Chapter Text
i. you've been the world to me
With all the depravity she’s witnessed through her job, Maggie had thought she would be used to nightmares. After all, it took almost a year, and a dedicated load of therapy, before she stopped being haunted in her sleep by laboratory doors and body horror. Still, she didn’t think she would suffer from another recurring night terror in her life – the once had been enough, but the last few months have had other ideas. Ever since Distefano was arrested, she’s been plagued by the same horrifying dream, though perhaps not as frequently as it feels.
She comes home to a silent brownstone.
Nobody answers her when she calls out for them.
Claire is missing, and Maggie never finds out what happened to her.
Isobel is lying face down on their bedroom floor, dead in a pool of her own blood.
It always feels just as real as anything else. She has no memory of all the other times she’s experienced this same scenario – the violent nausea, the desperate denial and sheer panic. The distance between them is both endless and only a few feet. Blood soaks into her slacks where she kneels on the floor. Her hand shakes uncontrollably as she brushes Isobel’s hair back. The face she has perfectly memorized is viciously maimed, sliced deep in a pattern she's unfortunate enough to recognize.
“I’d love to cut a face like that.”
Maggie jerks awake in a cold sweat, a breathless pain in her chest as their bedroom slowly swims into focus around her, but the familiarity isn’t much of a comfort. That isn’t how the nightmare usually goes. The ordeal has always abruptly ended just at the sight of Isobel’s body, already too much of a shock for Maggie to tolerate. This is the first time she’s ever touched her, let alone seen her face – or what’s left of it.
Maggie wishes she could forget, rolling over in search of reassurance, trying to get the image out of her head. Finding Isobel asleep beside her, safe and sound, is at least finally some relief. Maggie sighs, reaching over to brush Isobel’s curls back behind her ear before stroking her knuckles lovingly along the length of her jaw. She would have been up until a stupid hour working if Maggie hadn’t insistently pulled her into bed, and now she’s out cold.
Still, Maggie isn’t completely soothed, a sense of dread continuing to itch under her skin. Claire had been gone in her nightmare, just like always – Maggie needs to know that isn’t the case here in reality, quietly climbing out of bed. Claire’s door stands ajar at the end of the hall, and Maggie's dread burrows a little deeper as she approaches it, but when she pushes soundlessly through the gap, she’s immediately eased by the sight of Claire curled up in bed.
She’s faintly lit by the yellow-white glow of her Miffy nightlight, her favorite stuffed rabbit cuddled in the crook of her arm. Seeing her gives Maggie the solace she was seeking, but in the lingering shadow of her nightmare, she can't help being reminded of Claire's face bathed red in Distefano’s darkroom, knowing the illicit photographs are immortalized in some FBI case file. She crouches down to press a light kiss to her forehead, as if in apology, and pauses in the doorway to glance back at her before returning to her own room.
She tiredly crawls into bed again, drawing up the covers, and immediately shimmies closer to Isobel, latching onto her. Simply being beside her isn’t enough now, and as Maggie nestles her head against Isobel’s collarbone, she hopes she doesn’t drift off to that empty brownstone for a second time tonight.
Unfortunately, her nightmare turns out to be a warning.
She’s woken up before her alarm by the sound of synchronized phone alerts, as hers and Isobel’s go off in tandem. She knows it’s work, but she’s remiss to move, still comfortably wrapped around Isobel’s slender frame. She, on the other hand, immediately reacts, cradling the back of Maggie’s head with one hand and rolling them over slightly as she reaches, half-asleep, for her phone with the other.
Isobel sighs, scrunching her nose up at the time, and reads over the message twice while Maggie doesn’t even bother opening her eyes. “We have a dead woman in Central Park,” Isobel murmurs, absently putting her phone back. “They want you at the crime scene.” It’s only six in the morning, half an hour before they would normally get up, but the job doesn’t wait – at least not for Maggie.
“Five more minutes,” she grumbles against Isobel’s throat, holding her tighter in response. After the night she’s had, she doesn’t want to let Isobel go at all, but she knows she’s going to have no choice. Isobel, at least, doesn’t object to the request, running her fingers idly through Maggie’s hair. It’s almost enough to send her straight back to sleep, but after a little while longer, she groans in annoyance against the hollow of Isobel’s neck and reluctantly untangles herself from her.
