Chapter 40 THE COPYCAT
\[ETHAN POV\]
The questioning room feels chilly.
Marcus is on the opposite side. Meanwhile, Sarah’s propped up by the wall - arms folded, expression empty.
Aria’s on the other side of the glass. Somehow, I sense her eyes on me.
"Where were you last night between eleven p.m. and four a.m.?" Marcus asks.
"Home."
"Can anyone confirm that?"
"My wife."
"She said you weren't in bed when she checked at three."
"I was in my office. Writing."
"Writing what?"
"My next book."
Sarah shoves away from the wall, then steps forward slowly.
"What's it about?"
"Detective hunting a serial killer."
"Convenient."
I don't respond.
Marcus pushes a picture toward the other side of the table.
Cold ground. Corpse leaning on brickwork. A narrow lane at the back of a place.
"Rebecca Cole. Thirty-five. Single mother. Works nights at County General. Know her?"
"No."
"Never met her?"
"Never."
"You sure?"
"I said no."
Sarah grabs a different picture. It shows a hand up close - just fingers and palm, nothing else.
Red origami bird.
My chest tightens.
I didn't walk away from it.
“Get it?” she says.
I look at it.
The folds? Off. Messy. Corners won’t match - wings sit crooked instead.
That's not mine.
"It's a bird," I say.
"You fold these."
"Sometimes."
"How often?"
"When I'm thinking. When I'm working through plot points."
Marcus leans forward.
"This bird was found in Rebecca Cole's hand. Same as the other victims. Same signature."
I glance his way.
I haven't visited that spot before, nor talked to her directly - the only time was when I brought my wife, Detective Aria, to the ER and she happened to be on duty that afternoon. So why would I write about a meeting that never occurred? Feels off, messy... not my style at all. Check with Aria if you doubt me - it’s just no
"No?"
"No."
"Then who did?"
I'm not sure. Yet it wasn't me. How often must I say this already?
Sarah folds her arms tight.
"Forensics pulled prints off the paper. Came back clean. But the folds don't match the previous birds."
I try to stay calm on the outside.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean whoever folded this bird isn't as skilled as whoever folded the others. The technique's different. Paper quality's different. Everything's off."
Marcus watches me.
"Which means either you're getting sloppy. Or someone else left this bird."
Whoa! After all that stuff you pulled - making me seem like the murderer, just ’cause my wife had doubts… ugh. The actual killers are out there right now, plotting again. Could be targeting Marcus next - or maybe Aria, my wife. Honestly? No clue.
One thing’s clear - the murderer cares about my story, 'cause the killings match how I laid it out in the pages
Once I stop talking
My mind races.
Someone else.
One person showed up where I was.
After I left.
I was just mulling it over when out of nowhere Marcus yelled my way.
Who?
"I already told you," I say. "I didn't kill Rebecca Cole. I've never met her. I don't know anything about this."
"Then why does this bird look like your work?"
"It doesn't. You just said the folds are different."
Sarah takes out a bunch of pictures. Then lays them across the table one by one.
Old targets. Earlier sparrows.
All good. Exactly alike.
After that, Rebecca’s bird showed up. Besides the others, it stayed.
The contrast stands out clearly.
"See that?" Sarah says. "These are clean. Precise. Professional. This one?" She taps Rebecca's bird. "This one's amateur. Like someone's trying to copy the original but doesn't know how."
Marcus turns his gaze my way.
"So either you intentionally made this one sloppy to throw us off. Or someone else is playing copycat."
"Or you're trying to frame me."
"Why would we frame you?"
"Because my father's a serial killer. Because it makes a good story. Because you need someone to blame and I'm convenient."
Sarah pounds her palm down hard on the wood.
"Your father chopped off two people's heads and left their kids hiding in a closet. Those kids grew up traumatized. One of them is sitting behind that glass right now. So don't talk to me about convenient."
I glance at the glass.
Aria.
She’s right there - keeps an eye on it.
Is it clear to her? Can she still recall?
Nope. She’s unable. Because she shut it down.
I look again at Marcus.
"Am I under arrest?"
"Not yet."
"Then I'm leaving."
"Sit down."
"No. Either charge me or let me go."
