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"Perhaps we could talk in private?" Fiona suggested, her tone polite yet firm.
A flicker of surprise crossed Harmon's face—eyes widening, body stilling—as if the reality of the situation had only just hit him. Then, as though someone had pressed play again, he resumed motion, a smile returning to his lips. "Of course," he replied, though the strain was evident in his smile. "Please, follow me."
They moved toward the break room, leaving the colorful bustle of the bar behind. Fiona walked with purpose, each step measured and assured. Jake took one last glance over his shoulder at the patrons, now engrossed once more in their fruit blends and fitness conversations. The sharp scent of citrus and ginger lingered in the air as the door closed behind them, sealing off the outside world.
Jake watched as Fiona squared her shoulders, the lines of her face set in determination. They stood in the sterile light of the break room, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing off the lively chatter of the smoothie bar. The space was small, cramped with a single table and two chairs. Harmon perched on the edge of one seat, his posture rigid and alert.
"We need to ask you about Jamie Lin," Fiona said, her voice steady, but Jake could hear the undercurrent of steel.
Harmon's face twitched, the corners of his mouth tightening for a split second before he regained control. "Jamie?" he echoed, his hands betraying him as they gave a subtle tremble. "What about her?"
Fiona leaned forward slightly, her eyes never leaving Harmon's face. "When was the last time you saw her?"
"Last... last week," Harmon stammered, the pulse visible at his throat. "She comes in sometimes, for a smoothie."
A jolt of adrenaline hit Jake. He remained silent, observing. He noted every shift in Harmon's demeanor, the nervous flicker in his eyes, the way his jaw clenched then released. It was like watching an insect caught in a jar – fluttering wings against glass, desperate for escape.
"Your interactions with Jamie," Fiona pressed on, "were they friendly?"
"Of course," Harmon snapped, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. His shoulders tensed, and he folded his arms across his chest as if shielding himself from their scrutiny.
"Did she ever refuse you anything? Martial arts lessons, perhaps?" Her question was casual, yet it cut through the air like a blade.
"I don't see how that's relevant," Harmon retorted, his words clipped, his previous calm facade now fractured by irritation.
A silent exchange passed between Fiona and Jake, a shared recognition of truth amid lies. He admired Fiona's composure, the way she navigated the interrogation with precision, a testament to her recent training and innate understanding of human behavior.
"Are you sure there was nothing unusual about your last encounter?" Jake finally interjected, his voice low and controlled.
"Nothing," Harmon insisted, though his gaze darted away, unable to hold Jake's stare.
Jake reached for the laminated photograph in his coat pocket as Harmon's hands steadied on the countertop, the tremble now a distant memory. He slid the photo across the smooth surface towards him, and it skidded to a halt under Harmon's tentative grip.
"Ever seen this woman before?" Jake asked, his tone even, eyes locked onto Harmon's face for any telltale sign of recognition or deceit.
Harmon's eyes flickered down to the image—Lena Chase, muscles defined, her gaze strong and unwavering even in stillness. He hesitated, then nodded almost imperceptibly. "She's come in before, maybe," he said, his voice betraying nothing but a hint of uncertainty.
"Maybe?" Jake pressed, sensing the vagueness was a thin veil over something more substantial.
"Yeah, maybe," Harmon repeated, placing the photo back down with a careful indifference that felt rehearsed.
Jake's observation was cut short by Fiona's subtle shift in stance—a signal that she was taking the lead. She leaned in slightly, her eyes intent behind the reflective surface of her glasses. Her next line of questioning seemed to catch Harmon off guard, a tactic honed from their many cases together.
"Victor, let's talk about orb-weaver spiders," she began, her words weaving a web of curiosity around Harmon. "I understand you were an entomologist at one point?"
"Ah, yes," Harmon responded, his confusion evident as he adjusted his apron. "In a past life, I suppose."
"Did your work involve arachnids?" Fiona prodded gently, yet firmly, her knowledge as an entomologist lending authority to her questions.
"Arachnids?" Harmon echoed, almost laughing. "No, no, I never liked those creatures. Too many legs. My focus was on butterflies. Lepidoptera—their beauty, their metamorphosis." His hands, once trembling, now animatedly described the gentle flutter of wings, and for a moment, his passion shone through the veneer of calm.
"Interesting," Fiona mused, jotting down a note in her small, leather-bound pad. "So no interest in spiders, then? Not even the orb-weavers?"
"Definitely not," Harmon asserted, a shadow crossing his face. "I prefer my insects colorful and harmless."
Jake watched the exchange intently, his analytical mind cataloging Harmon's reactions—the way his nose wrinkled at the mention of spiders, the sincerity that seemed to infuse his words when he spoke of butterflies. The dissonance between the man who stood before them and the one suspected of harboring dark secrets was jarring.
“I understand you were let go from your job at the butterfly conservatory,” Jake said.
