CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ella squinted at the case files until the words blurred together like smudged ink on a doctor”s notepad. She”d been at this for hours, combing through every scrap of intel on Georgia Bolton and Archie Newman, trying to find the thread that would unravel this whole bloody mess.

But so far, nada.

Aside from their shared love of getting tanked up and visiting Bella Napoli Pizzeria, these two had about as much in common as a priest and a porn star. Different crowds, different haunts. It was like trying to mix oil and water and praying for a Molotov cocktail.

Ella leaned back in her chair. She scrubbed a hand over her face, feeling the grit of exhaustion sanding her corneas. Christ, when was the last time she”d gotten a decent night”s sleep? Four hours here, a catnap there. Life seemed to be a never-ending barrage of cities, cases and serial killers. Her eyeballs felt like overripe grapes, ready to burst at the seams.

The numbers in the corner of her laptop swam in and out of focus. Nine PM. Witching hour for the workaholics and masochists.

Knock it off, Dark, she scolded herself. No rest for the wicked, remember? You can sleep when you”re dead.

But even as she rallied, even as she reached for another file, her aunt”s voice echoed in her head like a ghostly nag.

You”ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, and you’ll get better grades with a rested mind.

The old broad had a point. Loath as Ella was to admit it, burning the midnight oil wasn”t doing her any favors. Her brain felt like scrambled eggs on Quaaludes, synapses misfiring like dud sparklers.

She needed to recharge the old batteries. Get some shut-eye and let the subconscious work its magic. Maybe then the dots would magically connect and she could make sense of this senseless case.

Ella was just about to heave herself out of the chair, muscles creaking like rusted hinges, when the door burst open like a gunshot.

She whipped around, instincts alert despite being in the sanctuary of the precinct. But it was just Luca at the door, and his pretty-boy face was flushed and his eyes were bright with the unholy glee of a man who”d just struck gold.

‘Ella!’ he crowed, brandishing a sheaf of papers like a holy relic. ‘I”ve got it! The signature!’

Ella blinked, her sleep-deprived brain struggling to catch up. ‘Context, Hawkins. What signature? What are you on about?’

Luca practically vibrated with excitement as he crossed the room in two long strides. He slapped the papers down on Ella”s desk, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

‘Remember that mark we found on the inside of the stocks? The circle with the weird squiggles?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘That’s where you’ve been? The library?’

Luca”s grin widened as he nodded. ‘Oh yes. See, I figured whoever made these stocks had to be old-school, you know? A blacksmith, a metalworker, someone who still uses their hands instead of a 3D printer.’

Ella leaned back in her chair, intrigued despite the fatigue fogging her brain. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, those types, they tend to advertise the old-fashioned way too. Classified ads, flyers, that sort of thing. So I hit up the library, spent the last four hours going blind on microfiche.’ He slapped a newspaper clipping on the desk and jabbed his finger at a grainy image. ‘And bingo. Look familiar?’

Ella squinted at the ad, the words ”Aleister Morgan”s Medieval Museum” leaping out at her in bold, Gothic script. And there, tucked away in the corner like an afterthought, was a familiar sight.

‘The signature,’ she breathed. ‘The same damn squiggle from the stocks.’

Luca nodded, triumph oozing from every pore. ‘Looks like this guy Aleister Morgan - is more than just a curator. He”s a craftsman too, specializing in ”authentic recreations of medieval torture devices.” Charming, right?’

Ella shook her head, a grudging respect blooming in her chest. The kid had done good, damn good. She”d been ready to write this whole thing off as a dead end, but Luca had followed the thread, unraveled the clues like a seasoned pro.

‘Aleister Morgan”s Medieval Museum,’ she said. ‘What the hell is it?’

Luca frowned at the newspaper clipping. ‘Not much to go on here. Just a few ads, a name, and an address that”s probably older than dirt.’

Ella snatched up her laptop and started tapping away, fingers flying over the keys like a concert pianist on a bender. ‘Let”s see what the wonder of the world wide web has to offer.’

But the internet proved to be a fickle mistress. No website, no social media presence, not even a damn Yelp review for Aleister Morgan”s Medieval Museum. The place was a phantom in the digital age.

Ella was about to toss the laptop aside in frustration when a tiny blurb caught her eye. She clicked, zoomed, her eyes narrowing to slits.

BUSINESS STATUS: INACTIVE.

‘Well. Looks like our buddy Aleister did have a business at one point.’ She dug in a little deeper. ‘But it went down the pan two years ago. Filed for bankruptcy by the looks of it.’

Luca leaned in, his breath tickling her ear. ‘Bankruptcy, huh? That”s one hell of a motive for murder.’

Tale as old as time. Guy loses everything, blames the world, decides to take his pound of flesh outta anyone unlucky enough to cross his path.’

Luca huffed out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. ‘Guess we better pay Mr. Morgan a visit then.’

‘Even if he’s not our guy, the stocks used definitely came from him.’ Ella was already on her feet, snatching up her keys and her piece. She punched the address into her phone, a frown creasing her brow. ‘Huh. That’s weird.’

Luca glanced over. ”What? He lives in a cave or something?”

‘Nope, just a normal house. Quite big and pretty secluded, but doesn’t exactly scream medieval museum.”‘

‘Perfect place for a serial killer to manifest.’

Ella had a lead, a name, a face to put to the horrors she’d seen. And in this business, you didn”t look a gift horse in the mouth, even if its teeth were rotten and its breath reeked of death.

‘Alright, Hawkins, this could be it. You ready?’

Luca checked his sidearm and cracked his knuckles. ‘Those words are music to my ears. It’s the first time I’ve heard them, but still.’

‘But still,’ Ella echoed. ‘Let’s go meet the guy that built these stocks.’