“You’re scowling,” Isobel notes, rolling onto her side as she watches Maggie sit up at the edge of the bed. “I miss my sunny morning smile.” Maggie looks back at her with a blank look, but she can’t fight off said smile for more than a few seconds, stretching across the mattress to press several kisses along Isobel’s jaw as she normally would. Isobel hums happily, eyes soft when Maggie moves away. “Much better.”
“You’re the only thing saving my morning,” Maggie sighs, stretching her arms over her head as she stands up. She’s not a particularly routine oriented person, but she still likes the one they have in the mornings. So much for that today, she thinks, tiredly going to brush her teeth. She splashes her face with cold water, trying to wake herself up some more, and when she returns to get dressed, Isobel is at least sitting up in bed, the covers pooled in her lap.
Maggie would think it unfair, how good she can look even right after waking up, if she wasn’t so hopelessly enamored with her, lazily gathering something cohesive to wear. She can feel Isobel watching her as she changes, deliberately turning to face her when she pulls on her bra, but being seen doesn’t stop her unapologetic staring. “Enjoying the view?” Maggie asks, zipping up her jeans.
“Of course,” Isobel answers, entirely unfazed. “I don’t always have the privilege.” Maggie affectionately rolls her eyes before pulling on a navy-colored sweater, but it isn’t until she’s almost done tying her hair back that Isobel finally stops admiring and gets out of bed herself. Maggie follows her downstairs, planning to make time for a coffee – otherwise, this crime scene isn’t going to get even half of her attention.
She leans on the kitchen counter in front of the coffee machine, two mugs at the ready, and scowls at it to hurry up. She hears the toaster being used behind her and immediately mourns the loss of a decent breakfast, assuming it’s for the other two. She doesn’t realize Isobel actually has her in mind until she finishes pouring their coffee and the plate of toast is suddenly placed in front of her – slightly burned and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, just the way she likes it.
“I should really marry you,” Maggie murmurs, holding out Isobel’s mug before she starts eating, grateful to have something when it could be far after lunch before she gets another chance. She doesn't miss the way Isobel smiles behind her drink, though she can at least take her time with hers. Maggie tries to find a speed that isn’t quite at wolfing down her breakfast, though she isn’t entirely successful. She at least makes sure to finish her toast last, preferring the sweet aftertaste to that of her coffee.
Isobel leans against the kitchen doorway, cradling her mug as she watches her finish getting ready, and then follows her to the door. The sun is only just starting to rise, the sky overhead a blend of dusty blue and pink. “I’ll see you at the office in a few hours,” Isobel reminds her, leaning in to softly kiss Maggie farewell, tasting the cinnamon on her lips.
“Good luck waking little miss sleepyhead,” Maggie teases lightly when they pull apart, reshouldering her duffel bag. She feels bad that she won’t get to see Claire until that evening, but duty calls – whether she likes it or not.
“I’m going to need it,” Isobel sighs, pulling a face as she reaches up to adjust the collar of Maggie’s shirt. “Careful out there, okay?” No harm should come to her at a crime scene, but there’s no telling with her, and she’ll likely be up to more than that before Isobel sees her again later in the morning. Maggie nods, giving her a final kiss on the cheek before turning to leave, spinning her keys around her forefinger.
It’s not the morning commute she’s used to, with Claire singing along to the radio in the backseat. Maggie's lacking that usual small spark of joy when she walks up on the crime scene, some little stone bridge to the side of a footpath in Central Park. OA is still out on leave, so she remains paired with Scola, already there waiting, though he looks even more tired than she feels.
Maggie tells him as much as soon as she’s within earshot. “You look like shit.”
“It’s called having a toddler,” Scola mutters, a little bleary-eyed as they duck under the line of yellow tape.
“So, what do we know?” she asks, bracing herself against the harsh morning chill. Spring can’t come soon enough.
“Not much. She’s a postal service employee, Vanessa Walker,” he reveals as they approach the tunnel, already filled with several crime scene technicians. “A groundskeeper found her at 5AM.” Maggie nods absently. Not much is right, though that’s about to change. “The M.E’s ready to fill us in.”
He’s a few meters into the tunnel, crouched down beside their victim, but he quickly looks up at the sound of their approaching footsteps. Maggie greets him with a wordless nod. “I’m afraid the prelim results paint a pretty dark picture for how your victim spent her last 24 hours,” he tells them solemnly, and Maggie can see why even from her angle.
Their victim is viciously covered in far more lacerations than she could hope to count, all varying in size and depth, but that isn’t what ends up disturbing her most. The M.E. gets to his feet, no longer blocking the view of the woman’s head, and although he keeps talking, Maggie doesn't register a word he says, transfixed and paralyzed by her hair – the exact same shade of striking auburn as Claire’s.
