Chapter 3

Thursday, March 11

2:00 p.m.

Pale green siding stood stark against the wrap of asphalt around the Ellingson family home. Built in the late 1800s as most of the other houses in the area were, the structure had been renovated since she'd left. Overgrown grass slowed their approach to the screened-in front porch running the width of one side of the house. Old wood protested under their weight as they climbed the four stairs to the main door. A row of trees blocked a straight-shot view of the crime scene on the other side. Perfect seclusion.

Boucher pounded against the rusted metal frame of the screen door, and the entire porch shook. "Michelle Cross giving a negative character statement against Ellingson during that investigation might just be a coincidence. So I'll do the talking. Got it?"

They wouldn't be here if he really believed that, but Leigh was comfortable in letting him take the lead. Despite her detailed knowledge of the original case and her experience consulting for different departments over the last decade, she predicted criminal behavior with data. She didn't verbally interrogate it. All she had was theoretical training scenarios, crime statistics, and hefty neck strain due to years at a desk. "Got it."

Her phone pinged from inside her coat pocket, and she made quick work of swiping the notification off the screen.

She'd missed another call.

Her doctor's office was persistent. Leigh would give her that.

It'd started with blood. A lot of it. Now, some six weeks later, the physician's assistant was still calling to give her the results of the ultrasound. She would've given up or left a message with more than a "Please give me a call back when you get this" if everything had come back clear.

Her mother had suffered from uterine cysts for years. That was all this was, and it hadn't killed her. Right now, though, Leigh had more important things to worry about.

Rusted liquid dripped from the roof a few feet away and exploded as it hit the asphalt in rhythm to her racing pulse. Pitter, patter. Pitter, patter. The consistent feedback took the edge off her nerves. She scanned the length of the home, all the way back to the parked car and detached two-car garage. Wrapped in white siding and built with an updated design from the rest of the house, it failed to blend two distinct time periods together. There was a metaphor that applied to her two separate lives in there somewhere. One grounded in this town. One constructed out of the assurances and distance she'd relied on since escaping. She couldn't stop both of those lives merging now.

Heavy footsteps registered from inside.

A dark outline solidified on the other side of the screen door. Corroded hinges protested as Chris Ellingson shoved the door outward.

"Is that Gabriel Boucher after all these years?" Ellingson leaned his weight against the doorframe, wiping oil-stained hands into an equally stained rag. Stringy brown hair moved with the breeze coming through the wall of trees separating this property from the crime scene. Snow swirled along the overgrown grass and around Ellingson's near black eyes. "Hell, here I was thinking you'd forgotten all about me."

"It's Lieutenant Boucher now." Boucher's shoulders seemed to pull back without conscious permission.

"Lieutenant?" A thin smile hiked one corner of Ellingson's mouth, and Leigh was instantly reminded of the times he'd smiled at her when he'd visited her brother at home. As the town's only child psychologist, he'd taken a position as the elementary school, middle school, and high school on-staff counselor, giving him access to countless victims, but Ellingson hadn't limited himself to school hours. There'd been weekly visits at their home, check-in phone calls, and sent-home assignments. No matter the time of day, Ellingson had cemented himself in her brother's shadow. "I always knew you'd make something of yourself."

"Mr. Ellingson, you remember Leigh Brody. She's consulting with Lebanon PD on an incident that happened not too far from here." Boucher motioned to her. "We're here to talk to you about anything unusual that might've occurred around your property or your neighbor's last night. May we come inside?"

A prickling sensation shot down her spine as Ellingson's gaze shot to her. She'd been trained to neutralize threats during her admission to the police academy and time with Concord PD, but Chris Ellingson surpassed anything she'd studied.

"Now's not a good time. I'm in the middle of fixing the furnace, you see. I'm also not particularly fond of having police in my home after the last time I submitted myself to questioning cost me my job. I'm sure you can understand." Ellingson rose to his full height around six-two. A giant compared to the children he'd murdered. "What's so special about last night?"

"We're not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation." Leigh's defenses kicked in. She could only steady her breathing for so long when facing off with the man who'd most likely slaughtered her brother and his best friend and framed her father for the crimes.

"Brody… Brody. I know that name." Ellingson pointed at her, sinking back against the door frame, and crossed one ankle in front of the other. "You're Troy's sister. Gosh, I was devastated when I heard what'd happened. With your father, too. He had a hell of a way with his students. Never thought him the type to hurt anyone."

