Chapter 37 THE WRITER'S NOTE
\[ARIA POV\]
Victim number ten goes by the name Sophie Martinez.
She’s seventeen. Top of her class. Leads the volleyball squad.
Spotted in the parking area at the back of the community hall - same place she helps out each Thursday.
A folded paper crane was held in her left palm.
I hover above her still form - eyes locked on her features.
She seems like she might just be resting.
But she's not.
Marcus comes by - slips me a coffee, though I never said I wanted one.
"Witness," he says.
"What?"
"A janitor. He was taking out trash around eight-thirty. Saw someone in the parking lot. Near Sophie's car."
My heart pounds.
"Description?"
"Tall. Lean. Dark clothes. But here's the thing—he said the guy was wearing casual clothes. Jeans. Dark jacket. Nothing like the previous sightings."
"So maybe not the same person."
"Or maybe he's changing his pattern."
Sarah heads over, phone gripped tight.
"We got Sophie's phone records. Last call was to her mom at seven forty-five. She said she was leaving the center. Would be home by eight-fifteen."
"Time of death?"
"Coroner estimates between eight-thirty and nine."
I check the body once more. Like that bird there. Positioned just so.
One murderer. Always leaves the same mark.
Yet things seem off.
"Got any cameras?" I wonder.
"One. Across the street. Tech's pulling footage now."
"Good. Let me know the second you have it."
I head back to the car. Then I get in.
Pull out my phone - message Ethan.
Where are you?
A small pause. After that - three spots show up
Home. Writing. Why?
One more casualty. That’s ten so far.
Freak. You alright?
Nah. I won’t get back till later.
I’ll stay awake. I care about you.
I look at the text.
Love you.
He does? Really though?
Maybe he’s faking it instead?
I give a quick headshake - shoving that idea aside.
Ethan didn't do it. Instead, that was James.
James must exist.
I head back to the station. By then, it’s nearly twelve.
Marcus sits by his desk. Meanwhile, Sarah checks the clips inside the meeting space.
I walk over.
"Anything?"
She hits rewind - then runs it once more.
"Look. Eight twenty-seven p.m."
I lean in.
A person moves through the lot - heading for Sophie’s vehicle, but slower now, like they’re thinking twice. Not rushing, yet closing in step by step.
Tall. Slim build. Wearing a black coat.
Face hidden. Hood’s yanked high.
There he is," I tell you.
"Maybe. But watch."
She skips ahead. It’s 8:35 now.
The person moves off in the same way they arrived, but slower now. Not fast, just steady steps into the shadows.
"He's alone. No struggle. Nothing."
"So either Sophie went with him willingly—"
"Or this isn't the killer."
I replay the clip once more. How he moves, kinda slow. His frame - solid, broad. Noticing little things now, like his posture or the sway. Each detail stands out differently this time around.
Maybe it's him - James, that is.
Still, it might just as well be somebody else.
"Pull up James's location," I say. "Where was he tonight?"
Sarah grabs her tablet. Then she opens the security records.
"At home. We had eyes on his apartment from six p.m. to eleven p.m. He never left."
My stomach drops.
"What?"
"He was home, Aria. All night."
"Then he has a partner. Or someone's covering for him."
"Or he's not the killer."
I take a step backward. Yet I’m not sure. Then I move my head side to side.
"No. He is. We just haven't figured out how yet."
Marcus gets up. Then moves toward it.
"Aria. We need to talk."
"Not now."
"Yes. Now."
He drags me inside his room - shuts the door tight behind us.
"This has to stop."
"What has to stop?"
"Your obsession with James. You've been chasing him for two weeks. And bodies are still dropping."
"Because we're not watching him close enough—"
"We've had round-the-clock surveillance. He hasn't been near any of the crime scenes. Not one."
"Then explain the voice analysis. Explain the footage outside my house."
"Ethan showed you that footage. Ethan ran that analysis. Have you verified any of it independently?"
"I trust my husband."
"Do you? Or are you just desperate to believe him?"
I tighten my hands into balls.
"Don't."
"Don't what? Don't point out that you're compromised? That you're defending Ethan because you can't face the possibility that—"
"That's what? That my husband is a serial killer? You really think I'd marry someone like that?"
"I think killers are good at hiding. I think they're good at manipulation. And I think you're too close to see it."
I head out.
"Where are you going?"
"Home."
