CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The interview room smelled faintly of disinfectant and frightened men in nylon shirts. Webb was already seated when Kate entered, hunched forward over the metal table like it was a lectern he’d been summoned to preach from.
He brightened — absurdly — when he saw her.
“Agent Valentine,” he said, as if greeting a familiar colleague instead of the woman who’d wrestled him to the pavement thirty minutes ago. “I just want to say from the start, this is all a misunderstanding.”
“Good,” Kate said, pulling out the opposite chair. “Then let’s misunderstand each other as little as possible.”
She placed the folder on the table. Didn’t open it. Didn’t need to. He stared at it anyway, the way people did when they assumed the answers inside were already damning.
Up close, he looked younger than she’d expected.
Mid-forties but soft around the edges, a man whose past gym membership had been replaced by stress and bad takeout.
His hands fidgeted ceaselessly — picking at a thumbnail, smoothing down creases in his jeans, tugging at his cuff, a restless choreography of nerves.
“You bought a plane ticket to Paris,” Kate said. “One-way. Paid in full. Four hours before leaving your apartment in a state that suggests you’d been chased by wolves.”
Webb winced. “Look, I can explain that. I can explain all of it.”
“Please do,” Kate said, folding her hands.
He took a deep breath, the kind people take before diving into cold water.
“I got a payout. Compensation. Totally unexpected. I wasn’t planning on it, not in a million years.
My best case scenario was a year-long legal battle and low odds of a win for me.
But it came through on Friday and I thought, you know what?
I’ve worked hard. I’ve put up with a hell of a lot.
I deserve a break. A real break. So—Paris. Just like that.”
“You booked the ticket impulsively.”
“Yes.” He nodded eagerly. “Exactly. That’s who I am.
Impulsive. My therapist says I have ‘avoidant tendencies,’ which is a fancy way of saying I make rash decisions.
My ex-wife will tell you that too, if you ever want to ask her.
” He gave a strained laugh. “She used to joke that hurricanes packed more neatly than I do. That’s why—”
“Your apartment looked like a crime scene,” Kate finished.
“Yes!” He pointed both hands at her as if she’d won a prize. “Exactly. I always leave mess. Always. I hate packing. I shove everything into bags, forget half of it, buy new socks at the airport. It’s a thing.”
She didn’t write that down. It was more interesting to watch the way he said it — too rehearsed to be spontaneous, too messy to be a lie. A truth he’d polished until it was almost unbelievable.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s assume the mess is… just you being you. Let’s assume you weren’t running. Then explain the part where you sprinted from us the moment we identified ourselves.”
He froze. Blinked twice. “I… didn’t hear you.”
“You didn’t hear us shouting ‘FBI—stop where you are’?”
“No!” His voice cracked. “I swear. I heard shouting but I didn’t know it was you. I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought it was Boston again.”
Kate leaned back. “Boston?”
“The boys of the fine ol’ BPD,” Webb said, bitterly.
He rubbed his palms along his thighs, the motion agitated, compulsive.
“Six years ago. I told the officer already. Two Boston cops jumped me. Mistaken ID. Beat the living hell out of me before anyone realized. Broke three ribs. Concussion. I still… I mean, loud commands, people running at me—my brain goes straight back there. It’s PTSD. Complex PTSD, the doctor said.”
His breathing hitched, and for a moment she saw the truth in him. Not the guilt-or-innocence truth; the other one. The raw truth of a man who’d been hurt badly enough that the memory had built a shelter around itself and welded the doors shut.
She didn’t soften. She couldn’t afford to. But she registered it.
“You have medical documentation of that?” she asked coolly.
“Yes. Yes, of course. I can get you everything. I’m not making this up!”
Kate tapped a fingertip against the table. Three times. Soft enough that he couldn’t see the impatience but she could feel it.
“Is that what the compensation payment was for?”
He shook his head. “That’s still rumbling on. The Friday payout was medical negligence.”
“You sue a lot of people, Mr Webb?”
He shrugged. “Some.”
There was a long pause.
“All right,” she said.
She held his gaze for a long, quiet moment.
“Art supplies.”
“What?”
“You searched for art supplies.”
He stared at her. “What’s wrong with that?”
Kate held his gaze. His reaction seemed genuine. And the media blackout concerning the crime scenes, as far as she knew, was still in place.
Webb wilted first.
“Look,” he said, voice hoarse. “I know why I’m here.
I know you think I did… something. But I didn’t kill anybody.
I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.” A fresh wave of agitation rippled through him.
“My niece’s fifteenth birthday’s next week.
