Page 16
Story: Let Her Fade (Fiona Red #13)
Jake stood rigid before the bank of monitors, his gaze fixed on one in particular. It displayed grainy footage of a man, cap pulled low over his brow as he handed over cash for a clutch of spiders. The orb-weavers, synonymous with death in their investigation, seemed to mock them from the screen.
Jake’s heart pounded. Could this really be the man who was killing these women—who possibly killed his own mother?
"Anything on the line?" Jake's voice was terse, impatient.
"Nothing but dead ends," Fiona replied from her adjacent desk, her fingers clicking over her keyboard as she sifted through data.
The tech team had been buzzing around them since they opened the tip line, fielding calls with a mix of hope and skepticism. A prank call had come in earlier, some idiot mimicking spider noises before erupting into laughter and hanging up. Jake had slammed the receiver down so hard it echoed through the bullpen.
"Got another," a tech called out, passing a note to Jake.
"Fourteen-year-old skateboarder seen with a tarantula." He crumpled the paper, tossing it into the growing pile of useless tips. "This is going nowhere."
Fiona looked up, her amber eyes meeting his. "He's out there, Jake. Someone knows him."
"Sure," Jake muttered, not convinced. He knew the profile by heart—a male, possibly twenties at the time of his mother’s death, likely thirties or forties by now, possibly with a personal connection to the victims. But knowledge felt like cold comfort when leads were scarce.
The clock ticked mockingly, each second a reminder of the urgency pressing down on them. Three women, their lives brutally cut short, and somewhere out there, a killer with a penchant for spiders and slaughter.
Jake's fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the edge of his desk, each tap a sharp echo in the quiet of the room. The agents around him were a blur, their voices melding into an indistinct hum as he stared at the grainy image frozen on the screen. It was a face that could belong to any number of men in Portland—a face that, nevertheless, seemed to mock him with its anonymity.
He felt it again, that old, gnawing ache—the one that resurged with every dead end and unanswered question. Fifteen years had not dulled the edges of his loss; if anything, time had honed them to a finer point, a constant reminder of the day he'd come home to find his world irrevocably altered.
"Jake?" Fiona's voice cut through his reverie, gentle but insistent.
He blinked, forcing his gaze away from the screen to meet hers. "Yeah?"
"You're clenching your jaw," she observed quietly.
"Am I?" He hadn't even realized, but now that she mentioned it, he felt the tension there, the dull strain of muscles held too tight for too long.
"Is everything okay?" Her concern was palpable, a warmth he found both comforting and unnerving.
"Fine," he lied smoothly, the word slipping out with practiced ease. "Just... eager to catch this guy."
Fiona studied him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable behind her glasses. "You know you can talk to me, right? About anything."
He nodded, offering her a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I know, Red. And I appreciate it. But really, I'm fine. Let's just focus on finding our spider collector before he decides to add to his collection."
He saw the flicker of doubt cross her features before she masked it with a nod, stepping back to give him space. Jake turned back to the screen, to the frozen image of the man they sought.
The lies sat heavily on his tongue, the truth burning like acid just beneath the surface. This case was more than just a hunt for a killer—it was a path leading back to the darkest day of his life, to questions left unanswered and justice unserved. But he couldn't afford to be sidelined by his own ghosts, not when lives were at stake.
He returned his attention to the screen, but Fiona's next words pulled him back.
"Let's take a step back from the tip line," she suggested, pushing a strand of curly red hair behind her ear. "We need a new angle. What about talking to people who knew Erica Silverman? Maybe someone saw something they didn't realize was important."
Jake considered it. Erica's world—her gym, her friends—it was untapped territory. They needed fresh leads, and this could be their chance to find them.
"Her kickboxing gym," Jake said, the idea taking hold. "If anyone knows her routine, her connections, it's them."
"Exactly." Fiona nodded, satisfaction lining her features. "We might uncover something the killer didn't mean to leave behind."
Jake stood up, feeling the weight of inertia lifting. Action was what they needed, something to break the cycle of dead-end tips and mounting frustration. He grabbed his jacket, the fabric a shield against the chill that had nothing to do with the mild winter outside.
"Let's go pay them a visit," he decided, his voice carrying the newfound determination Fiona had sparked within him.
They left the hum of computers and the soft chatter of their colleagues behind, stepping into the crisp air that promised clarity. With each step toward their SUV, Jake felt the pull of the case, the drive to solve it not just for the victims, but for himself. This investigation was a bridge between his past and present, and he was ready to cross it.
***
The kickboxing gym was alive with the rhythmic thuds of gloves against bags, the sharp exhales of exertion, and the squeak of sneakers on polished floors. Fiona stepped through the entrance, scanning the space, taking in every detail—a habit honed from years of meticulous study. She noticed how the fighters moved, each one a study in controlled power, much like Erica Silverman must have been.
