Page 49

The elevator was still out of action, which meant Ella had to deal with four flights of stairs. This happened so often she wondered if the damn thing had ever worked at all. Maybe it was just decorative, like most things in D.C.

Back here, she was reminded of why she’d been quick to flee D.C.

in the first place. She’d left the place in chaos.

Director Edis had stationed cops outside thirty-six doors throughout the city – thirty-six people with the misfortune of knowing Ella Dark.

Two bodies so far. Jenna Bradbury, her roommate of five years.

Julianne Cooper, her landlord from the apartment before this one.

Both found with their lips stitched shut using strands of Ella’s own hair.

How had this bastard gotten hold of her hair? Ripley thought it was from the hairbrush Ella had lost back at HQ a few months ago, the one she and Luca had torn the place apart looking for.

Luca. Safe in Massachusetts, thank God. Hiding out at his mom’s farmhouse where cell reception came and went like seasonal depression.

She reached her front door, fumbled for her keys. The usual ritual followed, and Ella was safe inside after a little DIY.

Darkness. But not emptiness.

Ella set her bag down silently and rested her right hand on her Glock. The deadbolt appeared intact. The doorframe undamaged.

Yet she knew that someone was here.

Two possibilities presented themselves with equivalent statistical probability: either someone had gained entry using specialized skills, or someone with legitimate access had used a key. The second option narrowed the suspect pool considerably.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness as she hugged the wall, then she slid toward the living room where a pale blue glow leaked around the corner – the television, volume so low it was almost mute.

Her foot hit something. A shoe. Not hers – too big, too masculine. Her brain cataloged it automatically: men’s size eleven, athletic brand, worn at the heel the way Luca’s always were because he pronated when he walked.

The spike of adrenaline receded, replaced by confusion. He should be in Massachusetts with his mother, four hundred miles from D.C. and this whole mess.

She rounded the corner with her weapon half-drawn.

‘Surprise!’

There he was. Half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa. It was obvious he’d wanted to surprise her when she’d walked in, but he’d fallen asleep, and now he was trying to pretend he hadn’t.

Ella lowered her gun, strode over and locked her arms around him with the desperate strength of someone who’d been drowning and finally found purchase on solid ground

‘Hawkins! You’re supposed to be in Mass. With your mom and no cell reception.’

‘Got sick of both,’ he said. ‘How was Florida?’

‘Warm and cold at the same time. I don’t know how to explain it. When’d you get back?’

‘Last night. I wanted to stay up and surprise you at the door, but… you know.’

‘You fell asleep watching,’ – Ella checked the TV – ‘CNN, apparently.’

‘Have you tried watching TV at 5 AM? It’s either this or Ancient Aliens.’

‘How about bed instead?’ Ella scrambled for the TV remote on the couch. ‘Edis has told me to stay off until Monday, so-’

She froze with the remote pointed at the TV. The screen glowed with CNN’s sterile blue backdrop. A woman with copper hair stared directly into the camera, but the volume was too low to make out what she was saying.

However, she didn’t need to, because the ticker at the bottom of the screen burned into her retinas with terrible clarity:

brEAKING: SPORTS PERSONALITY SHOT DEAD IN CA.

Something cold and electric slithered through her veins, replacing blood with dread. The statistical improbability of coincidence calculated itself in her mind, producing a number so vanishingly small it might as well have been zero.

Ella dismissed the idea. She was projecting, surely. There were a million sports personalities in California.

With a shaking hand, she turned the volume up. The newscaster spoke again.

‘Police are reporting a shooting outside a venue in Boyle Heights, California last night. The building had hosted a pro wrestling event, and the reported victim of this shooting was a Mr. Ben Carter, a local performer.’

‘No,’ Ella breathed. ‘No, no no.’

‘Ell? What’s wrong? That’s Cali. A million miles from here.’

Then the photo appeared in the top right corner of the screen.

That face she’d spent a hundred nights with.

Eyes that had looked at her with everything from desire to disappointment.

The man who’d taught her that leaving could be an act of love.

The man whose career had carried him west while hers anchored her east. The man whose name she hadn’t spoken aloud for as long as she could remember.

Ben Carter.

‘Ell?’ Luca grabbed her arm. ‘You know that guy?’

She’d been so focused on the people she had to protect in D.C., that she’d forgotten about the rest of the country.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He’s my ex.’