Page 21 of Girl, Unmasked (Ella Dark #28)

‘Ready?’ Ripley asked.

‘Very. Let’s do this.’

Ella vaulted out of the cruiser and made her way down the sidewalk. Storm clouds loomed overhead, ready to open up and bring some more February rain. She marched up to the bookstore's door and reached for the handle.

Locked, because of course it was. She glanced in the window, past chipped gilding spelling out 'PURVEYORS OF THE PECULIAR' in flaking gold leaf.

The interior was about what she expected from a place catering to the Fangoria set – blood-red walls and wrought iron shelving heaving under the weight of musty books.

She peered through the glass, searching for signs of life amongst the stacks.

Nothing. Not even the twitch of a shadow. For half a heartbeat, she feared she'd arrived too late, that William Kane had pulled a Houdini and slithered off to whatever rock he called home.

But then, somewhere in the belly of the shop, movement. She barely glimpsed it between two towering shelves.

Something akin to a figure bending over the cash register, sporting bony elbows and a ratty cardigan that wouldn’t look out of place on someone twice his age. Even at this distance, she recognized the gaunt features and haunted eyes and mad-scientist hair.

She was staring at William Kane.

‘There, Mia. He’s in there.’

Ella rapped on the window hard enough to rattle the glass. The figure startled, and his head snapped up. She locked eyes with the man who could very well have committed what was now officially classed as an ultra-violent homicide.

For a moment, Ella just stared holes in the man, the two of them separated by glass.

Then Ella flashed her badge. The universal symbol for ‘open this damn door.’

Another frozen eternity. Then Kane scuttled out from behind the register and made his cautious way to the front, unfolding like a malnourished crane.

Kane cracked the door. Wet his lips. When he spoke, his voice was the rasp of dead leaves. ‘Apologies, officer. We're closed for the day.’

Up close and personal, Kane was even more of a living scarecrow than his photos suggested. Tall enough to give a basketball player a run for their money, with a complexion that was sorely lacking in vitamin D. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes like two holes in a snowbank.

‘Not for me you're not.’ Ella flexed her badge again. ‘Agents Dark and Ripley with the FBI. I’ve got some questions that need answering, and word is you’re just the man to fill in the blanks.’

Kane regarded her for a long beat. She saw the facial ticks of a mind in motion. Weighing his options. Looking for an out.

Finally, Kane stepped back and held the door wide. ‘Then by all means. Come in.’

Ella was as surprised as anyone at the welcome, but she’d been around enough suspects to know that hospitality didn’t always equal innocence.

'Don't mind if I do.' Ella crossed the threshold, and the smell inside hit her like a slap. Old paper, older mold. Behind her, Kane secured the door with a rattle of lock tumblers. It sounded disturbingly final, but Ella never put much stock in atmosphere.

‘Please, join me over here,’ Kane said.

Ella followed Kane deeper into the catacombs, keeping her hand within pistol-drawing distance.

Ripley said, 'Cozy. Have you ever thought of investing in an air freshener?'

‘I find the patina of age lends a certain ambiance. What can I do for you two, anyway?’ Kane drifted towards the counter at the far end of the shop while Ripley kept a casual distance. Close enough to pounce if they had to, but far enough away that he wouldn't feel cornered.

‘I’m here about a homicide,’ Ella said bluntly.

Kane's steps hitched for a second. But Ella saw.

He recovered quickly, though. She had to give him that. By the time he reached the counter and turned to face her, the mask of a mild-mannered shopkeeper was firmly back in place. 'A homicide, you say?'

‘Yes indeed.’

‘And you say I can fill in the blanks? How so?’

‘Let’s just say your name's come up in connection to the investigation. Call it professional curiosity.’

‘How flattering.’ Kane's lip curled, though whether it was a sneer or a smile was anyone's guess. ‘I'm always happy to aid the authorities, but you'll have to give me more to go on than that. I'm no psychic.’

'Pity. A little ESP would go a long way in my line of work.' Ella leaned a hip against a precarious stack of hardbacks. She could feel Kane's gaze on her. 'The victim was a local girl named Sophie. Thirties. Worked in publishing. Ring any bells?'

Something rippled across Kane's face, there and gone too quickly to parse. His tongue darted out to wet colorless lips. 'Not off hand. But I keep my nose out of my customers' affairs unless they're picking my shelves over.'

Ella kept a close eye on Kane's microsignals.

His facial ticks jumped around at a rapid pace, so discerning anything from that pale visage was out of the question.

Instead, Ella turned to the shoulders, the hands, the twitchy fingers.

