Page 19

Fiona blinked against the harsh fluorescent light of the hospital room, her vision a kaleidoscope of colors as she adjusted to the brightness. Gingerly, she probed the tender flesh around her eye, wincing at the touch. The bruising was extensive, an angry purple.

"Quite lucky, Agent Red," the doctor intoned, snapping off his latex gloves with a practiced flick. He peered down at her through his own set of spectacles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a hint of sympathy. "No concussion, no fractures. You can return to work, but take it easy."

"Thank you," Fiona murmured, her voice a raspy shadow of its usual pitch. She could still feel the ghost of Victor Harmon's shoe on her face, the sharp pain that had exploded through her skull. She couldn't afford to be sidelined, not when the case needed her—when Joslyn needed her.

"Your visitors will be allowed in shortly," the doctor said, his tone shifting towards formality as he glanced at his clipboard. "I'll give them the go-ahead."

"Visitors?" Fiona repeated, the word feeling foreign. Her parents would likely be preoccupied with their mortuary business and Jake... Jake had a suspect to interrogate. A spark of warmth flitted across her chest at the thought of her partner, steadfast and determined.

Gratitude threaded through her veins like a lifeline. She needed to be in the field, amongst the evidence and the insects that whispered their secrets. Fiona sat up straighter, steeling herself for what was to come, her mind already sifting through clues and questions left unanswered.

Fiona's eyes flickered open as the door creaked, and two familiar figures slipped into the sterile white room. Her parents face etched with worry, advanced toward her bed. They held a small, rectangular object in their hands—a new pair of glasses. Well, technically, they were her old glasses, a pair she wore when she was younger, but the prescription was still the same. Her heart warmed, knowing her parents had kept them all these years.

"Mom? Dad?" Fiona's voice was a whisper, tinged with surprise. She hadn't expected them; they were always so engulfed in their work at the morgue that it seemed to consume all their time.

"Sweetheart," her mother breathed out, embracing Fiona gently. Her father joined in, and for a moment, the hospital room felt less cold, the air less clinical.

"Jake told us what happened," her dad said after they pulled away, his tone carrying a note of strength meant to bolster her spirit. "How you stood up to that thug."

A smile tugged at the corners of Fiona's bruised face. Of course, Jake would make sure they knew. He understood the gravity of family, the unspoken bond that tied her life so closely to theirs.

"Where is he now?" her mother asked, glancing around the room as if expecting Jake to appear from behind the curtains.

"Interrogating Victor," Fiona replied, her lips pressing into a thin line. She accepted the glasses and slid them onto her face, the world coming back into focus. "He had to keep working."

"Have you been to see Joslyn?" The words came naturally, but the sharp intake of breath from both her parents spoke volumes. Fiona watched as concern flashed across their faces like shadows passing.

"Later, we will," her mother said quickly, too quickly, her eyes darting away. There was something unsaid, something heavy that lay between them.

Fiona's heart clenched at the sight. Joslyn's absence had been a wound that never fully healed, an ache that echoed through the years. Now that she was back, yet not truly with them, the pain resurfaced anew, a silent specter in the room.

"Okay," Fiona said softly, nodding.

Fiona's gaze lingered on her parents, their shared silence a thin veil over the unease that had settled in the room.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with concern. Her mother glanced at her father, seeking silent support before turning back to Fiona.

"Sweetheart," her mother began, her voice barely above a whisper, "we're scared for Joslyn. The doctors... they're not sure if she'll come back to us. Not as the girl we remember." Her father's hand found her mother's, gripping it tightly, as if trying to hold together the fragments of fading hope.

"The trauma," her father continued, his voice strained, "it's... it's taken so much from her. We don't know if she'll ever be the same." His words hung heavy in the air, a reminder of the uncertainty they all faced.

Fiona felt a pang of sorrow, knowing the vibrant sister she once knew was lost in an abyss of shadows. But beneath the grief, a fierce resolve sparked within her. She reached out, taking her parents' hands in hers, the contact warm and grounding.

"Don't give up on her," Fiona said, her tone firm. "Joslyn is strong. We can't lose faith now. Miracles happen, remember? We have to believe she can get through this." She squeezed their hands, a silent promise passed between them.

Her parents nodded, tears brimming but not falling—a testament to the steely determination that ran deep in their veins. "You're right," her mother agreed. "We can't let go of hope."

"Never," her father echoed, his voice steadier now.

Together, they sat in the hospital room, their hands intertwined, forming an unbreakable circle of steadfast belief. In that moment, there were no agents or victims, only a family united by love and the unwavering conviction that they would not relinquish Joslyn to her trauma. They were the Reds—resilient, enduring—and they would fight for every sliver of light in the darkness.

***

Jake stood rigid in the fluorescent light of the interrogation room, his gaze fixed on Victor Harmon. The suspect's shoulders hunched defensively, compared to Jake's squared stance. Harmon's eyes darted behind his glasses, the look of a cornered man clear as day. Jake had already been going at Victor for some time, and the man was on the verge of breaking.