In an instant, she’s violently reminded of her nightmare: Claire’s empty bed with the pillows tossed aside, blood smeared on the mattress and the door jamb that could easily be hers. Maggie suddenly wonders, had she never been able to wake up, if this is the sight she would’ve been forced to face.
Is she even awake now?
Someone hits her arm without warning, just hard enough to jerk her back to the real world. It’s Scola, eyeing her with concern. “You good?”
The answer is a clear, resounding no, but she sure as hell isn't going to admit that, let alone to him. “Yeah, sorry, coffee’s still kicking in,” she lies, feigning a wry smile as she turns away from the victim, desperately trying to avoid her resemblance to Claire. She doesn’t know how long she zoned out for, but it’s just the two of them stood there now.
Scola seems to believe her, at least, immediately returning his attention to the case. “M.E. estimates that she died less than 12 hours ago,” he tells her, correctly assuming that Maggie didn’t hear most if any of the conversation. "She bled out.” Maggie grimaces. She'd guessed as much based on her mutilated body, but it would’ve been a slow, agonizing process with that many cuts, just deep enough to be survivable until there’s a thousand of them.
Maggie’s eyes sweep the ground around them, and then the rest of the tunnel. “There’s no blood,” she points out. A drawn-out death like that would have left something behind if she’d been tortured or succumbed to her injuries here. This almost certainly isn’t where she died. “She has ligatures on her wrists and ankles.”
“So, what do you think – body dump?” Scola suggests, crouching down to get a better look at the deep, purple bruises where the victim was bound.
Maggie shakes her head. “Look at her hands.”
“They’re the only part of her untouched,” he notes. It’s an odd detail when the rest of her is so heavily maimed, but he still isn’t entirely sure where she’s going with the observation.
“Exactly. If you’re going to mutilate indiscriminately, why go to the trouble of leaving a way to fingerprint her?” Maggie questions, and Scola finally catches up to her train of thought.
“You think our killer wants us to ID her,” he realizes, slowly getting to his feet again.
“And find her,” Maggie clarifies. “Why else would he leave her in the most popular park in the city?” Sooner or later, she was going to be found, especially on a public footpath. She wasn’t concealed or hidden away. “This isn’t a dump job, it’s a display.”
“For who?” Scola asks, knowing the canvas turned up no witnesses.
Maggie points upwards, just to her right, and Scola’s gaze follows, guided to an overhead security camera. “For us." She doesn't know how much help it’ll be, but it’s somewhere to start. “Call the JOC,” she instructs, moving towards the daylight, “they should have the footage scrubbed by the time we get there.”
Scola falls into step beside her, pulling out his phone, and as they leave the tunnel, Maggie resists the urge to glance back at their victim one final time, almost afraid of who she might see instead. They split up at the road and head to their own cars, but the silence is stifling when Maggie shuts her door.
She takes a deep breath, starting the ignition, and glances at the time. Claire should be on her way to school now, safe and sound. Maggie pulls away from the sidewalk before reaching out to turn the radio up, already switched to their usual station, and quietly starts singing along, knowing Claire will be doing the same elsewhere in the city.
By the time she’s following Scola into the JOC, she’s managed to put her mind at ease. Unfortunately, the first thing she sees when she turns to the monitor is their victim's picture, her hair much brighter outside the dark and damp of a tunnel. Maggie sharply looks away. Her eyes are blue. Not quite the right shade, but close enough. She forces herself to ignore the coincidence, standing at an angle where she can only see the security video and nothing else.
It’s about as uninformative as she’d anticipated. Their killer wanted them to identify her, not him. All they know is that he’s a white guy, his height and build – nothing that stands out, nothing that distinguishes him from anyone else. Maggie isn't surprised. He was never going to give anything useful away when dumping their victim in plain view of the camera was a deliberate taunt. It was inevitable that they’d have to try a little harder.
There is, at least, something else to go on. A dive into Vanessa’s background tells them that she personally cherrypicked which one thousand employees to fire from the company she worked for. The possibility of revenge is worth chasing when people have murdered over being terminated before, although part of Maggie thinks this doesn’t quite fit that motive. This level of brutality feels like overkill, unless their crime scene was intended to be a warning to others with that kind of power.
Still, she's grateful for a daisy-chain of leads to follow, distracting her from things she's glad to forget. A visit to their victim’s husband quickly points them towards a former employee who took his own life after the firing, and his brother – enough of a problem that a police report was set in his near future. Or had been. Retaliation suddenly seems far more plausible.
