Page 73 of Girl, Fractured

Except for the large manila envelope that lay partially opened at the bottom of the stack.

Its size alone made it stand out.Legal-sized, cream-colored, bearing the return address of Talisman House Publishing in the upper left corner.

‘Talisman Publishing,’ Ella said aloud.

Ella lifted it carefully, noting its heft.Already unsealed, its contents partially protruding, as if Webb had opened it and then set it aside, perhaps interrupted by the arrival of his killer.Or perhaps by the preparation of his final meal.

She carefully extracted the contents.A thick stack of papers bound with a metal clip fell out.

The cover page read ‘PUBLISHING AGREEMENT’ in authoritative serif font.Below that, in slightly smaller text: ‘BETWEEN TALISMAN HOUSE PUBLISHING (Publisher) AND THOMAS WEBB (Author).’

A publishing contract?Did Sarah know about this?And if she did, why didn’t she mention it?It seemed odd to Ella that Sarahwouldn’tknow about this, especially as she’d said at the library that she and her dad bonded over true crime stories.

Which asked a further question: if Sarah Webb knew her dad was looking into a cold case, why didn’t she get him protection?Purely because he wasn’t a member of the White Whale Group?

It didn’t make sense.

Ella’s pulse accelerated as she flipped to the next page.

AGREEMENT made this 14th day of December, 2024, between TALISMAN LITERARY PRESS, INC.(hereinafter referred to as ‘the Publisher’) and THOMAS WEBB (hereinafter referred to as ‘the Author’) with respect to a work tentatively entitled ‘STIGMATA: THE CRUCIFIXION MURDER OF 1986’ (the ‘Work’)...

Ella felt the air leave her lungs in a rush.The Crucifixion Murder of 1986.

The very case whose methodology had been used to kill him.

She rifled through the rest of the contract, and found a sticky note attached to the signature page:Final manuscript due January 15.Call me with any questions - Malcolm.

At the bottom of the contract, a handwritten phone number.

Ella couldn’t dial fast enough.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Plans had changed.Thomas Webb was supposed to be the last nail, so to speak.Now the story had sprouted an unexpected epilogue.

His shovel struck rock, which was the signal that he was deep enough.He pulled the plastic bag from his jacket, turned it upside down and let Thomas Webb’s pinky finger fall into the hole.It was a small tribute compared to the others, but symbolically significant nonetheless.He glanced around to ensure there were no prying eyes, then buried the finger alongside its brethren.

This should have been the end of the road.Three bodies, one mystery, and one irresistible story that the masses would eat up.But along the way, some things had changed.He’d never been one for introspection, but these murders had changed him in a way he never expected.It wasn’t so much that he enjoyed them, because despite his status as a serial killer, he still didn’t understand how someone could enjoy the blood, the mess, the constant anxiety that you could be sentenced to death if you made one wrong move.

No.What he felt was fulfilment.Like he’d finally righted a wrong.

With his new trophy now firmly concealed, no one could tell that there were three pieces of human beings sitting at his feet.Nothing marked the spot except his own memory.No one would find this place unless they knew exactly where to look.

This part had been an impulsive move, because his initial plan had been to throw the eyes, the head and the pinky finger into the sea.Thomas Webb’s hard drive, on the other hand,hadended up in the ocean.

But doing this felt like the right thing to do.This place was a grave, after all, and these body parts were his flowers.

What now?Well, he never believed in fate, despite the sudden turn of events, so it was time to put the final step into motion.Yes, it was risky, even riskier than the others, but the odds were in his favor and he was compelled to roll the dice.

When this story finally reached the world, suspicion would undoubtedly fall on him, but it would seem so outrageous that it couldn’t possibly be true.The quasi-intellectuals would rage about Occam’s razor while the conspiracy theorists would throw out their convoluted theories, and thankfully, nobody would either of them seriously.He didn’t care what people said as long as he was a free man – and the money kept rolling in.

He placed his shovel down beneath the rock and just sat.Pretty soon, night would fall, and it would just be him, his trophies, and with any luck – victim number four.

Yes, there was room for one more, because some endings just wrote themselves.

***

Mia Ripley stormed back into the precinct and made a beeline for Interrogation Room B.

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