Free Angel's Tip by Alafair Burke

the most dedicated form of murder. It wasn’t an instantaneous decision, like the pulling of a trigger or the slashing of a throat. It wasn’t remote, like poison or a contracted kill.
    And there was nothing to physically separate the killer from his victim—no rope, no scarf, no belt to do the strangler’s job for him.Everything about the act guaranteed that if the killer had any kernel of doubt—any second of hesitation—he could stop. Among murderers, stranglers who used their bare hands were the most committed and least repentant.
    And they were almost always motivated by sexual desire.
    “Any evidence of sexual assault?” she asked.
    “Surprisingly, there was no indication of either vaginal or anal trauma. I did a rape kit anyway, obviously. Sometimes we get a hit on the oral swab. It will take a couple of days for the initial results on the swabs—weeks for any DNA profile, if we do in fact have any fluids to examine. Will there be evidence of voluntary sex within the last few days?”
    “Not according to her friends. She has a boyfriend who’s supposedly been in Mexico all week.”
    “Well, at least we’ll know that any DNA we find is for us. That’s all I have for you now,” Karr said, switching gears abruptly, “but I’ll be in touch when we get those labs back.”
    As they walked back to the car in the sunshine that was warming the cold morning into day, Ellie thought about the last hour of Chelsea Hart’s life and the fear and pain she must have experienced. Then she pictured Chelsea two hours earlier, smiling, dancing, and telling her best friend that she was having the best night ever.

CHAPTER 10
    CHELSEA HART’S FAVORITE MOVIES were Run Lola Run , The Notebook , and The Princess Bride. Her favorite books were Wuthering Heights and The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Her favorite drink was called an Angel’s Tip, a mix of dark crème de cacao and heavy cream that she swore prevented hangovers. She wanted to meet Ellen DeGeneres and Johnny Depp.
    She had ninety-two friends.
    Ellie scrolled through Chelsea’s MySpace profile one more time as she snacked on spoonfuls of the Nutella spread she kept in her top desk drawer.
    “You sure you don’t want any?” she asked, extending the open glass jar in Rogan’s direction.
    He glared at her. “Are we going to continue this ritual every afternoon? You offer me that funky stuff you call food, so I can say, No, thank you?”
    She pulled the jar back and removed a healthy spoonful. “Seems rude not to offer.”
    “You can offer it to me today, tomorrow, and every day ’til I retire,and I promise I will always decline. So consider yourself excused from all social obligation when it comes to that stuff.”
    That was fine with Ellie. No sharing meant more for her.
    Chelsea Hart’s top MySpace friends were Stefanie, Jordan, and a Mark whom Ellie assumed was her boyfriend, Mark Linton. She listed as her heroes “my parents, friends, and random-ass people I meet everyday.”
    Ellie clicked on the link that read “My Pictures.” The majority of the photographs depicted groups of teenagers clustered together, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling for the camera. Chelsea was in the middle of most of the clusters. Stefanie was almost always close by.
    An entire photo album was devoted to a white-and-brown English bulldog that was apparently named Stacy Keach. Another contained pictures of Chelsea in various high school theater productions— God-spell , A Chorus Line , Into the Woods . Another of Chelsea in a purple-and-gold track uniform. Ellie stared at the intensity in Chelsea’s face—a perfect blend of happiness, pride, and pain—as she pressed through the ribbon across a finishing line, and she wondered how a girl like this had wound up drunk, alone, and on crystal meth in New York City.
    “We need to get hold of Chelsea’s parents,” Ellie said. “All I did was Google the name Chelsea Hart, and her MySpace page popped right up.