Chapter 88 The Collector
"I don't like being threatened," Alison said firmly.
Gerald studied her with clinical interest. "Do you have any other options?"
He took Alison's handbag and methodically inspected it, powering off her phones. "Remove your smartwatch too," he instructed. "Given your numerous police connections, I naturally need to be cautious."
The streets of Cedarwood Avenue glittered with evening lights as the dinner rush began, traffic flowing steadily through the busy thoroughfare.
Helen had taken the day off from the police station for a family dinner with her fiancé's parents. As she approached the reserved restaurant on Cedarwood Avenue, she caught a glimpse of Alison outside.
A man carried Alison's bag while his arm wrapped around her shoulders, the two looking like an intimate couple. Helen was stunned. She hesitated, wondering if she should approach and greet them, but Alison completely ignored her!
After the diamond excavation incident, their relationship had improved considerably. Helen thought they might actually become friends, but apparently only she felt that way.
Later, Helen's fiancé consoled her after hearing her complaints. "Perhaps she was on a date and didn't want to introduce the man to you. Don't take it personally."
Helen couldn't help thinking about the man beside Alison.
She recalled that the man looked older than Alison. Was that her type?
But if that man was Alison's boyfriend, what about Oliver?
Helen was thoroughly confused.
Alison's condition had suddenly worsened, symptoms more severe than usual. Her head felt foggy, her hands and feet ice-cold.
Gerald confined her, and she uncomfortable pushed against him. "I'll cooperate. There's no need to hold me like this."
"I fear you'll either run or attack me. I know you're quite skilled at fighting," Gerald joked. "Please understand my concerns."
Alison answered with a cold laugh.
The residence Gerald mentioned was indeed close to the travel agency, and surprisingly, right next to the apartment complex where Dione lived!
"Please come in. No need to remove your shoes. Make yourself comfortable on the sofa," Gerald said casually. "This is my private retreat where I come to unwind. You're the first guest who knows about it, much less visits."
Gerald placed Alison's handbag by the entryway. Listening to his words, Alison felt increasingly uneasy.
When kidnappers carelessly reveal their faces to hostages, it usually means they don't intend to let them leave alive. Gerald's words sounded like he'd already decided to silence her permanently.
"Is Lucy here?" she asked.
"No. Would you like juice or coffee?"
"If I must drink something, give me boiled water," Alison said. She feared drugged beverages—plain water was safest.
Gerald guessed her thoughts and smiled. "Very well, just a moment."
He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Alison alone in the living room. She considered retrieving her bag but suspected the apartment might be under surveillance. Gerald could be watching her every move.
A quick scan confirmed her suspicion—she spotted a camera, and resigned herself to sitting back down.
In the kitchen, Gerald monitored her movements on his phone, smiling when he saw her "obediently" return to the sofa.
The living room featured a beige and brown color scheme, accented with tiger lilies, canna plants, and other tropical greenery.
A family portrait sat on the TV cabinet. Alison squinted to make out the four figures: a couple who didn't much resemble Gerald, Gerald himself, and a younger boy.
The boy looked like Alaric.
Several soft pillows decorated the sofa, with a book tucked underneath one. Alison casually picked it up.
It was an old volume with yellowed pages and a cracked hardcover. Despite its age, the owner had clearly treasured it—transparent tape reinforced the binding, and the bookmark edges were frayed from frequent use.
The book chronicled a series of brutal murders committed by an unidentified killer two hundred years ago. The first case described opened with the familiar image of three hanging corpses.
Alison frowned, realizing this wasn't an ordinary book.
She turned to the preface, which detailed the historical context—
An unnamed killer had orchestrated six horrifying murder cases, claiming at least ten victims—men, women, elderly, and children. The oldest victim was seventy; the youngest, barely seven.
He appeared and vanished like a phantom, eluding authorities completely. A wealthy publisher with a taste for the macabre had, one year after the killings stopped, commissioned several writers to collect materials and craft narratives about the cases, publishing the best submissions.
The first account came from a detective of that era who meticulously detailed the crime scenes and investigations.
"This book has many editions, but this version is my favorite," Gerald suddenly spoke, startling Alison.
He placed a clear glass of steaming water on the table.
"Many were attracted by the publisher's reward. He compiled several versions—some authors added their own theories and analyses, others incorporated fantastical elements. The stories became quite popular, with several adapted into theatrical productions," Gerald relaxed into his seat, speaking enthusiastically. "Only this version stays truest to reality, providing me with considerable inspiration."
"What kind of inspiration?" Alison's lips felt dry. "Inspiration to become The Oracle?"
"Indeed," Gerald didn't deny it. "Do you know what the publisher regretted most?"
"The killer had sent his crime journals to the publisher, sketching scenes from each crime—three hanging corpses, a woman standing by water facing her reflection, a city ravaged by plague after heavy rains, a young boy burned alive."
Gerald watched Alison intently. "But like you, he suffered from prosopagnosia. His drawings became increasingly abstract and crude toward the end, utterly indecipherable. The publisher felt cheated. Following the publisher's requirements, the killer also submitted creative works among numerous short and long stories—only he wrote poetry, which the publisher naturally discarded as worthless."
"Later, when police discovered new evidence, only the killer's manuscripts accurately described certain details. The publisher realized what he'd missed and was devastated," Gerald sighed. "I share his regret. I'm fascinated by those manuscripts, though they were reportedly used as winter fuel by the publisher's servants."
Alison fell silent.
Could the old book she'd stumbled upon possibly be that manuscript?
What an incredible coincidence.
"Are you interested in me because the killer and I both have prosopagnosia?" she asked.
"Initially, yes," Gerald admitted. "But the more we've interacted, the more fascinating you've become. When did you first suspect me?"
"My earlier suspicions lacked evidence, but now you're being so candid—aren't you afraid I'll tell the police?" Alison probed.
"Discovery is inevitable," Gerald replied with remarkable composure. "But I don't believe the police can catch me."