Ann Marie nodded, then turned her tablet toward Riley, her expression brightening.“I think I found something.Look at this.”
Riley set down her sandwich and pulled the tablet closer.On the screen was a professional-looking website for a therapist named Marcus Berridge.The tagline beneath his name read: “Innovative Solutions for Impulse Control Disorders.”The homepage featured an image of hands folding an origami crane, and the text described Berridge’s “revolutionary approach to managing impulse control through mindful paper folding techniques.”
“This has to be it,” Ann Marie said, excitement coloring her voice.“He specifically mentions treating people with impulse control.And look—” She tapped a link labeled “Group Sessions,” opening a page that described both in-person and virtual therapy groups.
Riley read through the description, frowning slightly at the claims.“Our patients experience dramatic improvements in impulse control, often within the first three weeks of treatment,” the website proclaimed.“The Berridge Method combines ancient paper-folding techniques with modern cognitive behavioral approaches, creating a multi-sensory path to mindfulness and self-regulation.”
“It sounds a bit...grandiose,” Riley observed, scrolling down to read more about Berridge’s credentials.He had a Master’s in Counseling Psychology from a small private college she’d never heard of, and several supposed certifications in “mindfulness therapy” and “tactile cognitive intervention.”No clinical license was mentioned, though the site carefully avoided claiming he was a licensed therapist.
“Borderline quackery,” Ann Marie agreed.“But the specifics align too perfectly with our victims to ignore.Mental health issues, origami as therapy, dramatic improvements—it all fits.”
Riley nodded, tapping the “Contact” link to find Berridge’s office address and phone number.He operated out of a small office building in Foggy Bottom, not far from George Washington University.“Let’s give him a call, see what he’s willing to discuss.”
She dialed the number listed on the website, putting the phone on speaker and setting it between them on the table.To her surprise, after just two rings, a man answered.
“This is Marcus Berridge,” the voice said pleasantly.There was no receptionist, no office staff screening calls—just Berridge himself, which struck Riley as unusual for a supposedly busy practice.
“Mr.Berridge, this is Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI,” she began, keeping her tone professionally neutral.“I was hoping to speak with you regarding—”
The line went dead before she could finish her sentence.
Riley stared at the phone in surprise, then looked up at Ann Marie.“He hung up on me.”
Ann Marie raised an eyebrow.“As soon as you identified yourself as FBI?That’s...telling.”
“Very telling,” Riley agreed.Innocent people didn’t typically hang up on federal agents, even if they were taken off guard by the call.
“Agreed.His reaction alone makes him a lead.But let me give it a try,” Ann Marie suggested, pulling out her own phone.
She dialed Berridge’s number, putting her phone on speaker as well.This time, the call was answered after four rings.
“Marcus Berridge speaking,” the same pleasant voice answered, sounding slightly more cautious this time.
“My name is Ann Marie Esmer, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions—”
“Are you another FBI agent?”the man’s voice interrupted.
“Well, yes, and—”
Once again, the line went dead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Berridge caught on to me and hung up fast,” Ann Marie said ruefully, as she set her phone down.“And he’s definitely avoiding us.”
“Which means he knows something, at least,” Riley replied, pushing her half-eaten lunch aside.“Something he doesn’t want to share with the FBI.Let’s pay him a visit in person, where he can’t just hang up on us.”
Ann Marie agreed.They both hastily gulped down a few more bites of food, then Riley left cash on the table to cover their lunch, and they hurried back to their car.
As Riley started driving, Ann Marie turned her gaze to the window.The government buildings and upscale shops of downtown DC gradually gave way to the more eclectic landscape of Foggy Bottom.The transition reminded her of her own journey—from the daughter of a Georgetown mortician to an FBI agent working alongside one of the Bureau’s most respected profilers.The path had been neither straight nor predictable, but Ann Marie couldn’t imagine having ended up anywhere else.
Her father had taught her how to read people, how to comfort them in their most vulnerable moments, how to ask the right questions at the right time.It was this skill with people that had first caught Riley’s attention, earned Ann Marie a spot as her partner despite her relative inexperience.
But it was Riley’s gift that truly fascinated Ann Marie.She knew that her senior partner’s ability to step into a killer’s mindset wasn’t magical or mystical, despite what the whispers around the Bureau might suggest.It was a finely honed combination of observation, deduction, and intuition—a talent for synthesizing disparate pieces of information into a coherent whole.
“What do you think this origami killer is trying to tell us?”Ann Marie ventured, curious to know if Riley had formed any preliminary theories.
Riley was quiet for a moment, navigating around a double-parked truck.“I think it’s about fragility,” she finally replied.“As you said, the destruction itself is a message.Some things can’t be examined without being destroyed.“
