Girl, Sought (Ella Dark #24)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Rain hammered the motel windows like someone was throwing gravel from heaven. Three AM and sleep was playing hard to get, slipping through Ella's fingers every time she got close. There was a reality show on TV about a pawn shop, but Ella wasn’t watching. She was staring at the water-stained ceiling and thinking about dolls, insects, masks, collectors and what kind of person utilized all of them for their homicidal fantasies.

Luca had already checked out hours ago. Now he lay with his sweaty back pointed in her direction. One thing she welcomed was the warmth, because Luca was nothing short of a human radiator between the sheets. Even in these winter months, she’d never needed to use that electric blanket she kept for emergencies.

Even so, sleep was treating her like a jilted lover tonight. Meanwhile, it came to Luca like an old friend. Lucky bastard, she thought.

She reached over and grabbed her cell for the hundredth time since getting into bed. No missed calls. No texts. Julianne Cooper, her old landlord, was still ghosting her over that thousand-dollar deposit. And Jenna, her former roommate, might as well have vanished into the digital ether.

Ella frowned. It wasn't like Julianne to ghost her like this. Sure, the woman was seventy-odd and had the organizational skills of a squirrel, but she'd always been responsive. And Jenna was surgically attached to her phone. Ella had seen her sleep with it in her hands, for Christ’s sake.

So why the radio silence? Ella had left messages, texts. Nothing too pressing, just checking in. But it was like shouting into the void. No response, not even a ‘k’ or a thumbs-up emoji.

The lack of contact nagged at her like a loose tooth. Ella had lost her personal phone last month during the trial of Austin Creed in New Orleans, so she’d been using her work phone ever since. She’d already imported all of her contacts from her personal to her work cell, but maybe Julianne and Jenna didn't have this number saved? Could be they were seeing her calls come up as spam or unknown and just ignoring them.

Made sense, she supposed. Nobody answered unknown numbers these days unless they were actively trying to extend their car's warranty.

Rain kept up its assault on the windows as the pawn shop trash on TV gave way to some antiques show. Collectibles. Great. Just what she needed right now.

Maybe she could learn something, she thought. She was no expert in the field of collectibles, but surely people on this show were. Always be learning, that was her motto. So she plucked the remote from beside Luca and upped the volume a little. Not that she had to worry about waking Luca because he could sleep through a hurricane, but she didn't want to risk it regardless. She'd seen him in his not-enough-sleep state enough times, and she didn't want that grumpy dick by her side for the next 18 hours.

The host of the show - British, naturally, because apparently you needed an accent to sell old stuff - was waxing poetic about a Victorian writing desk. The camera lingered on its elaborate carvings, its secret compartments, its perfectly preserved finish.

Another item appeared on screen - a collection of vintage watches arranged in a velvet-lined display case. The host went on about provenance and market value while Ella's eyes grew heavy.

More antiques paraded past - porcelain figurines that reminded her uncomfortably of Eleanor's dolls, old brass scientific instruments that Alfred Finch probably would have loved, a massive cabinet full of mounted butterflies that made her think of their killer's mask.

Collectors. Always with their precious things behind glass. Their carefully curated worlds where everything had its proper place and value could be measured in dollar signs and auction estimates.

Luca mumbled something about basketball in his sleep and rolled onto his back. The movement stirred air that carried traces of his aftershave - the same brand he'd worn since they'd first partnered up. Some things never changed, even when everything else did.

The antiques show host was still talking, his accent wrapping around words like ‘provenance’ and ‘authentication’ like they were exotic delicacies. More items flashed across the screen - military medals in shadow boxes, ancient maps in gilt frames, carved jade pieces arranged just so.

Everything categorized. Everything displayed. Everything is assigned a value based on age condition, and rarity.

Her eyes finally started to close as rain painted abstract patterns on the window glass. The TV's glow softened, turned distant, became part of that liminal space between waking and sleeping where connections formed in the back of the brain without conscious input.

Somewhere in that twilight zone, pieces were shifting. Ideas were arranging themselves like those antiques in their perfect displays. But whatever pattern they were forming would have to wait for morning.

Sleep took her at last, dragging her down into dreams of glass cases and compound eyes and the endless rain beyond the windows.

Pictures, Ella thought.

The one thing you needed when selling something – was pictures.