Heat flooded into her neck and face as his accusation sliced through her guard. So casual. As if the bastard hadn't known he was twisting the blade deeper. Leigh wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

In the same way a serial killer built up a tolerance derived from the prolonged pleasure from a kill, she'd honed her own brand of tolerance over the years. Rehearsing this exact conversation hundreds of times, imagining running into him if she were to ever return to Lebanon, picturing his face staring back at her as she checked the locks on her windows and doors every night. Every detail, from the too-wide base of his nose to the soft, almost baby-faced roundness of his features, had burned into her memory a long time ago. He was a little more worn now, had added a few more pounds, and gotten slower with his words. As though he'd rehearsed his answers, but one thing hadn't changed.

He was the perfect predator.

The kind victims would never see coming.

She could do this. She wasn't one of his victims. She wasn't going to let him take up space in her head. "I remember you from the night of the memorial. It was kind of you to show our families the support we needed."

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world." A brightness that hadn't been there before edged into Ellingson's eyes. "Now, I don't believe for a minute Agent Brody is here all the way from Clarksburg for nostalgia, Lieutenant. Want to tell me why you're really standing on my porch?"

Agent Brody. Air caught in her throat. Boucher hadn't told him who she worked for or where she'd been assigned. Which meant Ellingson had kept tabs on her. Not just her. He'd most likely kept tabs on all of his victims' family members. Why? In case one of them got too close to the truth? To torment them after they'd found the courage to move on?

"As she said, we're not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation, at this time, Mr. Ellingson." Boucher wrapped one hand around the unstable steel guardrail funneling them closer together for the perfect ambush. "Did you hear or see anything around midnight that you'd consider unusual?"

"Who was murdered?" A full-fledged smile thinned Ellingson's dry lips. That legendary confidence reared its ugly head, but in the end, it would be his undoing. Leigh would make sure of it. "Your patrol officers were here about an hour ago seeing as your crime scene is on the other side of my trees. I already told them my furnace went out last night. I've spent most of the past twelve hours in the basement trying to get it up and running again. Which means you're here for something else."

"Michelle Cross." Leigh studied him for signs of recognition. The slight tic at the left side of his jaw didn't disappoint. Victory washed through her, but they were far from the endgame. Wind kicked fresh flakes into her face, and she slid both hands into her coat, memorizing the feel of the toy soldier in her pocket all over again. "You knew her."

"Lebanon is a small town. I know everyone, Agent Brody, but you're right. It's hard to forget Michelle." Ellingson waved to a passing vehicle, a distraction from giving anything away, but he'd already screwed up. "She was one of my first students when I was working as a counselor for the school district. Had a touch of ADHD. Of course, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder wasn't widely known back then, but I managed to help her focus by giving her a small toy to fidget with while she studied."

"A toy soldier." Hardness etched into Boucher's expression. The pieces had lined up then, but the detectives assigned her brother's case had refused to see the pattern as more than a coincidence. "Let me guess. An infantryman?"

"That's right, Lieutenant. As you know, I had a whole row of them lined up on the windowsill of my office, my own collection from when I was a kid. After a while, I realized Michelle was having a hard time listening in our sessions. All she wanted was to hold that infantryman." Distinct lines deepened at the corners of Ellingson's eyes. "And, yes, before you get the same ideas as your counterparts twenty years ago, the toy soldiers did the trick for Troy Brody and Derek Garrison, too. It worked for a lot of kids I helped."

"You mean right up until Michelle Cross convinced the school district's board of directors you were a danger to her and every other student." Leigh dropped one heel on the edge of the stair. He'd planned this. His alibi. His motive. Chris Ellingson had been waiting for this interview, just as she had. Only this time, he'd be the one to end up in cuffs, and the truth would finally redeem her family. "She cost you your job. Ruined your reputation in this town. And the state revoked your license. No matter where you go, you're prohibited from practicing psychology for life. It was only a matter of time before you set out to make an example of her."

