CHAPTER TEN
Riley’s mind was cycling through connections as she drove through DC’s midday traffic.
They’d been on this case less than seven hours, yet part of the pattern was clear: two women dead, both patients of Marcus Berridge, both finding peace through carefully folding paper only to have their lives brutally ended.
Riley and Ann Marie were headed toward Mae Simmons’s home, where they might find their next potential victim.
In the passenger seat, Ann Marie was studying her notes. She looked up and asked, “Did Flores seem optimistic about tracking down our mystery woman? This Fawn Waller?”
“Not exactly. Sam thinks it might be challenging. Someone who was careful enough to disguise her voice and appearance during video sessions might have been equally careful about hiding her digital footprint.”
“But there must be something,” Ann Marie protested. “IP addresses, login credentials, payment information. Everyone leaves digital breadcrumbs these days.”
“You’d think so,” Riley agreed. “But Sam pointed out several ways she could have covered her tracks—using proxy servers to mask her real location, logging in from different public Wi-Fi hotspots like cafés or hotels, never using the same connection twice.”
Ann Marie’s face fell slightly. “So we might not be able to find her?”
“I didn’t say that,” Riley corrected. “Sam’s team is very good. But it’s not going to be quick or easy, and time isn’t on our side. It’s good that we’ve identified a likely next target. Mae Simmons is possibly in danger—but unlike our first two victims, we can protect her.”
They traveled the next few blocks in silence, each processing the implications of what they’d learned.
The neighborhood where Mae Simmons lived was upscale without being ostentatious—well-maintained townhouses with tasteful landscaping, the kind of place that spoke of comfortable professional success rather than extravagant wealth.
As they approached the address, Riley spotted the unmarked police car positioned at the curb, two plainclothes officers visible inside. She nodded with approval; Brookman’s team had responded promptly to her request for protection.
“Looks like local PD is already in place,” she noted, pulling up behind their vehicle.
The Simmons residence was a three-story brick townhouse with large windows and a small, meticulously maintained front garden.
Riley and Ann Marie got out of their car and approached the front door, credentials ready.
Ann Marie pressed the doorbell, and they heard its chime echo inside.
Moments later, the door opened to reveal a man in his late thirties with rumpled brown hair.
His business-casual attire—dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no tie—suggested he’d come from an office environment in a hurry.
“Derek Simmons?” Riley inquired, holding up her badge. “I’m Special Agent Riley Paige, and this is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer, FBI.”
The man nodded, tension evident in the lines around his mouth.
“Yes, that’s me. Please, come in.” He stepped aside to let them enter a spacious foyer decorated with an eclectic mix of modern and antique pieces.
“I came home as soon as Mae called. She said the FBI had contacted her about some kind of danger, but wouldn’t give details over the phone.
” His voice dropped slightly. “What exactly is going on?”
“We’ll explain everything,” Riley assured him, “but first, we’d like to speak with your wife.”
“She’s in her office, working as if nothing’s wrong.” A flash of frustration crossed his features. “I’m taking this more seriously than she is, to be honest. When she mentioned the FBI called, I dropped everything and rushed home from my IT consulting job.”
He led them through a tastefully decorated living room into a hallway. “Mae’s office is just down here. She’s an interior designer,” he added, as if that explained something about her reaction. “She works right here at home.”
Derek knocked softly on a half-open door. “Mae? The FBI agents are here.”
The door swung wider to reveal a bright, airy room dominated by a large drafting table covered with fabric swatches, paint chips, and sketches.
A collection of exquisitely folded origami figures were perched on the desk and nearby tables—a crane with wings poised mid-flight, a multi-pointed star with perfect symmetry, and what appeared to be a complex geometric rose.
A woman with dark, curly hair looked up from her computer. Mae Simmons had the quick, alert eyes of someone who noticed details. She was dressed in a flowing tunic over slim pants, several chunky bangles adorning one wrist.
“Finally,” she said, standing and extending her hand. “Maybe now someone can explain why there are police officers parked outside my house and why I’ve been told not to leave.”
Riley introduced herself and Ann Marie, then gestured toward the small seating area in the corner of the office. “Ms. Simmons, may we sit down? What we need to discuss is serious.”
Mae’s expression shifted slightly, wariness replacing irritation. “Of course.” She moved to a low sofa, while Derek hovered by the doorway, clearly unwilling to leave.
Once they were seated, Riley began. “Ms. Simmons, we believe you may be in danger. Two women who participated in the same therapy group as you have been murdered within the past three days.”
Mae’s face drained of color. “What? Who?”
“Brittany Hall and Rachel Bennett,” Ann Marie said gently.
“Oh my God,” Mae whispered, her hand flying to her mouth. “Rachel? Rachel is dead?” Her voice cracked, genuine shock and grief washing over her features. “That can’t be right. I just spoke with her last week.”
“I’m very sorry,” Riley said, watching Mae carefully. “You knew Rachel well?”
“We were friends,” Mae confirmed, her voice unsteady.
“Not just from therapy. We took classes together at Federal City Community College. We understood each other—her with her bipolar disorder, me with my ADHD.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“And Brittany, too? I didn’t know her as well, but still. .. How did they die?”
Riley provided a brief, sanitized version of the killings, watching how Mae’s face contorted with horror as she described the origami figures left on the victims’ bodies.
“And you think I might be next?” Mae asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s a possibility we have to consider,” Riley confirmed. “That’s why we’ve arranged protection.”
Derek moved from his position at the door to stand beside his wife, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. “We’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”
“What we need now,” Ann Marie interjected, “is information that might help us catch whoever is responsible before they can harm anyone else.” She leaned forward slightly. “What can you tell us about the woman who called herself Fawn Waller? She was the fourth member of your therapy group, correct?”