"Assaulting a federal agent is serious business, Victor," Jake said, his voice low and controlled. "You must've been pretty desperate to want to get away that badly."

Victor's lips twitched, a feeble attempt at composure. Jake could see right through it—the fear, the guilt. It was all there, laid bare on Harmon's haggard face. He would break soon. Jake could smell it.

"Look," Victor began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I was at a strip club two nights ago, alright? I wasn't with my coworkers like I said."

Jake leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. He felt the weight of his mother's unsolved case pressing down on him, fueling his determination. This was more than just an interrogation; it was personal.

"Go on," he prompted, his eyes never leaving Victor's face.

Victor swallowed hard, moisture gleaming at the corners of his eyes. "I didn't kill anyone," he insisted, desperation seeping into his tone. "But I lied because I was scared. I didn't want to be blamed for... for something I didn't do. I also didn’t wanna admit I went to one of those joints, and I sure as heck don’t want to be the guy responsible for bringing feds around asking questions about me to verify my damn alibi.”

"Scared or not, Victor, lying to federal agents doesn't look good for you. It makes you look guilty," Jake stated unequivocally. His heart pounded, a rhythmic drumbeat in his ears that matched the ticking clock on the wall. Every second counted in this dance of truth and lies.

"I know, I know," Victor stammered, wringing his hands together. "But it's the truth. I was at the club, but I never hurt those girls. I couldn’t."

"Being afraid of getting blamed isn't a defense. It's an excuse," Jake shot back. His mind raced with the possibilities, with the connections that seemed to be just out of reach. Fiona would've seen right through Victor's weak defense, just as he did now.

"Please, you have to believe me," Victor pleaded, his voice cracking under the strain.

Jake remained silent for a moment, considering the man before him. Victor Harmon wasn't what Jake had expected—a former entomologist turned smoothie bar manager caught up in a dark web of deceit and violence. But whether or not Victor was their killer, Jake knew one thing for certain: he would stop at nothing to uncover the truth and end this nightmare, for Fiona, for the victims, and for the ghost of his mother that haunted him still.

Jake slid the glossy photographs across the cold metal table, one by one. Erica Silverman's lifeless eyes stared up from the sterile surface, followed by Jamie Lin's still form and Lena Chase's muscular build, now forever slack. The room was silent except for Victor's labored breathing, his gaze darting between the images as if trying to decipher a code.

"Recognize them?" Jake asked, his voice devoid of warmth.

Victor shuffled in his seat, licked his lips, and looked at the photos again. "I—I told you, I saw them at the juice bar... but I didn't—"

"Save it," Jake cut him off. He knew the signs of a man drowning in his own lies. Fiona would have torn into this guy with precision, leaving no stone unturned. But here he was, doing just that, all while carrying the weight of her injury on his shoulders.

"Look," Victor started, desperation edging his tone, "there are lots of girls coming in and out of Power Juice. I can't be expected to remember every single—"

"Three women murdered, throats slit, orb-weaver spiders left at the scene. You were an entomologist, so you could easily have knowledge on where to get those spiders. We have multiple witnesses claiming you were strange with Jamie Lin. You lied about your alibi. And you expect me to believe you've got nothing to do with any of this?" Jake leaned in, his eyes locked onto Victor's, searching for that flicker of guilt, anything to pin this weasel down.

Victor wavered under the scrutiny, his hands trembling as they hovered above the damning evidence. "No, no, I swear—"

"Swear all you want," Jake said, standing straight, feeling the tight pull of his suit against his muscles, a reminder of the control he maintained over the situation. His mind raced back to his mother's unsolved case, the similar patterns gnawing at him. On impulse, he pulled out his phone and swiped to a photo—a smiling brunette woman in a firefighter uniform, her kind eyes a reminder of the cruelty of her fate. Jake’s mother, Cassandra.

"Ever see her before?" Jake asked, pushing the phone towards Victor.

Victor leaned forward, squinting at the screen. "I don't—I don't know her." Confusion and irritation flashed across his features.

"Are you sure?" Jake pressed, studying Victor's reaction intently. The slightest twitch, a rapid blink, any sign could be the thread he needed to unravel Victor's story.

"Positive. I've never seen her," Victor insisted, pushing the phone away with a shaky hand.

Jake retracted the phone, eyeing Victor with renewed suspicion. The man was hiding something; he could feel it in his gut. Maybe it wasn't about his mother—maybe it was—but either way, Victor Harmon was not walking out of that room without giving up the truth.

As Jake stared at him, he imagined if Victor truly was the one who had killed his mother.

Had this man stared into the eyes of his mother as the life drained out of her? Had this same man then turned his sick predilections to other strong, capable women, ending their lives just as brutally?

A swell of fury surged within Jake at the thought. He felt his fists clenching involuntarily, knuckles turning white as he fought to keep his composure. His gaze darkened. Control and raw emotion warred within him.

