Ann Marie considered this.“Like the victims themselves.Both women had finally found stability, a way to manage their conditions.Then someone took that away, permanently.”
“Exactly.”Riley’s tone carried a note of approval that still, after all their months working together, sent a small thrill of pride through Ann Marie.
Riley continued, “And I’m wondering about this therapist, Berridge.If he’s legitimate, why hang up on federal agents asking questions?”
“Maybe he’s just paranoid about his credentials,” Ann Marie suggested.“The website didn’t mention any state license or board certification.If he’s operating in a legal gray area...”
“Possible,” Riley acknowledged.“But I think maybe there’s something else.Something about the way he’s using art therapy.He disconnected when you mentioned origami.”
Ann Marie nodded, the observation triggering a new line of thought.“You think he recognized it as a connection to the murders?That maybe he already knows his patients have been killed?”
“I’m not sure,” Riley replied.“I could be wrong.But I think we’re about to find out.”
Ann Marie turned her attention back to the passing scenery, her mind working through possibilities.If Berridge was innocent, he might merely be concerned about regulatory scrutiny.But if he wasn’t innocent—if he was somehow involved in the deaths of Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall—what might that mean for his other patients?
As Riley pulled onto the street where Berridge’s office was located, Ann Marie felt her professional focus sharpening.Whatever insights Riley was formulating, whatever connections she was drawing between the evidence, the victims, and this therapist they were about to confront, Ann Marie knew her own role was also vital.Riley might be able to see into the mind of their killer, but Ann Marie could see into the minds of witnesses, of potential suspects.She could read the subtle tells, the microexpressions that betrayed deception or fear.Together, they were a formidable investigative team.
The business park that housed Marcus Berridge’s practice was underwhelming—a squat, two-story brick structure with windows that needed washing.After Riley parked in the small lot and they both got out, Ann Marie noted the aging paint on the door frame and the outdated business directory that listed “Berridge Therapeutic Solutions” alongside a tax preparation service and a barely surviving travel agency.
The shabby exterior struck Ann Marie as incongruous with the confident claims on Berridge’s website—”revolutionary approaches” and “dramatic improvements” seemed out of place in such modest surroundings.But perhaps that was the point.Maybe Berridge was selling hope to desperate people, people whose mental health challenges had left them vulnerable to promises of quick transformation, no matter how dubious the packaging.
As Riley pressed the buzzer beside Berridge’s name, her posture shifting subtly into what Ann Marie recognized as her confrontational stance—balanced, shoulders squared, chin slightly elevated.It was the physical manifestation of preparing for resistance.
A crackle of static preceded a cautious male voice.“Hello?”
“Marcus Berridge?This is Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI.We spoke on the phone earlier.”
A pause stretched before Berridge responded, his voice noticeably tighter.“I’m with a patient right now.I’m fully booked for the afternoon.I don’t have time to—”
“Mr.Berridge,” Riley interrupted, “this is regarding a double homicide investigation.If you refuse to speak with us, we’ll be forced to consider that obstruction of justice.”
Ann Marie watched Riley’s face, admiring the calculated pressure she applied—not enough to trigger a complete shutdown, but sufficient to convey the seriousness of their visit.It was a technique Ann Marie was still perfecting in her own interactions.
“I told you, I have a patient,” Berridge insisted, but his voice wavered slightly.
Riley pressed the buzzer again, holding it longer this time.“Mr.Berridge, we can have this conversation now, in private, or we can return with a warrant and uniformed officers.Your choice.”
Another pause, then the door buzzer sounded.Riley pulled the door open, gesturing for Ann Marie to enter first.
The waiting area was as unimpressive as the exterior—a small room with faded blue carpet and three well-used chairs arranged around a coffee table cluttered with dog-eared magazines.No reception desk, no sign of administrative support.Just a single interior door presumably leading to Berridge’s office.Ann Marie noted the absence of even basic amenities like a water cooler or coffee maker.Whatever Berridge’s business model was, it clearly operated on minimal overhead.
The inner door opened, and a man she presumed was Marcus Berridge emerged.He was in his early forties, with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses that magnified anxious eyes.His button-down shirt was wrinkled at the elbows, his khaki pants a shade too short, exposing mismatched socks.He looked nothing like the confident, beaming professional whose photo adorned the website.
“Agents,” he acknowledged them with a tight nod.“As I mentioned, I’m in the middle of a session.My patient has kindly agreed to wait, but I can only spare a few minutes.”
Riley smiled.“That’s very understanding of your patient, Mr.Berridge.We’ll be brief.”
Without waiting for a response, Riley stepped smoothly past Berridge and opened the inner door, revealing an empty office.She turned back to Berridge, one eyebrow raised.“I should remind you that lying to a federal officer is a felony offense.Perhaps we should start over, with honesty this time?”
Berridge’s face flushed, his hands fluttering nervously at his sides.“I—I didn’t want to be rude.I really am very busy today, and—”
“Why don’t we just continue this conversation in your office?”Ann Marie suggested pleasantly.
Without another protest, Berridge led the way inside his small office.
What first struck Ann Marie was the artwork—every available surface seemed covered with creative expressions: intricate origami figures, small ceramic sculptures, watercolor paintings, woven textile pieces.Some were surprisingly sophisticated, others charmingly amateur.All seemed to reflect emotional states rather than technical proficiency.
Her gaze moved to the wall behind Berridge’s desk, where a framed certificate hung slightly askew.“The American Institute of Creative Therapeutic Approaches,” it proclaimed in elaborate script, certifying Marcus Berridge as a “Master Practitioner of Integrative Art Therapy.”Ann Marie squinted slightly, noting the lack of official seals or signatures from recognized authorities.A quick internet search would likely reveal the “American Institute” to be little more than a website issuing certificates to anyone willing to pay the fee.
