Silent, silent
Aiden's POV
The precinct is now mom-and-pop, and the café across the street is a merciful relief. That makes for a bleak, greasy little hole in the wall that’s been left behind by the encroaching gentrification from the financial district, and the tinted glass provides me with a full, uninterrupted view of the captains of major crimes bullpen. My espresso is dark and strong, and my nerves are singing with a reckless, exhilarating buzz.
I spot them. Aiden West, my lovely tenacious detective, is at the giant whiteboard. He stands tall and stiff, and even from across the room you can feel the fatigue radiating from his body. He has been pushed to his limits, fueled by fear and stale coffee. #Dana Cole is seated opposite him, her tired inquisitiveness transforming into shocked focus as West gesticulates wildly.
I take slow sip of coffee and chuckle softly, inside. They are so predictable. They are chasing a phantom series of coincidental, gruesome incidents. They trail the evidence like good little hounds, and miss entirely the elegant scaffolding of narrative I’ve woven around them.
Aiden, you watch closely. I’ve given you the whole life raft of clues and you’re still drowning.”
Suddenly I stop laughing in my throat. West spins and gestures forcefully towards the whiteboard. I watch the direction of his gesture, my sight adjusting with the aid of the telephoto lense kept hidden in my satchel. He’s scrawled a name: ELIOT RAINES.” And beneath it, a jarring, alien one: BARTHOLOMEW P. SANCHEZ.”
My hand freezes on the mug. The hot ceramic suddenly feels blisteringly hot.
No. Not yet.
My initial amusement disappears, replaced by a cold, searing shock. I see the blood drain from my face, a physical, visceral reaction I have not felt since I was a child hiding from him. How? How did West trace the tenuous, three-year-old identity of the man who married his friend to a sealed juvenile file? He shouldn't have been able to jump that fence yet.
I watch as West slams a thick stack of pages on to Dana’s desk. I can’t open it, but I know what it is. The magnified frame from the Mercer Hotel. The selfie. The digitized court summary. West—working on blind paranoia and professional instinct—has already matched up my public façade with a secret life I thought was buried deep underground.
Dana is looking at the papers, her face is white. She’s trying to process the sheer wantonness of the allegation. She's beginning to believe the link. The wall of scepticism she had built up to counter West's "hunches" is starting to crack.
My heart is racing, a mix of pure adrenaline and rage. West has done the impossible. He’s traced the line of the trophies—the missing earrings—and the method—the very way they’re carved behind the ear—and to a person he knows, one he hates. What he needs now is just one other thing: the motive.
My elaborate, years-long plan, the perfect revenge arc I wrote it—it’s all been compromised.
It’s crumbling not because of physical proof at the scenes, but due to a single, glaring weakness: Ruthie.
West is always probing. He’s always watching his sister. He never trusted the fiancé.
The concern has mutated into white hotfume of release like our righteous bird-god. I am smarter than them. My planning is flawless.
My breathing turns shallow and fast. I’m flushed and breathing shallow and fast. I need to move. I need to dissolve. The whole game is on my ability to get out of sight before they can get a warrant, before they can take the initials and connect them to something I can’t see. They have the who, but not the why—and the why is the key to my getting out of here.
I see West grab his coat and check his sidearm. He’s mobilizing. He’s operating out of instinct, pure instinct, as if his friend is about to be killed. It’s predictable: but his urgency is lethal.
I take my phone out of my pocket, my brain frantic with the possibilities.
Ruthie.
She’s the ultimate loose end. 'm thinking she would be the last, private act.
She’s a risk that must be eliminated.
But killing her now would spoil the poetry of the thing. Each victim was "stalked, scouted, killed according to the ritual": the mild, nearly artistic precision. The rash, panicky murder of Ruthie, just to help you escape, violates everything I stand for. That would be sloppy."
Who cares? A chill voice is ranting in my head. Control is an illusion. She must survive."
I watch West and Dana almost run out of the precinct as they head for their unmarked car. They’re coming. In fifteen minutes.
My window is closing.
I have no choice. The pattern must be broken for the grand architect to survive. Foolish, foolish Ruthie. She was just collateral, a pretty prop. I get to my feet, my chair scrapes lightly across the café floor. The fear has passed.
My documents for moving are all contained in the townhouse safe, filed under a new name and a new country. The phone is pre-paid and it is in my pocket. The accounts have been loaded to liquidate on a single coded wire. I have been prepared for this moment since I first chose the identity. The money's wired, the passport's up to date, and the plane tickets are ready to be printed.
I exit the café, melting into the noon crowd. I’m making my way to my car, which I have left five blocks down in a space I’ve used for months.
I slide behind the wheel of my anonymous sedan. The engine catches right away.
I don't care about the carving anymore. I don’t care about the trophies. I just need to take the variable out.
I merge into traffic, pulling out and weaving effortlessly between cars.
This is the end, Ruthie. You should have listened to your friend.
I smile, and it’s real, a chilling lip-curl. It’s back, better than ever. Time to improvise. And I’ve always been best when I’m improvising. I’m ready to burn the whole set down and melt into the smoke.
I step on the gas, eyes glued to the ticking clock. Instead, they will find a
crime scene — not a capture. And I will be already gone.