CHAPTER SIX
Riley guided the car toward a café she knew on Connecticut Avenue. It was a place she and Bill sometimes frequented when working cases in the city—quiet enough for conversation, with decent food and reliable Wi-Fi.
She glanced briefly at Ann Marie in the passenger seat.
The younger agent’s face was set in the focused expression that meant she was also mentally cataloging connections: two women with different mental disorders, different lives, but both suddenly “turning a corner,” both creating lots of intricate origami figures, both murdered in the same methodical way.
“Are you getting any insights based on your own experiences with origami?” Riley asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Ann Marie said. “Like I said, it was a long time ago, and I was just a kid. But I remember the repetitive motions, the focus required, the sense of accomplishment when completing a complex figure—it definitely does have therapeutic qualities.”
“But neither woman had mentioned seeing a new therapist,” Riley pointed out. “Rudy Bennett seemed genuinely surprised by his wife’s sudden interest in origami. And from what Cathy Perkins said, Brittany hadn’t mentioned anything about that either.”
“What if they were participating in some kind of group therapy? Something unconventional, maybe not advertised through traditional channels?”
“That would explain why neither of them mentioned it specifically to their families. If it was experimental or outside the mainstream, they might have been reluctant to share until they were sure it was working.”
“And it was working,” Ann Marie added softly. “Until they were killed.” After a moment, she added, “So we need to look for therapists in the DC area who might be using origami as part of their treatment approach. It’s specific enough that there can’t be too many of them.”
“This traffic is a little tricky,” Riley commented as she maneuvered around a delivery truck. “Let’s put it on hold until we get settled in the café.”
“Good idea,” Ann Marie replied.
The rest of the drive passed in relative silence, each woman lost in her own thoughts about the case.
Ann Marie occasionally made notes in her small notebook, the scratch of pen against paper a soft counterpoint to the hum of traffic outside.
Riley’s thoughts drifted from the case to April.
Her daughter still hadn’t texted or called, the silence leaving a persistent whisper of what if.
She pulled into a parking space half a block from the café, cutting the engine. “The food here is decent, but the coffee’s exceptional,” she told Ann Marie as they exited the vehicle. And they have a wide selection of teas.”
Ann Marie smiled. “Then this will be just fine for both of us.”
They went into the café, finding it moderately busy with the lunch crowd but not overcrowded. Riley selected a table near the back, away from the windows and with a clear view of the entrance, and also out of earshot of other customers—a habit ingrained from years of field work.
A server approached with menus and water, taking their lunch orders. The server quickly returned with coffee for Riley and Earl Grey for Ann Marie. Then Ann Marie immediately withdrew her tablet from her bag, positioning it on the table between them.
“I’ll start searching while we wait,” she said. “Therapists, DC area, origami treatment.”
Riley nodded, but her attention kept drifting to her silent phone. The worry she’d been suppressing surged again, demanding acknowledgment. She checked the screen for what felt like the dozenth time in the past hour. Still nothing from April.
Ann Marie glanced up, her gaze catching the concern in Riley’s expression. “You’re worried about something,” she observed quietly.
Riley hesitated, then sighed. “April usually texts or calls around noon. It’s become a routine since this whole thing with Leo Dillard started.
” She set the phone on the table, face up, where she could see it if it lit up.
“I know it’s probably nothing. She could be in class, or studying, or just forgot. ”
“But with Dillard still out there, every break in routine feels significant,” Ann Marie finished for her. “That’s completely understandable, Riley.”
Ann Marie’s empathy was helpful, softening the tight knot of anxiety lodged between Riley’s shoulder blades.
Since they’d begun working together, the younger agent had demonstrated a remarkable ability to recognize emotional undercurrents, to offer support without judgment.
It was what made her exceptional at victim and witness interviews, and what made her such a valuable partner.
“Why don’t you call her?” Ann Marie suggested gently. “I can start the search, and you can put your mind at ease.”
Riley hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Thanks. I’ll just step outside for a minute.”
She rose from the table, phone in hand, and made her way back toward the café entrance. Outside, she found a quieter spot away from the sidewalk traffic and dialed April’s number. Each ring amplified the tension in her shoulders, until finally—
“Mom?” April’s voice came through, cheerful and alive, sending a wave of relief through Riley. “What’s going on?”
Riley leaned against the brick wall of the café, suddenly aware of how tightly wound she’d been. “Just checking in. You didn’t call at noon like usual.”
“Oh!” April sounded genuinely surprised, then embarrassed. “I totally forgot. I have this massive American Literature exam tomorrow, and I’ve been in the library all morning with my study group. I completely lost track of time.”
The explanation was perfectly reasonable, utterly mundane, and exactly what Riley had told herself must be the case. And yet she’d still needed to hear April’s voice to truly believe it.
“It’s fine,” Riley assured her. “I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
There was a slight pause before April spoke again, her tone shifting. “Mom, you don’t need to worry so much. There hasn’t been any sign of that creep in weeks. The campus police don’t even do special checks anymore, because nothing’s happened.”
Riley felt her jaw tighten at the casual dismissal of the threat. “April, you know that doesn’t mean the danger has passed. Leo Dillard is patient, calculating. He could be watching, waiting for us to lower our guard.”
