Tuesday, 3:17 PM
The welding area of the community art center smelled of burnt metal. Through his protective visor, Liam Stone watched the hands of sixteen-year-old Kyle—trembling, not from nerves, but from chemical withdrawal.
"Lower your wrist five degrees." Liam's voice sounded muffled through the mask. "A welding torch isn't a weapon; it's a tool for connection."
Kyle cursed as sparks flew onto his glove. This troubled teenager, sentenced to community service for vandalism, had the familiar hollow look in his eyes—the "no one's home" stare.
"Don't see the point." Kyle threw down the torch, breathing heavily behind his mask. "Turning scrap into junk?"
Liam switched off his own torch and lifted his visor. He recalled Note 631: When communicating with angry adolescents, provide concrete, actionable instructions rather than abstract concepts.
"The point is," he picked up Kyle's discarded piece—a twisted bicycle chain, "you can choose to leave it as scrap, or turn it into something else."
"Like what?"
"Like proof they were wrong."
That quieted Kyle. Liam knew why: every kid labeled "troubled" secretly longed for a chance at redemption.
"Mr. Stone," Kyle said suddenly, "when you're angry, there's nothing in your eyes."
Liam's hand froze mid-air.
"It's like…" the boy gestured, "a machine on standby. My stepdad got that same look right before he hit my mom. Eyes empty, like the person inside left for a minute."
The other three students in the welding area stopped working. Only the ventilation system hummed.
Liam's brain began analyzing: literal meaning—observation of eye expression. Implied meaning—the other detected abnormal emotional expression. Threat level—low to medium. Response strategy—
"Anger has many forms." Liam slowly set down the chain. "Emptiness might just be… thinking about how to control it."
"Control what?"
"Control not becoming like your stepdad."
Kyle stared at him for a long time—so long Liam began calculating whether this exceeded normal social boundaries. Then the boy looked down and put his visor back on.
"Next class," Liam said, "I'll teach you to make sculptures that make sound. The friction of metal… sometimes expresses anger better than words."
As he turned toward the tool rack, his peripheral vision caught a figure outside the observation window.
Blonde hair, beige trench coat, holding a phone as if taking photos.
Olivia Chase.
3:42 PM
Class ended, students filed out. Liam was cleaning up welding slag when the door opened.
"Hope I'm not disturbing." Olivia's voice was like a dagger dipped in syrup. "Collecting material for my column—'How Art Saves At-Risk Youth.'"
She had changed her outfit: a cream knit dress, pearl necklace, makeup more refined than last time. But Liam noticed her earrings were different—not iris flowers, but two delicate metal feathers.
"Class isn't open to the public." Liam didn't stop working.
"I have interview permission." She handed him a paper with the Chicago Board of Education seal stamped at the bottom right. "See, all proper."
The seal was genuine, but Liam noted the signing date was yesterday—she knew she'd come here today.
"Twenty minutes." He set down his tools. "Starting now."
Olivia's smile widened. She approached the workbench, fingers brushing over a pile of metal scraps. "These discarded things reborn in your hands, just like those kids… Do you have some sort of savior complex, Mr. Stone?"
"I just teach them to weld."
"Is that all?" She tilted her head, an angle that fully exposed her neck—a deliberately designed gesture of vulnerability. "I've studied your work. Those family sculptures made from broken parts… they speak of a desire to mend. Is there something you need to mend yourself?"
Liam's brain shifted into high gear: the question appeared to be about art but actually targeted psychology. Objective: elicit disclosure of inner trauma. Response strategy: redirect to technical aspects.
"Metal welding involves material science and physics." He picked up two scrap pieces. "Different melting points require different approaches, just as different kids need different methods."
"You're always so… rational." Olivia's fingertips touched her pearl necklace. "But I wonder, beneath such rationality, if there exists a more… passionate soul?"
She took a step forward, crossing the boundary of social safety distance. Perfume washed over him—tuberose and cedar, so strong it was almost choking.
Liam retreated half a step while checking his watch. "Twelve minutes left."
A crack finally appeared in Olivia's expression. The carefully maintained sweet mask slipped for a moment, revealing something ravenous underneath—not lust, but something darker: a hunger for secrets.
"You know," she lowered her voice, "my brother had an emotional disorder too. He couldn't understand others' feelings, like… living in a glass bubble. People say such individuals have no heart, but I know they just feel the world differently."
Lie.
Liam instantly judged: her pupils hadn't dilated, breathing unchanged, right index finger unconsciously tapping her thigh—one of the "liar's micro-expressions" she herself had described in her Chicago Tribune column.
"I'm sorry to hear that." He replied mechanically.
"No need for sorrow." Olivia's eyes suddenly shone abnormally bright. "Because now I understand—it's not a defect, but a gift. To be able to observe the world stripped of emotion… that lets one see the truth, doesn't it?"
Her phone rang at that moment. She glanced at the screen, her expression shifting. "Sorry, I need to take this."
