CHAPTER TWO
The muted gray sky brightened as Riley navigated morning traffic toward Ann Marie’s Georgetown apartment. Two victims already. Origami figures left as calling cards. This killer’s signature was unusual enough to suggest planning and purpose. And purpose meant there would likely be more.
As soon as she’d left the house, Riley had phoned Bill, catching him just as he was leaving his hotel room.
“New case?” he’d asked, recognizing a subtle sound in her voice.
“Looks like it. Two victims, both with origami figures placed on the bodies. Meredith has called in Ann Marie and me.”
Bill had been silent for a moment, processing. “Origami. That’s different.”
It certainly is, Riley thought again as she drove. Their rest of their conversation had been brief but grounding, as their exchanges always were.
Now she slowed her car as she approached Ann Marie’s building, a nondescript brick structure with large windows and small balconies. The neighborhood was quiet, most residents already departed for their workplaces. She pulled to a stop at the curb, scanning the entrance for her partner.
Ann Marie appeared moments later, emerging through the glass doors with her typical energetic stride.
Even from a distance, Riley could see the perfect arrangement of her blonde hair, the crispness of her tailored pantsuit.
Unlike most agents who gradually surrendered to comfortable, practical attire, Ann Marie maintained an almost preternatural polish.
Riley sometimes wondered if the younger agent ever looked disheveled, or if she somehow sprang from bed each morning already assembled for the day.
Ann Marie spotted the car and approached with a small wave, opening the passenger door and sliding in gracefully. The scent of something floral—perhaps her perfume or shampoo—briefly filled the car.
“Good morning, again,” she said, placing her bag between her feet and immediately fastening her seatbelt. “Did Meredith give you any details?”
Riley pulled away from the curb, merging back into traffic. “Just that there have been two victims, both found posed with origami figures. The local detective—Brookman—naturally assumes the cases are connected.”
“Origami, huh?” Ann Marie said. “I used to do some of that back in my early teens.”
“What do you think it might mean?” Riley asked.
“Well, it’s been a long time since I did any of that,” Ann Marie mused, her tone shifting into the analytical cadence she adopted when working. “But we both know it’s an unusual signature. Based on my own experience, I’d say it suggests patience, attention to detail. A methodical killer.”
“That’s my thinking too,” Riley agreed, impressed as always by Ann Marie’s quick assessment. Despite her youth and sometimes unnervingly cheerful demeanor, the young agent had one of the sharpest minds Riley had encountered at the Bureau.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, each processing the limited information they had. Then Ann Marie turned slightly in her seat.
“How’s Bill’s case going? The drownings in Maryland?”
Riley navigated around a double-parked delivery truck before answering. “Wrapping up. He called this morning to say the evidence is pointing to accidental deaths despite the statistical improbability. He should be home tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” Ann Marie said. “I know things feel more... secure when he’s around.”
The comment opened the door to the topic Riley knew would be coming next.
“Any news about Leo Dillard?” Ann Marie asked, her voice carefully neutral.
Riley appreciated the question, understanding the genuine concern behind it.
“Nothing,” Riley replied, keeping her eyes on the road. “He’s still in the wind. But we’re being vigilant. Gabriela has been trained on April’s old gun, and the security system is as tight as Bill and I can make it.”
Ann Marie nodded. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
The statement warmed Riley. Ann Marie’s concern wasn’t merely professional courtesy; it was the protective instinct of someone who considered Riley’s family to be partially her responsibility as well.
In the short time they’d worked together, the young agent had become more than just a partner—she was part of their extended circle of trust.
“Meredith has bent the rules a bit,” Riley added. “He’s assigned a small team specifically to track Leo. Nothing significant yet, but it’s something.”
“That’s good,” Ann Marie said. “If anyone can find him, it’s our own BAU people.”
Riley nodded, though privately she wasn’t so sure. Leo Dillard had proven adept at disappearing. His exceptional intelligence and resources made him a ghost when he wanted to be. But she appreciated Meredith’s efforts nonetheless.