She’s really talented. Paints, draws, sculpts, she’s an amazing kid.
I thought about sending her something before I left but then I thought, well, it would be better if I sent her something from Paris, right? ”
“What’s your niece’s name?”
“Zendrah. Zendrah Hearst.”
She let the silence stretch just long enough that he began tapping his foot.
“We’re checking your payout,” she said finally. “Your travel records. Your medical reports. The niece. Everything. If your story holds up, you and I will talk again with a lawyer present.” She stood. “In the meantime, sit tight.”
He jolted upright. “Wait—where are you going?”
“To do my job.”
His eyes widened, panic blooming across his face. “Please don’t leave me alone in here. Please. I swear I didn’t do anything.”
“Then you’ll be fine.”
She reached the door. Opened it.
“Agent Valentine,” he blurted.
She paused in the threshold.
“Please believe me,” he said, voice raw. “If I’d known you were FBI, I would’ve stopped. I’m not a criminal. I’m not—” His throat bobbed. “I’m not that guy.”
Kate considered him for a long moment — the fluttering hands, the sheen of sweat, the earnest desperation.
"We'll see," she said and stepped out.
The door slammed behind her with a metallic finality that made Webb flinch visibly through the small reinforced window.
Kate drew a slow breath, let it settle the way a stone sinks through water.
Marcus’s voice drifted faintly from somewhere down the corridor — talking to someone, giving instructions. Grounding. Steady.
She walked toward the hub, her heels clicking sharp and controlled on the linoleum.
Behind her, Webb was alone with his thoughts.
Which was exactly where she needed him.
*
Kate was halfway through her checks on Webb when she heard the quick, unmistakable rhythm of Marcus's footsteps coming down the hall. Not the casual kind. The purposeful kind. I’ve found something kind.
She glanced up as he entered the room.
He had a sheet of printer paper in one hand, pinched between two fingers as though it were radioactive.
“You look like you just swallowed a lemon,” she said.
Marcus held the page out. “I’m about to give you one.”
She took it, scanning the header, then the dense paragraphs beneath.
“Before you read too far,” he said, leaning one hip against the desk, “I want to hear your take. On Webb.”
Kate set the paper aside. “Fine. My take? He didn’t do it.”
Marcus nodded. “Mine too. Why?”
“ He’s a mess,” Kate said. “He panics, he lies badly, he jumps at shadows, he’s got trauma coming out of his ears, and his life choices are a flaming dumpster—but that’s all he is. A mess. Not a murderer.”
“You’re sure?”
“As sure as I can be without a time machine.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “He’s hiding stuff, sure. But not this. And honestly? The whole interview was a waste of time.”
Marcus’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “That’s the part I don’t agree with.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“When I interviewed him,” Marcus said, “He said something interesting. Weird. Threw it out like it was obvious.” He straightened, looking suddenly very awake. “‘Why aren’t you questioning that whackjob Holloway?’”
Kate blinked. “Holloway?”
“Yep.” Marcus tapped the paper she’d set down. “I didn’t push him on it at the time—we were busy trying to nail down his timeline—but I made a note. Just looked Holloway up on the database.”
Kate slid the page back toward her and read more carefully.
“Huh.”
It was an extensive list of complaints. Harassment. Stalking behaviours. Threatening communications. Several local PDs had interacted with him across the past decade.
And all of it orbiting one theme: elder welfare.
“Who is he?” she asked, finally looking up.
Marcus crossed the room and opened his laptop.
“Meet James Holloway. Social worker. Founder of an elder advocacy group called ‘Dignity Always.’ They run community workshops, pressure lawmakers, file complaints about neglect. He’s filed formal grievances against at least nine Boston-area families for mistreating elderly parents.
But he’s gone beyond that, seemingly. Hence, all the interactions with the P.D. ”
“Were any of our victims among them?” Kate asked.
“Nope,” Marcus said. “Completely different names. But that’s not the point. The guy’s obsessed with elder care. And obsessed with how kids treat their aging parents.”
Kate’s stomach tightened—just a fraction, but enough to make her pulse tick up.
Marcus gave a humorless grin. “Oh, you haven’t even gotten to the fun part. Come here.”
He beckoned her over to the laptop.
Kate stepped beside him, bracing one palm on the edge of the desk as he clicked open a browser tab.
“YouTube?” she asked.
“Conference footage,” Marcus said. “Elder Care Symposium, Baltimore, last year. Holloway was a keynote speaker. Guy loves a platform.”
The video loaded: a podium in a hotel ballroom, banner behind it reading SHIFTING THE LANDSCAPE OF AGING: DIGNITY FOR ALL.