That is, at first.
Maggie had expected a chase, but he surrenders to them without protest let alone running. He isn’t trying to hide his cuts and bruises, nor the blood that’s visible on his shirt – when changing it would’ve been so easy. They dump him in interrogation, but he’s forthcoming with his answers, or at least what he can remember about last night. Despite how hard they go at him, he maintains his innocence throughout, and his story never cracks. He’s the type of person who would slip up under pressure if he was guilty, but he doesn’t.
He’s far from a criminal mastermind, hardly characteristic of someone who deliberately dumps a body in front of a camera and goes out of their way to provide the victim’s fingerprints. That’s a level of calculation he’s clearly lacking, and Maggie strongly suspects they’re on the wrong track even before they leave the room.
She sends Scola to the JOC to check out the alibi and goes to update Isobel herself. Maggie isn't sure how filled in she is, having only caught a glimpse of her when taking Mack Fuller to the interview room, but Isobel turns out to be even more caught up than her, preoccupied with a lead of her own.
She's just leaving her office when Maggie gets there, examining an evidence bag that’s certainly out of place here. “Hey,” Maggie greets, eyeing it curiously, but her first question is answered before she even has a chance to ask it – or say anything else.
“Hey," Isobel echoes, immediately looking up at the sound of her voice. “Your guy’s alibi checks out, but we’ve got a bigger problem.” She holds out the clear plastic, and Maggie finally sees what’s inside as she carefully takes it from her – a handwritten note. “A reporter from The Times just brought this to us. Looks like it’s from our killer.” Maggie skims the message, met with an accurate description of that morning’s crime scene and a brief riddle that clearly leads to another body.
“How long have they had this?” she asks, handing it back as they start walking, following Isobel’s lead.
“Two days,” Isobel tells her, visibly annoyed. Although she knows the delay isn’t the reporter’s fault, or really anyone’s, she can’t help wondering if they would’ve been able to prevent there from even being a second victim had they gotten the threat sooner. “Apparently they get so many abhorrent messages that it wasn’t flagged until they caught wind of our case.”
“At least we have it now,” Maggie reasons half-heartedly. Hopefully it’ll help them stop this guy before he can murder anyone else. “What do you make of the clue?” She has an idea of her own, even if it feels too vague, but Isobel is the smartest person she knows, quick-thinking and clever. Maggie wants to know if they have the same train of thought.
“A room made for stares makes me think of people watching a performance,” Isobel explains as they near the JOC, validating Maggie’s own guess. In a way, it echoes the killer’s MO so far. This note and the first crime scene are both some degree of performative. “Theaters, concert halls, opera houses.”
That’s potentially hundreds of buildings to canvas. It would take them hours. “You think he expects us to check them all?”
Isobel shakes her head. “There’s something on the back of the message,” she reveals, briefly holding up the evidence bag. Maggie hadn’t even thought to check. “Looks like a puzzle, the kind where you fold the paper to form an image. That reporter emailed us pictures, so I forwarded them to the JOC. They should be working on piecing it together now – I'm guessing the result will point us somewhere more specific.”
Maggie wonders how many attempts they’ll have to make before they get the right answer, but it turns out they only need to try twice. Ian has already done the legwork in the time it took them to get there, running a grid of the image through a program that returned only several possible algorithms. The first set of folds is a bust, but a few keystrokes later, and the second reveals a cross attached to the bottom of a diamond.
“That’s the symbol for Athena,” Isobel deciphers, recognizing the shape within moments of it forming on the monitor, much to Maggie’s surprise. “Minerva in Roman mythology.” She glances back at the analysts. “Run those names against theaters, concert halls, anywhere with a stage.” Chances are they’ll come up with more than just one place, but it’ll narrow their search down to at least single digits.
Maggie leans closer to her, voice low. “How did you know that?” she asks, marveled. It’s a little ironic after all the times she’s compared Isobel to Aphrodite – internally and out loud.
Isobel smiles slightly. “Claire had a thing for Greek goddesses when she was three,” she reveals, clearly considering it nothing to have made the connection, but Maggie is still impressed that she instantly remembered the symbol even after five years. “Athena was her favorite. Wisdom and art.”
They have a short list of locations in only a few minutes, but there’s a clear front runner – Minerva Theater has been sitting on the market for weeks, out of business and almost always empty. A body could easily go undiscovered in there for days, and so that’s where they’re sent first.
