The elevator ascended smoothly, its gentle hum the only sound breaking the heavy silence.Riley watched the floor numbers illuminate in sequence, each one bringing them closer to another grieving survivor, another person whose life had been irreparably altered by their killer.When the doors slid open, Brookman led the way down a carpeted hallway to a door with a brass knocker shaped like a lion’s head.
He knocked, and within seconds the door opened to reveal a woman in her early thirties with red-rimmed eyes and disheveled blonde hair pulled back in a hasty ponytail.Lucy Gilbert wore a rumpled blouse and dark jeans—the attire of someone who had received devastating news before having a chance to begin their day properly.
“Ms.Gilbert?I’m Detective Brookman.We spoke on the phone.These are Special Agents Paige and Esmer from the FBI.”
Lucy’s gaze moved over them, registering their presence before stepping back to allow them entry.“Come in.I’m sorry about the mess.I haven’t—” She gestured vaguely, words failing her.
The apartment was spacious and bright, with large windows overlooking the street below.Under normal circumstances, it would have been a cheerful space—walls painted in warm colors, comfortable furniture arranged for conversation rather than television viewing, bookshelves filled with art volumes and design magazines.But the normalcy of the setting only highlighted the abnormal circumstances that had brought them there.
What immediately caught Riley’s attention were the origami figures arranged on various surfaces throughout the living room.Paper cranes perched on the bookshelf, geometric shapes clustered on the coffee table, delicate flowers bloomed from a ceramic bowl on the dining table.Unlike Brittany Hall’s apartment, where the figures had dominated every surface in a chaotic profusion, these were deliberately arranged, more curated than compulsive.
“Please, sit,” Lucy said, gesturing toward the sofa.Her voice cracked slightly.“Can I offer you something to drink?Water?Coffee?”The offer seemed automatic, a reflex of hospitality despite her obvious distress.
“We’re fine, thank you,” Riley said gently.“Ms.Gilbert, we’re very sorry for your loss.”
Lucy sank into an armchair across from them, her body collapsing inward as if the polite effort of greeting them had exhausted her limited reserves.“I still can’t believe it.Patricia was just fine.We had breakfast together before I left for work.”Her voice wavered.“How did she...they wouldn’t tell me how she...”
“Ms.Gilbert,” Ann Marie began, her voice gentle but steady, “I understand how difficult this must be.We do have some questions that might help us understand what happened to Patricia.”
Riley watched as Ann Marie leaned forward slightly, creating an intimate connection with Lucy through her body language and tone.Riley recognized her own tendency toward intensity during interviews, the focus that sometimes came across as detachment.She’d learned to step back when Ann Marie’s softer approach was clearly the better option.
“I’ll tell you whatever I can,” Lucy said, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.“I just want to understand how this happened.”
Ann Marie nodded, acknowledging Lucy’s pain.“I noticed the origami figures as we came in.They’re beautiful.Did you or Patricia make these?”
The seemingly tangential question momentarily surprised Lucy, but she glanced around the room at the paper creations.“Both of us.Mostly Patricia, though.She was better at it than me—had more patience for the complex folds.”A ghost of a smile touched her lips, softening the raw grief etched across her face.“She could sit for hours with a single piece of paper, her fingers moving with surgical skill, working through the steps.I’d watch her unfold everything and start over without a word when a crease went wrong.Not once did I ever see her crumple a paper in frustration.”
“How long had she been practicing origami?”Ann Marie asked.
“Seriously?About three months,” Lucy replied.“We’d both dabbled before, but it became more of a...I don’t know, a dedicated hobby recently.We’ve been attending weekly meetings of an origami group at the Mosaic Community Center.”She gestured toward a particularly intricate geometric form on the coffee table.“That’s one she made last week at the meeting.She was so proud of it.”
Riley observed the exactness of the folds, the mathematical perfection of the angles.It reminded her of the swan found with Patricia’s body—the same attention to detail, the same mastery of the medium.
“The origami group,” Ann Marie continued, “can you tell us more about it?Who attends?Who leads it?”
Lucy was visibly relaxing slightly as she focused on these mundane details.“It’s pretty informal.Usually about six or seven people.Olga Swinson started it—she works at the community center.She provides materials and sometimes demonstrates new techniques, but mostly people just work on their own projects and chat.”
Ann Marie made a note in her small notebook.“Ms.Gilbert, this might seem like an unusual question, but did Patricia struggle with any mental health issues?Particularly anything related to impulse control?”
Lucy’s head snapped up, surprise evident in her expression.“How did you know that?I mean—yes, she did.”She frowned slightly.“Patricia had generalized anxiety disorder.It sometimes manifested as...well, she called them ‘emotional flares.’When she got overwhelmed, she’d have outbursts—nothing violent, but she’d say things she didn’t mean, make impulsive decisions she’d regret later.”
Riley and Ann Marie exchanged a meaningful glance, confirmation passing silently between them.Patricia Walsh was the third victim with impulse control issues.The pattern was undeniable now—the killer was specifically targeting women with these particular mental health struggles.
“Was she receiving treatment for her condition?”Ann Marie asked.
“Therapy and medication,” Lucy confirmed.“But she always said the origami helped more than anything else.The focus it required—she said it was like meditation for her.It gave her mind something to lock onto when her thoughts started to race.”Lucy’s gaze drifted to the paper creations around the room.“I could always tell when she was having a rough day because there’d be new origami pieces everywhere.”
Riley leaned forward slightly.“Ms.Gilbert, does the name Fawn Waller mean anything to you?”
Lucy’s eyebrows rose.“Yes, actually.She came to the origami group a couple of times, maybe a month ago?I remember her because she was so...distinctive.”
“Distinctive how?”Ann Marie prompted.
“She wore these enormous sunglasses that covered half her face, for one thing,” Lucy said, gesturing toward her own eyes.“And I think she might have been going through chemotherapy or something because she wore a wig—not a very good one, to be honest.It looked synthetic and didn’t quite sit right on her head.”
Riley felt a quickening of her pulse.The disguise was consistent with what they’d learned about “Fawn Waller” from Marcus Berridge—the deliberate concealment of identity, the altered appearance.The woman wasn’t undergoing chemotherapy; she was methodically hiding her true identity while observing her potential victims.
“Did she interact much with the group?”Riley asked.
