Chapter 24 THE REPLACEMENT
\[ARIA POV\]
She’s in my study, gripping the box tight.
The one I always hide away in the drawer.
Nine paper birds. Each one is a unique color.
She’s looking at them as if they’re proof.
They're not.
They're just paper.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
She glances upward. Pale skin covers her face. Red rings around her eyes.
She's been crying.
"What are these?" she asks.
I step inside. Quiet-like. Not rushing.
"Origami birds. I make them when I'm thinking."
"There are nine."
"Yes."
"Eight victims. Who's the ninth one for?"
I pause. Then I turn my eyes toward her.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying. Those are just paper, Aria. They're not evidence of anything."
She lifts the purple one.
"This color. It matches the one on Captain Ford."
"Does it?"
"You know it does."
I turn my head a bit. Look at her closely.
"Aria. Purple paper isn't exactly rare. You're making connections that aren't there."
"Am I?"
"Yes."
She drops the box onto my desk - sharp, sudden.
"Your pen. The Montblanc. I found it in Room 406. The first crime scene."
I pause.
This is it.
I saw it arriving. Because I’d prepared myself long ago.
"No way that can happen," I tell her.
"It's not. I have it. I've been carrying it for weeks."
"Show me."
She takes it out of her jacket pocket - lifts it high.
Silver. Engraved.
I move nearer - grab it out of her palm.
Turn it over.
Read the engraving.
To the one spinning tales while staring into shadows - A.
I glance over at her.
"This isn't mine."
"Yes, it is. I gave it to you two years ago."
"I know. But this isn't it."
I head over to my desk. Then I pull open the top drawer.
Pull out my pen.
Keep it close to the one she handed over.
Identical.
One design. Just like before.
She stares.
"How—"
"I don't know," I say. "But that's not my pen."
"It has to be."
"It's not."
I placed one pen down, then the other. Right next to it.
"See? Mine's been here the whole time. I use it every day."
She grabs the thing in the drawer - stares at it.
She reached into her pocket, pulled out one thing.
"This doesn't make sense."
"No. It doesn't."
"Where did the other one come from?"
"I don't know. Maybe someone copied it. Maybe someone's trying to frame me."
"Who?"
"I don't know, Aria. But it's not me."
She’s shivering at the moment - fingers wobbling slightly.
"The victims. They're in your photos. Months before they died."
"What photos?"
"Your social media. Instagram. Facebook. They're in the background."
I pause.
This one took me by surprise.
"Show me."
She takes out her phone. Then starts scrolling. After that, she shows me a picture from a while back.
Me inside a shop full of books. Grinning from ear to ear. Got a novel in my hands.
She focuses closer on what’s behind.
A lady. She's got light hair. On a chair near a surface. With her hands resting there.
"That's Rebecca Holt. Victim two."
I glance at the picture.
"I don't even remember taking this. There were a lot of people at that signing."
"She's there. Right behind you."
"Coincidence."
"You don't believe in coincidences."
"Neither do you. But sometimes they happen."
She moves down to a different picture.
"And this one. Sarah Jennings. Victim one. In the background."
I look.
She's right.
Sarah Jennings. Perched on a wooden seat. Flipping through pages quietly.
"I didn't know her," I say.
"But she's there."
Aria. I snap loads of pictures every week - different spots each time, like cafes or libraries. Sometimes I head out to green areas, you know, just walking around. Lots of folks do the exact same thing without even planning it. Sometimes they just hang out in the back. Not like I’m following them around
"It's too many. Too many victims in too many of your photos."
"Or someone's been following me. Taking photos of me. And they're in those photos too."
She stops.
"What?"
"Think about it. If someone wanted to frame me, this is how they'd do it. Follow me. Take photos. Make sure the victims are in the background. Then kill them. Plant evidence. Point the finger at me."
She's quiet.
I step closer.
"Aria. Someone's setting me up. And you're falling for it."
"I'm not—"
"You are. You're looking at paper birds and photos and a pen that's not even mine and you're convinced I'm a killer."
"Because the evidence—"
"The evidence is circumstantial. It's not proof. It's coincidence and manipulation."
She glances my way. Her gaze scans, like she’s hunting for something.
"Then who?"
"I don't know. But there's someone else. Someone who's been watching both of us."
"Like who?"
"James Reynolds."
She goes still.
"What about him?"
"He's been following me. Did you know that?"
"How do you know?"
"Because I've seen him. Dark sedan. Same model as mine. He's always there. Coffee shop. Bookstore. Outside our apartment."
"He's investigating the case."
"Or he's the killer."
"He's not—"
"How do you know? Because he told you? Because he showed you some files and a theory?"
She doesn't answer.
I hold her hand.
She stays put now instead.
"Aria. I love you. I would never hurt you. Or anyone you care about. You have to believe me."
"I don't know what to believe anymore."
"Then believe this. I'm not a killer. But someone is. And they're very good at making it look like me."
She checks out the pens lying on the table.
"How can there be two?"
"I don't know. Maybe he had one made. Maybe he stole mine and replaced it. I don't know. But that's not mine."
She grabs the item found at the crime spot.
Holds it.
"I've been carrying this for weeks. Thinking it was proof."
"It's not."
"But it has the same engraving."
"Which means someone went to a lot of trouble to make you think it's mine."
She’s falling apart. I notice it right away.
All that sureness. Yet every doubt.
It's crumbling.
Good.
I'm worn out," she says.
"I know."
"I can't think straight."
"You need to sleep."
"I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see them. The victims. Captain Ford."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"Yes. I liked Captain Ford. She was good to you."
Aria turns her eyes toward me.
"Where were you last night?"
"Here. Writing. I told you."
"What time did you go to bed?"
"Around midnight. Why?"
"She died around eleven."
"I was here. You can check my laptop. I was working on the manuscript. Time stamps and everything."
"You could've left. Come back. Finished writing after."
"I could've. But I didn't."
She stays quiet.
Just sits, frozen. Grip the pen tightly.
Looking lost.
"Go to bed," I say. "We'll figure this out tomorrow."
"I don't think I can sleep."
"Try."
She nods.
Puts the pen down.
Walks out.
I hang around till the bedroom door shuts.
After that, I grab one pen along with the other.
Look at them.
She figures it's all one thing.
They're not.
The one at the crime spot - slipped it there three months back. Inside Room 406. Not long before taking Jane Doe out.
I figured Aria’d spot it sooner or later.
I knew she'd recognize the engraving.
I knew she’d keep holding on. Wonder if she was enough. Drive herself crazy.
It all came down to this.
The one sitting in my drawer? Picked it up a couple of weeks back. Same brand, right? Identical model. Got it etched at that same little store.
Backup plan.
If she ever faced me down.
That’s exactly what she went ahead and did.
I put one down, then the other.
Pull out the dark-feathered creature from inside that container.
The ninth one.
I've held onto this for a while.
For someone special.
Not Aria.
Not yet.
But soon.
I head over to the window.
Check out the town.
Lights blinking off and on. Folks resting while the night goes quiet.
Not one of them has a clue about what’s heading their way.
Not even Aria.
Especially not Aria.
I smile.
Headed back to my desk.
Open my notebook.
Write:
She’s falling apart. Who can she rely on? Not me, that’s for sure. Or James either. Even her own gut feels off-limits now.
Perfect.
One after that. Next up, the last one.
Close the notebook.
Switch off the lamp.
Go to bed.