Chapter 1
Emily's POV
The blue and white striped hospital gown scratched against my skin, making me itch. I'd been wearing these damn clothes for four weeks now, but still couldn't get used to them. I adjusted the black headband keeping my hair in place and continued weaving invisible patterns in the air with my fingers.
"Emily, how are you feeling today?" The nurse approached with a professionally cheerful tone, holding my morning medication.
I didn't look up, focusing on my meticulous hand movements. "I'm weaving a web. Black widows need precision. The tension must be perfect."
She sighed, visibly annoyed. "Yesterday you were a wolf spider. You said they don't build webs, they're hunters. You can't keep changing your story."
"I never said that." I took the small paper cup containing the pills, pretending to swallow them. "Black widows are patient. We wait for prey to walk into our traps."
Nurse Patel just shook her head. "Outdoor time in fifteen minutes."
As she walked away, I heard her mutter to another staff member: "Two psychology experts, both thinking they're spiders. What are the odds?"
I smiled inwardly. I'd been in the hospital for nearly a month, investigating what had happened to Professor Weber.
The gardens of Woodvale Mental Health Center were surprisingly beautiful, despite housing society's broken minds. November's chill had stripped most trees of their leaves, but the landscaping remained meticulously maintained. I immediately spotted her—Caitlin Weber, my teacher, once the most brilliant criminal psychologist, now curled up on a bench in the corner, staring at a real spider web between two shrubs.
I approached slowly and sat beside her, my fingers continuing their intricate weaving motions. For several minutes, we sat in silence. I could hear two nurses talking nearby.
"That's the new one, right?" I heard one say.
"Yeah, the Grey family girl. Been here almost a month now. She's frighteningly smart. Made Dr. Hoffman cry in therapy yesterday. Analyzed his marriage problems just by looking at his tie."
"Those two are cut from the same cloth," one said. "Both studied criminal psychology, both imagining themselves as creatures."
I suppressed a smile. My reputation was spreading nicely.
Caitlin didn't acknowledge me at first. Her silver-streaked hair hung limply around her face, her eyes fixed on the spider web. After several minutes of silence, she spoke without looking at me.
"You're not a spider. You're a person, a normal person, and you can't understand my world," her voice was hoarse from disuse. "You don't belong here."
"Neither do you," I replied, dropping the act. "Professor Weber."
She didn't look at me, just continued watching the spider. "I know exactly where I belong. In my web."
"You were my teacher," I said. "You taught Criminal Psychology. You helped the police catch many criminals."
A flicker of recognition crossed her face before vanishing behind the mask of madness.
"Professor, your husband Robert died six months ago. He was killed by a patient's family member at the hospital where he worked." I watched her carefully. "Everyone says that's what broke you. That grief turned your brilliant mind against itself."
Her fingers twitched slightly—a sign that my words had some effect on her. But her gaze returned to the web.
I don't believe my teacher would lose her mind over her husband's death. Her spirit was too resilient. For her, career pursuits always mattered more than love and marriage.
That's why I voluntarily checked into this mental hospital—to discover what really broke the professor's brilliant mind. To get close to her, I've been mimicking her behavior.
But these days Caitlin barely speaks to anyone. She exists in her own world, often talking to herself.
"Professor, you've been in the sun too long," after crouching for half an hour, my legs had gone numb, "we should move to the shade."
"I'm not sunbathing," she answered, eyes closed, the breeze disturbing her hair, "I'm feeling the webs I've woven, my webs extend throughout all of Riverstone. They're invisible but strong. I can feel someone struggling."
I felt goosebumps rise on my arms. "Professor—"
"Someone will die tonight, and others will meet their fate afterward," she whispered. "Caught in my web. They'll struggle, but it's too late."
"That's impossible," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
She suddenly turned to me, gripping my wrist with surprising strength. "You need to leave this place, Emily. I'm afraid I won't be able to stop myself from catching you in my web too. You'll be trapped here forever."
Her eyes cleared for a moment, flashing with the brilliance of the wise mind I remembered. "You know who I am, don't you, Professor? Do you still remember who I am?" I couldn't control the emotion in my voice.