"So, you don't know this woman?" Jake asked again, forcing a calmness he did not feel into his voice. "You never met Cassandra Tucker?"

"No," Victor repeated, this time with a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. His weak defiance only served to fuel Jake's resolve.

"I'm not convinced, Victor," Jake retorted, the cold steel in his voice calculated for maximum effect. He had done countless interrogations, but this one hit too close to home. This was personal.

Jake felt a coil of rage tightening within him. He breathed out slowly, forcing a calm over himself as he met Victor’s eyes. “Look, Victor,” he began, his words edged with steel, “we’re going to find out the truth. Sooner or later, it will come out. You can make this easier for yourself… Or you can keep lying and make things worse.”

Victor seemed to shrink in his seat, his gaze darting between Jake and the incriminating photos scattered across the table. The room was silent except for the steady ticking of the wall clock and the occasional shuffling of feet outside the door. Time was ticking away, and with each passing second, Jake felt an urge to rattle the truth out of Victor.

He had to take a moment. He had to clear his head before he did something he’d regret.

Jake stormed out of the interrogation room, his heart hammering against his ribs like a relentless drum. The metallic tang of frustration clung to his tongue, the taste of a lead that might slip through his fingers. His mother's face, frozen in time on the screen of his phone, haunted him with unanswered questions as he pocketed the device.

"Rough one, huh?" Chief Whittaker's deep voice cut through Jake's turmoil, echoing off the sterile walls of the hallway.

Jake paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose, his skin still electrified from the intensity of the interrogation. "Yeah," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. "I showed him a picture."

"Of the victims?" Whittaker inquired, his bushy eyebrows knitting together under the weight of his curiosity.

"No," Jake said, lifting his eyes to meet Whittaker's gaze squarely. He had wanted to keep this from Whittaker for longer, but if Victor was the guy, then this had gone too far. He had to tell the chief the truth. "It was my mother, Cassandra."

The chief's expression flickered with surprise, then concern. "Your mother? Why would Harmon have anything to do with her case?"

With a shaky exhale, Jake confessed what had been gnawing at him for so long. "I checked the files again. There were orb-weaver spiders at her murder scene too. It's been fifteen years, but I can't shake the feeling that these cases... they could be connected."

Jake stood rigid, his jaw clenched. The air in the hallway suddenly seemed stifling, heavy with the weight of Chief Whittaker's glare. The chief's mustache twitched with irritation, a clear sign of his anger.

"Dammit, Tucker, why didn't you tell me?" Whittaker barked. His stance was wide, hands on hips, a pose that demanded accountability.

Jake swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I couldn’t be sure, Chief," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. "I didn't want to jump to conclusions without evidence."

"Conclusions?" Whittaker stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "We're talking about a major conflict of interest here!"

"Please, Chief," Jake pleaded, his eyes never leaving Whittaker’s. "Don't take me off this case. It’s about Jamie, Erica, and Lena right now. We’ll deal with the rest later."

Whittaker's gaze held on Jake, searching, assessing. Finally, he exhaled loudly, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly. "Victor Harmon is our guy. I think you know it, too." He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I'll try to bring in the officers who worked your mother’s case. We'll see if there's anything to link them."

"Thank you, Chief," Jake said, relief flooding through him. But as Whittaker turned to walk away, Jake knew deep down that his fight was only just beginning. With every step he took back towards the bullpen, the image of his mother, framed by the delicate threads of an orb-weaver's web, haunted him.

Jake stood still as Chief Whittaker's firm hand landed on his shoulder—a weight he both resented and respected. "You're one of my best agents, Tucker," the chief said, his tone softer than before, yet still laced with the severity of the situation. "A bright young mind in this dark business."

"Thank you," was all Jake managed before the words stuck in his throat. The praise clashed with his internal storm—appreciation against a backdrop of anxiety. He knew what the chief saw in him: a tenacious agent whose gut instincts often led to breakthroughs. Yet at that moment, those same instincts gnawed at him with doubt.

Victor Harmon, the man they'd pinned their hopes on, the supposed link between past and present horrors, did not seem like the killer his heart was hunting. The image of Victor, cowering under the pressure of interrogation, didn't match the calculating brutality of the crimes. And despite the bruise on Fiona's face, Jake couldn't shake the feeling that Victor was just another scared pawn in a larger game.

"Always done good work," Whittaker repeated, releasing his hold. But the assurance felt hollow to Jake. Good work meant solving cases, providing closure. And right now, his mother's unsolved murder clawed at the edges of his thoughts, contaminating everything with its unresolved darkness.

As Whittaker turned away, Jake's mind settled on Fiona, laying in a hospital bed because of his lead. Duty mingled with concern, urging him forward. He needed to see her—to ensure she was truly alright, to apologize for the danger he'd put her in, and maybe, selfishly, to find solace in her presence.