Chapter 15 THE MEETING
\[ARIA POV\]
The café down Palmer remains shut.
Yellow tape blocks the doorway - handwritten note says: Shut till things change.
I’m standing out here just looking at that thing.
Emma worked here.
Now she's gone.
I glance at my phone. It’s 9:58 in the morning.
James Reynolds mentioned ten.
I glance left. Over there - two folks strolling by. Across the road, one guy opens a door, slides into a sedan. Just another calm start to the day.
That’s when he shows up.
Coming my way from the edge. Wearing jeans. A dark top coat. Specs perched on his nose. Got a pad in hand.
He pauses the moment my eyes meet his.
"Detective Kane?"
"Yeah."
He stretches his arm forward.
"James Reynolds."
I give it a shake. Yet his hold stays tight. Though my palm feels icy.
"There's a place two blocks over," I say. "We can talk there."
"Lead the way."
We stroll without talking.
He never asks anything. Instead, he stays quiet. Walks next to me without a word. Pockets his hands. Keeps his face blank.
The coffee place is tiny - just six tables inside. There’s a bar where they keep sweets behind glass.
I grab a black coffee. Meanwhile, he picks that too.
We chill near the glass.
I take out my notebook.
"So, you said you were friends with Michael Cordero."
"Yes."
"How'd you know him?"
"We met at a journalism conference three years ago. Stayed in touch. He called me two weeks before he died. Said he was working on something big."
"The Origami Killer case."
"Yes."
"What did he tell you?"
James sips his coffee. Then puts it down. He’s staring elsewhere. Not glancing my way.
"He said the killer wasn't random. Said he'd been tracking patterns. Locations. Victims. He thought the killer knew them. Watched them first."
"That's what we think too."
"He was close. Too close."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he figured it out. And then he died."
I lean back.
"You think the killer targeted him because he was getting close?"
"Yes."
"Do you know who the killer is?"
He turns to me just then - gaze focused, alert. Not a hint of blur. Straight to the point.
"No. But I have theories."
"Like what?"
"The killer's intelligent. Methodical. Probably has a background in something precise. Medicine. Engineering. Writing."
"Writing?"
"The origami. It's deliberate. Each fold is perfect. That takes practice. Patience. It's not just a signature. It's part of the story."
I stay quiet.
He takes out his notebook. Then flips through the pages.
"I've been tracking the case since Michael died. I have timelines. Maps. Victim profiles."
"Why?"
"Because I want to finish what he started."
"You're not a cop."
"I know. But I'm good at finding things people don't want found."
He pushes the notebook over the table.
I see it.
Pages packed with scribbles. Jotted dates. People’s names. Spots on maps.
It's detailed. Thorough.
Too detailed.
"How'd you get all this?" I ask.
"Public records. News reports. I talked to people who knew the victims."
"When?"
"Over the last month."
I flick through the pages - pause at a random spot.
A map. With red dots showing where each killing happened.
It’s just like mine.
"This is good work," I say.
"Thank you."
"But you shouldn't be doing this. This is a police investigation."
"I know. But Michael was my friend. I owe him."
He states it straight. Flat tone. As if reciting lines. Just like that.
I check out his face.
He isn’t showing sadness. Nor does he seem mad.
Just... blank.
"Did you two talk often?" I ask.
"Not often. Maybe once a month."
"Were you close?"
"Close enough."
"But you weren't upset when he died?"
He stops. Then stares my way.
"I was upset."
"You don't seem upset."
"I process things differently."
"What's that mean?"
"It means I don't show emotion the way other people do. But I feel it."
I’m not buying it.
Still, I keep quiet about it.
"What do you want from me?" I ask.
"Information. Access to files. I think I can help."
"We don't need help."
"Eight victims in three months. You're not catching him."
I shut the book. Then I push it away.
"Thanks for your time, Mr. Reynolds."
I stand up.
He doesn't move.
"Detective Kane."
I stop.
"Yeah?"
"You're looking in the wrong place."
"What's that mean?"
"It means the killer's not a stranger. He's someone close. Someone you see every day. Someone you trust."
My blood turns icy.
"How do you know that?"
"Because that's how these people work. They blend in. They're charming. Normal. You'd never suspect them."
"You sound like you've studied this."
"I have."
"Why?"
He gets up - then grabs his notebook.
"Because understanding monsters is the only way to stop them."
He walks out.
I stay put. Staring at him from outside the glass.
He steps across the road - then slides into a vehicle.
A black four-door. It's a Camry made by Toyota.
Just like the one Ethan’s got.
I grab my phone. Then snap a photo of the plate.
After that, I take a seat again.
Finish my coffee.
Consider his words.
A person nearby. Or maybe someone who’s got your back.
I return to the station by eleven.
Sarah Chen is inside the meeting room. She keeps looking at documents, one after another.
Marcus sits by his desk - munching on a sandwich.
"How'd it go?" he asks.
"Fine."
"Learn anything?"
"Maybe."
I take a seat. Then I open the DMV system.
Check the license tag.
James Reynolds - he’s the one on record as owner.
1247 Ashford Street. Apt 3 B.
I jot it down.
"What are you doing?" Marcus asks.
"Nothing."
"Aria."
"I said it's nothing."
He moves closer, checks my display.
"You're running a plate on the journalist?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because something's off about him."
"Off how?"
"I don't know. Just... off."
Marcus perches by the side of my desk.
"You think he's involved?"
"I don't know."
"But you're checking him out anyway."
"Yeah."
He stays quiet for sixty seconds.
He moves closer after that.
"Aria, you're looking at everyone like they're guilty. You need to step back."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in a week. You're paranoid. You're—"
"I said I'm fine."
He looks my way.
After that, he gets on his feet.
"Alright. But when this blows up, don't say I didn't warn you."
He walks away.
I head back to my laptop.
Check out James Reynolds’s profiles online.
Just a little here. Some snapshots. Mainly job-related things. Pieces he wrote. Photos from where crimes happened.
I scroll through.
Pause at the one from a couple of weeks back.
He’s inside a shop that sells books. There, near a tall rack filled with titles.
I zoom in.
The books back there belong to Ethan.
The Ninth Sin. Yet another side shows up. Underneath it all.
I look at it.
Next, I open a different picture.
Three weeks back. A small café. That’s where it started - outta nowhere.
A figure stands behind. Fuzzy, though the outline is clear enough. Yet not sharp - just a form taking space.
A guy. He’s near the glass. Wearing a black coat. A cap pulled low.
I zoom in.
Can't make out the face.
Yet the design feels kinda like I've seen it before.
I open a different picture.
One month back. In the city center.
A person stands behind, wearing a black coat. With a hat on their head. While staying partly hidden from view.
He’s shown up in lots of pictures.
Still hanging around behind the scenes.
Always watching.
I grabbed a pic of it. Then sent it over to my phone.
After that, I shut the browser.
Stand up.
Head over to the meeting space.
Sarah glances over as I walk through the door.
"Can I help you?"
"Yeah. You said the killer's been practicing. That there's probably more victims we don't know about."
"Right."
"How do we find them?"
She puts the pen aside.
"We look at old cases. Unsolved murders. Same method. Same signature. Different cities."
"How far back?"
"Five years. Maybe ten."
"That's a lot of cases."
"It is. But if we find a pattern, we find him."
I nod.
"I'll help."
"Good."
I take a seat. Then I drag some papers closer.
Start reading.
Yet I’m not chasing past sufferers.
I’m trying to find James Reynolds.
There's just a vibe around him that feels off.
I’ve gotta figure out the reason.