"Aria—"
"I'm done for tonight. Call me if anything comes up."
I step outside. Without glancing at Sarah’s expression. While the rest of the cops watch in silence.
Jump into my ride.
Drive.
Yet I head somewhere else instead.
I'm parked in the driveway - engine dead. Just sitting there, eyes locked on the house. Not moving, just watching it like I’m waiting for something.
The lights are on upstairs - Ethan’s office.
Maybe he’s typing right now - just like he mentioned earlier.
Writing about what?
I wonder what Marcus said.
Did you check any part on your own?
No. I haven't.
I put my faith in Ethan - then bought into every single thing he displayed. Yet soon started doubting what I’d accepted.
But what if Marcus is right?
What if I've been played?
I step out of the car - head toward the front door.
Unlock it quietly.
The house sits quietly.
I glance toward the staircase. There’s a glow beneath Ethan’s room - someone’s still awake.
He said he’d stay awake for me - yet now he’s at work.
I dropped my keys - then shrugged out of my jacket.
That’s when I catch the sound.
His voice - low, unclear. Speaking to a person nearby. Could barely make it out.
I head down to the base of the stairs - pause there, just listening.
"...I know. It's taking longer than I thought..."
Pause.
"...she's getting suspicious. I can feel it..."
Another pause.
"...no, I can handle her. Just give me a few more days..."
My skin goes icy.
Who's he chatting with?
I move up the stairs slowly. Not fast - just one foot after another.
The floor creaks.
I freeze.
The talking stops.
Next, the sounds of steps. Heading in the direction of the exit.
I step away - fast. Off the steps, just like that.
Head into the living room. Then plop down on the sofa.
Pick up my phone. Act like I’m browsing something.
Ethan shows up on the upper step.
"Aria? I didn't hear you come in."
"Just got here. Who were you talking to?"
"Talking to?"
"I heard your voice."
"Oh. My editor. Conference call about the new book."
"At midnight?"
"She's in London. Time difference."
He walks downstairs. Then grins.
Yet that spark never touches his gaze.
"How was the scene?" he asks.
"Bad. Another girl. Seventeen."
"I'm sorry."
He's sitting beside me now. Then he wraps an arm over my shoulder.
I feel like moving back.
But I don't.
"You look exhausted," he says.
"I am."
"Come to bed. You need rest."
"In a minute. I need to decompress."
"Want me to make tea?"
"No. I'm fine."
He brushes his lips on my hair then gets up.
"I'll be upstairs. Don't stay up too late."
"I won't."
He heads upstairs again. Then, I catch the sound of his office door shutting.
I stay put. My heart races.
Something's wrong.
It’s felt off lately - like, for a while now.
I take my phone out. Then I look up how accurate voice analysis software really is
Stuff shows up - papers, research bits.
Voice checks might get tricked. Fake audio clips show up now. Changed sound files are spread around.
I tap a single one.
Folks might mimic voices pretty easily using just simple programs.
My hands shake.
Ethan passed along the results - turns out James’s tone lined up with the warped audio clip. He mentioned it while we were talking near the garage.
But what if Ethan faked it?
Could it be that he tweaked the recording to pin things on James?
I look up: how video from security cameras gets changed
More results.
Time stamp changed. Also, a fake video was made. Plus, computer graphics have been added.
The clip shows James near our home. Could it have been fake instead?
What if Ethan created it?
I get up. Then head toward the kitchen.
Pour some water. Then drink it slowly. Maybe that’ll help you relax a bit.
But I can't.
I gotta find out.
I gotta check it out on my own.
I head up the stairs. Then I pass by Ethan’s room.
To the bedroom down the corridor.
That’s where he stores his past documents - stuff he uses for research. It’s background info, actually, for the books he writes.
I said I wouldn't touch his things - no way. Respecting how he creates? Yeah, that matters.
Right now, though, respect doesn’t matter to me.
I need answers.
I swing the door wide. Then I flick the switch.
Boxes piled by the wall - file cabinets beside them - a single desk shoved into place.
I begin at the table. Then check inside the compartments.
Notebooks - scattered pages. Articles, ink still fresh. Studies about killers who repeat their crimes.
Just typical stuff for someone who writes about crimes.
I head toward the filing units.
Start with the first tab. Folders sorted by letter.
Real crime stories. How criminals think. Well-known murderers.
I browse a bit - no odd stuff here.