Before she could answer, a nurse announced that outdoor time was over.
Caitlin released my wrist, her eyes losing their luster, returning to their usual state.
Watching her shuffle toward the building without a word, I felt both heartbroken and confused. I hadn't discovered anything in my investigation over the past month. Could she really have gone mad from losing her husband?
Most patients moved mechanically toward the ward area. Only I remained crouching on the grass.
The next morning, after my shower, I reluctantly pulled out the hospital gown from the closet. I could only sigh as I looked at the other clothes that would have been so much more comfortable to wear.
My room at Woodvale was much more comfortable than the standard wards—private bathroom, real furniture, and a window that wasn't reinforced. Being a member of the Grey family had its privileges, especially in a facility partially owned by the family.
Alone in the evening, I retrieved my hidden phone from inside my pillowcase. I had a new message from Chief Finch:
"Need your expertise. On November 16th, that is, last night, there was a case with an unusual manner of death. Call me when you're free."
I stared at the message, my hand trembling slightly. The time of death matched what Caitlin had said.
Could this be coincidence? Caitlin had been in the hospital the whole time, with no way to go out or contact anyone.
Originally, I hadn't wanted to leave until I figured out why Caitlin had become this way.
But the correlation between the victims' time of death and her prediction piqued my interest.
Third Person POV
The temperature had dropped to a bone-chilling 40°F in the dimly lit bathroom. An unnatural silence hung in the air, broken only by the faint humming of electronic components. The scent of metal and electrical tape permeated the space, creating an atmosphere of clinical precision.
A dark figure made final adjustments to the electrodes positioned around a metal bathtub. Gloved hands worked methodically, connecting wires to a power source with a timer and current regulator. The setup was designed to gradually increase electrical current—slowly enough to create maximum suffering, quickly enough to ensure death.
The figure filled the tub with just enough water to enhance conductivity. On the wall nearby hung a meticulously prepared chart showing the correlation between current strength and human physiological responses.
As a final touch, an emergency stop button was placed at the edge of the bathtub—tantalizingly within reach of someone who would soon be unable to move.
At Riverstone Police Department, the Major Crimes Unit looked like a battlefield after a long night. Coffee cups littered desks, pizza boxes were stacked in corners, and the air smelled of caffeine and desperation.
On the blackboard, one side showed the "Basement Asphyxiation Case": a victim found dead in his renovated basement, carbon monoxide poisoning ruled as cause of death. The other side displayed the "The Pond Drowning Case": a female body discovered in a pond in the suburban forest. The date—November 2nd and November 9th—were underlined in red marker. Both cases had no specific leads.
A man reviewing the autopsy report for the drowning victim broke the silence. "Does anyone know where Captain Michael went?"
"He and Thomas went to pick up the criminal psychology consultant this morning," Daniel said listlessly.
"Who is this expert?"
"According to Chief Finch, it's Caitlin Weber's star pupil—you know, the famous criminal profiler," Daniel replied. "Apparently she spent several years abroad."
"That makes sense. Someone with international training might have insights our local experts lack. This could be exactly what we need to crack the case..."
"If Michael and Thomas don't scare her off first," Olivia interjected.
"Seriously," Daisy said, "sending those two to meet our consultant was a terrible idea. Michael has the emotional range of a brick wall, and Thomas... well, Thomas is Thomas."
"Michael's facial expression disorder isn't his fault. Guy can't help looking like a cold-blooded killer all the time." Daniel said sympathetically.
"Remember when that witness filed a complaint because she thought he was threatening her?" Olivia quipped. "He was just asking for her statement."
"Thomas is with him, don't worry."
"Thomas?" Daisy laughed. "Our walking encyclopedia with zero social skills? The poster child for social awkwardness?"
Everyone laughed. "Chief must have a sense of humor we don't appreciate. Sending Mr. Can't-Smile and Mr. Can't-Shut-Up to pick up our consultant."
"Ten dollars says Thomas says something inappropriate within the first five minutes," Olivia offered.
"Twenty dollars says he mistakes someone else for the consultant," Daisy countered.
"You're on."
