Chapter 21 THE PROOF IN THE SHADOW
\[JAMES POV\]
I realized a person had entered my place.
Little stuff. The door stood ajar - not like I’d shut it. My notebook? Slightly nudged westward. Chair out just enough to notice.
Many folks probably wouldn’t see it.
I notice everything.
I guessed it had to be Aria.
She’s been checking me out lately. Because I spotted her tailing me. While she kept an eye on my place.
So once I swing the door wide plus spot her there inside my workspace, tucked among all the notes I’ve piled up, it doesn’t catch me off guard.
I'm almost relieved.
Detective Kane," I mutter instead.
She stays still, yet her eyes lock onto mine.
Her hand’s by the holster - close, but not touching. Just nearby.
I put my coffee on the desk - then slide off my cap.
"I was wondering when you'd show up."
"What is this?" she asks.
Her voice feels tense - held back. Not loose.
"Research."
"Research? You have photos of victims. Of Ethan. Of me."
"I know."
"Why?"
I stare at the wall - what’s been put together lately. All that came together piece by piece since then.
"Because I'm trying to prove something."
"Prove what?"
"That your fiancé is a serial killer."
She stays quiet.
I head over to the desk. Take a seat. Nod toward the chair on the other side.
"Sit."
"I'm not sitting."
"Then stand. But you're going to want to hear this."
She doesn't move.
I slump backward. Then I glance her way.
"Michael Cordero was my friend. You know that. What you don't know is that two weeks before he died, he called me. Said he'd figured out who the Origami Killer was. Said he had proof."
"And?"
"And then he died. Victim number four. Throat cut. Bird on his chest."
"That doesn't mean Ethan—"
"It does. Because Michael told me the killer was a writer. Someone who understood narrative structure. Someone who saw murder as art."
I get on my feet. Then I head toward the board.
"After Michael died, I started digging. I looked at every victim. Their routines. Their connections. And I found something."
I gesture toward the pictures.
"Every single one of them appears in Ethan's social media. Months before they died. In the background. Blurry. Easy to miss. But they're there."
She's quiet.
"You already know this," I say. "You found the same thing. That's why you're here."
"That doesn't prove anything. Coincidence—"
"It's not a coincidence. Look."
I fire up my laptop. Then I dig out a folder.
"I've been following Ethan for six weeks. Documenting everything. Where he goes. Who does he talk to? What he does."
I tap a video clip.
It’s Ethan. He’s just there, near a shop where food is sold. A lady puts packages into her vehicle - eyes on her moves. Not rushing, but careful.
Blonde. Mid-thirties.
The date on there shows March 8.
"That's Emma Torres," I say. "Three days before she died."
Aria moves in nearby. She eyes the display. Then stands still, keeping her gaze locked.
Ethan’s stuck in place. He isn’t shifting. No words are coming out. Instead, he stays quiet - just staring.
Next, he grabs his phone - snaps a picture.
He climbs into his vehicle. Then he heads off.
"He's been doing this for months," I say. "Selecting them. Learning their patterns. Then killing them."
I shut the video. Then I click on a different one.
This time it’s from a couple of weeks back.
Ethan’s at the café down Palmer Street - parked near the glass, scribbling stuff into a notebook while traffic hums past outside.
Emma stands at the counter, fixing up drinks.
He glances up - stares at her.
She doesn't notice.
"He went there fourteen times in the month before she died," I say. "Always ordered the same thing. Always sat in the same spot. Always watched her."
Aria stays quiet.
I shut the lid.
"I have hours of footage like this. Photos. Notes. Timelines. All pointing to him."
"Why didn't you go to the police?"
"Because I needed more. Because proof and suspicion are different things."
"So you just let him keep killing?"
She speaks fast - tense, like she’s ready to snap. Not calm at all.
I glance over at her.
"Yes."
She steps back.
"You let Emma die. You knew and you didn't stop it."
"I couldn't stop it. Not without proof."
"You could've warned her. Called the police. Done something."
"And if I was wrong? If it wasn't him? Then I blow the investigation and the real killer walks free."
"So you chose evidence over her life."
"Yes."
She looks right at me.
"What's wrong with you?"
I don't answer.
I can’t figure out how to say it, so she gets it.
I don’t sense stuff like she does - guilt, then regret, followed by horror.