"So Michelle was killed in the same manner as those boys then." Chris Ellingson was intelligent. Organized and charming, the kind of man who required constant stimulation mentally and physically. Top of his class at Stanford, in good shape. But behind the confidence, behind the challenge in his gaze, there was a hate-fueled devastation waiting to be unleashed. Murder hadn't been enough for her brother and Derek Garrison, same as it hadn't been enough for Gresham Schmidt and Michelle Cross. This killer had wanted to eradicate his victims' identities, and while she couldn't look at Chris Ellingson and instantly label him a psychopath, her instincts warned he'd started playing his own manipulative game. He hadn't been arrested for her brother's murder. He'd use that to deny any involvement in their current investigation, but monsters like him couldn't contain their dark impulses. Not for long, anyway. Another dose of amusement flared through Ellingson's expression. "Seems I recall police making an arrest on that case."

Despite the detachment she'd convinced herself she could keep, Leigh's chest squeezed tight. She and Boucher had intended to question Ellingson, but he'd manipulated his own answers from them.

"And like I said, I wouldn't have seen or heard anything last night or early this morning down in the basement. Feel free to check over at Rathe's Hardware store. I made two trips to get what I needed to finish the job. You know Henry, right? Poor man struggles with a bit of insomnia. Well, I visited his fine establishment around eleven. Then again just before he closed at midnight when I realized I needed an additional bolt." Ellingson made to close the screen door behind him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, this furnace isn't going to fix itself."

Boucher descended the stairs. "We'll be in touch if we have any other questions for you."

Midnight. According to Dr. Jennings's preliminary assessment at the scene, that was within the time frame their killer had dumped the body. If Ellingson had been across town at the hardware store, he wouldn't have had time to kill his victim and deposit her on the bridge.

Leigh shot one hand out to stop the screen door from slamming shut. "Mr. Ellingson, I noticed your mom's old car parked in the driveway." From the look of it, the rusted-out sedan had taken a hell of a beating over the summer. "There are cobwebs and leaves in the hubcaps and rain spots on all the windows. Can I assume she passed?"

"Three months ago." Irritation exploded at the edges of Ellingson's mouth a split second before he scanned the vehicle for himself.

"I take it you weren't living in Lebanon until recently then." This town had gone twenty years without a homicide. That couldn't be a coincidence.

"No. After Michelle and that whole investigation destroyed any chance I had of a career, I had to escape." Ellingson closed in on her personal space. "You of all people know what that's like."

"May I ask where you've been living these past twenty years?" Pressure drilled between her shoulder blades the longer she defied the deal she'd made with Boucher.

"You're a federal agent, Leigh. I think you can figure that out for yourself." Chris Ellingson tugged the screen door from her hand, her name seared with a hint of humor. "Come back anytime. We can talk about the old days."

Leigh backed down the stairs. The vise gripped around her heart let up, and she took her first full breath since getting out of the car. "He's lying."

Boucher stepped into line at her side as she headed for the police cruiser. "He claims he has an alibi, and even if he didn't, you're not a cop anymore. You're a consultant. Damn it, you practically accused him of killing Michelle Cross."

Director Livingstone hadn't been the only one to do their homework.

"He was expecting us. He had all his answers lined up in neat little packages, ready to dole out when needed. We weren't questioning him. He was using us to get information, and we gave it to him." Shame and self-deprecating disappointment clawed through her. "You don't know him the same way I do. You said it yourself. You were too young when my brother and Derek Garrison were killed to understand what was really happening in this town. I was there, and he knows more than he's telling us. It's no coincidence two victims were murdered with the same MO within weeks of him moving back to Lebanon. People like him? They get a kick out of mocking law enforcement by publicly staying within the lines. This is all just a sick game to him."

Boucher set both hands on his hips, accentuating a well-defined chest and arms. "One of those victims was a one-hit wonder detective from London with no connection to this town, and I can tell you right now, Ellingson hasn't gotten on a plane since he got here to settle his mother's affairs. What do you have to say about that?"

"What do you mean the first victim was a one-hit wonder?" Her brother's toy soldier lured her hand to her pocket.

"The old man solved some cold case from ten years ago." Boucher headed for the patrol car. "It was in the news. An abducted kid from a park in the middle of London. Turned out the case was connected to trafficking. He somehow found the guys responsible after everyone else had given up. Managed to bust the entire operation by himself."

"Impressive." But irrelevant as far as they were concerned.

Movement registered from one of the house's windows.

Chris Ellingson stared out, a cup of coffee in one hand. He took a long, drawn-out sip and waved as if they were old friends.

If she wanted to stay on this case, she had to be more careful. She had to keep her head on straight. "Chris Ellingson might have an alibi, but there's a monster beneath that mask. He's connected to this case, and I'm going to prove it."