CHAPTER EIGHT
Marcus Berridge squinted at her curiously.
“I’m not sure how that would help your investigation,” he said.
“I think I might … find out something,” Ann Marie said with deliberate ambiguity.
“Well, then. I’m glad to oblige.”
The transformation in Marcus Berridge fascinated Ann Marie—how quickly this anxious, defensive man shifted into someone else entirely at the mere mention of his therapeutic technique.
His face brightened, the anxiety in his eyes receded.
His hands, which had been fidgeting nervously at his sides, suddenly found purpose as he reached across his cluttered desk for a square of crimson paper.
It was as if she’d spoken some secret password that granted access to the person behind the facade.
“You said you’ve done origami before?” Berridge asked, his tone warming with genuine interest.
Ann Marie nodded, watching as he selected a pristine sheet from a drawer. “In my early teens. It was a hobby, but I haven’t folded anything in years.”
“How fascinating.” Berridge placed the square of paper before her, its crimson surface catching the light from his desk lamp. “Would you mind if we started with something simple? Just to reacquaint you with the process.”
The paper felt lighter, more delicate than Ann Marie remembered.
She was acutely aware of Riley outside the door, likely speaking urgently to dispatch about protecting Mae Simmons, the remaining group member who might be in danger.
This demonstration was partly strategic—a way to keep Berridge talking, to observe him in his element—but Ann Marie couldn’t deny her own curiosity about the therapeutic applications of an art form like this.
“Let’s create a simple cup,” Berridge suggested, his voice taking on a rhythmic quality that Ann Marie imagined he used with his patients. “Begin by folding the paper in half diagonally, creating a triangle.”
Ann Marie complied, remembering the motion despite the years that had passed. The crease formed a clean line across the paper, sharp and precise.
“Excellent,” Berridge murmured, leaning forward slightly. “Now, fold the right corner to the top point... perfect. And the left corner as well.”
As she followed his instructions, Ann Marie studied his face.
His eyes tracked her movements with intense focus, as if her folding technique might reveal secrets about her psyche.
There was something both clinical and intimate about his observation that made her understand why vulnerable patients might open up to him, despite his questionable credentials.
“Now fold the top layer of the triangle down,” he continued, “and then turn the model over and repeat on the other side.”
The paper yielded beneath her touch, transforming from a flat surface into a three-dimensional shape. There was something satisfying about the process, she had to admit—the way chaos became order, how two-dimensional became three-dimensional through nothing but precise folds and patient handling.
“Finally, open the pocket at the top, and shape it into a cup,” Berridge instructed.
Ann Marie completed the last fold, and suddenly the abstract form became recognizable, a small, functional cup that could actually hold water—at least if it weren’t made of paper. She turned it in her hands, examining her handiwork.
“How does it feel?” Berridge asked, his voice soft, no longer that of an interrogated suspect but of a therapist genuinely interested in her experience.
“Familiar,” Ann Marie admitted. “And satisfying. There’s something reassuring about creating something so structured from a simple starting point.”
Berridge nodded, smiling as if she’d just confirmed something important. “You have remarkable empathy,” he said abruptly. “And considerable skill in dealing with people. I’d imagine that serves you well in your line of work.”
Ann Marie blinked, surprised by the sudden shift. “Did you determine that by watching me fold this cup?”
He chuckled, the sound genuine and warm.
“No, not at all. It had nothing to do with the origami, though your handiwork is telling in its own way. I’ve been observing you since you arrived in my office.
” He leaned back slightly in his chair. “The way you positioned yourself between your partner and me, the subtle modulation in your voice when you asked questions, softening what could have been confrontational. You’re the buffer, the translator between Agent Paige’s intensity and whoever she’s questioning. ”
The accuracy of his observation unsettled Ann Marie slightly. She’d been scrutinizing him, but he’d been studying her just as carefully.
“I sense that these skills weren’t developed recently,” Berridge continued. “They feel ingrained, practiced over a lifetime. Starting in childhood, perhaps?”
Ann Marie hesitated. The professional part of her knew she should maintain boundaries, keep the focus on Berridge and his patients. But another part—the part that recognized his perceptiveness as genuine—felt a curious urge to engage with his observations.
“I’m a mortician’s daughter,” she found herself saying. She turned the paper cup in her hands. “By the time I was four or five, I knew how to move quietly, how to read a room, when someone needed space and when they needed connection.”
Berridge’s eyes widened with interest. “That explains so much. And the origami? How did that enter your life?”
“Middle school art class,” Ann Marie replied, memories surfacing of that classroom with its long tables and paint-splattered stools.
“Our teacher spent a month on Japanese art forms. Most of the kids preferred the messier options—ink painting, clay work. But I was drawn to the precision of paper folding. I checked out books from the library, practiced for hours.”
“And did you find it helpful? Beyond the artistic aspect, I mean.”
The question penetrated deeper than Ann Marie had expected. She looked down at the crimson cup in her palm, surprised by the sudden tightness in her throat.
“Yes,” she admitted quietly. “I quickly found that it helped me with some... personal issues.”
“What kind of issues?” Berridge leaned forward, fully in his therapist mode now. “If you don’t mind sharing.”
Ann Marie drew a deep breath. This was far more personal than she’d intended the conversation to become, but there was something disarming about Berridge’s manner, something that made her understand how Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall might have found themselves opening up to him.
“Early adolescence was rough for me,” she said slowly.
“It was around that time I started to realize that most people don’t live in such proximity to death.
