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Fiona's eyes were strained, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she leaned closer to the microscope. Beside her, Jake shuffled through crime scene photos, his brows furrowed in concentration. The clock on the wall ticked away, indifferent to their urgency. The FBI headquarters' forensic lab was a cave of shadows at this late hour, lit only by the blue glow of computer screens and the occasional flare of a desk lamp.

"Anything?" Jake's voice sliced through the silence, laced with hope and fatigue.

"Nothing." Fiona's reply was flat, tinged with frustration. She pushed back from the microscope, rubbed her eyes, and glanced at the array of evidence bags littering the table—a silent testament to their fruitless endeavor. The hum of machinery analyzing samples was a constant reminder of how much they depended on science to speak when human voices had been forever silenced.

"Let's go over it again," Jake suggested, though the slump of his shoulders betrayed his dwindling enthusiasm.

Fiona nodded, steeling herself for another round. They combed through every detail—hair fibers, fabric particles, the smallest speck of blood—all scrutinized under the unforgiving eye of technology. But the killer was a ghost, leaving behind no traceable DNA, no strand of hair, not even a flake of skin.

"Red, you okay?" Jake asked, noticing the crease deepening between Fiona's brows.

She forced a tight-lipped smile. "Yeah, just... we need something to go on, Jake."

Their shared history of loss, of unsolved family tragedies, bound them in silent understanding. It wasn't just about solving cases; it was personal. Each victim was a mirror to their past, reflecting the pain of unanswered questions that plagued them since youth.

The forensics team entered, weary from hours of meticulous labor. Their expressions said it all even before they spoke. "We've run every test twice," the lead technician reported. "No DNA. It's like he was never there."

"Damn it," Jake cursed under his breath, raking a hand through his hair.

Fiona felt the weight of despair settling on her shoulders. All their advanced techniques, all their dedication, and yet they were no closer to catching the killer than when they'd started. The orb-weaver spiders seemed to mock them with their silent presence, an enigma wrapped in silk threads.

Fiona lingered over the glossy photos of the crime scenes, her gaze fixating on the orb-weaver spiders that lurked in corners like silent witnesses. Common in gardens, their presence inside was a stark anomaly. A detail too specific to be a coincidence. She chewed on the end of her pen, the wheels turning in her head.

"Red?" Jake's voice pulled her from her thoughts.

"Orb-weavers," she said, tapping a photo. "Why are they here?" Fiona stood up abruptly, pushing back her chair. She paced once, twice, then grabbed her phone from the desk. "I have an idea."

Her fingers hovered over the screen before pressing down with resolve. She dialed, the sound ringing out in the quiet lab.

“It’s late, so Caleb might not pick up,” she said, “but I have to try.”

"Who's Caleb?" Jake asked, his brow furrowing.

"An old friend from Harvard," she replied as the phone continued to ring. "He's into bugs. Spiders especially."

"An entomologist?" Jake guessed.

"Yep," Fiona confirmed, just as a click signaled the call's connection. She quickly switched to speaker.

Fiona tapped her foot impatiently as the phone rang a third time, casting a sidelong glance at Jake, who was hunched over his own set of case photos. He gave her an encouraging nod just as Caleb's voice, scratchy with sleep yet tinged with curiosity, crackled through the speaker.

"Hey, Fiona Red," he mumbled, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Hi, Caleb. Long time," she said briskly, her voice professional but warm. "I'm with the FBI now, working as an agent."

"Wow, that's impressive," Caleb answered, sounding more alert. "Interesting time to call and tell me that. What's up?"

"Strange question for you," Fiona began, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Know anyone who deals with orb-weaver spiders in the Portland, Oregon area?"

"Orb-weavers?" Caleb repeated, and Fiona could almost hear the gears turning in his head. "Why are you asking?"

"Can't say much, but they're part of a pattern in a series of murders we're investigating," she replied, eyes locked on the spider silk evidence bagged on the table.

"Murders, huh?" There was a shift in Caleb’s tone, from sleepy to sharp. "Hold on."

She heard the rustle of sheets, the faint sound of papers being shuffled. Fiona waited, her gaze fixed on the dim reflection of their faces in the window.

"Barry Fink," Caleb announced suddenly. "He's got a place, a spider farm. Deals with all kinds, especially the obscure ones."

"Barry Fink," Fiona echoed, reaching for a pen. She scribbled down the name on a notepad. "You think he'd sell orb-weavers?"

"If it's spiders in Portland, Barry's your guy," Caleb confirmed. “He’s got everything, from household spiders to the weirder ones. I’ll text you the address.”

There was a pause on the other end until Fiona’s phone buzzed with a text from Caleb.

"Got it," she said, her voice a mix of gratitude and resolve.

"Look, Fiona," Caleb's voice crackled through the speaker, tinged with caution. "It's late, and this guy... well, he's an oddball. You might want to hit him up in the morning."

"Thanks, Caleb. We'll do that."

"Alright then," he said. "And hey, about when you helped me on my thesis…”

"Consider our debt cleared," Fiona cut in, a hint of playfulness seeping into her weary tone.

A chuckle echoed from the phone, a shared memory lighting the darkness of the lab. "Good luck, Agent Red."

"Night, Caleb." She ended the call, the last word hanging in the air, a reminder of how far she had come since those days buried in books and bug collections.

Jake glanced over. "Barry Fink, huh?"

