CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The five words stared back at Riley from the unfolded paper, stark black ink against pristine white: “You don’t know, do you?
” The tension that had built during her unfolding of the swan dissolved into a confused silence.
As she held the message, Riley felt the killer’s presence more strongly than ever before—not physically, but the mind that was mocking their uncertainty.
“What the hell does that mean?” Brookman demanded.
Riley kept her eyes on the paper, turning it carefully to examine both sides, making sure she hadn’t missed anything.
“It means exactly what it says, Detective. The killer is taunting us because we don’t know who they are or what they’ll do next.
” She raised her gaze to meet his. “And because we were looking in the wrong direction.”
Ann Marie stepped closer. “Mae Simmons.”
“Exactly,” Riley said, carefully refolding the paper along its original creases. “We focused our resources on protecting Simmons, believing she was the next logical target. Meanwhile, the killer chose Patricia Walsh—someone we didn’t even know was connected to the case.”
Brookman’s scowl darkened. “So what, we’re always going to be a step behind?”
“Not if we can understand this killer’s psychology,” Riley said, slipping the unfolded swan into an evidence bag that Dr. Wexler held out for her. As she sealed it, something crystallized in her mind—fragments of insight coalescing into a pattern she could almost grasp.
“This killer has law enforcement background,” she stated, the certainty in her voice drawing surprised looks from those gathered around Patricia Walsh’s body. “Or at least close proximity to it.”
“What makes you say that?” Brookman asked, his skepticism momentarily replaced by genuine curiosity.
Riley knew she couldn’t explain the details of how these insights actually came to her, but she could describe the visible clues that might make sense to others.
Gesturing to the visible scene around them—the carefully positioned victim, the precisely folded origami, the derisive message- she explained, “Everything about these murders is structured around the kind of dilemmas an investigator might face. The first origami figure had a written warning not to unfold it, which immediately creates a conflict for investigators—respect the warning or potentially destroy evidence. The second figure was designed to disintegrate when touched, reinforcing that dilemma.”
She indicated the evidence bag containing the swan.
“This one introduces a new twist—it was meant to be unfolded, contrary to what the previous murders taught us. The killer is deliberately creating scenarios that force us to make difficult decisions about how to handle evidence, knowing that whatever choice we make could be wrong.”
Brookman’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing as he processed her words. “You’re saying these murders are about making us—law enforcement—face impossible choices?”
“Exactly. These aren’t crimes of passion or opportunity.
They’re methodically designed scenarios, almost like training exercises that confront investigators with no-win situations.
” Riley looked back at Patricia Walsh’s body, still seated against the ancient oak.
“Someone who understands the intricacies of evidence collection, who knows how investigators think and work—that’s who we’re looking for. ”
The medical examiner’s team had begun preparing to transport the body, their movements careful to preserve any remaining evidence. Riley stepped back, allowing them space to work.
“That’s good insight, Agent Paige,” Brookman said, his tone grudgingly respectful.
“Though I’d expect nothing less from someone with your reputation.
” He glanced at his watch. “We need to interview Patricia Walsh’s roommate.
Lucy Gilbert. I’ve already contacted her—she’s waiting at their apartment. ”
“Let’s go, then,” Riley replied. “She might be able to help us understand how Walsh connects to the other victims.”
As they began walking away from the scene, back toward the park entrance where their vehicles waited, Riley noticed Ann Marie’s pensive expression. She slowed her pace, allowing Brookman to pull ahead, then touched her partner’s arm lightly.
“Something on your mind?” she asked quietly.
Ann Marie glanced at Brookman’s retreating back before responding. “I was just thinking about what you said about the killer. Do you really believe it’s someone from law enforcement?”
“I do,” Riley confirmed. “But there’s something else I’m not ready to share with Brookman.” She lowered her voice further. “I believe the killer is a woman—just as she presented herself in those therapy sessions. That wasn’t a disguise or misdirection.”
“Fawn Waller,” Ann Marie murmured.
“A false name, but a real woman.” Riley frowned, trying to articulate the certainty she felt.
“There’s a distinctly female aura to these scenes—not just in their execution, but in their emotional architecture.
The way the victims are positioned with dignity, the careful selection of origami figures.
It’s almost... maternal in its attention to detail. ”
Ann Marie considered this. “Brookman would want more concrete evidence than your intuition.”
“Which is why I’m telling you, not him. I don’t have the evidence yet, but I know I’m right. The question is, who is she? And who’s next on her list?”
They approached the perimeter where police had established a barrier between the crime scene and the gathering crowd of onlookers and press.
Riley spotted the same Channel 7 News reporter from earlier, her perfectly styled hair unmoved by the morning breeze, a cameraman at her side like a faithful guard dog.
This time, however, the woman’s eyes locked onto Riley with a predator’s recognition. She ducked under the police tape before the nearest officer could stop her, microphone extended like a weapon.
“Agent Riley Paige,” she called out, the cameraman swinging his lens to capture Riley’s face. “Renowned FBI profiler. Is it true you’ve been brought in because local police are out of their depth with the Origami Killer?”
Riley’s steps faltered. The reporter had done her homework in the brief time since their earlier encounter. Around them, other journalists perked up at the sound of Riley’s name, turning their attention toward her.
“Agent Paige, is the FBI taking over this investigation?” Another voice called out.