I sense wonder. Because of a reason. Then numbers.
Emma’s passing was sad - yet needed.
This is my take on it.
But I’m not allowed to mention it.
"Why the photos of me?" she asks.
"Because you're connected to him. I needed to know if you were involved. If you knew."
"I didn't."
"I know that now."
"And the photos of you dressed like him? The same car? The same jacket?"
"I needed to follow him without being noticed. Blending in was the easiest way."
"Or you're framing him."
I glance over at her.
"I'm not framing him. I'm documenting him."
"Why should I believe you?"
"Because I'm going to show you something that proves it."
I fire up the laptop once more.
Open another folder instead.
Tap any clip.
That was four nights back. Pretty late. Pitch black.
Ethan’s vehicle sits by a block of flats.
He steps outside. Then heads toward the door. After that, he opens it and goes inside.
Twenty minutes pass before he steps outside.
With a dark-colored sack in hand.
Pulls himself into the driver's seat. Then rolls down the street.
The date? March 10. Time’s 11:47 at night.
"That's the night before Emma was found," I say.
Aria's hands are shaking.
"That doesn't—"
"Wait."
I fast-forward.
The next videos from that same evening - just somewhere else.
Ethan’s car sat tucked away in a narrow lane off Palmer Street.
He steps out - pops the trunk. From inside, he grabs the dark sack. It comes loose with a tug.
He heads toward the rear entrance of the café.
Goes inside.
Half an hour passes before he steps outside.
No bag.
Pulls out of the driveway. Then he's gone.
"He killed her that night," I say. "And I watched him do it."
Aria's staring at the screen.
"You were there."
"Yes."
"And you didn't stop him."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I needed him to finish. I needed the full sequence. Selection. Preparation. Execution. Escape. Without that, it's just suspicion."
She steps back from the table.
"You're insane."
"Maybe."
"You let him kill her."
"Yes."
"And you're going to let him do it again."
I shut the lid of the computer.
"No."
"What?"
"I said no. I'm not letting him do it again."
"Why? What changed?"
"Because the next victim is someone you know."
She goes still.
"What are you talking about?"
I open a picture.
A lady. Dark-haired. Mid-thirties maybe? Sharp chin. Warm look in her gaze.
Aria’s face turns pale.
"That's Captain Ford."
"I know."
"How—"
"He's been watching her for three days. I've been following him. He's planning it."
"When?"
"Tonight."
She picks up her phone.
"I have to warn her."
"You can do that. But it won't stop him. He'll just pick someone else. Or he'll come after you."
She stops.
Look at me.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Help me catch him."
"How?"
"We let him think he's in control. We watch him. And when he makes his move, we're there."
"That's insane. If we're wrong—"
"We're not wrong. You know we're not."
She's quiet.
I notice it on her face - sudden awareness. Then fear creeps in, replacing calm. One after another.
She gets that I’ve got a point.
She simply can’t accept it.
"If we do this," she says, "and he kills her—"
"He won't. I'll be there. You'll be there. We stop him before it happens."
"And if we're too late?"
I don't answer.
Becoming clear only now - turns out, I wasn't sure before either.
She glances once more at Captain Ford’s picture.
Then at me.
"What do I do?"
"First, you leave here. Act normal. Don't let him know you suspect anything."
"And then?"
"Then we meet tonight. Midnight. I'll text you the location. And we end this."
She looks my way - keeps going, like she’s waiting for something.
After that, she heads toward the doorway.
Stops.
"If you're lying to me—"
"I'm not."
"If you're working with him—"
"I'm not."
She pushes the door open.
Looks back.
"Why are you doing this? Really?"
I wonder about it.
About Michael. Then the case board. Also, those nine paper birds are sitting in the box.
About the bit of me that’s numb, yet another piece notices things aren’t right. Though one side stays blank, a hint inside says this isn't how it should be. While some parts shut down, a quiet voice spots the flaw. Even when feeling fades, something still catches what's off.
"Because I want to understand him," I say. "And the only way to do that is to stop him."
She stays quiet.
Just leaves.
I plop into my chair by the table.
Check out the picture of Captain Ford.
Pull out my phone.
Launch the tracker tool.
Ethan’s spot shows up flickering on the display.
He's at home.
For now.
Yet this evening, he’ll shift.
When that happens, I’ll keep an eye out.
We both will.