Chapter 20 I JUST WALKED INTO THE KILLER'S SHRINE
\[ARIA POV\]
I can't sleep, and it’s 2 a.m.already, lying here on the sofa. Eyes stuck on the roof above.
Wondering about that wrapper.
Considering another vehicle so I'm wondering where James is while Ethan deals with his publisher.
But nothing here adds up.
I sit up then grab my keys and headed to the door and leave.
James’s place is calm when I arrive.
No light showing in his window - third floor, that’s apartment 3 B.
I park a bit farther along the block. Then I step out.
Head toward the main door.
It’s shut tight - only opens with a swipe pass.
I wait.
Five minutes pass before a young dude steps out - earbuds in, moving slowly.
I grab the door just as it’s about to shut.
"Thanks," I say.
He gives a quick nod - then carries on down the path.
I go inside.
The corridor reeks of stale rug plus chemical sprays.
I go up the steps. On the third level.
Apartment 3B sits far back. The entrance looks basic - no sign on it.
I knock.
Nothing.
Knock again.
Still nothing.
I grab the handle.
Locked.
I grab my lock picks - picked that up ages back - something I really oughta avoid right now.
Yet I’m not bothered.
Just half a minute.
The lock clicks.
I shove the door wide. Yet it creaks loudly. Still, I step through quick.
The apartment's dark.
I walk in. Then shut the door after me.
Pull out my phone. Then switch on the light.
The living room’s tiny - just a couch here, then a coffee table beside it. The TV sits opposite, connected by space, not stuff.
Nothing unusual.
I stroll through the corridor.
Bathrooms to the left - nobody inside.
Bedroom to the right - neatly made bed inside. No items are sitting on the small table beside it either.
After that, I spot another doorway. But this one’s different - right there, just ahead.
It's closed.
I open it.
The space serves as a workspace.
Desk. A chair sits nearby. The laptop’s shut.
But the walls.
I stop breathing.
The walls have stuff on them.
Pics. Directions. Stories. Copies.
A thin red thread links the two.
I step closer.
Sarah Jennings. Then there’s Rebecca Holt - different vibe, same list. Lisa Tran shows up next, no fanfare. Michael Cordero comes after, quiet but clear. Jane Doe? Always a mystery. One more person floats in, name missing. Last is Emma, stepping into view.
All seven victims.
Their faces. Yet their crime scenes. Even their autopsy photos.
Where’d he find those?
I head toward the following wall.
Photos of Ethan.
On the way to the store. Inside the café. Near his place.
Dozens of them.
All seen from far away - just real moments, nothing staged. Each one caught without posing.
I feel sick.
Next, I spot the third wall.
Photos of me.
Stepping into the station. Grabbing a cup of coffee. I parked myself in the driver’s seat.
I didn’t face the lens in a single one.
I didn't know.
My hands begin to tremble.
I head over to the desk.
A small book lies there. As I flip it open,.
Pages covered in scribbles. Then dates showed up. After that came times. Meanwhile, places popped in.
On March 3, right at 7:15 a.m., Ethan heads out from his place. He takes the car to a café nearby. Once there, he picks a seat near the glass. For about two hours, he stays put, working on his writing.
On March 5, Ethan stopped by the bookstore. He chatted with the store boss for a bit. Then he picked up three books - topics? Forensic pathology. Just like that, the purchase is done.
On March 8, Ethan trails a woman leaving the shop - blond, around thirty-five. He sees her climb into her vehicle. Snaps a picture right then.
I skim a few more pages.
Mar 10. Number seven’s name is out - Emma Torres. Place? A café on Palmer Street. Not far from where Ethan showed up, like, fourteen times lately.
Mar 12. Aria Kane shows up at the scene - wiped out. Seems like she’s crumbling now.
I let go of the notebook.
Step back.
Check the wall one more time.
A map sits right in the middle - red dots show where each killing happened.
Blue dots show where Ethan’s been - each one a spot he visited.
Yellow spots show where it’s buried.
They all overlap.
I spot a box lying around down there. Crack it open.
Inside sits a bunch of folded paper birds.
Nine in total - each one a different shade. Some bright, others dull; yet all unique.
White. Yet blue. Then yellow. But red. Even green. So pink. Still orange. Thus purple. Also black.
I count them.
Nine.
Yet just seven people were affected.
Why nine?
I get on my feet. Then I check the board once more.
One part just showed up that I hadn’t noticed earlier.
In the nook. Tiny printed sheets.
I step closer.
These are pieces from a while back. Some time ago.
Oregon murderer hits once more. Three lives lost.
Seattle Strangler: cops hunting a suspect.
Portland cold case: loved ones still searching for truth.
Still not cracked. Same approach every time.
Throat slashed. Fingers locked together. A clue was found nearby.
James reckons a few others might’ve been hit too.
People suffering in silence.
I grab my phone. Then snap pictures - one after another. Of the walls. Of scribbled notes. Even the birds outside.
After that, a sound hits my ears.
A door closing.
Downstairs.
Steps echoing down the hall.
I freeze.
The steps halt just past the doorway.
Keys jingle.
He's back.
I glance left and right. Not another way out. Only that single doorway.
The lock clicks.
The door opens.
I’m right in the center of the space.
James stands by the door.
He’s got a coffee in hand - rocking a black jacket. Then there's the cap, sitting snug on his head.
He sees me.
We look at one another.
One stays put - so does the other.
He walks in. After that, the door shuts behind him.
Set the cup on the table.
Pulls the lid off.
Detective Kane," he remarks.
He speaks softly. Without emotion.
"I was wondering when you'd show up."