Lucy shook her head.“Not really.She kept to herself, worked on her own projects.I remember thinking it was odd that she’d join a social group only to avoid socializing.”She paused.“Come to think of it, she seemed more interested in watching than participating.Especially watching Olga demonstrate techniques.”
Before Riley could pursue this line of questioning, Brookman’s phone vibrated.He checked the screen, then excused himself, stepping away toward the apartment’s entry to take the call.His voice was too low for Riley to make out his words, but his posture tensed as he listened to whoever was on the other end.
Ann Marie continued smoothly.“How did you and Patricia come to join this origami group?Was it something you sought out specifically?”
“No, it was through Olga,” Lucy explained.“Patricia knew her from some online forum for people with anxiety disorders.Olga mentioned that origami had helped with her own impulse problems—she has the same sort of condition as Patricia, though I’m not sure of the specific diagnosis.Anyway, she’d started this group at the community center where she works and invited Patricia to join.I tagged along mostly for moral support at first, but ended up enjoying it myself.”
“And Patricia benefited from the practice?”Ann Marie asked.
“Tremendously,” Lucy said, her voice softening with remembered affection.“She was more centered, more in control of her emotions than I’d seen her in the three years we’d been roommates.The origami gave her something to turn to when she felt an episode coming on.”
Riley processed this information, pieces clicking into place with disturbing clarity.The killer was targeting women with impulse control issues who had found relief through origami—women like Rachel Bennett, Brittany Hall, and now Patricia Walsh.And if the pattern held, Olga Swinson—who ran the community center group and also suffered from similar issues—was almost certainly the next intended victim.
The realization struck Riley with cold certainty.They needed to find Olga Swinson immediately, before the killer could complete her pattern.She was about to discuss this with Ann Marie when Brookman returned, his face tightly controlled but his eyes betraying urgency.
“Agents,” he said, “headquarters just received a text message specifically addressed to you, Agent Paige.”He held out his phone.“It came with an image.”
Riley took the phone, Ann Marie moving closer to see the screen.The text message was brief: “ATTN: SPECIAL AGENT RILEY PAIGE,” followed by an image of what looked like a small bamboo cylinder woven in a diamond pattern from pale yellow strips.
The breath caught in Riley’s throat as recognition flashed through her mind.She had seen one of these before.Although it looked like a child’s toy, she realized that in this context it was a message, a taunt, a challenge.And somehow it must be crucial to understanding the killer’s next move.
“Riley?”Ann Marie’s voice seemed to come from far away.“Do you know what this means?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “I’m afraid that I do.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Riley stared at the image on Brookman’s phone, her mind racing backward through more than twenty years of memories.The simple bamboo cylinder lay photographed against a plain white background.
“Why, it’s a Chinese finger trap, isn’t it,” Ann Marie exclaimed.“I remember playing with one when I was a kid.”
“You mean one of those things that you stick a finger into each end, and when you try to pull them out, it suddenly tightens up?”Brookman demanded.
“That’s right, to get it to loosen, you have to push your fingers closer together.”Ann Marie explained.
Brookman snorted.“So this is just another tease?”
Riley stared at the image, the simple woven cylinder transforming in her mind from a child’s toy into something far more sinister—not just a child’s novelty, but a powerful metaphor.She heard Brookman’s impatient comment, but for several seconds, she couldn’t pull her focus from the image that had surfaced from her past.
“Riley?”Ann Marie’s voice broke through her thoughts.“What is it?What does this mean to you?”
Riley looked up, meeting Ann Marie’s concerned gaze.In her peripheral vision, she registered Lucy Gilbert watching them from her armchair, the young woman’s grief momentarily suspended by curiosity.
“I know why this was sent specifically to me,” Riley said, her voice steady.“This isn’t random.It’s a reference to a seminar I attended back in 2000, when I was still a new academy trainee.”
Brookman’s eyebrows drew together.“A seminar?About what?”
“Ethics in law enforcement,” Riley explained, handing his phone back.“It was held at FBI Headquarters in the J.Edgar Hoover building.The instructor was a forensics specialist named Elaine Cooper.”
Ann Marie’s eyes widened with recognition.“Elaine Cooper?I’ve read some of her papers on evidence preservation ethics.She’s highly respected.”
Riley nodded.“She is.She was already something of a legend in the Bureau when I attended her seminar.She had this...unconventional teaching style.Used physical objects as metaphors for ethical dilemmas we might face.”She gestured toward the phone in Brookman’s hand.“The Chinese finger trap was her central metaphor for a particular type of investigative paradox.”
Brookman’s expression shifted from confusion to intense focus.“What kind of paradox?”
“Elaine explained that sometimes in law enforcement, our instinctive reactions to a problem only make the situation worse,” Riley said, turning back to face them.“Like a finger trap.The harder you pull to free yourself, the tighter it constricts.The only way out is to do the counterintuitive thing—push your fingers inward first, which loosens the weave.But even then, the dilemma is still tricky.How can you pull your fingers out without tightening the weave all over again?The solution is to squeeze the trap in the middle, keeping the ends loose.”
She paused, seeing the seminar room again in her mind’s eye—the rows of earnest trainees, Elaine’s commanding presence at the front, the small bamboo cylinder passed from hand to hand.