“For now,” Riley said, making a turn onto a tree-lined street, “we focus on what’s in front of us. Two victims, origami figures, and whatever Detective Brookman can tell us about the scenes.”
Ann Marie straightened in her seat, already shifting into a more formal posture as they approached their destination. “I researched Brookman quickly before you picked me up. Twenty-three years with D.C. Metro, reputation for being thorough but impatient. Not known for welcoming federal assistance.”
Riley smiled slightly. Of course, Ann Marie had researched the detective in the brief window after their call. “Then we’ll need to tread carefully. Let me take the lead initially.”
The navigation system announced their arrival in half a mile.
Then Riley saw the flashing police lights ahead, marking the scene they were approaching.
She pushed thoughts of Leo Dillard and home security to the back of her mind, compartmentalizing as she always did.
Right now, two victims needed her full attention.
The Bennett house sat nestled among similar upscale homes on a quiet street in Northwest DC, its Tudor-style facade now interrupted by the jarring presence of police vehicles and yellow crime scene tape.
Riley parked behind an unmarked police car and surveyed the scene, noting the neighbors who lingered on adjacent properties, their expressions a familiar mixture of morbid curiosity and fear.
Death had visited their sanctuary, shattering the illusion of safety their carefully manicured lawns and security systems had promised.
She knew from experience that a few would be packing to move within the week, unable to bear the proximity to such violence, while others would install new alarm systems and deadbolts, clinging to the belief that better locks might keep evil at bay.
“Quite the audience,” Ann Marie murmured as they exited the vehicle, nodding toward the onlookers.
Riley signed the log presented by the uniformed officer at the perimeter, then held it for Ann Marie. “Death in the suburbs always draws a crowd. Everyone wants to believe it couldn’t happen to them.”
They made their way up the stone path toward the front door, which stood open, framing a broad-shouldered man in a rumpled suit who was clearly watching their approach. His posture—arms crossed, feet planted firmly—telegraphed territorial defensiveness before he’d spoken a word.
“Detective Brookman?” Riley asked, extending her hand. “Special Agent Riley Paige, FBI. This is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer.”
Chester Brookman’s handshake was perfunctory at best, his dark eyes assessing them with undisguised skepticism. “Didn’t expect the feds quite so quickly,” he said, his voice gruff. “Especially since I only got the call to come in myself a couple hours ago.”
The statement was carefully crafted to establish hierarchy—he hadn’t requested their help, and he wanted them to know it.
Riley had encountered this posturing countless times in her career.
Local law enforcement often viewed FBI involvement as both a challenge to their competence and a threat to their authority.
“Special Agent in Charge Meredith thought we should respond immediately, given the potential connection to your earlier case,” Riley replied neutrally. “We’re here to assist, not take over.”
“Well, you’re here now. Might as well come in.” Brookman turned without waiting for acknowledgment, leading them into the house. “We think the killer jimmied a window open. The Bennetts have a security system, but it wasn’t activated. The husband says his wife often forgot to do that.”
Riley stepped through the doorway and immediately halted, struck by the sight that greeted her.
The Bennett home was an origami gallery.
Paper creations filled nearly every surface—delicate cranes perched on bookshelves, geometric spheres hung from light fixtures, and dragons with intricately folded scales guarded the mantelpiece.
The skill and artistry were remarkable, speaking to countless hours of patient folding.
“Our victim was apparently quite the paper artist,” Brookman said, noting her reaction. “So was the earlier victim. Makes our killer’s calling card that much more twisted, if you ask me.”
Riley moved slowly through the space, taking in the details. “Victim’s name?”
“Rachel Bennett, 33. Marketing coordinator at a tech firm. Her husband, Rudy Bennett, found her when he returned from his weekly poker game around midnight.” Brookman gestured toward a hallway.
“He’s in the guest room with a crisis counselor.
Guy’s barely coherent—kept saying he should have been home earlier, might have saved her. ”
The guilt of survivors. Riley had seen it consume people whole. “We’ll want to speak with him when he’s able.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem. He’s been pretty heavily sedated, though.” Then Brookman shrugged and added, “Maybe he’s just putting on a show. Wouldn’t be the first time a guilty husband tried to play the grief card.”
