Chapter 3 - The Face on the Screen
The screen flickered, and Maris’s face appeared against the backdrop of a sterile, upscale hotel room. Her dark hair was swept up in a loose clip, her silk robe tied neatly at her waist. She held a glass of white wine in one hand, smiling with that calm, disarming warmth that had made me fall in love with her in an Italian bistro ten months ago.
"Hey, handsome," she said, her voice smooth and melodic. "Did I interrupt dinner?"
"Hey," I replied, forcing my mouth into a relaxed, tired smile while my thumb stayed carefully out of frame. "No, you're fine. Just finishing up in the kitchen."
"How is she?" Maris took a sip of wine, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied my face through the camera. "Did she give you trouble with the soup?"
"A little," I said, leaning casually against the kitchen counter, positioning my body so she couldn't see the paper and the amber vial sitting two feet away on the dining table. "Standard routine. Pouted for twenty minutes, then ate half a grilled cheese."
Maris sighed, shaking her head in theatrical exasperation. "I told you, Gideon. You have to be firmer with her. She senses your empathy, and she exploits it. Marcus used to do the exact same thing."
Hearing her speak his name casually—like Marcus was just an ex-boyfriend who had moved away instead of a man she had buried beneath six feet of dirt—sent ice water down my spine.
"Yeah," I said, keeping my tone light. "Marcus was an EMT, right? You said he had a soft spot for kids."
Maris froze for a fraction of a second. It was an imperceptible hesitation, but working triage teaches you to read micro-expressions.
"I don't like talking about him," she said softly, tilting her head with practiced vulnerability. "You know how much pain that whole chapter brings me. The accident... it nearly broke Lumi. That’s why she acts out."
"I know. I'm sorry, Maris. Long shift yesterday. I'm just exhausted."
"Speaking of which," Maris leaned closer to her screen, her eyes sparkling with affectionate concern. "Did you take the magnesium supplements I left by the coffee pot? You promised me you'd work on your sleep schedule while I was gone."
The air in the room felt heavy. By the coffee pot.
I glanced toward the appliance on the far counter. There, sitting next to my favorite mug, was a small glass dish containing two white, unmarked capsules. She had laid the trap before she even packed her suitcase.
"Haven't taken them yet," I said. "Was waiting until I put Lumi to bed."
"Don't forget," she urged, her voice velvety and sweet. "You run yourself ragged in that trauma bay, Gideon. You need to rest. You deserve a deep, peaceful sleep."
*A deep, peaceful sleep.*
"I will," I said. "How's Chicago?"
"Boring. Endless seminars on regional sales. I wish I was home with you." She paused, her gaze lingering on my face through the screen. "You look pale, Gideon. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"
"Just missing you," I lied, the words tasting like copper.
"I might come back early," she said suddenly.
My throat tightened. "Early? I thought your conference ran through Sunday."
"I might skip the closing dinner tomorrow night. Drive back late Friday. I don't like being away from my family." She blew a kiss at the lens. "Give Lumi a hug for me. Tell her Mommy loves her more than the whole wide world."
"I will. Goodnight, Maris."
"Goodnight, my love."
The call ended. The screen went black.
I stood frozen in the quiet kitchen. Tomorrow night. That gave me less than twenty-four hours before she returned to Birch Street.
I walked over to the coffee maker and picked up the two white capsules with a pair of clean cooking tongs, dropping them into a Ziploc bag. Then I walked into the living room.
Lumi was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, her face drained of color.
"She's coming tomorrow," Lumi whispered. "She knows."
"She doesn't know anything," I said firmly, sitting beside her. "Lumi, I need to know where you found those papers. Where did Marcus's things come from?"
Lumi pointed toward the hallway that led to the basement. "Mommy has an office down there. She keeps the metal filing cabinet locked with a little brass key. But I saw where she hides the key. It's inside the fake smoke detector above the washing machine."
I stared at her. A seven-year-old child, hyper-vigilant from living under the roof of a predator, had mapped out the entire anatomy of the crime.
"Come with me," I said, lifting her down from the couch. "We aren't leaving anything behind."
We went down the narrow, creaking basement stairs. The air grew damp and cold, smelling of old concrete, mildew, and wet laundry. At the bottom of the stairs, I stood beneath the yellowed plastic smoke detector. I reached up, twisted the housing, and a small brass key dropped into my palm.
The metal filing cabinet was tucked behind a wall of winter coats in the storage corner. I inserted the key, turned it, and pulled open the heavy top drawer.
Inside were six thick accordion folders, each labeled with a year and a name.
*2015 – David Ross.*
*2018 – Julian Miller.*
*2021 – Marcus Vance.*
*2024 – Gideon Cross.*
My breath caught in my throat. I pulled out the folders one by one, laying them on top of the washing machine under the bare lightbulb.
Marcus Vance wasn't the first.
He was the third.
May you like
And my name was already printed neatly on the tab of folder number four.
***