It's eerie, walking through the darkened lobby, in a way Maggie hadn't anticipated a vacant theater to be. The note’s clue seemed to suggest they should start with the auditorium itself, so they locate a door closer to the stage, knowing it’ll be easier to scan the room from the bottom rather than having their view obstructed by hundreds of seat backs.
Scola sees her first, halfway up in the middle of a row. Maggie can’t pretend it isn’t an unsettling sight as they make their way silently up the stairs, and the building’s abandoned atmosphere doesn’t help. Just like their first victim, she’s covered in an untold number of cuts, stripped down to her underwear. The key difference this time is the balled-up piece of paper jammed crudely into her open mouth.
Maggie suspects it’s another note but given that it was written before their other victim died, she doesn’t know how useful it’s going to be. Scola sighs beside her, taking out his phone, and as he calls to notify the office and ERT, Maggie carefully steps around their victim’s legs to examine her from the other side.
She isn’t expecting to find anything, but when she looks up again, she instantly freezes, eyes widening. The woman has unsurprisingly started to decompose, her skin ashen and waxing, but the cuts to her face are still markedly clear. Sharp intersecting lines – an abstract, geometric pattern that Maggie would recognize anywhere, including fresh on Isobel’s lifeless, bloody face.
She suddenly can’t breathe.
It’s him.
Except, it can’t be. He’s in prison.
Did he escape?
No, they would’ve warned her.
She knows she’s panicking, even as she tries to rationalize the situation. She recognizes the sickening sensation of adrenaline, the urge to run or punch something, but she can’t do either right now. She’s paralyzed with a visceral fear, the very feeling she resents. She can hear Scola talking on the phone, but he sounds miles away, and she can't make out the words. It isn't until he's angling their camera to take a picture for evidence that she finds the wherewithal to speak past the lump in her throat, trying not to sound as breathless as she feels.
“Did the first victim have these facial wounds?” she asks quietly, unable to stop staring at them. She doesn’t remember, too distracted by her dulled auburn hair and all that it evoked.
“Yeah, why?” Scola says, glancing over at her, a little puzzled. He has no idea that his response cleaves right through her.
Maggie declines to answer honestly. “Just wondered if this is his signature,” she murmurs, finally managing to drag her eyes away from the series of cuts. There’s only one person she trusts with her intuition regarding this – only one person she knows won’t dismiss her as paranoid – and it isn’t him.
They decide to let ERT handle the note in their victim’s mouth, though it isn’t a long wait when they were already on standby. Unfortunately, at face value, it’s as unhelpful as Maggie had anticipated, but maybe they’ll get lucky with a fingerprint. This was chronologically his first murder and note – killers are more likely to make mistakes early on. In the meantime, they take a picture and head back otherwise empty handed, but Maggie doesn’t follow Scola towards the JOC in hope of a fresh lead.
She has bigger things to worry about, heading straight for Isobel’s office from the elevator. Maggie has no idea whether or not she’s in there, the blinds drawn, but she still doesn’t bother knocking, letting herself inside and closing the door again just as abruptly, leaning back against it.
Isobel is, at least, sat at her desk, immediately concerned by her sudden, wordless entrance and body language, able to tell something is wrong even at just a glance. “Maggie?”
“It’s Distefano,” Maggie tells her, forgetting in her urgency to provide any other context. They are so often of the same mind that she instinctively assumes Isobel must know what she means, but it unfortunately isn’t clear to her that Maggie is referring to the case.
“What about him?” she asks, already getting to her feet, so distracted that she doesn’t even think to remove her glasses.
“The cuts on the victims’ faces – it’s his pattern,” Maggie tells her, finally pushing away from the door to meet her in the middle of the room. “He’s connected to this, I know he is. We need to-”
“Hey, slow down,” Isobel advises, holding her hands out, ready to physically ground her if necessary. She’s speaking in a rush, starting to sound frantic even if she doesn’t realize it. Isobel needs her to take a breath. “Are the cuts the only connection?”
Maggie instantly falters at the question, reality grinding to a sharp halt as her heart sinks. “... You think I’m just being paranoid...” she murmurs, averting her gaze, suddenly unsure of herself. She’d been so certain that at least Isobel would believe her, but-
“Not at all,” Isobel assures softly, quick to dispel the presumption. She reaches out to take Maggie’s hand, gently intertwining their fingers, as if to reinforce her words with physical touch, knowing it’ll comfort her. “I trust your instincts, cariño, but they’re not admissible. Given your history with him and what he did to you, the ADIC will want something more concrete before we go near this.” He won’t want to risk any accusations of impropriety. Isobel knows he’ll only let them touch this angle as a last resort without further proof. “If you can find another connection, I’ll make it a priority.”
