CHAPTER SEVEN
“Berridge caught on to me and hung up fast,” Ann Marie said ruefully, as she set her phone down. “And he’s definitely avoiding us.”
“Which means he knows something, at least,” Riley replied, pushing her half-eaten lunch aside. “Something he doesn’t want to share with the FBI. Let’s pay him a visit in person, where he can’t just hang up on us.”
Ann Marie agreed. They both hastily gulped down a few more bites of food, then Riley left cash on the table to cover their lunch, and they hurried back to their car.
As Riley started driving, Ann Marie turned her gaze to the window.
The government buildings and upscale shops of downtown DC gradually gave way to the more eclectic landscape of Foggy Bottom.
The transition reminded her of her own journey—from the daughter of a Georgetown mortician to an FBI agent working alongside one of the Bureau’s most respected profilers.
The path had been neither straight nor predictable, but Ann Marie couldn’t imagine having ended up anywhere else.
Her father had taught her how to read people, how to comfort them in their most vulnerable moments, how to ask the right questions at the right time. It was this skill with people that had first caught Riley’s attention, earned Ann Marie a spot as her partner despite her relative inexperience.
But it was Riley’s gift that truly fascinated Ann Marie.
She knew that her senior partner’s ability to step into a killer’s mindset wasn’t magical or mystical, despite what the whispers around the Bureau might suggest. It was a finely honed combination of observation, deduction, and intuition—a talent for synthesizing disparate pieces of information into a coherent whole.
“What do you think this origami killer is trying to tell us?” Ann Marie ventured, curious to know if Riley had formed any preliminary theories.
Riley was quiet for a moment, navigating around a double-parked truck. “I think it’s about fragility,” she finally replied. “As you said, the destruction itself is a message. Some things can’t be examined without being destroyed. “
Ann Marie considered this. “Like the victims themselves. Both women had finally found stability, a way to manage their conditions. Then someone took that away, permanently.”
“Exactly.” Riley’s tone carried a note of approval that still, after all their months working together, sent a small thrill of pride through Ann Marie.
Riley continued, “And I’m wondering about this therapist, Berridge. If he’s legitimate, why hang up on federal agents asking questions?”
“Maybe he’s just paranoid about his credentials,” Ann Marie suggested. “The website didn’t mention any state license or board certification. If he’s operating in a legal gray area...”
“Possible,” Riley acknowledged. “But I think maybe there’s something else. Something about the way he’s using art therapy. He disconnected when you mentioned origami.”
Ann Marie nodded, the observation triggering a new line of thought. “You think he recognized it as a connection to the murders? That maybe he already knows his patients have been killed?”
“I’m not sure,” Riley replied. “I could be wrong. But I think we’re about to find out.”
Ann Marie turned her attention back to the passing scenery, her mind working through possibilities.
If Berridge was innocent, he might merely be concerned about regulatory scrutiny.
But if he wasn’t innocent—if he was somehow involved in the deaths of Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall—what might that mean for his other patients?
As Riley pulled onto the street where Berridge’s office was located, Ann Marie felt her professional focus sharpening.
Whatever insights Riley was formulating, whatever connections she was drawing between the evidence, the victims, and this therapist they were about to confront, Ann Marie knew her own role was also vital.
Riley might be able to see into the mind of their killer, but Ann Marie could see into the minds of witnesses, of potential suspects.
She could read the subtle tells, the microexpressions that betrayed deception or fear.
Together, they were a formidable investigative team.
The business park that housed Marcus Berridge’s practice was underwhelming—a squat, two-story brick structure with windows that needed washing.
After Riley parked in the small lot and they both got out, Ann Marie noted the aging paint on the door frame and the outdated business directory that listed “Berridge Therapeutic Solutions” alongside a tax preparation service and a barely surviving travel agency.
The shabby exterior struck Ann Marie as incongruous with the confident claims on Berridge’s website—”revolutionary approaches” and “dramatic improvements” seemed out of place in such modest surroundings.
But perhaps that was the point. Maybe Berridge was selling hope to desperate people, people whose mental health challenges had left them vulnerable to promises of quick transformation, no matter how dubious the packaging.
As Riley pressed the buzzer beside Berridge’s name, her posture shifting subtly into what Ann Marie recognized as her confrontational stance—balanced, shoulders squared, chin slightly elevated. It was the physical manifestation of preparing for resistance.
A crackle of static preceded a cautious male voice. “Hello?”
“Marcus Berridge? This is Special Agent Riley Paige with the FBI. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
A pause stretched before Berridge responded, his voice noticeably tighter. “I’m with a patient right now. I’m fully booked for the afternoon. I don’t have time to—”
“Mr. Berridge,” Riley interrupted, “this is regarding a double homicide investigation. If you refuse to speak with us, we’ll be forced to consider that obstruction of justice.”
Ann Marie watched Riley’s face, admiring the calculated pressure she applied—not enough to trigger a complete shutdown, but sufficient to convey the seriousness of their visit. It was a technique Ann Marie was still perfecting in her own interactions.
“I told you, I have a patient,” Berridge insisted, but his voice wavered slightly.
Riley pressed the buzzer again, holding it longer this time. “Mr. Berridge, we can have this conversation now, in private, or we can return with a warrant and uniformed officers. Your choice.”
Another pause, then the door buzzer sounded. Riley pulled the door open, gesturing for Ann Marie to enter first.
The waiting area was as unimpressive as the exterior—a small room with faded blue carpet and three well-used chairs arranged around a coffee table cluttered with dog-eared magazines.
No reception desk, no sign of administrative support.
Just a single interior door presumably leading to Berridge’s office.
