EPILOGUE

Ella perched on a gnarled tree root at the river"s edge. The water gurgled past, carrying whispers of better days. This spot, just a stone"s throw from her childhood home, was etched in her bones deeper than any case file.

She could almost see her dad's silhouette against the early morning mist, rod in hand, patient as the hills. Little Ella, with her knobby knees and pigtails, squealing as she chased minnows in the shallows. Back when the world was simple, when death was just a concept for floating fish and bedtime stories.

‘Put "em back, Daddy!' she"d cry, and Ken would smile that tired smile of his, unhooking another wriggling catch. He always did. Except for that one time. The bloated carp, belly-up and cloudy-eyed. Ella remembered the chill that ran through her, how wrong it felt.

Ken Dark"s words echoed across the years: ‘Sometimes, sweetheart, things gotta die so others can live. It ain"t pretty, but that"s nature"s way.'

Life, death, the whole damn circle. She didn"t get it then; still wasn"t sure she did now.

But Ken Dark was ashes, and Ella had too many ghosts to count. Maybe he was right after all. You die, so another mook gets a shot at growing old. The universe demanded its pound of flesh and it didn"t much care who paid up.

A few miles away, the city slept the fitful sleep of the guilty. Here in Abingdon, merely a stone's throw away from her childhood home, Ella kept her lonely vigil. Ears tuned for the telltale sign of approaching footsteps.

Waiting for the devil to come calling.

Morbid thoughts for a morbid hour. Ella snorted, winced as her ribs lodged a formal protest. Every inhale was a knife between the vertebrae, a reminder of the business end of Seth Baxter"s psychotic love affair with his framing hammer.

But bruises faded. Bones knitted. Ella was a quick study in the art of knocking the dirt off and getting back on the horse.

She wanted to close her eyes. Wanted to sink into the forgiving black and let this shitshow of a day fade into the rearview. But she couldn"t. Not yet.

The plan was half-cocked at best and suicidal at worst. Dangle herself like a worm on a hook, wait for the lunatic ex to come sniffing around for bait. Feed him some line about jealousy and betrayal, about broken trust and bridges burned. Let him fill in the blanks with his own twisted logic. Weave a little story about Mia and Ella on the outs, about bad blood and uglier words.

Then see who came calling.

Ella"s eyes cut to the black ribbon of river. With her senses dialed to eleven, she cocked an ear to the night. Tree branches creaking like old bones, something skittering through the underbrush.

But no footfall, no sign of the silver-haired psycho with an itchy trigger finger and a twisted sense of love.

Maybe he"d wised up. Cut his losses and hopped the first train to Guatemala. Though Ella doubted it. Men like Martin, they didn"t just quit. Not when they thought they were the white knight riding to his lady"s rescue.

He"d come. She knew it. He"d come because he couldn"t help himself. Because somewhere in that twisted brain of his, he"d rationalized this little murder spree as an act of love.

And Ella would be waiting. Ready to read him his rights and snap on the cuffs, or take two to the chest for her trouble. Either way, this ended tonight.

The minutes dripped by like cold molasses. Ella watched the hands on her watch tick-tick-tick towards oblivion. A metronome counting off the last seconds of someone"s life. Maybe hers, if the twitchy feeling in her gut was anything to go by. Call it cop"s intuition, that little voice that whispered "duck" right before the bullets started flying.

But hell, she"d had a good run. And if this was how she punched her ticket, so be it. Taking a psycho off the board was as good a way to go as any. Better than most of the crap she saw on the daily.

Besides, it beat the alternative. The slow fade into obscurity, the long slog of days bleeding into years bleeding into a bottle and a gold watch and not much else. Forty years in and a pat on the head for your trouble. Ella had seen that movie, read that book cover to cover. And it always ended the same – a whimper instead of a bang and a whole lot of nothing to show for it.

So maybe this was better. Quicker, cleaner. A period instead of an ellipsis. And if it kept Mia safe, kept her breathing for another day, another week, to enjoy her rapidly approaching retirement? Well, that was just icing on the cake, wasn"t it? If not for Mia, Ella would have been in the ground a long time ago. The least Ella could do is repay the favor.

