Chapter 5 THE PHOTOGRAPH

[ARIA POV]

I’m parked near Lighthouse Books, engine silent. A book rests on my knees. Not rushing - just breathing, watching the street.

To the cop who spots truth in shadows.

One word after another. Just like before. Written in identical script. With the exact same ink.

He knows.

I’m not sure how much time’s passed since I sat down. Maybe five minutes. Or closer to twenty. Folks pass by - some walking fast, others slow. There’s a pair laughing, fingers linked. A teenager rolling on a board with wheels. Not one of them glances my way.

I flip the book back open - trace the letters slowly with my fingertip.

He scribbled it down with thirty folks watching. Grinned the whole time. As if it didn't matter at all.

As if he didn’t admit he saw what I stumbled on.

My phone buzzes.

Ethan: On my way back. Should I pick up a bottle of wine while out?

I look at the words.

Just regular stuff. Pretty straightforward. As if he hadn’t scribbled the exact words - etched into a knife - in my novel moments ago.

I don't answer.

I fire up the engine.

I stay away from home.

I head to the precinct. I park out back - no one’ll spot my ride there. Almost nine now. Most of the place is quiet. Lights glow upstairs here and there. Some night crew must be grinding through reports.

I slide my key card to enter via the side door.

The evidence room's down in the basement. It's chilly there. Lights flicker overhead, making a harsh buzzing sound. Shelves line the walls - metal ones - packed tight with containers and sealed sacks.

I know the spot - those Origami Killer folders? Row three. Up top.

I grab the file for number four - Michael Cordero - but this guy’s a blogger. He writes online stuff instead of working regular jobs.

His folder’s way bulkier than the rest. Not only did he get caught up in it - turns out, he was digging around. What started as personal turned into something bigger.

I laid it all across the table - photos here, notes there. His blog printouts were scattered near the edge. Not much order to it, just pieces everywhere.

The final one came out just a day before his death.

Title: "The Origami Killer Isn't Random. He's Personal."

I went through it one more time.

Cordero’s idea: The murderer recognizes who he targets. He watches each one before acting. Learns their habits over time. Kills where it matters - but only to himself, never about the victim.

He began charting things out - spots here, timelines there, links between them.

Beneath it all, just a single row

"If I'm right, the next victim will be someone close to law enforcement. Someone he wants to send a message to."

My fingers lose feeling.

I check the date - just days before Cordero passed. It was close, really close.

Two weeks earlier - then he turned into victim number four.

I grab my phone. Then I tap the calendar icon. After that, I flick through the dates.

Victim number one - Sarah Jennings. Found in a parking garage. That was on March 14th.

Ethan’s plan for the evening? Hit the gym. Get home before ten.

I got back around eleven. While I walked in, he was still in the shower. Mentioned he’d gone too hard on the treadmill earlier.

Victim number two - Rebecca Holt. That’s her place. Happened on April 3rd.

Ethan’s schedule: a quiet getaway for writers - quick escape over the weekend.

I stayed back at work instead. Besides, it was my second shift straight.

Victim number three - Lisa Tran. Found in a storage locker. Date: April 29th.

His book thing - went along with him. Left sooner than expected, though. Claimed he was off form. Asked me to stick around instead. Enjoy myself, basically.

I hung around until way after dark.

Victim number four - Michael Cordero. That’s his vehicle. Date: May 18th.

I stayed late at work that evening. By eleven, my phone buzzed - Ethan had sent a message.

Done with writing. I’m thinking of you.

I shot off a heart emoji.

Victim number five. Her name’s Jane Doe. She was in room 406 - happened last night.

He was at home. Still sleeping when I stepped out. Still zonked when I returned.

Wasn't he?

I shut my eyes.

Stop.

This changes nothing - folks live busy lives. Because they work out regularly... or head off somewhere now and then. Even when events drag on, exhaustion kicks in.

Yet my phone stays unlocked. Meanwhile, my hand keeps swiping.

I open my photo folder.

Three weeks back, I snapped a photo of Ethan at his desk. He wore a grin - looked pleased with some words he’d typed up. Beside his computer rested a pile of folded paper birds.

I zoom in.

Count them.

Six.

Six cranes.

Six victims.

My breath catches.

I let go of the phone.

It rattles against the tabletop. Face down, screen hidden.

I just leave it there.

I just sit there staring at the plastic bags on the desk - got a pen lying next to them, some papers piled up, along with whatever Cordero scribbled down.

A person near police work.

Me.

He’s including me in this.

My phone buzzes.

I turn it around.

Ethan: Aria? You alright? I'm starting to worry.

I gaze at the display.

He’s back at the house. Just staying put. Maybe on a chair by the window, sipping something red from a glass. Pondering my whereabouts right now.

It could be he’s aware right now where I’m at.

Perhaps he’s followed me ever since.

I type: I’m okay. Should be back before long.Hit send.

After that, I get on my feet. Stuff all the items back in the container. Push it onto the rack.

I grab the pen outta my pocket - Montblanc. That one he always used.

I’d better write it down. Or maybe hand it over instead.

I slipped it into my pocket again.

I drive home.

The flat’s mostly shadowed, just the kitchen lamp glowing. It shows up through the garage window - soft, golden, kind of comforting instead.

I stay inside the vehicle for a short while.

After that, I step outside.

Use the staircase rather than the lift. No real reason. It just seems nicer.

As I walk in, Ethan’s sitting by the table, with a glass of wine waiting. He glances over, grinning.

"Hey. Was starting to think you got called in again."

"No. Just needed to clear my head."

"Long day?"

"Yeah."

He gets up. Then moves close. I touch my head softly.

I stay put.

Yet I’m not into that scene at all.

"I got Thai," he says. "Left some in the fridge for you."

"Thanks. I'm not really hungry."

"You sure? You barely ate this morning."

"I'm sure."

He watches me closely. The way he stares - like he’s piecing things together without words. Almost as if silence speaks louder than answers ever could.

You good? He says.

"I'm fine."

"You don't seem fine."

"I'm just tired, Ethan."

He gives a quick nod. But doesn't press further.

"Alright. I'll be in the study if you need me."

He walks away.

I see him leave.

That’s when it hits me.

Over by the kitchen counter - beside the coffee machine.

A white origami crane.

Perfect folds.

It was gone by now, though still here earlier.