CHAPTER TWELVE
Riley leaned back in a plastic chair at Chicago Police Headquarters, her shoulders tight from the long day.
She felt uneasy about their arrest of Marcus Dalton—or Chet Maxwell, as he still insisted he should be called.
Something about Dalton’s demeanor during the arrest—that flicker of amusement in his eyes when the handcuffs clicked shut—had triggered a warning bell in her mind that refused to be quiet.
An hour had passed since they’d brought the suspect into custody.
Since then, Callahan had called his ex-wife to assure her that she was safe from him and to call off the police watch he had posted for her.
The initial rush of the arrest had given way to the procedural crawl of booking, processing, and the inevitable legal negotiations.
She and Ann Marie sat waiting in an open area where others occasionally arrived or left.
When they found themself alone for a few minutes, Ann Marie said cheerfully, “I can’t believe how smoothly the arrest went. No resistance, no chase. Just walked right out in handcuffs.”
“Almost too smoothly,” Riley commented.
“You still have doubts?” Ann Marie turned to study Riley’s face. “His ex-wife positively identified him. He was working at a wine shop—a wine shop, Riley—and both victims were poisoned with arsenic-laced wine. The connection to Margaret Thornfield is direct and documented. What more do you need?”
“It fits together too neatly. Killers this methodical, this patient—they don’t typically allow themselves to be caught without some sort of provisions or plans for dealing with possible situations.”
“Maybe we interrupted his plan.”
“Maybe,” Riley conceded, but her doubts lingered. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she retrieved it.
“It’s April,” she said, rising from her seat.
“Go ahead and talk to your daughter.”
Riley stepped around a corner into a quieter hallway and pressed the phone to her ear. “April? Everything okay?”
“Hey, Mom.” April’s voice carried across the miles, bringing with it a momentary respite from the pressure of the investigation. “Just checking in like you asked. All good on my end.”
Riley felt a small measure of tension ease from her shoulders. “I’m glad to hear that. How are classes going?”
“Fine. My psych professor wants us to analyze the early behavioral science techniques used by the FBI. I told him my mom literally wrote the textbook on it.”
Despite the circumstances, Riley smiled. “I’m hardly in the textbooks, April.”
“You should be,” April insisted. “Anyway, I’m being super careful like you said. Looking out for suspicious people, watching my surroundings. I even asked campus security to walk me back to my dorm tonight after study group.”
“Good. That’s exactly what you should be doing.”
“Any news on Leo Dillard?” April asked, trying to sound casual but not quite succeeding.
Riley hesitated, weighing honesty against protection. “No solid leads yet. Bill’s coordinating with local law enforcement, keeping a close eye on Jilly.”
“Do you really think he’ll show up here again?”
“I don’t know,” Riley admitted. “But Leo Dillard is obsessive and methodical. Until we have him in custody, I want you taking every precaution.”
“Okay, Mom.” April paused, and Riley could almost see her daughter’s expression—that mixture of exasperation and affection that had become more common as she’d grown into adulthood. “But don’t worry too much about me. I can handle myself. You taught me well.”
Riley’s mind flashed to the shooting lessons, the self-defense training, all the preparations she’d insisted upon as April grew up—daughter of an FBI agent who’d seen too much darkness not to prepare her child for its possibilities.
“I know you can,” Riley said softly. “But being capable doesn’t mean you have to be alone. Keep checking in, okay?”
“I will. How’s your case going? Are you still in Chicago?”
“Yes. We’ve just made an arrest, actually. Still piecing it all together.”
“Good guys one, bad guys zero. Go get ‘em, Mom. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Love you, April.”
“Love you too.”
As the call ended, Riley stood motionless for a moment, the phone still pressed to her ear as if maintaining that tenuous connection to her daughter.
The dual nature of her life had never felt more pronounced—the professional agent pursuing killers across state lines, and the mother whose heart constricted at the thought of her children in danger.
Leo Dillard. The name itself carried a menace. A brilliant student, a charming psychopath who had systematically destroyed his own sister’s life until she took it herself. His fixation on Riley, his elaborate fantasy in which they belonged together….
She shook her head slightly.
Focus on what’s in front of you, she told herself. One threat at a time.
Returning to the present moment, Riley moved back to the waiting area doorway and asked Ann Marie. “Any word?”
“Nothing at all going on here.”
Riley turned away again and dialed Bill’s number.
“Hey,” his familiar voice greeted her. “How’s Chicago?”
“Windy. Living up to its reputation,” Riley replied, feeling the knot in her shoulders loosen slightly at the sound of his voice. “How are things there?”
“Quiet. Jilly’s doing her homework. Gabriela made enchiladas. The security system is functioning perfectly, and I’ve checked in with the local patrol three times today.”
Riley smiled despite herself. “Driving everyone crazy with your vigilance, are you?”
“Only a little,” Bill admitted. “Jilly rolled her eyes so hard at dinner I thought they might get stuck that way. Said I was hovering like a ‘helicopter dad’ which I took as a compliment, honestly.”
“How is she really doing?”