My classmates began to find my family’s business creepy, started making jokes or avoiding me altogether.
” The memory still had the power to sting, even after all these years.
“They’d come to school with stories about weekend adventures with their families—trips to the mall, soccer games.
My weekend stories involved helping my father organize sympathy cards or learning how to properly arrange flowers for a viewing.
And of course, I saw dead bodies—lots of them, on the embalming table as well is in coffins. ”
Berridge nodded, his expression free of judgment or discomfort. “That must have been isolating.”
“It was,” Ann Marie agreed, surprised by the emotion that accompanied the admission.
“Suddenly, I was aware of being different, and I didn’t know how to bridge that gap.
Friends I’d had since elementary school started distancing themselves.
Invitations stopped coming. I felt... untouchable, somehow. ”
“And origami helped?”
“It gave me something to focus on, something I could control. Each fold was precise, each outcome predictable if I followed the steps correctly. And the results were beautiful.” She smiled faintly.
“It helped me cope with my anxiety, my loneliness. When I was folding, I wasn’t thinking about being the weird funeral home girl. I was just creating something.”
Ann Marie was startled to find herself choking up slightly at the memory. The isolation of those years had faded with time, but speaking about it now brought back the acute pain of adolescent exclusion, of feeling fundamentally different from her peers.
“That’s exactly why it works as therapy,” Berridge said gently. “The focus required, the tangible result. It centers the mind, provides accomplishment, creates order from chaos. That experience can be transformative.”
He gestured toward the origami figures scattered throughout his office. “Each of these was made by a patient who found their way back to stability through the process. Each represents a moment of control, of peace.”
Ann Marie thought of Rachel Bennett and Brittany Hall, women whose lives had been chaotic due to mental health struggles, who had apparently found some measure of stability through Berridge’s unorthodox methods. Had that newfound stability somehow made them targets?
“Your partner clearly values your people skills,” Berridge observed, interrupting her thoughts. “They must be tremendously useful in law enforcement.”
“They are,” Ann Marie acknowledged. “Though sometimes I think I get on Riley’s—Agent Paige’s—nerves with my enthusiasm. Other agents, too. I’ve been told I can be a bit... much.”
Berridge shook his head. “Don’t let other people’s reactions diminish your natural positivity.
That kind of authentic energy is rare and valuable.
” He smiled. “I’m certain Agent Paige appreciates your outlook, even if she doesn’t say so directly.
Balance is essential in partnerships, especially in your line of work. ”
Ann Marie felt a flush of embarrassment at his insight. Before she could respond, the door opened, and Riley stepped back into the office, phone in hand, her expression grave but focused.
“I’ve arranged for a protective detail for Mae Simmons,” she announced. “She’s at her home and has been informed to stay there. We’ll be heading over to explain the situation to her in person.” Riley’s gaze shifted to Berridge. “As for your mysterious fourth patient, Fawn Waller...”
Berridge swallowed visibly. “Yes?”
“I’ve contacted a digital forensics technician from the Bureau.
He’ll be here shortly to examine your computer systems, see what we can learn about her real identity.
” Riley’s gaze flicked meaningfully to the dubious certificate on the wall.
“Given the circumstances, I’d advise you to let him work freely and without protest. It would reflect well on your cooperation. ”
Berridge replied quickly. “Of course. Whatever you need.”
“Good,” Riley replied. “We’ll be in touch if we have further questions. In the meantime, I’d suggest canceling any upcoming group sessions until we determine whether other participants might be at risk.”
Ann Marie placed the crimson paper cup on Berridge’s desk and rose to her feet. “Thank you for the demonstration,” she said, offering him a small smile that acknowledged the unexpected connection they’d formed.
Berridge returned the smile, though anxiety had crept back into his eyes. “Thank you for understanding the value of the work.”
They left Berridge’s office and made their way back through the shabby waiting room, out to the parking lot where Riley’s car waited.
Ann Marie felt strangely off-balance, as if the conversation with Berridge had tapped into something she usually kept carefully compartmentalized—the complex legacy of her unusual upbringing.
As they settled into the car, Riley turned to her before starting the engine.
“So,” Riley asked, “what are your impressions of Marcus Berridge?”
Ann Marie considered the question carefully, weighing Berridge’s questionable credentials against his genuine insight, his nervous demeanor against his apparent therapeutic skill.
“I don’t think he’s our killer,” she said with conviction.
“He’s operating in a legal gray area with those certificates, and he’s clearly terrified of official scrutiny, but his concern for his patients seemed genuine.
His reaction when you told him about the murders was real shock, not performed. And …”
Ann Marie paused for a moment.
“… and I think he knows what he’s doing,” she continued. “I think he’s a good therapist. And I think he’s a good person.”
Riley nodded, processing Ann Marie’s assessment. “I’ve learned to trust your judgment on these things,” she said simply, turning the key in the ignition. “Especially when it comes to reading people.”
Ann Marie felt a familiar flush of pride in Riley’s confidence and trust—only this time it was larger than usual. Riley had pretty much eliminated a potential person of interest solely on Ann Marie’s judgment.
I’d better be right about this, she thought.
But her gut told her that she was absolutely right.
Ann Marie gazed out the window, watching the buildings of Foggy Bottom slide past. In spite of her assessment of the therapist, himself, she felt equally sure that his clients weren’t safe.
Someone was hunting women—methodically, brutally—and the only connection was folded paper and this man’s office.
What twisted logic turned peaceful art into a death sentence?
What sick mind saw origami creations and decided: these are the ones who deserve to die?