He looked younger than the file photo.The file had presented him as mid-thirties, neatly bearded, polished startup co-founder in a navy blazer and sneakers that cost more than Marcus’s last suit.The man in front of him looked older and much more breakable: eyes shot with red, jaw clenched against the repetition of the image he’d just described to every other official in the house.
Marcus had been there when Torres made the 911 call replay, and again when the EMT had asked him to go over his steps.Now it was their turn.Kate had argued that they could bring him to the field office for a more formal interview once he’d had a chance to stop shaking.Sullivan, ever the pragmatist, had pointed out that shock had a way of scrubbing away self-editing; people told the truth before they remembered to curate.
They’d compromised: initial, informal here, full statement tomorrow.
"Okay, Mr.Torres," Marcus said, keeping his voice as even as possible."I know you've gone through this a few times already.I'm sorry.I'm going to ask mostly about Sarah, not about what you saw in the other room.All right?"
Torres nodded, the movement slight and jerky.The blanket slipped; he didn’t seem to notice.
“Can I call you Michael?”Marcus tried.
Another nod.“Sure.”
“And I’m Marcus.This is Agent Valentine.Kate.”
Kate gave the tiniest tilt of acknowledgement, already sliding her phone out of her pocket.Sullivan had had the painting removed from the office and bagged within the first twenty minutes; chain-of-custody paperwork was practically an extra limb for him.But before the techs had zipped it up, Kate had stepped in, leaned over the table, and taken three quick, precise photographs.
Now the first of those filled her screen: the black bird, almost life-sized, beak tilted, sprig of something pale green against the dark.It sat there on the glass like a secret she should already know.
Marcus heard the faint scrape of her chair as she moved to sit at the end of the table, slightly angled away.She tapped once to zoom in on the bird’s eye, then again to pull back.Her notepad lay open beside the phone, a pen hovering over a blank page.
She wasn’t drawing yet.
She realized that there were berries on the sprig in the crow's beak.Purple, segmented fruits made up of tiny sacs of juice, like blackberries or raspberries.She counted four separate berries.Why four?She thought back to her last conversation with Dr.Lasker.It would help if we could identify what’s in the bird’s beak.The sprig looked like the others: thin, greenish-brown, or brownish-green.So what was the significance of the plant or the bush or the tree bearing fruit? She made a note to send the new painting to Dr.Lasker.
Marcus forced his focus back to Torres.“You and Sarah were business partners?”
“Yeah.”Torres cleared his throat.“Co-founders.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Little over twelve years.We met at a conference in Seattle, one of those ‘change-the-world-with-your-macbook’ things.”A ghost of a smile tried and failed to form.“We were both on a panel about ethical tech.She disagreed with almost everything I said.We spent the next three hours arguing in the hotel bar.Next day she sent me an email with a pitch deck attached.”
“And that pitch became… Stiklr,” Marcus said, glancing down at his notes.“Am I saying it right?”
Torres blinked as though the word had transported him somewhere more solid.“Yeah.Stiklr.”
“I’m going to have to ask, because I’m not your demographic,” Marcus said.“What exactly does it do?”
“Okay.”Torres drew a breath, shoulders shifting back a fraction.“So you’ve got a phone—”
“Several.”
“You see a product you’re thinking of buying.Sneaker, shampoo, cereal, whatever.You open the app, point your camera, take a picture of the label or the barcode.Stiklr cross-references that image against our database.It pulls in environmental certifications, supply chain audits, NGO reports, user feedback.Then it gives you a traffic-light score on key issues: carbon footprint, labour standards, plastic content, animal testing, community impact.If it’s clean, you get green.If there’s a problem, you get amber or red, plus links to the supporting data.”
Marcus raised his eyebrows.“So it tells you whether your shampoo is saving the planet or destroying it.”
“In layman’s terms, yes.”Despite the situation, the faintest hint of pride crept into Torres’s voice.“It’s designed to make ethical choice the default, not a research project.We’ve got partnerships with three supermarket chains now; they’re piloting automated shelf tags that change color when you scan them.”
“And Sarah built this,” Marcus said.
“We built it,” Torres corrected reflexively, then seemed to hear himself and winced.“Sorry.Yeah.She was the brains.The vision.I’m… I’m more operations.Fundraising.Translation between idealism and investors.”
“How’s the app doing?”Marcus asked.“Users, money, general happiness of the market?”
Torres looked down at his hands.“We passed ten million downloads last quarter.Retention’s high.Investors are… were… excited.We had a B round closing planned for next month.”
“So professionally, she was doing well.”