The crafty son of a bitch had hidden his bottom half behind the counter. Coincidence or premeditated?

‘Even the crazy ones?’

That earned her a prissy little sniff. ‘I'm a seller of fiction, not a psychiatrist. I don’t know what my customers get up to in their own homes.’

Ella went for the kill. ‘How about what they do in the privacy of someone else's home? With a scalpel? And barbed wire?’

Kane made a show of polishing his glasses on his cardigan. His hands trembled ever so slightly, and Ella wasn't sure if it was from fear or simple malnutrition. ‘Scalpels and barbed wire? This imagery is positively Victorian, detective.’

Ella flashed her most disarming smile. Kane wanted to play this the hard way? Fine by her.

‘Then let me get specific for you, William. A woman named Sophie Draper was murdered last night. Killed in her own home. Eyes gouged out, barbed wire wrapped around her head, fashioned her skin into wings, cut off one of her fingers.’

The last piece of information wasn't true, but Ella always threw in a curveball when relaying the details of death to possible suspects. A killer like this wouldn't be able to stop himself from correcting her.

But Kane gave nothing away. The color drained from his face, leaving him fishbelly white. He clutched the edge of the counter. ‘Good Lord. That’s… awful.’

It was the most reaction she'd gotten from him yet, and damned if there wasn't an edge of real shock there. It pinged Ella's instincts because this wasn't the usual response of a guilty man, and she doubted Kane, this fifty-something scarecrow, was a very good actor.

But she wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily. Even if he hadn't sunk the knife in himself, he was still the closest thing she had to a lead.

‘Awful is one word for it. Something only a real monster could dream up. Sound like anyone you know?’

Kane shook his head vehemently. 'Absolutely not. I deal in detective fiction. In fantasies. What you're describing, it's... it's...'

‘And not only that, but I have reason to believe that the person who did this looks eerily similar to you. And happens to call himself Cain.’

And there it was. The flinch. The flicker of recognition quickly shuddered with a theater mask of confusion. But Ella pounced on it like a starving wolf. She pushed off the books and stalked forward until only the counter separated her from Kane's trembling carcass.

‘Something you want to tell me, William? Some salacious detail you've been holding back 'cause you like watching me dance for it?’

Kane held up his hands, palms out. ‘Detective, I… know this sounds odd, but please hear me out.’

Ella felt that this conversation was about to go one of two ways. She prayed it was the way that ended up with handcuffs. Her hand inched towards her weapon on reflex, but something told her she wouldn’t need it. Kane looked like a harsh wind could knock him over.

‘Okay, I’m listening,’ she said.

‘First of all, I’m not a killer. Look at me, for God’s sake.’ Kane swept his hands down his lanky figure, the way a chiselled model might show off their abs. Ella wasn’t about to make any conclusions just yet.

‘Keep going.’

‘Every second Wednesday, I host a writing class here. A place for amateurs to share their work. We have guest speakers and such.’

‘And?’

‘A few months ago, we had a guest speaker here. Kirsten Lawler. Local celebrity author.’ Kane tapped a stack of paperbacks on the counter, all the same title. All House of Shadows by Kirsten Lawler.

‘Thanks for the recommendation, but I’m here about a murder.’

Kane stumbled a little, gripped the counter again for support, then scrubbed a hand over his face. Ella noticed how impossibly tired he looked like he'd aged a decade in the space of this conversation.

‘Right, sorry. It’s just… we had this newbie in the class. Sat in the back, didn’t socialize much. We take it in turns to read our work out, and when it came to him, he got up in front of everyone, and…’

‘And?’

‘It was this murder scene,’ Kane said. ‘About a man named Cain, skinning a woman, pulling her eyes out, putting barbed wire around her head. Cain and his angel.’

Ella felt like the cosmos had just kicked her in the stomach. This was it. The phantom author, the ghost who'd turned Sophie Draper into an angel. Her unsub had been here. In this very shop, in the unholy flesh, reading out his perverse fiction for real people to hear.

‘Wait a second. This book your mystery man was reading from. Did it have a name?’

Kane stared in a straight line to his left. Any modern body language expert would tell Ella that Kane was recalling an auditory memory. Also known as telling the truth. As much as it pained her to admit, all signs pointed to Kane being innocent.

‘Gosh, I can’t remember. He did say, but…’

‘Was it Halo something?’ Ella asked, leading the witness only slightly.

Kane snapped his fingers. ‘Yes! Halo of Blood,’ he exclaimed, with all the enthusiasm of a man who’d just remembered where he’d left his winning lottery ticket.