She turned toward the door, but looked back before leaving. "Mr. Stone, some people are destined not to fit into this hypocritical world. But perhaps… they can find each other."
The door closed.
Liam stood still, listening to her high heels fading down the hall. He walked to the observation window and saw her get into a black sedan—not a taxi. Someone was in the driver's seat, but too far to see clearly.
He took his phone from his pocket and opened an encrypted app. Three days ago, he had begun tracking Olivia's digital footprint. Now, data updated:
Yesterday, 4:17 PM: She accessed the MIT alumni database (requiring high-level clearance)
Last night, 9:43 PM: Searched for "emotional disorder + criminal profiling"
Today, 10:02 AM: Purchased a pair of feather earrings (online order, delivery address: newspaper office)
One anomaly: Her phone had been continuously moving from 2 AM to 4 AM, covering Chicago's West Side—where the copycat's first three crime scenes were located.
Liam saved the data and opened another folder. Inside were the public financial records of the Harrison Walker Foundation. He had already marked seventeen anomalies:
Three months after the incident: $500,000 donation to the Boston PD Community Relations Division
Ten consecutive years of $100,000 annual donations to the Chicago PD Charity Foundation
Last year: $250,000 donation to the Chicago Tribune's "Truth-Seeking" Investigative Fund
Too many coincidences cease to be coincidental.
5:08 PM
When Liam arrived home, Sophia's car was already in the driveway—nearly two hours earlier than usual.
He entered the door code—Emma's birthday plus their anniversary—and opened the door to the smell of burning.
In the kitchen, Sophia was staring blankly at a smoking skillet. Scrambled eggs had turned into black lumps. The smoke alarm had stopped shrieking (she'd apparently removed the batteries).
"You're back." She didn't turn around. "I tried making dinner."
This scenario wasn't in Liam's notes: detective wife home early, attempted cooking failed. Standard protocol would be to ask "What happened?", but her shoulder posture indicated she needed space, not questions.
He walked over, turned off the stove, took the charred pan to the sink. Cold water hissed against it.
"Bad day?" he asked.
Sophia stared at the black mass in the sink. A long moment passed before she spoke. "The third victim's autopsy report came back. Mechanical asphyxiation, but the killer used a specific technique—compressing the carotid sinus, causing instant unconsciousness. That requires precise anatomical knowledge."
"Medical school level knowledge?"
"Or slaughterhouse experience." Sophia turned, eyes red but tearless. "In the fifteen-year-old case, the killer used ordinary strangulation. But the copycat… he's upgrading his methods. Mark says it's homage, but I think it's mockery."
"Mark?"
"FBI profiler, my academy senior." Sophia rubbed her temples. "He came to the precinct for a briefing today. He thinks the copycat might be seeking validation—from the original killer, or… from the world, to prove he's surpassed the prototype."
Liam began washing the sink. The sound of running water filled the silence.
"What else did Mark say?" he asked.
Sophia hesitated. "He said individuals with emotional disorders expose characteristics under pressure. Like being unable to simulate appropriate fear, or… smiling at the wrong times."
The faucet was turned off.
"You suspect me." Liam stated, not accusing, just acknowledging.
"No." Sophia walked over, cupping his face. "I'm afraid. Because today in the case meeting, when I described the possible profile of the killer… I realized I was describing you."
Her thumb stroked his cheekbone. "Lives alone, skilled with hands, abnormal emotional expression, likely works in a precision-based field… every point leads to you, Liam."
"Then why are you still here?"
"Because one characteristic doesn't match." Sophia's eyes held his. "The killer has a strong need for control, views victims as objects. But you…"
Her hand moved to his chest, over his heart. "You always ask, 'Is this okay?' 'How do you feel?' What you're trying to control is yourself, not others."
This was the second time today Liam faced an unclassifiable situation. His notes didn't teach him how to respond to such trust.
So he did something simple—he hugged her.
No timing, no calculating pressure index, just held her.
Sophia's muffled voice came from his shoulder. "One more thing. Olivia Chase… she applied today to access the fifteen-year-old case files. Used the Tribune's judicial oversight authority."
Liam's body tensed slightly.
"You know her, right?" Sophia lifted her head. "She came to see you today."
"She came to the art center, said it was for an interview."
"Did she…" Sophia searched for words, "…try to establish some kind of… special connection with you?"
Liam recalled the afternoon's conversation. "She mentioned having a brother with an emotional disorder, but I believe that was a lie."
"Because the symptoms she described don't match real emotional disorders?"
"Because her micro-expressions when lying matched those she described in her own column."
Sophia suddenly laughed—a tired but genuine laugh. "My husband uses a crime columnist's own article to see through her lies. That's a bit ironic."
She released the hug and took a document from her bag. "I copied this today. Couldn't take it out of the precinct, so I memorized it."
Only three lines on the paper:
Evidence No. CT-7: Lab doorknob fingerprints
Status: Removed from evidence chain within 24 hours post-incident
Removal Authorization: Retired Deputy Chief R. Jenkins
"If this evidence still existed," Sophia said softly, "it might prove a third person was present."