She glanced at Jake, noting the way his jaw clenched slightly—a sign she'd come to recognize as his own form of concentration. "Let's find Kacey, the general manager," she suggested.
They navigated through the maze of equipment and bodies, finally reaching an office where Kacey, the gym's manager, was tallying up membership fees. The woman looked up, her expression morphing from routine boredom to concern when she saw their badges.
"Agents Red and Tucker, FBI. We need to talk about Erica Silverman," Fiona said, dispensing with pleasantries.
Kacey stood abruptly, papers fluttering to the floor, forgotten. "Erica? What's happened?"
Fiona shared a glance with Jake before she spoke, her words deliberate and calm. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but Erica was found dead in her home."
Disbelief washed over Kacey's face, followed by a visible shudder. "Dead? But... she's one of our strongest fighters. How could anyone—" Her voice broke, and she shook her head in denial.
"Unfortunately, it appears she was ambushed in her home," Fiona explained, her heart aching for the woman in front of her. "Someone took advantage of the element of surprise."
"Her home..." Kacey repeated, her hands trembling. "That makes sense. Erica... she could handle herself, easily." She paused, collecting herself with a deep breath. "I just can’t believe she's gone."
Fiona offered a sympathetic nod, her role as an agent merging with her intrinsic compassion. Erica's world had been violently disrupted, and now those ripples were spreading, touching everyone who had known her. It was a pattern Fiona knew all too well—the same pattern that had snatched her sister Joslyn away, leaving behind a void filled only with questions.
"Was there anything unusual lately? Anything out of the ordinary?" Jake asked, his voice soft yet insistent.
Kacey bit her lip, her gaze distant as if searching her memory for something she might have missed. "No, nothing. Just the usual training sessions, the regulars coming and going..."
Fiona shifted her weight, feeling the hardness of the gym's floor beneath her. Kacey stood with her arms crossed, a barrier to shield against the grief that seemed to hang in the air like the stale scent of sweat and determination.
"Erica," Fiona started, her voice clipped with an analytical edge, "did she ever have trouble with any of the men here? Maybe someone who gave her unwanted attention?"
Kacey's eyes darted about the room before settling back on Fiona. "No, Erica could handle herself. She never mentioned any problems." Her voice held the firmness of conviction, but there was a shadow there too—doubt or perhaps fear.
Jake leaned in, his posture emanating an intensity that often caught people off guard. "Think carefully," he pressed, not unkindly, but with urgency. "Someone who might have tried to get close to her, to bother her?"
Kacey sighed, a sound heavy with the strain of trying to recollect. "Honestly, no one specific comes to mind. She brushed off advances like they were nothing, but she had a good way of preventing hostility too.”
“So no one was particularly aggressive with her?” Jake asked.
"No," Kacey confirmed, shaking her head. "Erica was popular. People respected her skills...and her space."
There was a finality in her words that made Fiona sigh. Another dead end.
Jake swapped a look with Fiona. The air in the gym seemed to grow heavier by the minute, pressing down on them with the weight of their failed leads and unmet expectations.
Fiona's gaze wandered subtly across the room, taking in every detail as if it were a puzzle piece waiting to be placed. She noticed the typical gym paraphernalia: scattered gloves, jump ropes, and the faint chalk outline where Erica's hands once gripped the floor.
Then she saw it—a fleeting glance that snagged her attention. Behind the desk, half-hidden by a crumpled towel, was a discarded cup, the bright logo of Power Juice splashed across its side.
Fiona's heart rate picked up, a silent drumbeat in her chest. It was a small link but potentially a chain to something larger. Power Juice was the name of the smoothie bar they’d gone to yesterday, where Jamie Lin and Lena Chase frequented, where Victor Harmon, who they’d cleared, worked.
Fiona eyed the branded cup, its contents long gone, but the implications still ripe. "Did Erica frequent Power Juice?" she asked, her voice steady despite the gears turning in her head.
Kacey nodded, the movement stiff, robotic. "Yeah, it was her go-to spot. She'd bring back smoothies for everyone after her morning workout."
Fiona's gaze met Jake's, a wordless communication passing between them. The weight of the discovery pressed against her chest, intensifying the urgency thrumming through her veins. Their suspect had left a trail, faint but discernible, leading back to Power Juice.
Jake focused on Kasey. “Did Erica ever mention the manager at that bar? A man named Victor Harmon?”
Kasey thought on it. “I don’t think so… why? Could it be relevant?”
“Maybe,” Jake said. “Thank you for your time, Kasey. We’ll be back if we have any other questions.”
“I just hope you find out who did this,” Kasey said.
As they left the gym, the hum of activity faded into the background, eclipsed by the silent echo of their synchronized footsteps. With each step, Fiona felt the pieces of the puzzle jostling into place. The man with the cap, the orb-weaver spiders, the smoothie bar—it all had to mean something.
And right now, it looked like everything was pointing back toward their first suspect: Victor Harmon.