“Or he could be halfway across the country by now,” April countered, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. “I can’t keep living like I’m under constant surveillance. It’s not normal, Mom.”
“Normal isn’t an option right now,” Riley said, trying to keep her tone measured despite the fear clawing at her insides. “Not until we know he’s been apprehended.”
She heard April sigh on the other end of the line. “I get it, I do. But constantly checking in, always looking over my shoulder—it’s exhausting.” Her voice softened. “I miss just being a regular college student sometimes.”
The vulnerability in her daughter’s admission hit Riley hard, a sharp reminder of the toll Leo’s obsession had taken on all of them.
April deserved to experience college without fear shadowing her every move.
She deserved carefree days spent studying in the library, nights out with friends, the simple luxury of forgetting to call home because she was too busy living her life.
“I know it’s hard,” Riley said, gentling her voice. “And I’m not trying to control your life or make you paranoid. I just need to know you’re safe.”
“I am safe, Mom,” April assured her. “I promise I’m being careful. I’m doing everything right.”
Riley closed her eyes briefly, searching for the right balance, “How about a compromise? Just send me a quick text around lunchtime each day. It doesn’t have to be a call, doesn’t have to interrupt whatever you’re doing. Just a few words to let me know you’re okay.”
There was another pause, and then April finally agreed.
“Okay, I can do that. A quick text isn’t a big deal.”
“Thank you. That’s all I’m asking for.”
“I’ve got to get back to my study group,” April said. “But I’m fine, Mom. Really.”
“I know. Good luck with your exam tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call ended, and Riley stood for a moment longer, letting the tension drain from her body. April was safe, focused on her studies, surrounded by friends.
When she returned to the table, their drinks had arrived along with their lunch—a turkey club for Riley, a small salad with grilled chicken for Ann Marie. The younger agent had her tablet propped up, her attention fixed on the screen as she scrolled through search results.
“Everything okay?” Ann Marie asked, glancing up as Riley slid back into her seat.
“Yes, she was just studying and lost track of time,” Riley confirmed, picking up her sandwich. “Thanks for understanding.”
Ann Marie nodded, then turned her tablet toward Riley, her expression brightening. “I think I found something. Look at this.”
Riley set down her sandwich and pulled the tablet closer.
On the screen was a professional-looking website for a therapist named Marcus Berridge.
The tagline beneath his name read: “Innovative Solutions for Impulse Control Disorders.” The homepage featured an image of hands folding an origami crane, and the text described Berridge’s “revolutionary approach to managing impulse control through mindful paper folding techniques.”
“This has to be it,” Ann Marie said, excitement coloring her voice. “He specifically mentions treating people with impulse control. And look—” She tapped a link labeled “Group Sessions,” opening a page that described both in-person and virtual therapy groups.
Riley read through the description, frowning slightly at the claims. “Our patients experience dramatic improvements in impulse control, often within the first three weeks of treatment,” the website proclaimed.
“The Berridge Method combines ancient paper-folding techniques with modern cognitive behavioral approaches, creating a multi-sensory path to mindfulness and self-regulation.”
“It sounds a bit... grandiose,” Riley observed, scrolling down to read more about Berridge’s credentials.
He had a Master’s in Counseling Psychology from a small private college she’d never heard of, and several supposed certifications in “mindfulness therapy” and “tactile cognitive intervention.” No clinical license was mentioned, though the site carefully avoided claiming he was a licensed therapist.
“Borderline quackery,” Ann Marie agreed. “But the specifics align too perfectly with our victims to ignore. Mental health issues, origami as therapy, dramatic improvements—it all fits.”
Riley nodded, tapping the “Contact” link to find Berridge’s office address and phone number. He operated out of a small office building in Foggy Bottom, not far from George Washington University. “Let’s give him a call, see what he’s willing to discuss.”
She dialed the number listed on the website, putting the phone on speaker and setting it between them on the table. To her surprise, after just two rings, a man answered.
“This is Marcus Berridge,” the voice said pleasantly. There was no receptionist, no office staff screening calls—just Berridge himself, which struck Riley as unusual for a supposedly busy practice.
“Mr. Berridge, this is Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI,” she began, keeping her tone professionally neutral. “I was hoping to speak with you regarding—”
The line went dead before she could finish her sentence.
Riley stared at the phone in surprise, then looked up at Ann Marie. “He hung up on me.”
Ann Marie raised an eyebrow. “As soon as you identified yourself as FBI? That’s... telling.”
“Very telling,” Riley agreed. Innocent people didn’t typically hang up on federal agents, even if they were taken off guard by the call.
“Agreed. His reaction alone makes him a lead. But let me give it a try,” Ann Marie suggested, pulling out her own phone.
She dialed Berridge’s number, putting her phone on speaker as well. This time, the call was answered after four rings.
“Marcus Berridge speaking,” the same pleasant voice answered, sounding slightly more cautious this time.
“My name is Ann Marie Esmer, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions—”
“Are you another FBI agent?” the man’s voice interrupted.
“Well, yes, and—”
Once again, the line went dead.