Page 75 of Girl, Remembered

End of the line.

Doyle was alive, but for how long remained to be seen. She could die tonight or she could live out her days in a prison cell. As for Ella’s preference, the scales did not tip in either direction.

Amongst the facial wreckage, Ella was certain she saw tears well up in Doyle’s eyes. Ella dug deep to find sympathy – and came up short.

‘Anything you want to say, Lindsey?’

Doyle, the flaccid, broken-doll of a human being, managed to nod.

‘And what’s that?’

She dropped her head into Ella’s chest and began sobbing. Her cries were the only sound in the bar. Nobody other than Ella could see Doyle from this vantage point. Ripley, Vernon and Dever could only see Ella’s back.

‘Cuff her, Dark. Get it over with.’

Ella didn’t. She shouted back, ‘Call the medics. She needs it.’

Mid-sob, Doyle raised a wilted arm, curled her hand into a fist and began lightly hitting Ella’s shoulder. The sobs grew into deep, breathy outbursts.

‘I have to,’ Doyle cried.

‘Have to what?’

She waited.

Everyone waited.

And then - the scream that came out of Doyle had nothing human left in it.

It tore up out of her chest and filled the bar, filled Ella’s skull, and suddenly Doyle’s wilted hand wasn’t wilted anymore. It shot to her back pocket and when it returned it was holding a gleaming steel blade.

Of course she had a backup plan.

As if in slow motion, Ella registered that a sharp weapon was heading for her flesh. It could easily puncture a lung, an artery, her heart, her throat. Behind her, Ripley – the only person here with a pistol – wouldn’t be able to get a shot, not without taking out Ella in the process.

This could finally be the end, Ella thought.

It would not be poetic. It would mean she’d leave behind a life she’d become proud of, a partner she loved.

Ella tried to push Doyle away, but the logistics didn’t work. There was no way Ella could put enough distance between her and Doyle before steel penetrated flesh.

However, the astonishing spectacle of a half-dead woman resurrecting herself for one last attempt at victory was interrupted by an explosion, a cloud of red, the clattering of steel on the floor. Doyle wilted one more time, collapsing fully in Ella’s arms.

Her ears rang with a high, flat whine that greyed out everything else. Ella turned her head and found the source of the noise.

William Edis.

Lying on his side, just in front of the table where Ella had kicked her gun a few minutes ago. One of his eyes was swollen shut and the other was fixed dead ahead. He had both hands wrapped around the Glock 19 that had, until recently, belonged to her. Smoke curled from the barrel and caught the light from the broken window.

Ella looked down.

The medics wouldn’t be needed after all.

Lindsey Doyle was dead.

After nine months, the game was finally over.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE