“It gave me something to focus on, something I could control.Each fold was precise, each outcome predictable if I followed the steps correctly.And the results were beautiful.”She smiled faintly.“It helped me cope with my anxiety, my loneliness.When I was folding, I wasn’t thinking about being the weird funeral home girl.I was just creating something.”
Ann Marie was startled to find herself choking up slightly at the memory.The isolation of those years had faded with time, but speaking about it now brought back the acute pain of adolescent exclusion, of feeling fundamentally different from her peers.
“That’s exactly why it works as therapy,” Berridge said gently.“The focus required, the tangible result.It centers the mind, provides accomplishment, creates order from chaos.That experience can be transformative.”
He gestured toward the origami figures scattered throughout his office.“Each of these was made by a patient who found their way back to stability through the process.Each represents a moment of control, of peace.”
Ann Marie thought of Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall, women whose lives had been chaotic due to mental health struggles, who had apparently found some measure of stability through Berridge’s unorthodox methods.Had that newfound stability somehow made them targets?
“Your partner clearly values your people skills,” Berridge observed, interrupting her thoughts.“They must be tremendously useful in law enforcement.”
“They are,” Ann Marie acknowledged.“Though sometimes I think I get on Riley’s—Agent Paige’s—nerves with my enthusiasm.Other agents, too.I’ve been told I can be a bit...much.”
Berridge shook his head.“Don’t let other people’s reactions diminish your natural positivity.That kind of authentic energy is rare and valuable.”He smiled.“I’m certain Agent Paige appreciates your outlook, even if she doesn’t say so directly.Balance is essential in partnerships, especially in your line of work.”
Ann Marie felt a flush of embarrassment at his insight.Before she could respond, the door opened, and Riley stepped back into the office, phone in hand, her expression grave but focused.
“I’ve arranged for a protective detail for Mae Simmons,” she announced.“She’s at her home and has been informed to stay there.We’ll be heading over to explain the situation to her in person.”Riley’s gaze shifted to Berridge.“As for your mysterious fourth patient, Fawn Waller...”
Berridge swallowed visibly.“Yes?”
“I’ve contacted a digital forensics technician from the Bureau.He’ll be here shortly to examine your computer systems, see what we can learn about her real identity.”Riley’s gaze flicked meaningfully to the dubious certificate on the wall.“Given the circumstances, I’d advise you to let him work freely and without protest.It would reflect well on your cooperation.”
Berridge replied quickly.“Of course.Whatever you need.”
“Good,” Riley replied.“We’ll be in touch if we have further questions.In the meantime, I’d suggest canceling any upcoming group sessions until we determine whether other participants might be at risk.”
Ann Marie placed the crimson paper cup on Berridge’s desk and rose to her feet.“Thank you for the demonstration,” she said, offering him a small smile that acknowledged the unexpected connection they’d formed.
Berridge returned the smile, though anxiety had crept back into his eyes.“Thank you for understanding the value of the work.”
They left Berridge’s office and made their way back through the shabby waiting room, out to the parking lot where Riley’s car waited.Ann Marie felt strangely off-balance, as if the conversation with Berridge had tapped into something she usually kept carefully compartmentalized—the complex legacy of her unusual upbringing.
As they settled into the car, Riley turned to her before starting the engine.
“So,” Riley asked, “what are your impressions of Marcus Berridge?”
Ann Marie considered the question carefully, weighing Berridge’s questionable credentials against his genuine insight, his nervous demeanor against his apparent therapeutic skill.
“I don’t think he’s our killer,” she said with conviction.“He’s operating in a legal gray area with those certificates, and he’s clearly terrified of official scrutiny, but his concern for his patients seemed genuine.His reaction when you told him about the murders was real shock, not performed.And …”
Ann Marie paused for a moment.
“… and I think he knows what he’s doing,” she continued.“I think he’s a good therapist.And I think he’s a good person.”
Riley nodded, processing Ann Marie’s assessment.“I’ve learned to trust your judgment on these things,” she said simply, turning the key in the ignition.“Especially when it comes to reading people.”
Ann Marie felt a familiar flush of pride in Riley’s confidence and trust—only this time it was larger than usual.Riley had pretty much eliminated a potential person of interest solely on Ann Marie’s judgment.
I’d better be right about this,she thought.
But her gut told her that she was absolutely right.
Ann Marie gazed out the window, watching the buildings of Foggy Bottom slide past.In spite of her assessment of the therapist, himself, she felt equally sure that his clients weren’t safe.Someone was hunting women—methodically, brutally—and the only connection was folded paper and this man’s office.What twisted logic turned peaceful art into a death sentence?What sick mind saw origami creations and decided: these are the ones who deserve to die?
CHAPTER NINE
Jilly Paige slumped against the cool metal of her locker.Around her, the school had settled into that strange limbo between lunch and final classes—a handful of students with free periods lounged on benches or hunched over textbooks in the library, while teachers’ voices drifted faintly from behind closed classroom doors.