Marcus glances at Sarah, and she nods back.
Finally, Marcus nods.
"You're free to go. But don't leave town."
I get up. Then head toward the doorway.
Sarah moves ahead of me.
"Who else knows how to fold origami birds, Mr. Cross?"
"Anyone with an internet connection and ten minutes."
"Who else has access to your paper? Your tools?"
"No one. I keep everything in my office."
"Your wife has access?"
"She's a cop. Not a killer."
"What about James Reynolds?"
I stop.
"What about him?"
"He's been following you. Watching you. Maybe he's the one leaving these birds. Trying to frame you."
I guess that's how it goes.
James. Out by the station. Just staring my way.
Might he actually show up at my spots? Dropping clues on purpose?
"Maybe," I say.
"You think he's capable?"
"I think he's obsessed. And obsessed people do crazy things."
Sarah steps aside.
I walk out.
The hallway's empty.
I move to the door. My thoughts are racing.
Someone's copying me.
A person is showing up at my crime spots once I’m gone.
Putting in seeds, but no folding happened.
Why?
To pin it on me? So you can carry on what I started? Or just laugh at my expense?
I shove open the doors - then step into the air beyond.
Then he shows up.
James Reynolds.
Propped up by a vehicle on the other side of the road. Keeping an eye on me.
I stop.
We lock eyes.
He stays still. Yet his eyes don’t look away.
I step across the road - head forward right at him.
"You've been following me," I say.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because I know what you are."
"And what's that?"
"A killer. Just like your father."
"You don't know anything about my father."
"I know enough."
I step closer.
"Did you leave that bird? At Rebecca Cole's crime scene?"
He blinks.
"What?"
"The origami bird. In her hand. Did you put it there?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You've been following me. Watching me. Going to my crime scenes. Planting evidence."
"I haven't planted anything."
"Then who did?"
He gives a quick no with his head.
"I don't know. But it wasn't me."
"Bullshit."
"I'm not trying to frame you, Ethan. I'm trying to stop you."
"By stalking me? By harassing my wife?"
"By finding proof. Real proof. Not planted evidence. Not fake birds. Real proof that you're the Origami Killer."
"I'm not."
"Yes. You are."
I move nearer.
"If you keep following me. If you keep harassing my wife and me. I'll make sure everyone knows you're the one who's been planting evidence. Who's been at the crime scenes? Who's the real killer?"
His jaw tightens.
"You can't threaten me."
"I just did."
I walk away.
After I leave, he shouts my name.
"She's going to find out. Aria. She's going to figure out what you are. And when she does, you're done."
I stay facing forward.
Just keep walking.
Jump into my ride.
Sit there.
Keep your hands on the steering wheel.
Someone's copying me.
There’s a person near where I’m standing.
Someone knows.
But who?
I grab my phone. Then I tap on the notes app.
Go down the names on my target sheet.
Victim number one to ten - each one was me. Every single one turned out just right. Not a flaw in sight.
Victim number eleven - Michael Torres. Belonged to me. Not a single bird remained.
Victim number twelve. That was Rebecca Cole. Belonged to me. Not a single bird remained.
Yet birds showed up on each one.
Birds I never made.
Another person’s handling it.
Another person is wrapping up what I started.
I gotta figure out which person.
Before things go wrong.
I fire up the engine. Then roll down the road.
But not home.
I go down the side street where I’d last seen Rebecca.
It’s blocked with tape. Officers are scattered all around.
I leave the car a couple of streets off. Then head on foot.
Hang back in the dark. Keep an eye out.
Forensics shows up again. Snapping shots this time. Gathering clues instead.
I check around. Searching for lenses. Or people nearby. Anything that’d hint at who targeted me.
Nothing.
The alley’s just empty - cameras? None. Traffic? Nada. People? Not a soul.
Anyone who set that bird free had a plan in mind.
They were familiar with the place. Also aware of where no one would see.
Just like me.
I grab my phone. Then snap shots of everything around. From different sides. So I can see how it looks from each direction.
Then I leave.
Head over to the warehouse - same place I ditched Michael.
Just like before. I taped it off - police showed up, then the crime scene team came after.
I stay parked way off. Keep an eye out.
