Banks was an educated provocateur, that was for sure. Rosie pressed Pause on the podcast and stared out the window.
A group of tourists had gathered around the La Brea Tar Pits, staring at the replicas of Ice Age creatures who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and gotten stuck in tar. Rosie actually hatedthe Pits, found it tragic to see even fake woolly mammoths and saber-toothed cats trapped and in pain. It was a strange thing, evolution. One look at the mammoths and sabertooths and you could see that other species, like elephants and leopards, were growing smaller and less dangerous over time. But not humans. As far as Rosie could tell, humans were growing deadlier with each subsequent generation: crueler, angrier, capable of inflicting greater harm. In ten thousand years, what would humanity look like? She pictured Alden Banks trapped in a pit, tar up to his waist, screaming for his father.Was this what men like Easton imagined? That some types of men—the softer, weaker ones, the ones who were less predatory, less capable of defending themselves—were destined to be left behind?
Or maybe it wasn’t destiny, but design. Easton had said the women who accused Alden had tightened his noose—but what if that was more literal than he imagined? What if Scout and Isabel had become so enraged that Alden escaped punishment that they’d transformed, in a moment of supercharged adaptation, into creatures capable of deadly violence? What if Scout had gotten her revenge and made it look like—what had Deirdre called it?—karma?
Rosie needed to talk to someone with intimate knowledge of the case. An online obituary revealed the lead investigator, Detective Michael Sutherland, had passed away from cancer three years ago. Next in line was Officer Carmen Ellis. According to the LAPD’s website, she was still on the force, and had graduated to detective. Rosie bit her lip while dialing, until finally the line found the right desk and a woman’s terse voice answered.
“Ellis.”
“Detective Carmen Ellis? My name is Rosie Wright, and please don’t hang up, but I’m a reporter investigating a former case of yours—Georgia Sage’s death, it took place years ago—”
“I’m familiar.”
“Would you be willing to meet me? I’ve uncovered some information I think you’ll want to see.”
The next morning,Rosie waited in a booth at a run-down diner a few blocks from the LAPD’s new headquarters, a massive multistory building composed of silver and glass that screamedWe are so transparent, welcome to a whole new chapter in policing. She scoured the laminated menu, looking for the cheapest option. She should’ve eaten her weird vegan pizza yesterday, because now she was starving. Her eyes lit on pancakes for under five dollars. Perfect.
The waitress had just taken Rosie’s order when Detective Ellis slid into the booth across from her.
“Off the record, I know we messed up,” Ellis blurted, before she’d even settled in. Rosie raised her eyebrows. In person, Ellis looked older than in her headshot: haggard, with heavy bags under her eyes. She tapped her foot under the table, vibrating the surface. “If that’s what you’re out to prove, you don’t have to convince anyone at the LAPD.”
“Is that right?” asked Rosie. She liked to give sources as much room as possible to talk.
“It haunted Sutherland until he died that we weren’t able to track down the murder weapon used on Georgia, or any evidence that could’ve put Alden Banks behind bars.” Ellis exhaled. “We never got justice for that poor girl.”
Rosie kept quiet. She could recognize a person dying to confess. Clearly, Georgia’s murder had rocked Ellis hard.
The detective grimaced and lowered her head. “And now that Sutherland’s dead, God rest his soul, I’ll be the face of the investigation. The one your readers will come after with pitchforks.” She glanced down at the table. “It’s okay. I deserve it.”
The waitress returned with Rosie’s stack of steaming, fresh-off-the-griddle pancakes, a slab of butter melting on top, and Rosie wasted no time digging in.
“These are delicious,” she said around a mouthful. “Really, you’ve got to try the pancakes sometime.”
Ellis stared. Suddenly her shoulders sank. “That’s it? You’re not going to hit me with a list of the things we did wrong? Come on, let’s hear it. I’ve been preparing myself ever since I got your call.”
Rosie laid down her fork. Took a swig of ice water. Diner food beat organic silliness every day of the week. “Detective, I didn’t come here to accuse you of failing Georgia. In fact, I’ve reviewed the case file and I don’t think you or Detective Sutherland did a single thing wrong.”
The shock on Ellis’s face was priceless.
“You’re holding on to all of this guilt,” Rosie said. “I can feel the weight of it from here.”
Detective Ellis’s leg stilled under the table.
“Have you considered the possibility that you couldn’t find evidence on Alden because there was none? That the lack of charges wasn’t a miscarriage of justice, but justice in action? Alden wasn’t Georgia’s killer.”
Ellis’s eyes flashed dangerously. “He killed himself,” she insisted. “After cutting Georgia’s name into his own chest. If that’s not a confession, I don’t know what is.”
Rosie dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, laid it back on her lap, and leaned in. “What if I told you Alden didn’t do that either?”
Ellis’s eyes narrowed. “You have an alternative theory?”
“The sister and her friend. Scout and Isabel. I think they went back to the Bankses’ house that night, tortured Alden, and killed him.”
Ellis was already shaking her head. “There’s no way. They were good girls. I had a relationship with them. Stuck my neck out for them when I was just a rookie. I still send the Sages a Christmas card every year. They aren’t capable of it.”
It was amazing, the things that blond hair, youth, and a sad, teary face could mask, even from other women. “I believe they were so upset Alden didn’t get punished for what they thought he did that they betrayed you.” Rosie waited for that to land.
“Listen,” said Ellis, “I know it’s in your nature to poke holes. I get it. I’m a cop, I do the same. But we’re talking about thedefining case of my career. This is the mistake—” Detective Ellis jabbed a finger into the table. “That makes me push myself every day, so I don’t get another one wrong and die with regret like Sutherland. You’re slinging these accusations around like they don’t mean anything. Like the idea that Scout played me—” She shook her head. “That I misread her, that she was capable ofkillingsomeone…”