Ella checked her watch again. Sunrise was nearly on the horizon.

That"s when she heard it.

The faintest crunch of pebbles in the dirt. The soft sigh of grass bending underfoot. A snake sliding through reeds.

Her heart kicked into overdrive. She rose from the grass on silent feet, every nerve ending crackling like electricity.

This was it. The moment of truth.

More footsteps, muffled but unmistakable. The swish of trousers, the click of dress shoes too fancy for a fishing hole. Branches snapping, leaves crunching. A muted curse as something snagged, held fast.

Ella swallowed a hiccup of panicked laughter. Sounded like the old silver fox wasn"t much for a moonlit stroll. That made two of them.

She tensed as the footfalls grew closer. Felt the fine hairs on her nape rise in anticipation. Three, two...

Light exploded over the water as the moon broke free of a cloud. Quicksilver brightness flooded the riverbank, banishing the shadows and the man who wore them like a second skin.

‘Hello, Martin.' Her voice sounded steadier than she felt, and she sent up a silent prayer of thanks for small mercies. ‘Fancy meeting you here.'

Martin froze mid-step. For a moment he was a portrait in shades of shock – eyes wide, mouth hanging slack, one foot dangling foolishly in the air. A caricature of surprise, and it would"ve been funny if it wasn"t so terrifying.

‘Agent Dark.' He recovered quickly, she"d give him that much. Smoothed out his expression into something resembling normalcy, even as his gaze flicked to the river, the trees, cataloging escape routes. ‘I didn"t expect you to be here.'

And I didn"t expect to find a murderer creeping around my old fishing spot in the middle of the night. And yet…"

She didn"t see the gun until it was already up, already levelled at her center mass. One second, he was a man, albeit a crazy one. The next he was a threat, a loaded weapon with Ella"s name carved on the bullets.

‘Don't say another word.'

Ella raised her hands, nice and slow. Kept her own piece tucked against the small of her back, out of sight. No need to spook him any more than necessary.

Not yet.

‘Okay, okay.' She gentled her tone, rounded the edges until she sounded almost reasonable. ‘Take it easy, Martin. Let"s talk about this.'

‘There's nothing to talk about.'

‘Martin, I need to know. You killed three people. You killed a man I wanted to see rot in prison. You tried to murder my ex-boyfriend. You took out a federal director. You executed your partner's ex-husband. Why?'

Something flickered across his face – grief, longing, a terrible sort of hunger. His grip on the gun faltered for a half-second.

‘I had to,' he whispered. ‘Don"t you see? They were hurting her. Holding her back. I couldn"t let them... I had to set her free.'

Jesus wept. The twisted logic of a man so far off the reservation, he"d circled back around to sainthood. This was a man beyond reason. He'd lived a life of seeing people die, and now he thought death was the only solution. He"d killed for Mia. Butchered her demons and left the bodies stacked like cordwood on her doorstep. And in some sick, twisted part of his psyche, he thought it was a gift.

Ella"s heart broke a little for Mia then. For the horror of it, the dawning realization that the man she loved was a monster in a mask. That every touch, every word, was just camouflage for the snake coiled beneath.

‘She didn"t want that, Martin.' Gently, gently. Coaxing him back from the precipice with kid gloves and honey. ‘Mia never asked you to do those things.'

But of course she had. Maybe not in words, but in a thousand small ways over their time together. Every flinch when Carter's name came up, every shadow that crossed her face at the mention of Nash or Trevor. Mia wore her damage like a hair shirt, let it chafe her raw and bloody for all the world to see.

And Martin had seen. He"d watched her suffer, watched her bleed. Stood vigil over her pain like a graveyard specter, hungry for every drop.

And in the end, he"d fashioned himself into an angel of mercy. Mia"s own personal sin-eater, swallowing down her enemies even as he damned himself.

Ella saw it now, clear as a killing stroke. The sick symbiosis of it, the feedback loop of trauma and revenge. How many times had she counseled victims, talked them off the ledge of their own worst impulses? Warned them of the hollow comfort of vengeance, the gnawing emptiness that came after the trigger was pulled and the body laid to rest?

