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Jake stormed out of the interrogation room, his heart hammering against his ribs like a relentless drum. The metallic tang of frustration clung to his tongue, the taste of a lead that might slip through his fingers. His mother's face, frozen in time on the screen of his phone, haunted him with unanswered questions as he pocketed the device.
"Rough one, huh?" Chief Whittaker's deep voice cut through Jake's turmoil, echoing off the sterile walls of the hallway.
Jake paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose, his skin still electrified from the intensity of the interrogation. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "I showed him a picture."
"Of the victims?" Whittaker inquired, his bushy eyebrows knitting together under the weight of his curiosity.
"No," Jake said, lifting his eyes to meet Whittaker's gaze squarely. He had wanted to keep this from Whittaker for longer, but if Victor was the guy, then this had gone too far. He had to tell the chief the truth. "It was my mother, Cassandra."
The chief's expression flickered with surprise, then concern. "Your mother? Why would Harmon have anything to do with her case?"
With a shaky exhale, Jake confessed what had been gnawing at him for so long. "I checked the files again. There were orb-weaver spiders at her murder scene too. It's been fifteen years, but I can't shake the feeling that these cases... they could be connected."
Jake stood rigid, his jaw clenched. The air in the hallway suddenly seemed stifling, heavy with the weight of Chief Whittaker's glare. The chief's mustache twitched with irritation, a clear sign of his anger.
"Dammit, Tucker, why didn't you tell me?" Whittaker barked. His stance was wide, hands on hips, a pose that demanded accountability.
Jake swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I couldn’t be sure, Chief," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I didn't want to jump to conclusions without evidence."
"Conclusions?" Whittaker stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "We're talking about a major conflict of interest here!"
"Please, Chief," Jake pleaded, his eyes never leaving Whittaker’s. "Don't take me off this case. It’s about Jamie, Erica, and Lena right now. We’ll deal with the rest later."
Whittaker's gaze held on Jake, searching, assessing. Finally, he exhaled loudly, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly. "Victor Harmon is our guy. I think you know it, too." He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I'll try to bring in the officers who worked your mother’s case. We'll see if there's anything to link them."
"Thank you, Chief," Jake said, relief flooding through him. But as Whittaker turned to walk away, Jake knew deep down that his fight was only just beginning. With every step he took back towards the bullpen, the image of his mother, framed by the delicate threads of an orb-weaver's web, haunted him.
Jake stood still as Chief Whittaker's firm hand landed on his shoulder—a weight he both resented and respected. "You're one of my best agents, Tucker," the chief said, his tone softer than before, yet still laced with the severity of the situation. "A bright young mind in this dark business."
"Thank you," was all Jake managed before the words stuck in his throat. The praise clashed with his internal storm—appreciation against a backdrop of anxiety. He knew what the chief saw in him: a tenacious agent whose gut instincts often led to breakthroughs. Yet at that moment, those same instincts gnawed at him with doubt.
Victor Harmon, the man they'd pinned their hopes on, the supposed link between past and present horrors, did not seem like the killer his heart was hunting. The image of Victor, cowering under the pressure of interrogation, didn't match the calculating brutality of the crimes. And despite the bruise on Fiona's face, Jake couldn't shake the feeling that Victor was just another scared pawn in a larger game.
"Always done good work," Whittaker repeated, releasing his hold. But the assurance felt hollow to Jake. Good work meant solving cases, providing closure. And right now, his mother's unsolved murder clawed at the edges of his thoughts, contaminating everything with its unresolved darkness.
As Whittaker turned away, Jake's mind settled on Fiona, laying in a hospital bed because of his lead. Duty mingled with concern, urging him forward. He needed to see her—to ensure she was truly alright, to apologize for the danger he'd put her in, and maybe, selfishly, to find solace in her presence.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fiona sat in the sterile white of the hospital room, her fingers wrapped around Joslyn's limp hand. Machines beeped in a comforting rhythm, punctuating the silence. The antiseptic tang of disinfectant hung heavy in the air, a contrast to the warmth that Fiona tried to transfer from her palm into her sister's.
She studied Joslyn's face, memorizing the pallor of her skin against the crisp hospital sheets. The soft rise and fall of her chest was the only sign that she clung to life. Fiona's heart clenched as she leaned forward, whispering to the still form of her older sister.
"Remember the time we snuck out to catch fireflies?" Fiona's voice barely broke the hush of the room. "You ran ahead, laughing, your hair catching moonlight like strands of dark silk." She swallowed hard, the memory bittersweet. "I've missed that laugh, Jos."
A tear traced a silent path down Fiona's cheek. She wiped it away quickly, her gaze never leaving Joslyn's face. "They say you're strong, that you can hear me." Her words were hopeful whispers. "Please come back to us, Jos. I need you."
The litany of memories continued—a flood of shared secrets, childhood adventures, and teenage confessions. Fiona spoke of the beach where Joslyn had vanished, the years of unanswered questions, the weight of not knowing. With each word, she wove her hopes into a lifeline, willing Joslyn to grasp it and return to the world of the living.
"You have to wake up," Fiona urged, her voice a tremulous thread in the fabric of beeps and hisses. "There's so much I want to show you—my work with the FBI, the insects... I know you'd find it fascinating."
Gently, she adjusted Joslyn's blanket, tucking the edges around her as if the act could shield her from further harm. Fiona's mind raced with scientific facts about comas, about the mysterious threshold between consciousness and oblivion. But here, in the quiet room, all that knowledge felt distant, irrelevant against the raw ache of hope and fear.
"Joslyn," Fiona whispered, as if saying her name could be the incantation to break the spell holding her sister in this state. "Please, just open your eyes."
Fiona's eyes locked onto Joslyn's face, watching for the faintest sign of life. The sterile room seemed to hold its breath, the beeping monitors playing a steady, morbid rhythm. As she murmured a memory about their childhood dog, something miraculous happened—Joslyn's eyelids fluttered. Fiona leaned in, her heart hammering against her ribcage.
"Joslyn?" Her voice was barely audible, tinged with a cocktail of hope and trepidation.
