A careful response, revealing nothing while appearing to share information.The killer smiled, appreciating the skill.She knew of Riley Paige’s reputation—the agent who could see into the darkest corners of criminal minds, who followed her instincts when others clung to procedure.Their first encounter had been more than two decades ago.But even back then, Paige had stood out.She’d questioned, challenged, refused to accept sanitized scenarios.She’d already understood that real justice rarely fit neatly into procedural boxes.
“Has the FBI identified a pattern connecting the three victims?”the reporter pressed, her perfect teeth flashing.
“I can’t comment on specific details of an active investigation,” Paige replied, but her eyes betrayed her—a subtle tightening around the corners, a momentary flicker of what might have been recognition.She was seeing the pattern.Understanding was dawning.
Perfect.The timing couldn’t be better.
She had planned this final act well, but having Riley Paige involved elevated it beyond her expectations.Paige would appreciate the intricate moral architecture she had constructed, would recognize the impossible dilemma at its center.Not that it would change the outcome—nothing could at this point—but there was satisfaction in knowing that at least one person would truly understand what it was that had defeated her.
The reporter attempted another question, but Paige was already moving away, flanked by a younger agent with blonde hair and the detective who’d been leading the investigation.The camera followed them briefly before cutting back to the reporter, who launched into dramatic speculation about the “Origami Killer” now stalking the streets of DC.
She muted the television, savoring the momentary silence.Three victims so far, each death a statement, a question posed to law enforcement.But those had merely been the prelude.The true test—the final, impossible choice—still awaited.And now Riley Paige would play a central role in that culmination.
A low moan from across the room interrupted her thoughts.
She turned her attention from the television to the woman bound securely to the wooden chair in the center of the living room.Olga Swinson’s head lolled forward, dark hair falling across her face as she struggled toward consciousness.The midazolam was wearing off, right on schedule.Perfect timing, as always.
Rising from her seat, she crossed the room with unhurried steps, remembering how smoothly the abduction had gone just hours earlier.She had studied Olga’s routine for days—the early morning departure from her apartment, the stop at the corner bakery for coffee, the predictable path she took to the Metro station.
This morning, the killer had parked her car beside the narrow alley between two apartment buildings, just two blocks from Olga’s regular bakery.She’d injected her neck with a needle, the midazolam working almost instantly—within seconds.But this shot hadn’t been deadly.Olga had slumped against her, appearing to anyone passing by like a woman helping an ill friend to her car.No one had even glanced their way twice.People saw what they expected to see—a common phenomenon she had counted on throughout her carefully orchestrated killings.
Now, Olga’s eyelids fluttered as she approached, consciousness returning in fragmented pieces.The zip ties securing her wrists and ankles to the chair were medical grade, designed for restraint without causing tissue damage—a professional courtesy.The gag was similarly thoughtful, padded to prevent injury to the mouth while ensuring silence.Everything was in order, carefully arranged for what would come next.
“Welcome back, Olga,” she said softly, crouching to meet the woman’s confused gaze as her head lifted.“I apologize for the manner of your arrival.The midazolam can leave you feeling disoriented, but that will pass soon.”
Fear bloomed in the captive’s eyes as awareness returned—first confusion, then recognition, then terror as she registered her bound state.She struggled against the restraints, muffled sounds emerging from behind the gag.
“I’ve been keeping up with you lately,” she continued conversationally, reaching out to brush the hair from Olga’s face with a gentle hand.“Ever since our origami group.The way you found peace through folding paper, the way it helped manage your anxiety.”She smiled.“We’re not so different, you and I.We both understand how the precise folding of paper can create order from chaos.”
Olga’s breathing quickened, her eyes darting around the apartment, seeking escape routes, weapons, anything that might help her.It was a natural response—the survival instinct asserting itself.But there would be no escape.Not from what was coming.
“I want you to know that you’re not just another victim, Olga,” she said, “You’re the culmination.The ultimate test.”She turned back to face her captive, her expression almost tender.“And now, with Agent Riley Paige involved, everything is perfectly aligned.She’ll play a crucial part in your fate—the final, impossible choice that will force her to confront the very dilemma that has defined my life.Procedure versus justice, rules versus reality.”
She leaned over Olga, her face inches from her captive’s terrified eyes.
“Riley Paige will face the impossible task of saving your life.Isn’t that poetic?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Riley’s thoughts were churning as she drove through DC midday traffic, following Detective Brookman’s sedan.With each death, with each paper creation left behind, the killer’s methodology was revealing itself—a craftsman whose medium was both paper and human life.
“We’re going to Middleton Gardens,” Ann Marie read from her tablet.“Upscale apartments, renovated five years ago.Patricia Walsh and Lucy Gilbert have been roommates there for three years.”
Brookman’s sedan slowed, then signaled and made a right turn into a residential neighborhood of well-maintained apartment buildings.As she made the same turn, Riley saw that the whole area had the polished appearance of recent gentrification.“This neighborhood’s undergone a makeover,” she said.
“A major one,” Ann Marie added.“Historic buildings with freshly restored facades.”
They passed small cafés with chalkboard menus, boutique shops with carefully curated window displays, young maple trees lining the street.
“Looks like they’re aiming at the high-end market,” Riley said.
Riley followed the detective’s vehicle into a visitor parking spot.When they got out of their car, he was already standing beside his, adjusting his tie as he waited for them.His face bore the grim expression of a man who’d delivered too many death notifications in too short a time.
“Gilbert is expecting us,” Brookman said as they approached.“She’s been home about two hours.Worked an overnight shift at some design firm, came home to the news about her roommate.”He glanced at the building’s entrance.“I haven’t told her any details about how Walsh was found.”
They entered a lobby with polished marble floors and brass accents that seemed to belong to another era.A bank of elevators stood along one wall, their doors gleaming like mirrors in the soft overhead lighting.Brookman pressed the call button, and they waited in silence.
“Fourth floor,” he said as they stepped inside.“Apartment 412.”
