Girl, 11 by Amy Clarke (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

out her hand. “Please, just give me a minute of your time. Can I come in?”

The blonde shook her head, eyes wide. “No, he won’t like that. I really can’t talk to you.”

Something crept along the back of Elle’s neck when she saw the fear in the other woman’s eyes. It was something she had seen far too many times, doing follow-ups for CPS after police informed them of a domestic violence report in a house with children. Not abject terror, but guarded, like self-defense.

This was a woman protecting herself from even the prospect of her partner’s anger.

Elle put her gloved fingers against the screen, hoping she’d take it for the gesture of empathy that it was. “Are you okay?” she asked.

Whatever emotion Elle had seen in her expression quickly shut down. “I’m fine.” She tacked a smile on her face.

“Are you . . . are you safe, in this house?” Elle looked at her arms, her thighs, her wrists—all the places she would expect bruises if there were any to see. There were none. He might not hold on to her physically, but he had a grip on her.

“What kind of question is that?” the woman asked. She crossed her arms against the cold wind blowing through the screen, her body tense and leaning away from the door. “Of course I’m safe.”

Elle tried to recalibrate. “How long have you been seeing Dr. Stevens?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“When will he be home?”

“When he gets here. He’s a college professor; he doesn’t exactly get weekends off.”

“And you?” Elle tilted her head to catch the woman’s gaze. “It looks like I woke you up. Do you work nights?”

“I’m a PhD candidate,” she snapped. “I was up all night working on my dissertation. What’s your excuse for looking like you haven’t slept in a week?”

The woman started to close the door.

“Wait, wait!” Elle dug into her purse, pulled out a business card and stuck it in the crack between the screen door and the frame. “I’m sorry to have bothered you. If you ever have anything you want to tell me, please contact that number. I’m not a police officer or anything, but I’ll help you in whatever way I can.”

With a sneer, she took the card and slammed the door in Elle’s face.

When Elle got back to the car, she started the engine and shivered as she waited for the vents to produce heat. Picking up her phone, she turned it back on and gasped when she saw the screen. She had missed nine calls from Martín. Ignoring the other messages that popped up, she called him back. He answered on the first ring.

“Elle, there’s something you need to know about Amanda’s autopsy.”

“What? What’s happened?”

“She was smothered, but we found something in her stomach. It looks like castor beans.”

At the morgue, Martín paced back and forth in his office. When he saw Elle, he rushed over and threw his arms around her, burying his face in her neck. She sank into his body, absorbing the relief of him for a few selfish seconds. It felt like a hundred years had passed since they found Amanda Jordan’s body in the wee hours of that morning.

“I’m so glad you’re safe. I’ve been going out of my mind trying to reach you.” He put his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm’s distance, as if to be certain she was really there. “I thought . . . I thought he might have come after you.”

“You really found castor beans in her stomach?”

Martín turned and picked up an evidence bag from his desk. Inside, there was a sealed plastic container with some wet, brownish material. She swallowed the buildup of bile in her throat. It had Jordan, Amanda: Stomach contents written on the side.

“I’m ninety percent sure,” he said. “We’ve been doing tests here all afternoon, and from what we can tell, that’s what it is. And, she showed signs of gastrointestinal distress and dehydration that we’d expect to see from ricin poisoning. We’ve sent a sample to another lab with more expertise than ours. They should have results later next week.”

“By next week it won’t matter.”

Martín closed his eyes and pressed a thumb and finger into the corners, rubbing the sleep away. “I understand, but we have to confirm before we can put anything in the official report. I’m too close to this case—our office can’t afford to make any mistakes.”

“I know, you’re right. I don’t want this to come back on you.” Then she shook her head. “I told Ayaan about the harassment we’ve been getting when she interviewed me this morning. I sent her all the information, but I haven’t had any time to check my messages to see if they’ve found anything. Did Sam tell you their theory? That it’s a copycat?”

A shadow passed over Martín’s eyes. “No, he didn’t. So, you don’t think it’s the real TCK anymore? I hoped the castor beans would help you prove it was.”

Elle looked at the bag of stomach contents again, tears blurring her vision. “The copycat theory makes sense, even with the castor beans in her stomach. He had copied TCK’s countdown patterns, why not try his method of killing too? The smothering could have been a mistake, or maybe whoever it is just lost his temper.”

Martín nodded. “Maybe. But we know TCK lost his temper and killed before. It’s not outside the realm of possibility, but you’re right; this does feel messy, considering what we know about him.”

Elle tore her eyes away from the plastic container to look at him again. “Ayaan thinks that my podcast inspired him. That he got the idea to copy TCK by listening to me detail his methods on Justice Delayed.”

“That’s—”

“Don’t.” Elle cut him off, meeting his gaze. “Maybe I have sensationalized this case too much. I have been focusing on the villain more than the victims this season. I let my personal connection to this case cloud my mission, and now we’re paying for it. Amanda’s parents have