Page 4 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

“That’d be great if she were here. Unfortunately she’s no longer with us.”

My blood freezes in my veins, cold as ice, and my jaw goes slack. “Is … what … what do you mean by no longer …” I swallow a gulp to keep the tears from claiming my voice. “With us?”

“She was transferred.” The moment his words spill through the phone, my muscles sag with relief.

“Where to?”

“City Canine Rescue.”

“Okay, any idea if she passed her temperament?” I ask, mentally jotting the name.

“You’ll have to call the Rescue.”

I don’t even bother to tell the asshole goodbye before my fingers are frantically scrolling for City Canine Rescue. Again, I dial the number with the same urgency and when a woman answers the phone, far more pleasant than the Animal Control clerk, I’m damn near in tears, my whole body quaking. I’m so anxious to find out what happened to her that the conversation with the woman seems almost peripheral to me, until she returns from a brief pause.

“Dylan?” she asks, and when I respond with an eager yes, she says, “She passed. We’ll keep her here until you’re able to pay the fees. Unless of course, she’s adopted before you return.”

A whoosh of air escapes me on a smile while my muscles turn warm with relief.

“Okay. I promise I’ll come get her. I promise.”

“She’s safe and happy. The staff has been very good to her. Such a sweet girl.”

“Thank you,” I squeeze my eyes shut, the weight bearing down on me for the last couple weeks finally lifting just enough to take a breath. “Thank you for this.”

With an easy exhale, I hang up the phone and delete the last two numbers, just in case. With that out of the way, my attention diverts back to the documents I’d ignored for the phone.

I push the button of the tablet that lights up to a screen requesting a password. “Abort,” I mutter, flipping it off. In a million years, I’d never guess Ripley’s password, so I opt for the hard files beneath.

I open the one on top to a stack of papers inside and a black-and-white photo of a man I don’t recognize, one whose graying hair puts him in his sixties. The accompanying document shows Alasdair “The Dirty Scot” MacGregor. Below, is a list of crimes—beatings, torture, and manslaughter. Lifting a second photo spurs disgust as I stare down at a man’s sliced and bruised torso, his eyes a milky white death, and I have to believe it’s one of the victims from the crimes described.

The next file is another man. He looks to be Italian with dark hair and equally dark eyes that speak of cold detachment in his vacant stare. His file name is Joseph Accardi. Like the first, he has a long list of criminal activity.

The third is a girl—a young girl, perhaps just a couple years younger than me. Long blond hair frames silky, pale skin, bright blue eyes, and a jubilant smile. Her file reads Lyndsay Holmes. Age fifteen. There are no other attached pictures, only a website at the bottom of the page and the name “Sarah” handwritten off to the side.

His kills? Two of them would fit that bill, but who’s the girl? I study her face, searching for some unique marking, but she’s as flawless as a first snowfall.

I flip to the bottom of the stack, where a manila envelope catches my eye, and pull the papers from inside. The first is a form, a medical evaluation, and the top of the page reads Coventry Correctional Counterplay Center. I’d never heard of it and I’ve been to a number of hospitals over the years. The cross embedded in the logo tells me it’s one of the faith-based variety, and my mom would’ve avoided taking me anywhere she might’ve felt judged.

Patient name: Gabriel Archer Ripley.

I read it inside my head, a perfect canter of syllables, and just like that, he’s no longer a ruthless killer. He’s a man with a name.

“Gabriel,” I say aloud, and smile at the way his name rolls on my tongue.

Most of the document is illegible, with chicken scratch scrawled across the page, but I can just make out a few words. History of abuse. Bilateral bruising and scarring. Broken ribs, fingers. Burns. Cuts. Episodes of violence. Skull fracture. Frontal lobe injury.

“Oh my God,” I murmur, reading through his file. I lift a picture from the stack—a close-up shot of a neck and arms where a cluster of deep red circles confess cigarette burns on a golden-haired boy. Examining the photo closer, I can just make out two different colored eyes. I brush my thumb over the painful-looking marks embedded in his skin.

“Ripley,” I whisper, setting the photo back on the stack. A part of me wishes I hadn’t seen that. A man can claim to be one thing or another, but it’s his brutal scars that tell the story of why. Ripley is a monster, I have no doubts, but he was created by something much more sinister, as I gather from the images and notes.

Setting the files back in order, I click the lock shut and hoist the case back onto the shelf. My blade lies at my feet.

At one time, it was my only means of protection, and now, at this very minute, it’s a choice of whether or not to uphold the trust of a man I hardly know. I bend down, and hold it in my palm for a few seconds, before returning it to the shelf.

Trusting him may make me a fool, but denying it makes me a liar.

I back out of the closet, scanning the floor and shelves to make sure nothing appears to have been moved or disrupted.