Nothing useful.
Anyone mimicking me knows what they're doing.
Too good.
I drive home.
Aria’s vehicle is gone.
I head in - right into my workspace.
Take out my files. Also, grab my notes. Then check my research.
All the info I’ve gathered about the victims - where it happened, when it went down, along with little details that stand out.
I laid everything out across the table.
Watch for signs. Or links between things. Anything that shows someone else is aware of it.
That’s when I spot it.
This is a notebook of mine. It’s the red one. That's the one I use when figuring things out.
It’s nowhere near where I put it.
I usually leave it on the left part of the desk - right beneath the lamp.
It’s over there now - on the right. Beside the keyboard, just sitting. Then again, you’ll spot it close to where typing happens.
Somebody came inside.
Somebody went through my stuff.
I skim the notebook. Then go over each sheet.
Nothing’s gone. Yet all feels a bit twisted. As if someone snapped a picture. After that, I placed things just out of sync.
My chest tightens.
Has someone been in my room?
Aria? Hunting for clues?
James? You came inside when I wasn't here?
Someone else?
I take my phone out. Then I open the security app.
I put in cameras around the home half a year back - secret ones. She’s got no clue they’re there.
I checked the video from yesterday.
Later on, skip ahead to what happened during daylight hours.
Morning time. Then Aria heads out for her job. After that, I get going too - just sixty minutes behind.
Afternoon. Empty house.
It's evening. I get back from work. After that, out again by eleven.
At 2:47 a.m., outta nowhere, motion shows up.
I pause. Rewind.
There.
A shape. Inside my workspace.
Dressed in black. With the hood pulled up - face hidden beneath it.
They hurry along - quick on their feet. No wasted motion. Head right toward my workspace, one after another.
Pull out the notebook. Then flip through it. After that, snap pictures using their phone.
After that, they returned it.
Wrong spot.
They glance across the room. Yet keep their hands off everything.
Then they leave.
Two minutes - get in, then out. That’s it.
I go back. Focus closer on the shape.
Can't make out the face. Yet the frame - tall, solid. Then there's how they walk, smooth but quick. Stillness between steps stands out.
Male. Possibly around five-ten tall. Thin build.
James?
Could be.
Or someone else.
I keep the video. Then I send it straight to my phone.
After that, I just stay put.
Looking at my table.
Someone knows.
One person checked my notes. But also went through my plans. While looking at my research.
Now they’re following my lead.
Walking off, leaving behind their feathered friends. They’re gone - yet what they wrote stays put.
Working on wrapping up my unfinished business.
Or pin it on me.
I need to work out who.
Before things go downhill.
Before someone snatches it right outta my hands.
I shut the notebook. Then I slide it into the drawer and lock it.
Next thing I know, the front door swings wide.
Footsteps. Aria's home.
I switch off the machine. Then stash away the recording.
Walk downstairs.
She’s hanging out in the kitchen. Then starts pouring herself a cup of coffee.
"Hey," I say.
She avoids my gaze.
"Hey."
"How'd it go? After I left?"
"Marcus thinks you might be innocent."
My stomach drops.
"He does?"
"The bird on Rebecca. It doesn't match the others. Forensics confirmed it."
"So they think someone else killed her?"
"They think someone else is copying the killer. Trying to frame him. Or continue his work."
"Do they think it's me?"
She glances my way at last.
"I don't know what to think anymore."
"Aria—"
"Don't. Just don't."
She moves by without stopping - then climbs the stairs after.
I stand there.
Listening to how she walked.
That’s when I grab my phone.
Open my notes.
Victim number fourteen - already chosen.
Jennifer Walsh - she’s 28. Works nights, pulling drinks at a bar in the city center. Her shift ends when most people are heading home. Life runs on coffee and quick meals between customers.
Tonight's Friday.
She’ll shut down the place by herself.
Perfect.
This time I’ll keep an eye on her for a month without drawing any focus toward myself.
This time around, though, I’m staying put.
This time, I’m sticking around - keeping an eye out.
Wondering who’ll appear once I’ve left.
Still watching - just wondering who’s mimicking my moves.
Once I spot them, though, I’ll handle things.
Permanently.