“How fascinating.”Berridge placed the square of paper before her, its crimson surface catching the light from his desk lamp.“Would you mind if we started with something simple?Just to reacquaint you with the process.”
The paper felt lighter, more delicate than Ann Marie remembered.She was acutely aware of Riley outside the door, likely speaking urgently to dispatch about protecting Mae Simmons, the remaining group member who might be in danger.This demonstration was partly strategic—a way to keep Berridge talking, to observe him in his element—but Ann Marie couldn’t deny her own curiosity about the therapeutic applications of an art form like this.
“Let’s create a simple cup,” Berridge suggested, his voice taking on a rhythmic quality that Ann Marie imagined he used with his patients.“Begin by folding the paper in half diagonally, creating a triangle.”
Ann Marie complied, remembering the motion despite the years that had passed.The crease formed a clean line across the paper, sharp and precise.
“Excellent,” Berridge murmured, leaning forward slightly.“Now, fold the right corner to the top point...perfect.And the left corner as well.”
As she followed his instructions, Ann Marie studied his face.His eyes tracked her movements with intense focus, as if her folding technique might reveal secrets about her psyche.There was something both clinical and intimate about his observation that made her understand why vulnerable patients might open up to him, despite his questionable credentials.
“Now fold the top layer of the triangle down,” he continued, “and then turn the model over and repeat on the other side.”
The paper yielded beneath her touch, transforming from a flat surface into a three-dimensional shape.There was something satisfying about the process, she had to admit—the way chaos became order, how two-dimensional became three-dimensional through nothing but precise folds and patient handling.
“Finally, open the pocket at the top, and shape it into a cup,” Berridge instructed.
Ann Marie completed the last fold, and suddenly the abstract form became recognizable, a small, functional cup that could actually hold water—at least if it weren’t made of paper.She turned it in her hands, examining her handiwork.
“How does it feel?”Berridge asked, his voice soft, no longer that of an interrogated suspect but of a therapist genuinely interested in her experience.
“Familiar,” Ann Marie admitted.“And satisfying.There’s something reassuring about creating something so structured from a simple starting point.”
Berridge nodded, smiling as if she’d just confirmed something important.“You have remarkable empathy,” he said abruptly.“And considerable skill in dealing with people.I’d imagine that serves you well in your line of work.”
Ann Marie blinked, surprised by the sudden shift.“Did you determine that by watching me fold this cup?”
He chuckled, the sound genuine and warm.“No, not at all.It had nothing to do with the origami, though your handiwork is telling in its own way.I’ve been observing you since you arrived in my office.”He leaned back slightly in his chair.“The way you positioned yourself between your partner and me, the subtle modulation in your voice when you asked questions, softening what could have been confrontational.You’re the buffer, the translator between Agent Paige’s intensity and whoever she’s questioning.”
The accuracy of his observation unsettled Ann Marie slightly.She’d been scrutinizing him, but he’d been studying her just as carefully.
“I sense that these skills weren’t developed recently,” Berridge continued.“They feel ingrained, practiced over a lifetime.Starting in childhood, perhaps?”
Ann Marie hesitated.The professional part of her knew she should maintain boundaries, keep the focus on Berridge and his patients.But another part—the part that recognized his perceptiveness as genuine—felt a curious urge to engage with his observations.
“I’m a mortician’s daughter,” she found herself saying.She turned the paper cup in her hands.“By the time I was four or five, I knew how to move quietly, how to read a room, when someone needed space and when they needed connection.”
Berridge’s eyes widened with interest.“That explains so much.And the origami?How did that enter your life?”
“Middle school art class,” Ann Marie replied, memories surfacing of that classroom with its long tables and paint-splattered stools.“Our teacher spent a month on Japanese art forms.Most of the kids preferred the messier options—ink painting, clay work.But I was drawn to the precision of paper folding.I checked out books from the library, practiced for hours.”
“And did you find it helpful?Beyond the artistic aspect, I mean.”
The question penetrated deeper than Ann Marie had expected.She looked down at the crimson cup in her palm, surprised by the sudden tightness in her throat.
“Yes,” she admitted quietly.“I quickly found that it helped me with some...personal issues.”
“What kind of issues?”Berridge leaned forward, fully in his therapist mode now.“If you don’t mind sharing.”
Ann Marie drew a deep breath.This was far more personal than she’d intended the conversation to become, but there was something disarming about Berridge’s manner, something that made her understand how Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall might have found themselves opening up to him.
“Early adolescence was rough for me,” she said slowly.“It was around that time I started to realize that most people don’t live in such proximity to death.My classmates began to find my family’s business creepy, started making jokes or avoiding me altogether.”The memory still had the power to sting, even after all these years.“They’d come to school with stories about weekend adventures with their families—trips to the mall, soccer games.My weekend stories involved helping my father organize sympathy cards or learning how to properly arrange flowers for a viewing.And of course, I saw dead bodies—lots of them, on the embalming table as well is in coffins.”
Berridge nodded, his expression free of judgment or discomfort.“That must have been isolating.”
“It was,” Ann Marie agreed, surprised by the emotion that accompanied the admission.“Suddenly, I was aware of being different, and I didn’t know how to bridge that gap.Friends I’d had since elementary school started distancing themselves.Invitations stopped coming.I felt...untouchable, somehow.”
“And origami helped?”