Maggie nods absently, not quite looking at her, and Isobel can tell from her slight frown that she’s lost in thought. “Maggie,” she says, injecting a touch of command into her voice, and Maggie’s eyes immediately flicker back to meet hers. This time, Isobel can read her mind. “Even if we find evidence, I want you to stay away from Distefano.”
Maggie had known Isobel would only disapprove and discourage her, but she hadn't expected her to catch onto the thought so quickly, as if Isobel isn’t always the first to know what she’s thinking. “But-”
“I mean it,” Isobel tells her firmly, already knowing what she’s going to say. “Even if he knows anything, he isn’t going to tell you.” He’d been completely uncooperative when sitting in their own interrogation room, only interested in taunting Maggie until she lashed out, and he hadn’t said a single helpful word in her absence. “In prison, it’s the only power he’ll have over you. He isn’t going to throw away the joy and satisfaction of that.” She knows that if Maggie goes anywhere near him, she's only going to wind up hurt and angry with nothing to show for it, and Isobel can't let that happen.
“Maybe you’re right,” Maggie murmurs, though her unease remains. Identical cut patterns might not be enough for the ADIC, but it is for her. Still, she knows zoning in on this theory will impact her judgement of the case, and then she really might start seeing connections that aren’t there. All she can do for now is try to ignore her intuition, even if the suspicion continues to hang in her mind like a ghost.
“Try to focus on the lead we do have for now,” Isobel reminds her, just as Maggie’s phone sounds.
“Speaking of...” Maggie scrunches her nose in annoyance, digging it out with her free hand, and scans the message. “Looks like I’m off to see a butcher.”
"Go on,” Isobel instructs, giving Maggie’s hand a final reassuring squeeze as she leans forward to press a kiss against her cheek. Maggie sighs, offering her a faint smile in return as she reluctantly lets her go. She’d much rather just stay here with her, willing for once to simply sit in a chair and do nothing, but the job doesn’t stop just because she’s having a terrible day, and she has no choice but to leave Isobel behind.
Scola is already waiting for her by the elevator. He doesn't ask her where she disappeared to, just explains why a butcher's when she asks – something about a blind stamp, whatever that is. It's not a long drive, at least, but Maggie spends it trying to do as Isobel suggested and focus on the trail that's right in front of her. She needs this case to be over with as soon as possible, unaware that it's only going to be downhill from here.
The place is empty when they arrive. Quiet. There’s a stack of paper on the counter that Maggie assumes is a match to their killer’s notes, but it isn’t until they announce themselves, calling out, that someone finally appears. A taller man steps out of a backroom, but he’s visibly on the thin side, not exactly a match to the type of person they’re looking for – male, 6’4”, heavy build. So, they flash their badges and waste no time asking him if he knows someone that is.
“You mean Wesley Cookler?” he asks, giving them an answer without much pause. “Bald guy with two different colored eyes? He worked here for a couple of months, but we had to fire him last week. He's not welcome anymore.” Maggie shares a look with Scola, knowing that doesn’t bode well.
“How come?” she asks, unsure how concerning she expects the reason to be. Getting fired is one thing, but it's another when there’s enough animosity that you’re not allowed to set foot in the building anymore.
The manager shrugs. “He seemed quiet at first, pretty normal,” he explains, leaning against the counter, “but then he turned out to be a total freak – started asking all kinds of weird questions, like if I’d ever thought about using one of our knives on a person. So, the boss told me to get rid of him.” Maggie can see why, but it means they aren’t going to catch him here.
“Any chance you have something containing his address or a phone number?” Scola questions, right on cue. “Like a pay stub, or a copy of his original job application?”
To their surprise, the manager shakes his head. “Probably not,” he admits. “The boss isn’t very good at keeping records, and he’s old school – paid him cash in hand.” Maggie can’t help but feel a little exasperated. Perhaps it’s not so unusual that someone like their killer would work in a place where he can better fly under the radar, but it’s just their bad luck – and a pain in the ass. “You can see if there’s anything useful in his locker though.” The manager jerks his thumb towards a door behind him. “We haven’t cleaned it out yet.”