Mae shook her head, frustration evident. “Almost nothing. Her video feed was always pixelated—deliberately, not because of a bad connection. Marcus said she was very concerned about privacy. The voice was ambiguous, and she never spoke much.”
“How did you come to be in Marcus Berridge’s therapy group?” Riley asked, shifting focus.
“It was Rachel’s idea, actually,” Mae explained, absently twisting one of her bangles.
“We met in a class at Federal City Community College about eight months ago—’Geometry in Everyday Life.
’ The instructor used origami to teach certain concepts, and Rachel and I both found it helpful for our respective conditions.
” She gave a sad smile. “For me, the focused attention required to complete each fold helped calm my racing thoughts. For Rachel, it provided structure and control.”
Riley felt a subtle shift in her awareness, the pieces beginning to align. “This instructor—he recommended Marcus Berridge?”
“Yes,” Mae nodded. “He mentioned during class one day that there was a therapist using origami as a treatment method for various disorders, and he had an excellent reputation. Rachel was immediately interested, and I decided to try it too.” She paused.
“The origami really did help. More than I expected. It’s been. .. transformative.”
“What was the instructor’s name?” Ann Marie asked.
“David Kim,” Mae replied. “He’s an adjunct instructor, originally from Korea, I think. He also works at a café somewhere in the city. Really nice guy, very passionate about geometry and origami.”
Riley’s eyes met Ann Marie’s. Another connection had emerged—the instructor who had introduced both victims to the origami therapy.
“Ms. Simmons,” Riley said, shifting forward slightly, “I need you to promise that you’ll stay home, with the protection we’ve provided, until we resolve this case. No exceptions.”
Mae nodded, her earlier annoyance completely gone, replaced by the somber awareness of real danger. “I understand. I won’t go anywhere.”
As they prepared to leave, Riley looked back at Mae and Derek, standing close together in the doorway of the bright office filled with creativity and life. They had arrived in time to save Mae Simmons, to break the pattern before it claimed a third victim.
Riley stepped back into the autumn sunlight, the crisp September air a stark contrast to the heavy atmosphere they’d left behind in the Simmons home. “We need to find David Kim immediately,” Riley said as they settled into the vehicle. “He’s the common denominator we’ve been looking for.”
Ann Marie was already reaching for her phone. “I’ll call Federal City Community College and see if he’s teaching today.” She put the call on speakerphone as it connected, placing the device between them on the console.
“Federal City Community College, how may I direct your call?” The receptionist’s voice was pleasant but perfunctory.
“This is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” Ann Marie responded, her tone shifting effortlessly into professional authority. “I need to speak with David Kim, an adjunct instructor in your mathematics department.”
There was a brief pause on the other end. “One moment, please, while I check his schedule.”
Riley listened to the muffled tapping of a keyboard, watching Ann Marie’s face as they waited.
The younger agent had an impressive ability to modulate her demeanor based on the situation—cheerful and empathetic with victims, respectfully assertive with colleagues, and now coolly professional with this administrative contact.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist finally said, “Professor Kim isn’t scheduled to teach on campus today. He only teaches Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings.”
“Do you have a contact number where we can reach him? It’s an urgent matter,” Ann Marie pressed.
“I’m not authorized to release personal contact information,” the receptionist responded, predictably. “However, I believe he works part-time at the Riverstone Café near Dupont Circle. You might be able to reach him there today.”
Ann Marie thanked the woman and ended the call, immediately searching for the café’s number. Riley started the car but left it idling, waiting for Ann Marie to make the next call before pulling into traffic.
“Riverstone Café, how can I help you?” A harried voice answered after several rings, the clatter of dishes and hum of conversation audible in the background.
“Hello, this is Special Agent Esmer with the FBI. I need to speak with David Kim if he’s working today.” Ann Marie’s voice was clear and firm, cutting through the ambient noise.
“The FBI?” The café worker sounded taken aback. “Um, hold on.”
Riley and Ann Marie exchanged glances as they waited through nearly a minute of background noise. Riley could hear muffled voices, as if someone had placed a hand over the receiver while speaking to someone else.
Finally, a new voice came on the line—male, with a slight accent. “This is David Kim. Who did you say you are?”
“David Kim, this is Special Agent Ann Marie Esmer with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m here with my colleague, Special Agent Riley Paige.”
There was a pause, and Riley heard what sounded like a door closing, the background noise suddenly diminishing. “What is this regarding?” Kim asked, his voice noticeably tighter than when he’d first spoken.
“We’d like to speak with you in person, if possible,” Ann Marie replied. “It’s about two students who took your Geometry in Everyday Life course at Federal City Community College.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Which students?” Kim’s voice had lowered, almost to a whisper.
“I’d rather discuss that in person,” Ann Marie said.
Silence followed.
“Why? Has something happened?” Kim finally asked. “Am I in some kind of trouble?”
“We just need to ask you some questions,” Ann Marie assured him, keeping her tone neutral. “It would be very helpful to our investigation.”
“Investigation? What kind of investigation?”
“As I said, I’d prefer to discuss the details in person,” Ann Marie responded smoothly. “Could we meet with you at the Riverstone Café?”
After another extended pause, Kim relented. “Yes, fine. I’m working until five today. I can take a break to speak with you when you arrive.”
“Thank you. We’ll be there shortly,” Ann Marie said, ending the call.
Riley pulled the car into traffic, heading toward Dupont Circle. “He sounded nervous,” she observed.
“Beyond nervous,” Ann Marie agreed. “Practically terrified. Did you notice how his voice dropped to nearly a whisper after I mentioned his students?”
“I did.” Riley steered around a slow-moving bus. “The question is: why? Does Kim know something about these murders?”