"First thing tomorrow," Fiona affirmed, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. She felt the pull of sleep like a physical force, but her mind refused to shut down, thoughts flickering like the fluorescent lights overhead.

"Smart move," Jake agreed, closing the folder in front of him. He stretched the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders—a silent testament to the hours they'd spent poring over evidence.

"Let's call it a night, Red. We can't chase spiders if we're half-asleep."

"Right," Fiona breathed out, the room suddenly feeling colder as the adrenaline began to ebb. She gathered the scattered papers, each one a fragment of the puzzle they were desperately trying to solve.

"Tomorrow," Jake repeated, offering her a reassuring smile as they packed away their work. "We'll crack this case wide open."

"Tomorrow," Fiona echoed, allowing herself a small smile. They walked side by side towards the exit, their shadows merging on the floor. Tonight, rest was a necessity.

Tomorrow, they would hunt.

***

Fiona's breathing was deep and even, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only movement in the otherwise still room. Beside her, Jake lay wide awake, his gaze locked on the rough patterns of the ceiling. The ghost of their earlier conversation haunted the darkness, orb-weavers spinning silent webs in his mind.

Try as he might, sleep eluded him. His thoughts churned, relentless waves crashing against the cliffs of memory. The similarities between this case and what had happened to his mother fifteen years prior were too stark to ignore. Every closed eye brought visions of that unsolved horror, the image of his mother's lifeless body seared into his retinas.

He turned his head slightly, watching Fiona sleep. Her red curls cascaded across the pillow, a vivid contrast to the pale linen. He appreciated her presence, the way she brought a sense of order into his chaotic world, but tonight her steady breathing felt like a metronome to his mounting unease. Jake's eyes returned to the ceiling as if answers were written in the cracks and shadows.

He didn't want to hope; hope was a dangerous thing that could lead to crushing disappointment. Yet, the spider thread of possibility weaved through his thoughts, refusing to be ignored. With a silent sigh, Jake carefully slid out from under the covers, taking care not to disturb Fiona.

Jake stood motionless for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the blinds. He padded across the cold floor to the living room, where an old bookshelf held various objects that told stories of their own. But there was one story—a personal, painful narrative—that beckoned him now.

His fingers traced the spines of books and trinkets until they came to rest on an innocuous-looking box, wedged between worn-out crime novels and a dusty family photo album. This cardboard container, faded and frayed at the edges, held the remnants of a case long gone cold—the unsolved murder of Cassandra Tucker.

With hands that were steadier than he felt, Jake pulled the box free. It landed with a soft thud, stirring up dust motes that danced lazily in the muted light. He flipped open the lid, revealing manila folders neatly stacked, each one meticulously labeled with dates and details only a detective—or a grieving son—would decipher.

For a moment, he hesitated, his heart heavy with the weight of history. These files hadn't been touched in years, yet they were always here, a constant reminder of the questions that had haunted half his life. Now, perhaps, they held the key to unlocking not just his mother's case, but also the mystery of the orb-weaver murders.

Laying the lid aside, Jake reached for the uppermost folder, its edges softened by time. He unfolded it on the coffee table, the pages spreading out like a map to a treasure no one wanted to find. His eyes scanned the contents, searching for a clue.

Jake settled onto the worn cushions of his couch, the musty smell of aged paper filling the air as he spread out the contents from the top folder. The room was silent, save for the occasional hum of the refrigerator, a low soundtrack to his restless search for truth. He had seen these pages countless times, memorized each word and photograph, yet now he pored over them with fresh desperation.

Photographs of the crime scene were stark against the dim glow of the lamp—images of his childhood kitchen turned into an exhibit of horror. Amidst the chaos captured in those photos, he searched for any trace of the tiny predators that had become the focus of his current investigation. Could it be possible they had been there all along?

His fingers traced the outline of notes made by investigators, lingering on the observations now rendered significant through the lens of recent events. The stillness of the night pressed in around him, a reminder of the solitude that accompanied his mother's unsolved case.

Then he saw it, a simple sentence in an officer's report that set his pulse racing: "at least three orb-weaver spiders" discovered at the scene. It was more of a footnote, something Jake had overlooked before, or maybe forgotten because there were too many other things to focus on in his mother’s file. But this was proof: there were at least some of the spiders there.

Which meant they could be dealing with the same person.

The words blurred as Jake realized what this meant. His mother, Cassandra, had been precise in her domestic rituals; not a single cobweb ever lingered in the corners of their home. To find spiders there, especially orb-weavers, defied every memory he had of her meticulous habits.

A mixture of dread and vindication settled in his chest. Fifteen years of doubts and dead-ends suddenly coalesced into a singular thread of possibility. Lena, Jamie, Erica—they were all linked to his mother's death by the slenderest and most unlikely of clues. For the first time since he'd taken up the badge, Jake felt the taut line of his past converging with the present.

The discovery should have brought some sense of closure, but instead, it reignited the burning need for justice that had driven him into this career. As the night deepened around him, Jake knew sleep would not come. There was work to be done, and a killer's twisted signature had just unraveled before his eyes.

With the files spread like a shroud across the coffee table, Jake leaned back, his mind racing. The evidence was clear, yet its implications were vast and daunting. The man who had haunted his nightmares, who had stolen the light from his family all those years ago, was still out there, hiding behind the webs of his dark predilections.

This was his chance to catch him.