They follow him into a dingy hall near the back of the building, where two rows of lockers are lined up against the wall, both pulling on a pair of latex gloves as they walk. He opens the upper one near the end, already unlocked, and Maggie swaps places with him to investigate, but there isn’t much of anything inside – just a backpack and a sweater.
She removes the former, passing it over to Scola, but the bag's absence uncovers something else: a folded-up newspaper clipping that had been hidden, intentionally or otherwise, underneath it. Maggie frowns slightly, curiously taking it out, and gently unfolds the paper, only to stop dead at the face that stares back at her, emblazoned in the middle of the page beneath a headline she remembers reading.
SERIAL SLASHER ARRESTED AGAIN
Distefano. She takes a deep breath, trying to slow her panicked heart. This might be the tangible evidence she needed, but it’s a Pyrrhic victory. Maggie didn’t want to be right. She was his last target, even if his stalking never had the chance to turn physical, but not the only victim. His involvement doesn’t put just her in the firing line, but also...
“Maggie?”
Scola’s voice tears her wide eyes away from Distefano’s repulsive face, and she tries to steel her expression, passing him the clipping. “Here...”
He hangs the backpack from one hand so he can take it from her, scanning the same headline before frowning at the image. He never personally came face to face with Distefano, but even he recognizes him after a moment. Much to Maggie’s disdain, if only for what else it inadvertently revealed, everyone knows that he stalked her.
“Isn’t this the guy who-?” Scola looks up and immediately stops talking, just in time. He clears his throat, averting his gaze, and folds up the page before passing it back to her. “Maybe we should get a tech down here,” he suggests, lifting the backpack slightly. “To bag this stuff and print the locker.”
Maggie nods absently in agreement, scowling faintly at the newspaper clipping as she returns it to the locker, but it isn’t until Scola gets off the phone that she speaks again. “Hey, there’s something I need to do,” she suddenly reveals, finally turning back to him. “Can you catch a ride back with them?” Scola is caught completely off-guard by the question. Her tone tells him it’s more command than request, and her hardened expression warns him that it’s probably better not to ask for specifics.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” he agrees, but the way she immediately brushes past him to leave suggests she was never going to take no for an answer. She’s made her decision, however ill-advised and impulsive, heading for the car. She can’t stand the idea of seeing Distefano again and had thought she’d never have to, but she can’t take the chance of Isobel and Claire being in danger – if her only choices are to confront him or risk either of them getting hurt, then her decision is easy.
In her angry desperation and tempered fear, she completely forgets about Isobel's instruction and advice – all she knows is that she can't let anything happen to her family. Her better judgement falls to the wayside, losing to that burning need. She might not know who their killer is, but she does now know for certain that he's connected – in whatever way – to someone who's proven to be a threat to them, and right now, all she can think about is doing whatever it takes to keep them safe.
The drive to Ridgebury passes by in an indistinct blur, and she's already signing her name in the visitor's log before she's even thought about what to say, only just feeling the weight of where she is and what she’s about to do. Fury and hatred have carried her here, but she can’t let them control her in this, no matter how much they vie to do so. She takes a deep breath, trying to settle into a calm front, and passes through the gate towards the holding cell.
She sits alone at the table, tapping her foot anxiously against the floor as she scowls into space, stubbornly trying to ignore visions of Claire’s bloody mattress and Isobel’s disfigured face. She doesn’t have to wait very long, immediately focusing when she hears approaching footsteps. Maggie tries to embody a cold confidence, leaning back as she folds her arms, features set in a blank expression, and steels herself against the flicker of fear in her chest. She isn’t scared of Ray Distefano – never has been – but the same can’t be said of the target he’s painted on her family.
In contrast, he seems delighted by the situation. The moment he recognizes her through the bars, his grizzled features split in what she assumes is triumph. She hadn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction of seeing her again, but she has no choice, refusing to look away. “Well, if it isn’t Special Agent Maggie Bell,” he greets as the cell door opens, his voice almost gloating. Maggie doesn’t say anything at all, eyes following him as he’s marched over to the table and sits down, but her silence doesn’t deter him. “How’s your boss? Still as pretty as I remember?”
Maggie had seen that coming. It was the mention of Isobel that had gotten her to lash out the last time they were seated like this, but she isn’t going to fall for the same taunt twice. She can’t. “Got a lot of time to think about that face in here,” Distefano continues, unfazed, leaning back in his chair. “Reminds me of a marble statue's – those have to be carved to perfection, too, y'know.” He sighs, melancholic in a sick, perverse sort of way. “She really would be an art piece when I'm done with her.”
