Meaning they were wrong.Meaning they were playful where they should have been austere.Meaning they hinted at someone not simply following Cox’s orders but weaving his own ideology into the tapestry.
But she couldn’t explain all that.Not yet.
“They’re unusual,” she said.“We’re still figuring them out.”
Sullivan shot her a brief grin.“Well, you solve them, you let me know.I did a semester of art history in college.Did not help me get laid, in case you’re wondering.”
Despite herself, Kate huffed a quiet laugh.
He drove another block, then risked: “Sorry.You’re… elsewhere.”
He didn’t press further.Respectful.Or cautious.
They pulled into the small motel parking lot.The sign flickered weakly: HARBOR INN — VACANCY.
Sullivan shifted the car into park and turned toward her, expression sober now.“We’ll get him,” he said quietly.“Whoever he is.”
Kate opened the door.The night air rushed in, cool and sharp.“I hope so.”
She closed the door gently and watched the cruiser drive off.
Then she stood alone in the dark, the images rising unbidden behind her eyelids:
The stone tablets.
The underlined fifth mark.The painting of an absurd Victorian glutton, oblivious to the justice stalking up behind him.
And behind it all—something deeper.
Kate felt a chill crawl down her spine.
A disciple with imagination was far more dangerous than a zealot with faith.
Possibly even more dangerous than Cox.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday May 13th
Marcus had expected “lavish” to mean chandeliers and piano music piped through every hallway.Cedars Retirement Home offered both, plus a kind of hushed, scented calm that made him acutely aware of every scuff on his shoes and every crease in his jacket.The place felt curated — more private club than care facility, all brushed brass and tasteful watercolors of imaginary coastlines.
The night receptionist was a young man with an earnest moustache and the expression of someone who had never, not once, defied a rule.When Marcus flashed his badge, the moustache bristled.
“Ms.Herman is on duty.But she’s finishing her rounds.I can tell her you’re—”
A voice floated across the lobby — warm, Germanic vowels, lightly amused.
“—Paul, it is fine.FBI men do not need to make appointments.”
Ulrike Herman swept into view like someone stepping out of a film frame.Tall, pale-blonde hair in a severe coil, scrubs under a slate-grey cardigan, the kind of posture that suggested she had stared down surgeons and out-stubborned them.She held a tablet to her chest like a shield.
Her eyes flicked over the badge, then over Marcus.Something eased in her shoulders.
“Agent Reid.You called earlier.”
“Thanks for seeing me at this hour.”He offered a hand.She took it — firm grip, cool fingers, a quick assessing glance that made him feel slightly more rumpled than he was.
“Come,” she said, tilting her head toward the hallway.“The office is this way.You prefer coffee?Tea?Something stronger?”A faint lift of an eyebrow.
