CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Ella had spent the past hour staring at Carter's YouTube page. Or more accurately, a wasteland of goofy thumbnails and clickbait titles, each more inane than the last. With a killer on the loose and a countdown to another body in her lap, she felt like she was committing some cardinal sin by wasting time on these dumb videos.

But with Luca out on the road and all the officers deployed to their respective posts, Ella felt like she should tie up any loose ends while she could.

The video titles alone gave her a migraine:

EXPLORING THE MURDER TUNNELS BENEATH YAMHILL HIGH SCHOOL (GONE WRONG).

24 HOUR OVERNIGHT CHALLENGE IN ABANDONED ASYLUM (REAL GHOSTS CAUGHT ON CAMERA!!).

EMPTY HOSPITAL – GHOSTS IN THE BATHTUB??!

MARROW FARM - ABANDONED HAUNTED HOUSE, CLOSED DOWN FOR BEING TOO SCARY??

Sheesh, caps lock and exclamation points. The barrel-scraping tools of anyone desperate for attention. She doubted this guy would know real terror if it crawled up his viewfinder and made a home in his frontal lobe.

But the next video on the list was: ‘ brEAKING INTO GHOSTLIGHT BOOKS - SHHHH! '

Ella clicked on the video, and the screen filled with Carter's overeager face. His voice grated on her nerves as he launched into his intro spiel.

‘What's up, ghost gang! It's ya boy, coming at you live from outside the spookiest bookstore in all of Yamhill!'

Carter giggling like he'd struck comedy gold as he fumbled with the lock. Discount balaclava hanging off his ears. Ella was about to chalk it up as another waste of time but she'd come this far, might as well see if there were any nuggets waiting at the bottom, like that hit of caffeine at the end of every coffee.

‘Got a real treat for y'all tonight. Gonna see what secrets this creepy-ass bookstore is hiding. This place ain't abandoned, so we're going to go ill-eagle.'

Ella's finger hovered over the fast-forward button. She didn't have time for this kid's theatrics. But something held her back. A gut feeling, honed by years on the job, told her to watch closely. To catch every detail.

Carter's whispered commentary provided a running narrative as he searched for a way in. He went round the back of the shop, found a back door and pried it open. Then Carter was in, alarmingly easily.

Frame by frame, Ella watched as Carter snuck through what was nothing more than empty bookstore. The night-vision on his camera illuminated everything in a headache-inducing green, but at least it made anything white stand out. All she saw were rows of shelves, book spines, an old countertop with an ancient till.

Five minutes in, Ella's vision blurred. Her head throbbed. She blinked hard, trying to refocus.

And then she saw it.

A flash of white in the corner of the frame. So quick she almost missed it.

Ella's hand shot out; jabbed the pause button. Rewound. Frame by frame, she inched backward through the footage.

Her stomach dropped like she'd swallowed a stone.

‘Oh God,' she breathed. ‘Is that...?'

A mask. Stark white against the green-tinged darkness. Perched on a high shelf, nestled between dusty tomes.

Not just any mask. The mask. The one from the crime scene photos. The one their killer had planted on Benjamin Clarke's face in death.

She hit play again. Watched as Carter's camera panned past the shelf. The mask vanished from view, swallowed up by the darkness.

Ella rewound once more. Freeze-framed on that single, damning image.

Ghostlight Books.