Maggie's jaw instinctively tightens. Even if his knife didn't scar her as he'd hoped all those years ago, she still remembers the painful sting of its blade. The thought of him inflicting even a fraction of that on Isobel fills her with a violent urge like no other. She would rather feel that sting a thousand times over, and a thousand times more, than let him anywhere near her, but the provocation isn’t enough. Maggie manages to keep her composure steady, knowing he’s disappointed by her lack of a reaction when it had taken much less before.
“What about her little daughter, how’s she doing in school?” he asks, trying to get under her skin another way. “Riverdale, right?” It almost works, when she wasn't aware that he knew which school Claire attends. She’d only picked her up from there once but once had clearly been enough. Maggie ignores the ensuant burn of anger, holding her impassive expression, and moves onto the entire reason she’s sitting there – before her temper and patience run any thinner.
"Someone's torturing women to death and cutting your signature pattern into their faces,” she tells him coolly, watching for any shift in his facial features, however slight. “Know anything about that?"
"Only that it's a waste,” he answers, almost sounding disgusted. “Artistry like that is meant to be admired, not hidden in the ground.” That isn’t far from the non-answer she'd been anticipating. Women are only canvases to him, not people. He doesn’t care that his signature is being appropriated, only that it's going unseen, and Maggie tries not to grimace at the vile smirk his mouth twists into. "You want my help, don't you?"
Maggie hates that she can't say no. She doesn’t want to offer him anything – he doesn’t deserve any amenity or reward. She wants him to rot miserably in his cell for as long as possible, but this is more important. She tells herself it's no different from making a deal with any other prisoner. "What do you want for it?” she asks. Everyone has a price, she just has to figure out his. “A prison transfer? A cell to yourself? Luxuries?"
“How about a family photo?” Distefano suggests, without even the slightest pause, and despite her best efforts, Maggie’s calm, collected mask finally slips slightly. Even knowing what a piece of shit he is, it’s far from the answer she’d been expecting.
She digs her short nails into the fabric of her shirt and grits her teeth, having to grind out her response. "Do you know anything or not?" she presses, voice much lower but unnervingly level as she fights to keep it together for the sake of some sort of lead. Anything that will help her find their killer quicker, before he really does go after the people she cares about most.
"Give me a picture, and maybe you'll find out,” Distefano says, standing by the request, visibly enjoying that he’s managed to spark some reaction out of her. “You took all of mine, remember?" Maggie does remember, and she wishes she didn’t. She longs to forget that wall of photographs and can only hope that she someday will. "I liked the one at the gate of that fancy house." He suddenly leans closer, smiling – if you can call it that. "Watching you makeout with your boss was pretty hot."
Maggie immediately goes rigid, her skin crawling with revulsion. That had been a private moment, just the two of them, lost in each other. She feels sick with disgust, knowing he was there – watching. Just like that, the memory is ruined. She sharply stands up before her anger can get the better of her, wanting to kick in his teeth so hard that a surgeon has to remove them from his throat. Isobel was right. Even if he does know something, he isn't going to give her even a hint. He gets more joy and pleasure out of taunting her about it instead.
She turns away before she can do something she'll regret, fists clenched as his laughter follows her to the cell door – an unpleasant, victorious sound that she resists the urge to permanently silence. “We’re done here,” she calls out to the officer, impatient to get out of there. She refuses to deign Distefano with any parting words as she’s freed from his company, but that doesn’t stop him from getting the last say.
“Come back any time, Maggie,” he half-singsongs after her, the amusement clear as day in his voice, following her even as she disappears from sight. She makes an immediate beeline for the exit, overwhelmed by her own loathing and anger, the prison’s confines suddenly suffocating.
Much like the last time she escaped a room containing him, the first thing she does when she gets outside is punch the closest wall, but once again, it doesn’t help – only hurts. Maggie cradles her hand, cursing under her breath as she heads back to her car. She was an idiot for ever thinking she’d get anything out of him, realizing too late that she should’ve listened to Isobel. She's going to figure out she was here, if she hasn’t already, and she isn’t going to be happy about it. Maggie knows she won't be able to look her in the eye the next time she sees her.
She sighs, pulling the car door shut behind herself, and leans over to search the glovebox for a tissue, cleaning her bloodied knuckles with a wince. Only then does she finally dare to look at her phone, left in the pocket of her car door when she went inside. As expected, she has over a dozen missed calls, the majority from Isobel, but Maggie doesn’t have the courage to call her back – and jams it into the pocket of her jeans.