Check the next cupboard.
Extra documents. Also some extra studying.
That’s when I spot it.
A file tagged: Cross Family Past.
I take it out - then crack it open.
Inside lies a stack of papers - faded news snippets tucked between them.
The first one goes back a quarter century.
|RENOWNED SURGEON ARRESTED FOR DOUBLE HOMICIDE|
I checked out the piece.
Dr. Richard Cross, age 42, was picked up by police late last night after Michael Walker and his wife, Catherine, were killed in a violent attack. Cops discovered the pair inside their house - both had been beheaded. Their kids, just toddlers, were spotted curled up in a bedroom wardrobe…luckily okay.
My vision blurs.
Walker - my mom’s first and last name.
Catherine Walker.
My mother.
I keep reading.
Dr. Cross got picked out by a kid who made it through - his 8-year-old daughter.
I was eight back then.
The kid spotted a picture of Dr. Cross up at the precinct, so cops came knocking shortly after.
Oh my God.
I let go of the folder.
Papers lie all over the floor.
I crouch low. Then grab them, my hands trembling.
Another clipping.
| Dr. Richard Cross sentenced to life without Parole|
The judge said it was among the worst crimes he’d ever come across. Meanwhile, Dr. Cross didn’t seem sorry at all.
I sift through a few more sheets.
Baby's first paper. Doctor’s notes from the delivery room.
Something grabs my attention.
Baby boy arrived on January 15. His mom? That’s Helen Cross.
The day falls three weeks after Dr. Richard Cross was taken in.
I’m looking for something extra.
Discover a scribbled message.
Baby arrived safely. A check on genes was set up. Waiting now for the outcome.
Gene test?
I keep searching.
Look for a different paper. Lab test outcomes from a doctor.
Patient’s a newborn - goes by Baby Cross. Ran a test for the MAOA-L gene marker. Came back positive.
Checked twice just to be sure.
I don't understand.
I take my phone out. Then I look up the MAOA-L gene
Results load.
The so-called "warrior gene," sometimes called the "psychopath gene." Tied to aggression when it's the low-activity type. People might struggle with empathy. Also raises the chances of acting violently.
My stomach turns.
Ethan's father was a serial killer.
Ethan came back positive for the psychopath gene when he was just an infant.
I’m still going through the files, one after another.
Find photos.
A girl appears here - she's expecting. Beside her stands Doctor Richard Cross.
Helen wrote it herself. Eight months along she was.
A different picture. This time, it's a newborn lying in a crib at a medical center.
Behind it said: Ethan. Just two days since he was born.
Ethan.
I lean back. Then I try to make sense of it.
Doc Cross? That’s Ethan’s old man.
The guy who killed my mom and dad.
Ethan just didn't say a word to me.
He mentioned his dad had passed away. Claimed it happened in a crash while he was just a kid.
He lied.
What’s his reason for not telling the truth?
Unless—
Unless he knows.
Unless he figures out what his dad was up to.
Unless he realizes it was me who figured out who he is.
My hands tremble that much - papers slip down once more.
I hear something making noise.
Steps echoing down the hall.
I freeze.
The door opens.
Ethan stands there.
Staring right at me. Then down - toward the pages tossed all over the ground.
In front of me, a folder sat there.
He keeps the same expression.
Shows nothing. Not even shock. No rage either. Fear? Nope.
Just... nothing.
"I told you not to come in here," he says quietly.
"Your father—"
"Is in prison. Yes."
"You lied to me. You said he was dead."
"I said what I needed to say."
"He killed my parents."
Ethan walks in - shuts the door after. Behind him, it clicks into place.
"I know."
My breath catches.
"You know?"
"Not at first. But I figured it out. About a year ago."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"Would you have stayed if I had?"
I get up. Then move slowly to the window.
"You've known for a year that your father murdered my parents. And you said nothing."
"What was I supposed to say? That my father is a monster? That I'm his son? That I probably have the same sickness he does?"
"Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Have the same sickness."
He smiles.
Small. Cold.
"What do you think?"
I grab my phone.
He's faster.
He moves across the space. Then takes hold of my arm.
"Don't."
"Let me go."
"We need to talk."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"There's everything to talk about."
He yanks me over to the seat - shoves me down into it.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Aria. I just need you to listen."
"I don't want to listen. I want to leave."
"And go where? To Marcus? To Sarah? And tell them what? That you married the son of the man who killed your parents?"
