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As he walked back towards the house, Jake's mind raced. Tall, lean, masked – the description was vague but consistent with someone trying to avoid leaving traces. He felt a familiar flare of determination; this killer was meticulous, but every criminal made mistakes. And it was up to him and Fiona to find them.
***
Inside the house, Fiona ascended the staircase, her steps deliberate and soundless, despite the cacophony of police chatter outside. Her gaze fixed on the cracked window on the second floor with forensic hunger. She noted the jagged edges; they gestured inward—unmistakable evidence that someone had entered rather than exited. The spider killer was indeed agile and determined, and likely used the brick and the house’s siding to scale it.
She swept her fingers near the sill, careful not to disturb potential prints or fibers. He's physically fit, she thought, picturing the lean figure that must have hoisted himself through this very aperture. It wasn't just about strength; it was about daring—the audacity to climb and enter the unknown.
The room was untouched by struggle, which meant Erica never knew he was here until it was too late. Fiona's eyes skirted over the walls, adorned with framed moments of triumph: Erica, mid-kick, suspended in time, muscles taut. Trophies and medals proclaimed her prowess in kickboxing. Each memento was a testament to discipline and solitary dedication.
Fiona recorded the details in her notebook, her handwriting stark against the white paper. Erica Silverman, another strong woman who lived alone, met an end that was as tragic as it was unseemly. The pattern was solidifying, becoming clearer with each unfortunate discovery.
Fiona's gaze lingered on the kickboxing trophies lining the shelf, each a testament to Erica's strength. In the stillness of the room, a pang of empathy surged through her. She too knew the quiet pride of an independent life. Before joining the FBI, she had never been the most athletically inclined, but her mental fortitude and love for entomology had always been her pillars. She lived alone, reliant on no one but herself, her sanctuary untouched by others—until Jake.
Jake Tucker, the first man who had ever managed to breach her walls, yet even with him, they maintained their separate lives. Their relationship was a delicate balance of closeness and individuality, not unlike the solitary existences of the women whose lives had been so brutally cut short.
She brushed her fingers over a photograph of Erica, smiling broadly, a medal around her neck. Fiona felt the weight of the solitude that enveloped the victims, a choice that should have meant safety but had instead made them targets. She took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts aside. Empathy would not catch a killer; evidence would.
With a final glance at the photos, Fiona turned and made her way back downstairs, her steps heavy with fatigue. The day's events clung to her like cobwebs, sticky and persistent. The air seemed to thicken as she descended, making each step feel laborious, each breath a little shorter. She reached out to the banister for support, feeling the grain of the wood under her palm.
As she stepped onto the foyer's tiled floor, the wooziness that had started as a whisper roared to a shout. She paused, steadying herself against the wall. Her glasses slipped slightly down her nose, and she pushed them back up with a shaky finger.
"Red?" Jake's voice cut through the fog that threatened to cloud her mind. She looked up to see him stepping inside, his form solid and grounding. His presence was a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of exhaustion.
"Hey," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "You're back."
“Neighbor saw a man, dressed in black, but can’t tell us much more than that,” Jake said. “At least we have an idea of body type.”
“Better than nothing. Let’s go over the facts.” Fiona flipped open her notebook, the pages containing notes that now seemed to echo with an ominous familiarity. "Lena Chase, Jamie Lin, and now Erica Silverman," she began, voice low but clear. Her finger traced the names as if to carve out a pattern from the ink itself. "All strong, independent women. All alone. And all with their throats slit." She lifted her eyes to Jake's, the weight of the realization heavy between them.
"Spiders at every scene," Jake added, his brow furrowed as he leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. "Orb-weavers. It's like a signature."
"Exactly," Fiona affirmed. The spiders weren't just coincidental; they were part of the killer's twisted calling card. "It's methodical. Deliberate."
They stood there for a moment, silent, absorbing the gravity of their findings. These weren't random acts of violence; they were dealing with a predator who stalked his prey with chilling precision. And yet, something about this scene felt off.
"Something went wrong here," Fiona said, breaking the silence. Her gaze returned to the body in the foyer, the stillness of death in sharp contrast to the chaos of the crime. "The others were killed in their kitchens. This...this was hasty, impulsive. Rushed, like you said earlier.”
Jake nodded, pushing off from the wall. "Yeah, Erica must've come home early or caught him off guard." His eyes scanned the surroundings, tracing the path of an assailant who had fled too quickly. "He had to take her down right here."
"Which means he might have been sloppy," Fiona suggested, hope lacing her tone. They needed that—one mistake, one oversight that could lead them to the monster hiding behind these murders.
"Let's get forensics in here to comb through everything," Jake decided, already reaching for his phone. "If he rushed this, he may have left us something we can use."
"Right." Fiona closed her notebook, a sense of determination settling in. They were close, she could feel it. Each crime scene was a piece of the puzzle, and the picture was starting to take shape. With meticulous analysis and a bit of luck, they would catch this killer. It was only a matter of time before he messed up, and when he did, they would be ready.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fiona's eyes were strained, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she leaned closer to the microscope. Beside her, Jake shuffled through crime scene photos, his brows furrowed in concentration. The clock on the wall ticked away, indifferent to their urgency. The FBI headquarters' forensic lab was a cave of shadows at this late hour, lit only by the blue glow of computer screens and the occasional flare of a desk lamp.
"Anything?" Jake's voice sliced through the silence, laced with hope and fatigue.
"Nothing." Fiona's reply was flat, tinged with frustration. She pushed back from the microscope, rubbed her eyes, and glanced at the array of evidence bags littering the table—a silent testament to their fruitless endeavor. The hum of machinery analyzing samples was a constant reminder of how much they depended on science to speak when human voices had been forever silenced.
"Let's go over it again," Jake suggested, though the slump of his shoulders betrayed his dwindling enthusiasm.
Fiona nodded, steeling herself for another round. They combed through every detail—hair fibers, fabric particles, the smallest speck of blood—all scrutinized under the unforgiving eye of technology. But the killer was a ghost, leaving behind no traceable DNA, no strand of hair, not even a flake of skin.
"Red, you okay?" Jake asked, noticing the crease deepening between Fiona's brows.
