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"Alright then," he said. "And hey, about when you helped me on my thesis…”
"Consider our debt cleared," Fiona cut in, a hint of playfulness seeping into her weary tone.
A chuckle echoed from the phone, a shared memory lighting the darkness of the lab. "Good luck, Agent Red."
"Night, Caleb." She ended the call, the last word hanging in the air, a reminder of how far she had come since those days buried in books and bug collections.
Jake glanced over. "Barry Fink, huh?"
"First thing tomorrow," Fiona affirmed, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She felt the pull of sleep like a physical force, but her mind refused to shut down, thoughts flickering like the fluorescent lights overhead.
"Smart move," Jake agreed, closing the folder in front of him. He stretched the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders—a silent testament to the hours they'd spent poring over evidence.
"Let's call it a night, Red. We can't chase spiders if we're half-asleep."
"Right," Fiona breathed out, the room suddenly feeling colder as the adrenaline began to ebb. She gathered the scattered papers, each one a fragment of the puzzle they were desperately trying to solve.
"Tomorrow," Jake repeated, offering her a reassuring smile as they packed away their work. "We'll crack this case wide open."
"Tomorrow," Fiona echoed, allowing herself a small smile. They walked side by side towards the exit, their shadows merging on the floor. Tonight, rest was a necessity.
Tomorrow, they would hunt.
***
Fiona's breathing was deep and even, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only movement in the otherwise still room. Beside her, Jake lay wide awake, his gaze locked on the rough patterns of the ceiling. The ghost of their earlier conversation haunted the darkness, orb-weavers spinning silent webs in his mind.
Try as he might, sleep eluded him. His thoughts churned, relentless waves crashing against the cliffs of memory. The similarities between this case and what had happened to his mother fifteen years prior were too stark to ignore. Every closed eye brought visions of that unsolved horror, the image of his mother's lifeless body seared into his retinas.
He turned his head slightly, watching Fiona sleep. Her red curls cascaded across the pillow, a vivid contrast to the pale linen. He appreciated her presence, the way she brought a sense of order into his chaotic world, but tonight her steady breathing felt like a metronome to his mounting unease. Jake's eyes returned to the ceiling as if answers were written in the cracks and shadows.
He didn't want to hope; hope was a dangerous thing that could lead to crushing disappointment. Yet, the spider thread of possibility weaved through his thoughts, refusing to be ignored. With a silent sigh, Jake carefully slid out from under the covers, taking care not to disturb Fiona.
Jake stood motionless for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the blinds. He padded across the cold floor to the living room, where an old bookshelf held various objects that told stories of their own. But there was one story—a personal, painful narrative—that beckoned him now.
His fingers traced the spines of books and trinkets until they came to rest on an innocuous-looking box, wedged between worn-out crime novels and a dusty family photo album. This cardboard container, faded and frayed at the edges, held the remnants of a case long gone cold—the unsolved murder of Cassandra Tucker.
With hands that were steadier than he felt, Jake pulled the box free. It landed with a soft thud, stirring up dust motes that danced lazily in the muted light. He flipped open the lid, revealing manila folders neatly stacked, each one meticulously labeled with dates and details only a detective—or a grieving son—would decipher.
For a moment, he hesitated, his heart heavy with the weight of history. These files hadn't been touched in years, yet they were always here, a constant reminder of the questions that had haunted half his life. Now, perhaps, they held the key to unlocking not just his mother's case, but also the mystery of the orb-weaver murders.
Laying the lid aside, Jake reached for the uppermost folder, its edges softened by time. He unfolded it on the coffee table, the pages spreading out like a map to a treasure no one wanted to find. His eyes scanned the contents, searching for a clue.
Jake settled onto the worn cushions of his couch, the musty smell of aged paper filling the air as he spread out the contents from the top folder. The room was silent, save for the occasional hum of the refrigerator, a low soundtrack to his restless search for truth. He had seen these pages countless times, memorized each word and photograph, yet now he pored over them with fresh desperation.
Photographs of the crime scene were stark against the dim glow of the lamp—images of his childhood kitchen turned into an exhibit of horror. Amidst the chaos captured in those photos, he searched for any trace of the tiny predators that had become the focus of his current investigation. Could it be possible they had been there all along?
His fingers traced the outline of notes made by investigators, lingering on the observations now rendered significant through the lens of recent events. The stillness of the night pressed in around him, a reminder of the solitude that accompanied his mother's unsolved case.
Then he saw it, a simple sentence in an officer's report that set his pulse racing: "at least three orb-weaver spiders" discovered at the scene. It was more of a footnote, something Jake had overlooked before, or maybe forgotten because there were too many other things to focus on in his mother’s file. But this was proof: there were at least some of the spiders there.
Which meant they could be dealing with the same person.
The words blurred as Jake realized what this meant. His mother, Cassandra, had been precise in her domestic rituals; not a single cobweb ever lingered in the corners of their home. To find spiders there, especially orb-weavers, defied every memory he had of her meticulous habits.
A mixture of dread and vindication settled in his chest. Fifteen years of doubts and dead-ends suddenly coalesced into a singular thread of possibility. Lena, Jamie, Erica—they were all linked to his mother's death by the slenderest and most unlikely of clues. For the first time since he'd taken up the badge, Jake felt the taut line of his past converging with the present.
The discovery should have brought some sense of closure, but instead, it reignited the burning need for justice that had driven him into this career. As the night deepened around him, Jake knew sleep would not come. There was work to be done, and a killer's twisted signature had just unraveled before his eyes.