Martin had skipped straight to the punchline. Had carved out his pound of flesh and called it love.

And Mia – She must"ve known, on some level. Must"ve seen the signs, the red flags waving in a stiff wind. But she"d buried it down deep, looked the other way while the bodies piled up. Because to face the truth was to put a bullet in the brain of her own happily ever after.

‘I know you think you did right by her, Martin. I know you wanted to be her hero.'

‘I am her hero!' The words came out jagged, edging into hysteria. ‘I saved her. Protected her. And you – you tried to poison her against me. Filled her head with lies.'

‘No, Martin, I didn"t. I just called out what I saw. In the CCTV footage of Carter's murder. In my ex's apartment. I saw you.'

‘And then you told Mia everything. Why? Why didn't you just keep your mouth shut? Now I have to fix everything.'

There was steel in his eyes now mirror. Decision was crystallizing like ice in his veins. Ella saw it happen. A watch spring winding down to the snapping point.

He was going to shoot her. One last obstacle removed, one more body on the pile.

All for love.

For Mia.

Then, from behind Martin – another set of footsteps.

Martin flinched, halfway turning towards the new threat.

And Mia was there.

Her eyes were red and raw. Her face was ashen, lined with a grief too vast for words. She looked like a woman who'd just watched her world crumble.

But her hands were steady on her Glock .17

‘You,' she said.

He flinched like he"d been slapped. ‘Mia? You're here. Why…?'

‘I heard you.' Fresh tears spilled over, tracking through the salt lines of those already shed. ‘I heard everything.'

‘For you. It was all for you.'

‘I never asked for this.' Her aim never wavered. ‘I didn"t want this. Any of it.'

‘But they were hurting you. The ones who got away. I couldn"t...' He took a shuddering step towards her, hands outstretched. Supplicating. ‘I love you, Mia. Doesn"t that mean anything?'

‘Love? You call this love?'

‘I was getting them out of the way so we could be together,' Martin cried.

‘Christ, Martin.' Revulsion, thick as bile. Dawning horror, shattering her to shrapnel. ‘Listen to yourself. This isn"t love. It"s sickness. Delusion.'

‘You"re only saying that because of her.' His finger stabbed at Ella. ‘She did this. She poisoned you against me. I"ll fix it, don"t worry. I"ll make it right.'

Then Martin moved. A blur, a lunge. His gun swung up, zeroing in on Ela like a compass needle finding north. The gun barked a deafening blast. A strobe flash followed, then the smell of cordite.

Martin staggered. Swayed. The gun tumbled from slack fingers as he crumpled like a discarded rag doll.

He hit the ground hard, a sack of meat where a man used to be. Life fled in a crimson gush, staining the grass in the pale moonlight. He left a red trail in his wake, a gory slug path any Boy Scout could follow. Crimson on brown on sickly green river scum. Prettier than it had any right to be in the pre-dawn glow.

But his body kept moving. Martin rolled down the bank in a tangle of expensive suit and cooling flesh. She followed his descent – spatters of red on green, the physics of a body in motion, the final splash as he hit the water.

Then the river got greedy. Inky fingers dragged Martin under, hungry for a taste of fresh kill. One arm flopped up in a macabre farewell before the final curtain. And finally, a bubble of blood burst on the surface – Martin's swan song in crimson.

And Martin – the so-called guardian angel – was gone. The devil himself, spat back to hell.

Ella stared, frozen.

At Mia, looking over the river's edge, her gun still hot in her shaking hands.

Her face was stiff as marble, all color leached out by the violence, the brutality of putting her former lover in the ground.

For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

Especially Martin.

Sometimes, sweetheart, things gotta die so others can live. It ain"t pretty, but that"s nature"s way.

Mia was alive. Ella was alive. The cosmic ledger had been balanced out, red in tooth and claw.

Her old man had been right. This was nature's way.

There"d be hell to pay come morning. Questions and autopsies and reports and recriminations.

But for now, in the hushed stillness of the riverside-turned-slaughterhouse…

Peace.

Ella and Mia. Dark and Ripley.

Until death did them part.

Or not.