘If it happened, I’d quit.’
‘Would you?’
‘Yeah, but that’s easy for me to say. I’m no expert, but I think being a parent – or grandparent – is one of those things you have to experience to understand. I reckon you could read every manual in the world on raising kids and still not know jack about it until you’ve lived it.’
‘You’re wise for a childless cat woman.’
Ella laughed despite herself. She tried to imagine what her life might look like in twenty years if she stayed this course.
Would she end up like Ripley, tough as old leather but still capable of tenderness?
Or like Frank Sullivan, obsessing over unsolved cases long after retiring?
Or like Edis, whose family existed only as framed photos on a desk?
‘I do want a life beyond the Bureau,’ Ella admitted. ‘I’m just not sure what that looks like yet.’
‘Well, don’t sweat it. Robert Lawrence – or whatever his name was – was wrong. An unfinished story can be a good thing. It just means you’re still on the journey.’
The airport PA system crackled to life. ‘Attention passengers: Flight 1427 to Washington D.C. is now boarding at Gate C22. Please have your boarding passes ready.’
‘That’s us,’ Ella said. ‘Finally.’
Ripley stood up and smoothed her boarding pass on her jacket. ‘Come on. Another hour in this place and I think I’ll grow scales.’
As they headed towards the gate, Ella’s brain, still buzzing from the adrenaline and the sheer, unadulterated weirdness of the past few days, decided to perform a completely unsolicited, rather bizarre, act of cognitive association. Two seemingly unrelated data points collided in her head.
She grabbed Ripley’s arm. ‘Mia, stop.’
Ripley froze. ‘What? Didn’t you hear what I just said?’
‘R.L. Stine.’
‘What? Know him personally, do you?’
‘No. But the R.L.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘R.L. His name was Robert Lawrence Stine.’
Ripley’s face fell flat. ‘Ohhhh. Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Damn. Should have seen that one a mile off.’
Ella hauled her bag over her shoulder. ‘I guess sometimes the answer is right in front of you all along.’
Table of Contents
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- Page 48 (Reading here)
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