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"Greenhouses," she whispered, almost afraid that speaking the word aloud would break the spell of discovery that enveloped her.
Jake stood near the door, his posture slumped with exhaustion, a shadow of his usual determined self. "What did you say, Red?"
"Greenhouses," Fiona repeated, louder this time, urgency clear in her voice. She swiveled in her chair to face him, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "The killer could be breeding these spiders in a greenhouse."
He frowned, confusion etched into the lines of his weary face. "How does that help us?"
She rose from her seat, her movements swift and purposeful. "It means we can narrow down our search. We look for someone with access to private greenhouses. They'd need a controlled environment to farm spiders like this." Fiona paced the room, her mind racing faster than her feet. Each step she took was a step closer to the killer, to justice for her sister, for Jake's mother, for all the women whose lives had been snuffed out too soon.
"Big task," Jake muttered, skepticism clouding his tone. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled.
"Big, but not impossible," Fiona countered, stopping to stand before him, her amber eyes meeting his. "If Victor isn't our guy, then someone else is out there, Jake. Someone who could be planning to kill again right now." Her words hung heavy in the air, a weighty truth they both understood all too well.
Jake let out a sigh, the fatigue momentarily lifted by the gravity of her statement. He straightened up, resolve hardening his features. "Okay, Red. Let's do it. We start looking for greenhouses, private ones. And we find this bastard before he finds another victim."
Fiona nodded, a silent pact sealed between them. Together, they wouldn't let the darkness win—not while they still had breath in their bodies to fight it.
***
In the briefing room, Fiona scanned the digital map on her laptop for clusters of green that signaled potential hideouts. The fluorescent lights in the briefing room hummed a steady, monotonous tune as she worked, occasionally glancing up at Jake who sat immersed in his own task. She marked another address with a red circle, slid the paper across the table to him, and watched as he peered into his computer screen.
"Jack Fisher," Jake's voice cut through the silence. "Sixty-eight, owns a farm. Cherry tomatoes." His fingers flew over the keys, pulling up more information. Fiona leaned forward, her curiosity piqued by the lead.
"Any sons?" she asked, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. If this was a family venture, they could be looking at multiple suspects.
Jake shook his head. "Nope, just employees. But if the farm is up and running, it might not be the best place to hide a spider farm."
"Right," Fiona agreed, her mind already moving on to the next possibility. It had to be someone who lived alone or had enough control over their space to manage something so sinister. Her list grew shorter with each name they eliminated, but time wasn't on their side.
"Keep looking," she urged, turning back to the map with renewed determination. She felt the weight of responsibility on her shoulders—not just to find the killer, but to honor the memory of those who had been lost, including her sister. Each circled address was a step closer to understanding, to preventing another tragedy. She wouldn't rest until they caught the person responsible, and neither would Jake. They were united in their mission, two agents against the darkness that lurked just beyond the reach of their flashlights.
Fiona handed Jake another slip of paper, her finger tracing over the inked address before letting go. She watched as he typed in the information, his fingers moving with practiced ease across the keyboard. The screen flickered and a record popped up—ownership details for a modest home nestled on the outskirts of Portland.
"Theresa Dalton," Jake murmured, scrolling through the file. "Ex-cop."
"Interesting," Fiona mused, her brow furrowing. An ex-police officer could have knowledge that would help cover tracks, knowledge that could be passed down.
"Deceased," Jake added, his voice taking on a somber tone. "Recently, too. She left everything to her son, Gregory."
"Gregory Dalton..." Fiona echoed, rolling the name around in her mind like a puzzle piece, trying to see how it might fit into the larger picture they were assembling.
Jake's hand hovered over the mouse, clicking to bring up more information. Fiona moved closer, the warmth from his body mingling with the cool air of the room. She peered at the screen, her eyes meeting the pixelated stare of a man who looked like he carried the weight of the world in his gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes.
"Garbage disposal man," Jake read out, his voice flat. "No criminal record."
"Could be a front," Fiona suggested, her mind racing with the possibilities. A civil servant would have access to various locations, unnoticed, unremarkable—a perfect guise for someone hiding in plain sight.
"Yeah, but there's something else," Jake said, squinting at the screen. His eyes had that distant look, the one he got when a memory tugged at the edges of his consciousness. “I feel like I’ve seen him before.”
Fiona hovered over Jake's shoulder, her eyes glued to the screen displaying Gregory Dalton's gaunt face. "Where would you have seen him?" she asked, the words tinged with both curiosity and urgency.
Jake shook his head, his brown eyes clouded with uncertainty. "I'm not sure," he muttered, obviously troubled by the elusive familiarity. His gaze drifted away from the screen and landed on a stack of cold case files scattered across the table.
"Think, Jake," Fiona said gently, trying to steer him back to the moment. "Could this be linked to your mother's murder? Maybe he's someone you met when you were younger?"
Jake's expression tightened, a shadow of sorrow passing briefly over his features as he considered the possibility. He had always been driven by the unsolved mystery of his mother's death, a personal wound that never fully healed, fueling his relentless pursuit of justice.
"Maybe..." Jake trailed off, lost in his own mind, rifling through long-forgotten memories that might hold the key to their current predicament.
