Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (grave mercy TXT) 📗

from him popped up on the screen: I’M SORRY. She let out a breath, her shoulders relaxing. After brewing a pot of coffee, she set to work in her studio.

Elle didn’t have access to the police databases, but social media was free—and it was where she got most of her big breaks in previous cases. Hashtags, location data, pictures of landmarks—it was all useful for tracking people down if you knew where to look.

It didn’t take her long to find Graham’s social media profiles. His Facebook was troubling—lots of racist memes and links to misogynistic blogs. His last activity was from two days ago, when he commented on a New York Times article about the Clinton Foundation with a doctored meme of Hillary Clinton counting stacks of money, mouth wide open in a greedy grimace. His Instagram wasn’t much better, filled with more memes and selfies in various poses, trying to look like a badass in a bandana and sunglasses. He reminded her of every avatar from the slew of trolls in her Twitter mentions after she posted something even slightly liberal.

A message popped up on Elle’s screen—from Sash.

HEY! INVESTIGATING OR SCROLLING?

Elle smiled and typed back. GET THIS: WORKING A KIDNAPPING CASE WITH THE POLICE. MARTíN ISN’T TOO HAPPY ABOUT IT.

The dots bounced for a moment as Sash typed her reply. They disappeared and then reappeared a couple times before a short message came through. WHY DO YOU THINK HE’S NOT HAPPY?

Her smile fading, Elle typed more firmly than was probably necessary. HE JUST WORRIES. I’M FINE. I CAN HANDLE MYSELF.

NO ONE DOUBTS YOU CAN HANDLE YOURSELF. SWEETIE, SOMETIMES YOU JUST SACRIFICE YOUR OWN SAFETY TO HELP OTHERS, THAT’S ALL. I JUST WANT YOU TO BE OKAY—WE BOTH DO.

Elle stared at the screen. DID MARTíN TELL YOU TO MESSAGE ME?

Two minutes passed before the reply came. JUST BE CAREFUL, PLEASE, ELLE. I DON’T WANT ANYONE TO GET HURT.

Anyone. Meaning not just Elle. The comment was a kick to the gut. Sash had never brought up what Elle had told her about why she left CPS, but this was a not-so-subtle reminder. She had messed up before, and people got hurt.

Exiting out of the chat, she turned back to Graham’s social media. It took a few tries to track down his Twitter feed, since he didn’t use the same handle as he had on Instagram and Facebook. But when Elle finally started to scroll through his timeline, goose bumps broke out on her arms. She hunched forward to look more closely at the screen.

Graham was a certifiable Twitter troll with a penchant for going on long rants in other people’s replies. For a while yesterday morning, he engaged in a vicious argument with a verified account that apparently belonged to a leftist blogger from Montreal.

Elle took screenshots of each tweet and then read through the time stamps, feeling her heart sink.

It was after nine p.m. when Elle ventured out of her studio and was greeted by the smell of the Castillo family’s pollo asado recipe. Entering the kitchen, she watched her husband for a moment as he moved around at the stove.

“You made me dinner,” she said.

Martín turned around, stepped forward, and pulled her exhausted body into his arms. She inhaled the scent of aftershave and cumin on his neck, any residual anger from their phone conversation fading away.

“I just got home an hour ago,” he said. “I was too keyed up to read, so I thought I’d make us a late dinner.”

With her arms still around his waist, she looked up at him. “What has you keyed up?”

He gave her another squeeze and then turned back to the food. “I’m having trouble identifying the cause of death on a body that came in today.”

She put a hand between his shoulder blades as he basted the meat with more homemade achiote paste. “Too distracted taking everyone’s money in poker?”

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I did do that. Although we don’t bet money—just paperwork duties.” After flipping the meat, he turned to face her, resting his backside on the edge of the counter next to the stove.

“So, what’s the deal with the body?” she asked.

“Young guy, in his thirties. His roommate found him dead after realizing he’d never gotten up on Sunday morning. As far as we can tell, he didn’t have any preexisting conditions, nothing that would explain a sudden death. He didn’t have a heart attack, stroke, or aneurysm. There’s nothing to indicate suicide. His parents are devastated, naturally. I want to be able to give them answers, but I’m not sure there are any.”

Elle met his gaze with a rueful smile. “People think it will make them feel better if they have an explanation for why their loved one died. But knowing doesn’t really make it any better, does it?”

Martín shook his head. “No, it doesn’t. Anyway, don’t worry about that. Maybe it’ll come to me in my sleep, something I missed. I wasn’t exactly focused this afternoon.”

Elle’s eyes flicked to the pan of sizzling chicken, then to the pot of polenta he had covered to keep warm. “Right, of course.” She went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of white wine. Martín set two glasses out on the island where they usually ate dinner when it was just the two of them.

“Any luck with your case?” he asked as he dished up the plates.

She sat down and poured them each a glass. “We’ve got a suspect in custody, a real creep, but unfortunately I think I just proved it wasn’t him. I left a message for Ayaan, but I’m guessing she’s gone home to get some sleep.”

Martín set a plate in front of her, then came around the kitchen island and sat down next to her. She tilted her lips up as a peace offering. He leaned in and kissed her, his hand trailing down her cheek when he pulled away. “Tell me about the suspect.”

She took a bite