"Yes."
"And then what? They investigate me. They dig into my life. Into our lives. And they find nothing. Because I haven't done anything wrong."
"You're lying."
"Am I?"
He props himself on the edge of the desk - arms folded tight across his chest.
"You think I'm the Origami Killer. You think I've been killing these girls. But you have no proof."
"The storage unit—"
"Doesn't exist. James made it up. Or planted evidence. You broke in illegally. Contaminated the scene. Even if it did exist, nothing would be admissible."
"The voice analysis—"
"I showed you what you needed to see. What you wanted to believe."
I look at him.
"You faked it."
"No aria trust I never lied to you for once
He shoves away from the desk. Then moves toward the window.
"The truth that my father is a monster. That I carry his genes. That every day I wake up wondering if I'm going to become him."
"Are you?"
He doesn't answer.
Just sits there, eyes fixed on the glass.
"I write about killers because I need to understand them. I research them. Study them. Try to figure out what makes them tick."
"Because you think you're one of them."
"Because I know I could be."
He turns around.
"But I'm not. I've spent my whole life fighting it. Fighting the impulses. The thoughts. The urges."
"What urges?"
"The ones that tell me to hurt people. To see what it feels like. To finish what my father started."
My blood turns icy.
"You need help."
"I have help. I see a therapist. I take medication. I manage it."
"Does your therapist know about the girls? About the murders?"
"There are no murders. I haven't killed anyone."
"Then who has?"
"I don't know. Maybe James. Maybe someone else. But it's not me."
I stand.
"I'm leaving."
"No. You're not."
"You can't stop me."
"I can. Because if you leave, if you go to your team, I'll tell them everything."
"Everything?"
"About the storage unit break-in. About you stealing evidence. About you compromising the investigation because you're too emotionally involved."
"They already know I'm compromised."
"Do they know you've been protecting me? Defending me? Even when you suspected I might be guilty?"
I don't answer.
Because he's right.
"You leave now, your career is over," Ethan says. "Your credibility is destroyed. And the real killer keeps killing. Is that what you want?"
"What I want is the truth."
"The truth is complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
He looks right at me.
Long. Hard.
Then he sighs.
"I think someone is framing me. Using my connection to my father. Using my research. My notes. My patterns."
"Who?"
"I don't know. But I think it's someone who knows about my father. Who knows about me? Who wants to destroy everything I've built?"
"James."
"Maybe. Or maybe someone else."
"Who else could it be?"
"I don't know. But I'm going to find out."
He heads to the door - then pushes it open.
"You can leave if you want. Tell Marcus everything. Ruin both our lives. Or you can stay. Help me figure this out. Catch whoever's doing this."
I stand there.
Torn.
My gut screams - get out. Or maybe shout his name. Except he’s the reason I should vanish before it’s too late.
Yet some piece of me - the one that cared for him, said yes at the altar, made a home alongside him - still hopes he’s telling the truth.
Wants to trust what he says.
"I need time," I say.
"How much time?"
"I don't know. A few days. A week."
"We don't have a week. Another girl will die. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tonight."
"Then what do you want me to do?"
"Help me. Work with me. Find the real killer."
"And if the real killer is you?"
Our gazes lock.
"Then you put a bullet in me. Just like you'd put a bullet in anyone else."
I look at him.
Looking out for a fake story. Or some sneaky move - something showing he’s tricking me.
Yet everything around me feels drained.
"Okay," I say finally. "I'll help you. But if I find out you're lying—"
"You won't."
"If I do, I'll arrest you myself."
"Deal."
He steps away. I stay put, frozen in place.
Stacked with documents. Filled with hidden things. Packed with facts I’ve dodged so far.
Doc Richard Cross took my mom and dad’s lives.
Ethan Cross - yep, that’s his kid.
In this town, a killer’s on the loose - folding paper birds after each hit. One by one, lives drop while tiny cranes show up at crime scenes. Folks don’t know who's next, only that silence follows every folded wing.
I gotta find out which person.
Right before another person gets hit.
While there's still time.
I grab my phone from my pocket.
Meet me tomorrow. In the morning - real early. I’ve got something urgent. Gotta talk face-to-face.
After that, I shut the lamp off.
Head back to my room.
Ethan's not there.
I flop onto the bed. Then I just watch the ceiling.
Then again, maybe I messed up worse than ever before.