Riley had noticed it too.“Impressive credentials,” she remarked, her tone just neutral enough that Berridge couldn’t be certain whether she was being sincere or sarcastic.
Berridge cleared his throat, gesturing toward two chairs facing his cluttered desk.“How can I help the FBI today?Your calls were...rather abrupt.”
“Yes, they were, weren’t they?”Riley said.“But not on our account.Why did you hang up on us?”
“Forgive me, but I wasn’t sure who you really were.I’ve learned to be wary of frauds and scammers.You aren’t the first people to approach me claiming to be in law enforcement.They’ve always had something crooked in mind.”
Ann Marie suspected there might be some truth to his explanation.And yet he might have a great deal more to fear from legitimate law enforcement than from frauds and scammers.
Riley remained standing.“We’d like to ask you about two of your patients—Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall.”
Berridge stiffened, his expression guarded.“I can’t discuss specific patients.Confidentiality is the cornerstone of therapeutic relationships, as I’m sure you understand.”
“Generally, yes,” Riley agreed.“But this is an unusual circumstance.Both women have been murdered in the past week.”
The color drained from Berridge’s face.“Murdered?”he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.“Both of them?”
Ann Marie studied his reaction carefully, looking for signs of performed shock rather than genuine surprise.His pupils had dilated, his breathing had quickened, and a fine sheen of sweat had appeared at his temples—all physiological responses difficult to fake.Either Berridge was genuinely shocked by the news, or he was an exceptionally skilled actor.
“Yes,” Riley confirmed.“And given that their deaths share specific characteristics, we need to understand any connections between them.Including their therapy with you.”She glanced meaningfully at the dubious certificate.“I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to return with a warrant to examine your practice more...thoroughly.”
The implied threat hung in the air for a moment before Berridge slumped slightly in defeat.He moved behind his desk, sitting heavily in his chair.
“Yes, I treated them both,” he admitted.“They were part of a group session I conducted via Zoom.We focused on using origami as a mindfulness technique for impulse control.”He ran a hand through his thinning hair.“The last session was just last week.I can’t believe they’re both...gone.”
“Who else was in this group?”Ann Marie asked, her voice gentle but insistent.
Berridge hesitated, then sighed.“Two other women—Mae Simmons and Fawn Waller.Though I wasn’t sure what to make of Fawn.She always kept her camera deliberately pixelated to obscure her face, and her voice was altered.Paid in cryptocurrency.Didn’t provide contact information beyond an email address.Never asked questions.In fact, I never even heard her voice.I can’t even be certain Fawn Waller is her real name.I actually wondered whether she was even a woman.”
Ann Marie exchanged a significant look with Riley, knowing they were thinking the same thing.If Berridge was telling the truth, Mae Simmons could be in imminent danger.And this mysterious Fawn—deliberately obscuring her identity—could potentially be their killer.Unless, of course, Berridge himself was responsible and was just constructing an elaborate misdirection.
“We need Mae Simmons’s contact information immediately,” Riley demanded, pulling out her phone.
“I’ll get her file,” Berridge said, turning to a small filing cabinet behind his desk.
“I’ll make the call,” Riley told Ann Marie.“Continue the interview while I try to reach her.”
As Riley stepped outside with the contact information, Ann Marie found herself alone with Berridge.The atmosphere in the small office felt charged with unspoken questions.Was she looking at a killer, a charlatan, or simply an unorthodox therapist caught up in events beyond his understanding?
She decided to take a different approach, one that might reveal more about his methods—and potentially his character.
“Mr.Berridge,” Ann Marie said, adopting a tone of casual interest, “I actually did some origami myself when I was younger.Would you mind giving me a demonstration of your therapeutic techniques?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Marcus Berridge squinted at her curiously.
“I’m not sure how that would help your investigation,” he said.
“I think I might … find out something,” Ann Marie said with deliberate ambiguity.
“Well, then.I’m glad to oblige.”
The transformation in Marcus Berridge fascinated Ann Marie—how quickly this anxious, defensive man shifted into someone else entirely at the mere mention of his therapeutic technique.His face brightened, the anxiety in his eyes receded.His hands, which had been fidgeting nervously at his sides, suddenly found purpose as he reached across his cluttered desk for a square of crimson paper.It was as if she’d spoken some secret password that granted access to the person behind the façade.
“You said you’ve done origami before?”Berridge asked, his tone warming with genuine interest.
Ann Marie nodded, watching as he selected a pristine sheet from a drawer.“In my early teens.It was a hobby, but I haven’t folded anything in years.”