Bill’s voice softened. “She’s okay. Putting on a brave face. You know Jilly—she’s tough. But I caught her checking the locks twice last night. She’s scared, even if she won’t admit it.”
Riley closed her eyes briefly, picturing her adopted daughter—the girl she’d rescued from a life on the streets, who still carried those survival instincts like armor.
“And you?” Bill asked. “Any progress on that case?”
“We’ve made an arrest. Marcus Dalton, a sommelier who was caught stealing wine by our first victim. He was working at a wine shop under an assumed name.”
“Sounds promising.”
“It should be,” Riley said, leaning against the wall. “The evidence is compelling. His ex-wife positively identified him. He had means, motive, opportunity...”
“But?”
“But something feels off. He was too calm when we arrested him, Bill. Almost amused. Like being caught was just an inconvenience, not a catastrophe.”
“Sociopaths often present that way,” Bill reminded her. “Emotional disconnection, inability to process the gravity of their situation.”
“I know. And maybe that’s all it is. But my instincts are unsettled.”
“Your instincts have kept you alive this long,” Bill said. “What does Ann Marie think?”
“She’s convinced we have our guy. Callahan too. The circumstantial evidence is strong, and I understand their confidence. I just can’t shake this feeling that we’re missing something.”
Riley heard a door open and close on Bill’s end of the line, followed by the muffled sound of a teenager’s voice asking a question.
“One second, Jilly,” Bill said, his voice slightly distant from the phone. Then, to Riley: “Sorry about that. Jilly wants to know if she can still go to her friend’s house tomorrow after school.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That we’d discuss it. I don’t want to completely disrupt her life, but...”
“But we need to be careful,” Riley finished for him. “Maybe her friend could come to our place instead? With a driver we trust?”
“That might work. I’ll suggest it.”
A comfortable silence fell between them, the kind that only develops after years of partnership—both professional and personal. In that quiet moment, Riley felt the distance between Chicago and home acutely, a physical ache.
“I should let you go,” she said finally. “Callahan could be back any minute with news about the interview we’re waiting for.”
“Let me know how things work out. And Riley—”
“Yes?”
“Trust yourself. If something feels wrong about this guy, keep digging.”
“I will. Give Jilly a hug for me.”
As Riley ended the call, she caught sight of Detective Callahan striding down the hallway toward her with Ann Marie following close behind.
“We’re set,” Callahan announced as he reached her.
“But I should warn you—his public defender is Maria Suarez. She’s good.
Very good. And she’s already trying to frame this as a case of mistaken identity and harassment. ”
“What about fingerprints?” Riley asked.
“Still processing through the system. Apparently, there’s some kind of delay. Could be hours before we get confirmation.”
“Convenient,” Riley remarked.
“Very,” Callahan agreed. “In the meantime, we can question him, but Suarez has made it clear that if we push too hard on the murder allegations without formal charges, she’ll shut it down and walk him out.”
“So we focus on the parole violation,” Ann Marie suggested. “Get him talking about why he disappeared, why he created a false identity.”
“Exactly,” Callahan said. “Establish the pattern of deception first. If we can get him to admit to the false identity, it undermines his credibility when we pivot to the murders.”
They reached a junction in the hallway, and Callahan paused. “Coffee before we go in? This could be a long session.”
“I’m good,” Riley said, her mind already shifting into interview mode. “Ann Marie?”
“I’m ready,” the younger agent replied eagerly.
As they resumed walking, Riley asked Callahan, “How’s he been since booking? Still maintaining the same demeanor?”
“Not quite,” Callahan said. “He seems more nervous now. Keeps insisting there’s been a terrible mistake, that his name is Chet Maxwell, that he’s being unfairly targeted. Insisting he coincidentally looks like Marcus Dalton. That the real Marcus Dalton is somewhere else entirely.”
They reached another corridor lined with interview rooms. Through the window of one, Riley caught a glimpse of a man sitting at a table, a woman in a sharp suit beside him. Marcus Dalton—or Chet Maxwell—wore standard-issue county orange instead of his shop attire.
Ann Marie leaned close to Riley. “What’s our approach? Good cop, bad cop?”
“No,” Riley said, her eyes still on Dalton through the glass. “We’re investigators with a job to do. No theatrics. We stay professional, methodical, and we watch. Everything he says, everything he doesn’t say, every micro-expression—it all matters.”
Callahan cleared his throat. “Ready?”
Riley took a final moment to study the man through the glass. Callahan was right. Something had changed in the suspect’s demeanor. He still looked calm, but she sensed that his calmness was somehow feigned.
“Ready,” she said.
As Callahan reached for the door handle, Riley felt that familiar shift within herself—the transition from Riley Paige, woman with a family and personal concerns, to Special Agent Paige, FBI profiler.
She followed Callahan into the room, Ann Marie close behind, her senses heightened and focused on the man who sat waiting for them with the stillness of a predator.
Her doubts about Dalton remained, but she set them aside for now. The interview would reveal what it would reveal. Either Dalton was their killer, or he wasn’t. Either way, the truth existed, waiting to be uncovered.