“Is this the work of a serial killer?” A third joined in.
Riley felt the eyes of the cameras, the expectation of answers she couldn’t provide. She knew that saying nothing would only fuel speculation, but saying too much could compromise the investigation. A familiar dilemma—one that reminded her uncomfortably of the killer’s methodology.
She met the reporter’s gaze, aware that whatever she said next would be on the evening news.
*
The killer watching Channel 7’s live coverage from Liberty Meadows Park increased the volume on the television. She enjoyed hearing the name they had given her: “The Origami Killer.”
Now the female reporter’s polished voice carried an unmistakable edge of excitement as she thrust her microphone toward a dark-haired woman with shadows under her eyes.
“Special Agent Riley Paige,” the reporter called her.
The name stirred something deep within her memory, something from more than twenty years ago.
“We are working closely with DC Metropolitan Police on this ongoing investigation,” Paige was saying now. “What I can tell you is that we’re pursuing all available leads. I urge the public to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity.”
A careful response, revealing nothing while appearing to share information.
The killer smiled, appreciating the skill.
She knew of Riley Paige’s reputation—the agent who could see into the darkest corners of criminal minds, who followed her instincts when others clung to procedure.
Their first encounter had been more than two decades ago.
But even back then, Paige had stood out.
She’d questioned, challenged, refused to accept sanitized scenarios.
She’d already understood that real justice rarely fit neatly into procedural boxes.
“Has the FBI identified a pattern connecting the three victims?” the reporter pressed, her perfect teeth flashing.
“I can’t comment on specific details of an active investigation,” Paige replied, but her eyes betrayed her—a subtle tightening around the corners, a momentary flicker of what might have been recognition. She was seeing the pattern. Understanding was dawning.
Perfect. The timing couldn’t be better.
She had planned this final act well, but having Riley Paige involved elevated it beyond her expectations.
Paige would appreciate the intricate moral architecture she had constructed, would recognize the impossible dilemma at its center.
Not that it would change the outcome—nothing could at this point—but there was satisfaction in knowing that at least one person would truly understand what it was that had defeated her.
The reporter attempted another question, but Paige was already moving away, flanked by a younger agent with blonde hair and the detective who’d been leading the investigation.
The camera followed them briefly before cutting back to the reporter, who launched into dramatic speculation about the “Origami Killer” now stalking the streets of DC.
She muted the television, savoring the momentary silence.
Three victims so far, each death a statement, a question posed to law enforcement.
But those had merely been the prelude. The true test—the final, impossible choice—still awaited.
And now Riley Paige would play a central role in that culmination.
A low moan from across the room interrupted her thoughts.
She turned her attention from the television to the woman bound securely to the wooden chair in the center of the living room.
Olga Swinson’s head lolled forward, dark hair falling across her face as she struggled toward consciousness.
The midazolam was wearing off, right on schedule. Perfect timing, as always.
Rising from her seat, she crossed the room with unhurried steps, remembering how smoothly the abduction had gone just hours earlier.
She had studied Olga’s routine for days—the early morning departure from her apartment, the stop at the corner bakery for coffee, the predictable path she took to the Metro station.
This morning, the killer had parked her car beside the narrow alley between two apartment buildings, just two blocks from Olga’s regular bakery.
She’d injected her neck with a needle, the midazolam working almost instantly—within seconds.
But this shot hadn’t been deadly. Olga had slumped against her, appearing to anyone passing by like a woman helping an ill friend to her car.
No one had even glanced their way twice.
People saw what they expected to see—a common phenomenon she had counted on throughout her carefully orchestrated killings.
Now, Olga’s eyelids fluttered as she approached, consciousness returning in fragmented pieces.
The zip ties securing her wrists and ankles to the chair were medical grade, designed for restraint without causing tissue damage—a professional courtesy.
The gag was similarly thoughtful, padded to prevent injury to the mouth while ensuring silence.
Everything was in order, carefully arranged for what would come next.
“Welcome back, Olga,” she said softly, crouching to meet the woman’s confused gaze as her head lifted. “I apologize for the manner of your arrival. The midazolam can leave you feeling disoriented, but that will pass soon.”
Fear bloomed in the captive’s eyes as awareness returned—first confusion, then recognition, then terror as she registered her bound state. She struggled against the restraints, muffled sounds emerging from behind the gag.
“I’ve been keeping up with you lately,” she continued conversationally, reaching out to brush the hair from Olga’s face with a gentle hand.
“Ever since our origami group. The way you found peace through folding paper, the way it helped manage your anxiety.” She smiled.
“We’re not so different, you and I. We both understand how the precise folding of paper can create order from chaos. ”
Olga’s breathing quickened, her eyes darting around the apartment, seeking escape routes, weapons, anything that might help her. It was a natural response—the survival instinct asserting itself. But there would be no escape. Not from what was coming.
“I want you to know that you’re not just another victim, Olga,” she said, “You’re the culmination.
The ultimate test.” She turned back to face her captive, her expression almost tender.
“And now, with Agent Riley Paige involved, everything is perfectly aligned. She’ll play a crucial part in your fate—the final, impossible choice that will force her to confront the very dilemma that has defined my life.
Procedure versus justice, rules versus reality. ”
She leaned over Olga, her face inches from her captive’s terrified eyes.
“Riley Paige will face the impossible task of saving your life. Isn’t that poetic?”