Jace

A complete map of the city with marked points hung on the board. Photos of the victims were next to it. The killer had no clear types: the dead were both men and women, of varying ages and occupations.

" I don't know... not a single lead. Sooner or later, he's bound to get caught doing something stupid. "

" You know that expression where they say if you want to find a killer, you have to think like one? " A pause. " But I don't think he thinks. He goes for nighttime strolls, sees a passerby, strikes up a conversation... "

Jace made a soft sound with his lips as he exhaled, like a gunshot or a final chord. They both smiled—the guy always knew how to lighten the mood. The shift ended late in the night. Jace gave her his usual ride home, but after seeing her fall asleep in the passenger seat of his car, he decided to unexpectedly leave her at his place for the night, as it was quicker to drive home. His own eyes were drooping, and he didn't want to risk himself on the way home.

The living room where they had breakfast was furnished simply but beautifully. A mug of hot coffee warmed their cool hands, and casual words hung in the air, like every missing person report filed in the department. The conversation turned to this again.

Jace was staring at the ceiling, leaning back on the couch, and she didn't notice his fingers. Fingers with which he was playing with a rubber band. Twisting it, wrapping it around his knuckles, removing it, and repeating it again, like a ritual to focus. Her eyes absently caught a small, open trinket box on the coffee table. It was only during a pause between Jace's words that she noticed that inside the box were identical rubber bands. Stationery ones. What did he need them for?

• Are you listening to me?
• Oh, yeah... I was just looking. I don't remember you having those rubber bands.

Jace's blood ran cold. He looks at his colleague, slowly wrapping the elastic around four fingers. He sees the guy leaning over, resting his elbows on his knees, and whispering, hypnotizing. Manipulating. Making him doubt.

• You wouldn’t suspect your friend of such atrocities, would you?