"Why tell me this?"
"Because if you're hiding something," her finger traced the words "retired," "now is my last chance to protect you. Once Mark starts digging deep…"
She didn't finish, but the meaning was clear: once the FBI formally intervened, she'd lose control over the investigation's direction.
The front door lock suddenly turned.
"Mom! Dad!" Emma rushed in, soccer uniform covered in mud. "I scored! The goalie ate dirt!"
Mrs. Martha followed, looking apologetic. "She insisted on telling you immediately."
A family moment forced its way in, like a director yelling "cut." Sophia quickly tucked away the document, switching to a mother's smile. Liam began calculating dinner salvage options—frozen pizza in the freezer, 18 minutes to heat.
But Emma didn't rush to the kitchen. She stopped before her parents, small face serious.
"Mrs. Martha said," she imitated the neighbor's tone, "that blonde lady was outside the soccer field this afternoon with a big camera. She took lots of pictures of Dad."
Sophia and Liam exchanged a glance.
"What kind of lady?" Sophia crouched down.
"Pretty lady, but…" Emma frowned. "Her smile looked fake, like a Halloween mask."
A child's intuition, precise as a scalpel.
"What else did she do?" Liam asked.
"She talked to a man in a hat, then the man left." Emma gestured. "The man's clothes were too big, like they weren't his."
A man in a hat. Olivia hadn't been alone.
Liam felt that familiar alertness—like fifteen years ago, the night he realized he was being watched. Muscle memory made his hand move toward his waist, where nothing was there.
"Let's get you cleaned up, mud monkey." Sophia took Emma's hand but glanced back at Liam.
That look said: We need to talk.
9:14 PM
Emma was asleep. The house held only the low hum of the dishwasher.
In the study, Liam turned on his computer. Sophia stood behind him, watching him pull up surveillance maps around the soccer field—a system he'd modified from an old police scanner, technically illegal, but no time for technicalities now.
"Here." He zoomed in on an intersection camera feed. "3:50 PM, black sedan. Same one you saw at the art center today."
The image was blurry, but a male driver in a baseball cap was visible.
"Can you see the plate?"
"Glare." Liam switched to another angle. "But there's reflection on his left ear—maybe an earring, or hearing aid."
Sophia leaned closer. "Zoom in on the left ear… that's an earpiece. The kind law enforcement uses."
They both fell silent.
If Olivia's "companion" had a law enforcement earpiece, it meant she might not be working alone. Someone was backing her.
"Liam," Sophia's voice was soft, "I need you to answer one question honestly."
"Ask."
"You and Olivia Chase… before she appeared today, had you had any contact at all? Emails, calls, anything?"
"No."
"Then why is she so fixated on you?"
Liam looked at the frozen image on screen—the man in the hat, the vanished evidence, the reporter taking photos at the soccer field, the name written in blood on the lab wall…
Pieces began to connect.
"Because she's not investigating me," he said slowly. "She's verifying a story. One she's probably been writing for a long time."
"What story?"
"A story about an innocent man framed." Liam turned the chair to face his wife. "Or, a story about the perfect criminal who got away. Depends on which version she wants to believe."
Sophia knelt, taking his hands. "Then tell me, which version should I believe?"
Only the computer fan hummed in the study.
Liam looked at her—this woman who, in everyone else's eyes, should be arresting him; this woman who chose to hear his explanation first. He thought of the unsent email, the engraving on the gear, Kyle's "no one's home" comment today.
"I believe," he finally said, "someone set a perfect trap fifteen years ago. And now, the same person, or group, is closing that trap."
"Why now?"
"Because the copycat disrupted the plan." Liam pulled up a news screenshot—the Harrison Walker Foundation's annual charity gala was this Friday. "If I were the one who set the trap, I'd clean up before everything unraveled."
Sophia's grip tightened. "Clean up means…"
"It means," Liam said calmly, "whoever the real killer is, they need an ending. And a fugitive who's been dead for fifteen years makes the best ending."
Outside, night rain began to fall. Drops tapped the window like the ticking of a countdown.
Sophia stood and walked to the window. Her silhouette against the rain looked slender, but her shoulders were straight.
"Friday's charity gala," she said without turning, "Harrison Walker will attend. He invites police brass every year."
"Will you go?"
"I'll request security detail." She turned, wearing the decisive expression Liam knew well—the look of Lieutenant Carter. "And you, Liam Stone, as a community arts representative, will also receive an invitation. The Walker Foundation invites local artists every year."
"This is a trap."
"I know." Sophia walked over, cupping his face. "So we walk into it together. And then…"
She kissed him—not three seconds, not any duration from any script.
"…we walk out together."
The rain fell harder. The city blurred in the downpour, like truth dissolving in lies.
But in the white house numbered 304, two people had just reached an understanding:
If this was the final performance,
Then at the very least,
The curtain call would be real.