Ann Marie noted the absence of even basic amenities like a water cooler or coffee maker.
Whatever Berridge’s business model was, it clearly operated on minimal overhead.
The inner door opened, and a man she presumed was Marcus Berridge emerged.
He was in his early forties, with thinning brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses that magnified anxious eyes.
His button-down shirt was wrinkled at the elbows, his khaki pants a shade too short, exposing mismatched socks.
He looked nothing like the confident, beaming professional whose photo adorned the website.
“Agents,” he acknowledged them with a tight nod. “As I mentioned, I’m in the middle of a session. My patient has kindly agreed to wait, but I can only spare a few minutes.”
Riley smiled. “That’s very understanding of your patient, Mr. Berridge. We’ll be brief.”
Without waiting for a response, Riley stepped smoothly past Berridge and opened the inner door, revealing an empty office.
She turned back to Berridge, one eyebrow raised.
“I should remind you that lying to a federal officer is a felony offense. Perhaps we should start over, with honesty this time?”
Berridge’s face flushed, his hands fluttering nervously at his sides. “I—I didn’t want to be rude. I really am very busy today, and—”
“Why don’t we just continue this conversation in your office?” Ann Marie suggested pleasantly.
Without another protest, Berridge led the way inside his small office.
What first struck Ann Marie was the artwork—every available surface seemed covered with creative expressions: intricate origami figures, small ceramic sculptures, watercolor paintings, woven textile pieces.
Some were surprisingly sophisticated, others charmingly amateur.
All seemed to reflect emotional states rather than technical proficiency.
Her gaze moved to the wall behind Berridge’s desk, where a framed certificate hung slightly askew.
“The American Institute of Creative Therapeutic Approaches,” it proclaimed in elaborate script, certifying Marcus Berridge as a “Master Practitioner of Integrative Art Therapy.” Ann Marie squinted slightly, noting the lack of official seals or signatures from recognized authorities.
A quick internet search would likely reveal the “American Institute” to be little more than a website issuing certificates to anyone willing to pay the fee.
Riley had noticed it too. “Impressive credentials,” she remarked, her tone just neutral enough that Berridge couldn’t be certain whether she was being sincere or sarcastic.
Berridge cleared his throat, gesturing toward two chairs facing his cluttered desk. “How can I help the FBI today? Your calls were... rather abrupt.”
“Yes, they were, weren’t they?” Riley said. “But not on our account. Why did you hang up on us?”
“Forgive me, but I wasn’t sure who you really were. I’ve learned to be wary of frauds and scammers. You aren’t the first people to approach me claiming to be in law enforcement. They’ve always had something crooked in mind.”
Ann Marie suspected there might be some truth to his explanation. And yet he might have a great deal more to fear from legitimate law enforcement than from frauds and scammers.
Riley remained standing. “We’d like to ask you about two of your patients—Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall.”
Berridge stiffened, his expression guarded. “I can’t discuss specific patients. Confidentiality is the cornerstone of therapeutic relationships, as I’m sure you understand.”
“Generally, yes,” Riley agreed. “But this is an unusual circumstance. Both women have been murdered in the past week.”
The color drained from Berridge’s face. “Murdered?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. “Both of them?”
Ann Marie studied his reaction carefully, looking for signs of performed shock rather than genuine surprise.
His pupils had dilated, his breathing had quickened, and a fine sheen of sweat had appeared at his temples—all physiological responses difficult to fake.
Either Berridge was genuinely shocked by the news, or he was an exceptionally skilled actor.
“Yes,” Riley confirmed. “And given that their deaths share specific characteristics, we need to understand any connections between them. Including their therapy with you.” She glanced meaningfully at the dubious certificate.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t want us to return with a warrant to examine your practice more. .. thoroughly.”
The implied threat hung in the air for a moment before Berridge slumped slightly in defeat. He moved behind his desk, sitting heavily in his chair.
“Yes, I treated them both,” he admitted. “They were part of a group session I conducted via Zoom. We focused on using origami as a mindfulness technique for impulse control.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “The last session was just last week. I can’t believe they’re both... gone.”
“Who else was in this group?” Ann Marie asked, her voice gentle but insistent.
Berridge hesitated, then sighed. “Two other women—Mae Simmons and Fawn Waller. Though I wasn’t sure what to make of Fawn.
She always kept her camera deliberately pixelated to obscure her face, and her voice was altered.
Paid in cryptocurrency. Didn’t provide contact information beyond an email address.
Never asked questions. In fact, I never even heard her voice.
I can’t even be certain Fawn Waller is her real name.
I actually wondered whether she was even a woman. ”
Ann Marie exchanged a significant look with Riley, knowing they were thinking the same thing.
If Berridge was telling the truth, Mae Simmons could be in imminent danger.
And this mysterious Fawn—deliberately obscuring her identity—could potentially be their killer.
Unless, of course, Berridge himself was responsible and was just constructing an elaborate misdirection.
“We need Mae Simmons’s contact information immediately,” Riley demanded, pulling out her phone.
“I’ll get her file,” Berridge said, turning to a small filing cabinet behind his desk.
“I’ll make the call,” Riley told Ann Marie. “Continue the interview while I try to reach her.”
As Riley stepped outside with the contact information, Ann Marie found herself alone with Berridge. The atmosphere in the small office felt charged with unspoken questions. Was she looking at a killer, a charlatan, or simply an unorthodox therapist caught up in events beyond his understanding?
She decided to take a different approach, one that might reveal more about his methods—and potentially his character.
“Mr. Berridge,” Ann Marie said, adopting a tone of casual interest, “I actually did some origami myself when I was younger. Would you mind giving me a demonstration of your therapeutic techniques?”