Riley resisted the urge to discuss that prospect right now, knowing Brookman was the type who would suspect anyone and everyone until proven otherwise.
Brookman led them toward a dining room that had been commandeered as a temporary command post. “In the meantime, let me show you why I think this connects to our case from two days ago.”
He laid out several photographs on the table, arranging them in sequence.
The images showed a bedroom in what appeared to be an apartment, quite different from the Bennett home.
On a neatly made bed lay a woman, her eyes open but vacant, her body positioned as if in peaceful repose.
On her chest, positioned deliberately over her heart, was what appeared to be a folded paper fan.
“Brittany Hall, 30, found in her apartment two days ago by the building superintendent after her door had been ajar for hours,” Brookman explained.
“Freelance data analyst, lived alone. No defensive wounds, no sexual assault. M.E. found a puncture mark on her upper arm consistent with injection. Tox screen came back with succinylcholine in her system.”
Ann Marie leaned closer to the photos. “A paralytic,” she noted. “Used in surgical procedures.”
“And virtually undetectable in the body after a short time,” Riley added, studying the images. The choice of drug suggested medical knowledge or access—another detail to file away. “What about the fan?”
Brookman slid another photo across the table. This one showed the fan opened, revealing neat handwriting along the interior pleats: “Do Not Unfold.”
“After processing the scene, we opened it and found that,” Brookman said. “A warning we couldn’t see until we’d already disregarded it. Seemed like the killer’s idea of a joke.”
Riley frowned, studying the precise lettering. There was something creepily playful about it, as if the killer were inviting them into a game with rules only he understood. “What about Rachel Bennett’s cause of death?”
“M.E.’s preliminary assessment is the same—succinylcholine injection.
Same puncture mark on the upper arm, same lack of struggle.
Body was transported to the morgue early this morning for full autopsy.
” Brookman gestured for them to follow him upstairs.
“I want you to see the Bennett bedroom. Everything’s still intact except for the body. ”
They climbed the stairs in silence, passing framed photographs of Rachel and a man Riley presumed to be her husband—smiling on vacation, dressed up for what might have been a wedding, casual shots in their backyard. A life interrupted.
The bedroom door was open, the space beyond crowded with crime scene technicians still documenting evidence.
The room itself was tastefully decorated in neutral tones, with a large bed dominating the center.
The covers were disturbed but not chaotic, suggesting Rachel either had been attacked after lying down, or had been arranged on the bed after death.
“Here’s where she was found,” Brookman said, showing them another photo on his cellphone. This image showed Rachel Bennett posed much like Brittany Hall had been—lying on her back, arms at her sides, eyes open. And centered on her chest was an intricately folded paper crane.
“The fan was left on the first victim, and the crane on the second,” Riley observed, her mind already tracking patterns. “Both traditional origami forms, but different choices.”
“Both deliberately placed on the chest, though,” Ann Marie pointed out. “Positioned over the heart.”
Brookman nodded toward the bed, where the paper crane still sat on an evidence marker, untouched. Riley could glimpse writing in ink among the folds. Something had been written on the paper before it was unfolded, but it was unreadable right now.
“We left it in place, figuring you’d want to see it,” Brookman said. “I was about to have the tech unfold it when you arrived. You can see that something was written on it. We need to find out what it is.”
Riley studied the crane. Something about it triggered a whisper of intuition—a faint, familiar sensation she’d experienced many times before when confronting killers’ minds. A warning prickled along her nerves. This one was playing with them, setting a trap they were about to spring.
“I wouldn’t unfold it,” she said abruptly.
Brookman turned to her with raised eyebrows. “Why not? The message in the fan was meaningless—just the killer’s idea of a sick joke.”
She was about to protest again, but Brookman had already said to a technician wearing gloves. “Go ahead, carefully.”
The paper resisted at first, then gave way with an audible sound—not the soft whisper of paper yielding, but a brittle crackle. Then the origami fan began to disintegrate, crumbling between his fingers like ancient parchment.