CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ella and Ripley stood, shoulder to shoulder, peering intently at the computer screen.
The revelation about the phobia therapy sessions had cast a new light on the investigation, and revealed a pathway where before there was only a wall.
Ripley regarded the screen like the words might disappear if she looked away.
‘Group therapy sessions? For phobias?’ Ripley asked.
Ella tapped the screen. ‘It’s right there in black and white. Remember, both Julia and Thomas had secret outings. Julia’s roommate said she was usually gone for a few hours at least once a week. Could they both have attended these sessions?’
‘So this could be where our killer learns his victims’ fears. Could be another group member, or could be someone who works for the church?’
‘It has to be a regular there, not some newbie. It’s not like our killer could have learned about Julia and Thomas’s phobias and made them realities the same nights. Sourcing rats, digging holes in the ground. It takes time. Whoever our guy is, he’s been at these sessions more than once.’
‘That works in our favor,’ Ripley said.
‘Yeah, more chances of someone recognizing someone sketchy.’
Ripley said, ‘When are the sessions? Weekly?’
Ella checked the calendar on St. Augustine's website. She could see the days of sessions that had passed, and there didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the schedule. Some weeks had hosted three meetings. 'They have them all the time.'
‘It’s a church. They’ll meet for any reason, whenever they can. Probably whenever the counsellor is available.’
‘Yeah.’ She checked again. There was a session tonight. ‘Mia, there’s a meeting in a few hours.’
‘Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s hit this place up.’
Ella reached out and grabbed her partner’s wrist. ‘Not so fast. I’ve got a better idea.’
Ripley raised an eyebrow, then looked back at the screen. ‘Dark, don’t say it.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t say you’re going undercover.’
Ella grinned. ‘Why not? Anyone can go along, so why not me? It's the perfect way to get a lay of the land, see who's who. We need to understand the dynamics of these sessions.’
Ripley sighed and put one hand on Ella’s shoulder. ‘Dark, you’ve got cop written on your forehead. Going undercover is a risk that rarely pays off.’
‘Do you want to do it instead?’
‘I don’t think either of us should do it. We’re talking about a church. Call me traditional, but priests aren’t known for their senses of humor. If they bust you, they might not exactly laugh it off.’
‘You saying I’m a bad actress?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alright, you might have a point, but we don’t have the luxury of time.
What if our guy is someone who works there?
Our profile isn’t detailed enough to be able to spot our killer from a mile off.
It’s not just like we’re interrogating one person here.
There could be session leaders, priests, counselors, church volunteers.
We need eyes on all of them – discrete eyes. ’
Ripley folded her arms and took a few steps back. ‘Can you cry on command?’
‘I’ve never tried.’
‘What’s your cover story?’
Ella shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ll make it up on the night.’
‘This is the night.’
‘Fine. Spiders, clowns, open spaces. There’re a million phobias out there.’
Ripley checked her watch and said, ‘Well, you’ve got a few hours to get your story straight. Do you want me there with you?’
Ella anticipated that this would be a solo mission. Too many new arrivals at the group could be a red flag. ‘You? You say I’ve got cop written on my forehead? People might recognize you.’
‘How would they recognize me?’
‘You have your own Wikipedia page.’
‘Do I? I just meant do you want me there for extra eyes, or moral support.’
‘Maybe. You could pretend to be my mom.’
‘Harsh,’ Ripley said. ‘I tell you what, I’ll stay in the car. I’ll be your eyes and ears on the outside. Any suspicious activity, I’ll move in. No heroics.’
‘Alright. The sessions begin at six, so we’ll get there a little early. I want to mingle with this phobia crowd before we get down to business.’
‘Crowds,’ Ripley clicked her fingers. ‘That’s a good one.’
Ella nodded, but she wasn't thinking about crowds. She was thinking about her own fear. The one she'd buried years ago and never talked about. Not to Ripley, not to Luca, not to anyone.
For a second, she considered using it. The real thing. It would make the whole thing more convincing.
But she pushed the thought away. This wasn't about her. It was about Julia Dawson, bound to a table and eaten alive by rats. It was about Thomas Barker, suffocating in a wooden box under six feet of dirt.
Whatever fear Ella carried, she could keep it locked down for one more night.