Chapter 14 THE JOURNALIST
\[ETHAN POV\]
Something's off.
I realize right when I step inside my study.
The chair shifted - only a tiny bit. Yet I saw it. Though small, it stood out.
The drawer’s shut - though not completely. A tiny space sits there. Just enough to notice, if you’re looking. Not something everyone would catch.
I see it.
I take a seat by the table - glance left, then right.
The crane I folded isn't here anymore - the one that had words tucked within.
She took it.
I pull out the first drawer. Everything seems fine - just pens, notebooks, paper.
I look inside the second drawer - old scripts, loose sheets, everything still here.
The third drawer - closed tight. Shut with a lock.
I grab the key from under the light. Then I open the lock.
The box’s still around. So I go ahead, pop it open.
Nine paper birds. Each one is a different shade.
I count them.
Still nine.
She never came across it.
Good.
I shut the drawer tight. Then slip the key into its spot.
Sit back in my seat.
She’s watching right now - actually paying attention. Not just glancing, but truly seeing.
Not only doubting - looking instead.
I oughta worry.
I'm not.
This is exactly what I was looking for.
I head out around ten. Then drive to the bookstore on the West End.
It’s calm here. Only some folks are looking around slowly. An elderly guy at the counter flips through a paper.
I head toward the rear. Over there - fiction area. Spot my novels, so I grab 'em
Pull one out. Then flip through it.
Someone coughs softly behind me.
I turn around.
A guy. Maybe thirty. Wears jeans and a jacket. Has glasses on. Carrying a notebook in his hand
"Ethan Cross?"
"Yeah."
He grins - reaches out slowly.
"James Reynolds. I'm a journalist."
I give his hand a shake. Yet it feels strong - sure of itself.
"Nice to meet you."
"Likewise. I'm a big fan of your work."
"Thanks."
"Mind if I ask you a few questions? For an article I'm writing."
I put the book down on the shelf again.
"What kind of article?"
"True crime. Specifically the Origami Killer case."
I stay still. Instead, I just watch him.
"Why are you asking me?"
"Because your books are about killers like him. Methodical. Intelligent. I thought you might have insights."
"I write fiction."
"I know. But fiction comes from somewhere. You've clearly studied how these people think."
I smile.
"I have."
"So? Can I ask a few questions?"
I check the time real quick.
"I've got a few minutes."
"Great."
He grabs his phone - starts recording right away.
"Do you mind?"
"Go ahead."
He puts it on the shelf right there between the two of us.
"So. The Origami Killer. Eight victimsnow. Same method every time. What do you think his motivation is?"
"Hard to say."
"But if you had to guess?"
I wonder - how’d someone regular put it? What words would they actually use?
"Control. He's not killing out of rage. He's making a statement. Each victim is deliberate."
"You think he knows them?"
"Probably. Or at least watches them first. Learns their routines."
He gives a quick nod - jotting things down without pause
"And the origami birds. What do you make of those?"
"Signatures. He wants credit. Wants people to know it's him."
"Or maybe they mean something else."
I glance his way.
"Like what?"
"Like markers. Chapters in a book. Each victim is part of a larger story."
I stay quiet
He smiles.
"That's what you'd write, isn't it? If you were writing this as a novel."
"Maybe."
"Your last book. The Ninth Sin. The killer in that one left symbols at each scene. Little clues. Was that based on anything real?"
"Research. Case studies. I read a lot of old files."
"From where?"
"Public records. Library. My fiancée's a detective. She's helped me with some details."
"Detective Aria Kane."
I stop.
"How do you know her name?"
"I'm a journalist. It's my job."
"You've been looking into her?"
"I've been looking into the case. Her name came up. She's alead investigator."
I check his face. But he’s relaxed. Still won’t glance aside.
"Why are you really here?" I ask.
"I told you. I'm writing an article."
"About what?"
"About how killers hide in plain sight. How they blend in. How people who know them never suspect."
He's still smiling.
Yet you can spot it in his eyes - some kind of edge, maybe even a flicker of alertness.
"I should get going," I say.
"Of course. Thanks for your time."
He grabs the phone - hits stop on the tape.
I head out.
"Mr. Cross."
I stop.
"Yeah?"
"Your books. They're really good. Almost too good. Like you've been inside a killer's head."
"That's the job."
"Right. The job."
He nods.
"Take care."
I walk out.
I stay in my car a while before turning it on - just five minutes, no more.
James Reynold's.
Journallist.
A pal of Michael Cordero.
He’s working the ground. Yet he ain’t clueless.
I grab my phone - look up his name.
He’s genuine. Wrote stuff online. Focuses on true crime. Old unsolved cases.
His latest story covered a murderer in Oregon. Still no answers.
I tap his picture.
One dude. Looks just like before.
Yet there’s this one thing about him - hard to pin down. Like it doesn’t fit anywhere.
The way he stared at me. Then how quietly he posed his queries.
As if he'd figured it out beforehand.
I lock my phone because it keeps things private.
Start the car.
Drive home.
Aria hasn't shown up just now.
I head to the kitchen - grab a glass, then fill it with water.
Picture James Reynolds.
He knows who Aria is. Also, he’s figured me out. Because of that, things are starting to click.
Yet he lacks evidence.
Not yet.
I head into my room. Then plop myself down.
Open my notebook.
Write:
New variable. James Reynolds. Journalist. Smart. Dangerous.
Watching him now.
I shut the laptop
Tear off a sheet.
Start folding.
This one’s unique - compact, yet zippy.
Once finished, I lift it high.
A fox.
Sharp. Quick. Clever.
That’s him right there.
Clever stuff’s gotta be handled real careful, otherwise it backfires.
I placed the fox right there on my desk.
By the crane
After that, I turn on my computer.
Searchfor James Reynolds once more.
Track down where he lives. Or look up his profiles online instead. Maybe check what he does every day.
He put up a picture earlier today - about two hours back. Over at the shop that sells books.
Caption: Research day. Looking deep into a major thing.
I take a closer look at what's behind.
Look. Over there, behind him - on the shelf.
My books.
He showed up just to watch - no questions, no chat.
To study me.
I shut the lid of the computer.
Stand up.
Go over to the window.
He'sattaching me.
Then I’ll keep an eye on him.
\[
My phone buzzes.
Text from Aria.
Staying late at work - no need to stay awake for me.
I reply: Alright. Stay outta trouble.
Put my phone away.
Head over to the closed drawer.
Open it.
Pull the box out.
Count the birds once more.
Nine.
I just gotta have another shade
Black.
For the reporter digging too deep
I shut the container.
Lock the drawer.
Head into the kitchen.
Pour a fresh cup of water.
Think about tomorrow.
About what I’m going to do.
About what I’m thinking for this.
James Reynolds believes I’m the one he’s chasing.
He's wrong.
I'm hunting him.