Echo's in silence
1341 Words
Detective Elias Marquez wasn’t a man who believed in coincidences—especially not in homicide.
He leaned back in his creaking desk chair, chewing the inside of his cheek as his eyes flicked toward the vacant seat across the bullpen. Aaron Cole’s workstation was as meticulously arranged as ever—pens aligned by size, files stacked alphabetically, desk completely dust-free—but eerily untouched since the previous morning.
Marquez glanced at the clock. 9:42 a.m. The team meeting had ended nearly an hour ago. Still no Cole.
That wasn’t like him.
Aaron Cole wasn’t just a behavioural analyst—he was obsessive, punctual, and infuriatingly thorough. The kind of guy who’d show up fifteen minutes early just to make coffee and glare at anyone who dared clock in late.
Marquez stood. His gut churned. Something was off.
He crossed the bullpen floor, scanning the hallway as if expecting Aaron to stroll in with some smug excuse. Nothing.
"Hey Gina," he called to the receptionist near the front. “Have you seen Cole today?”
She looked up from her computer, blinking. “Nope. Not since yesterday afternoon. Didn’t call in either.”
Marquez frowned. “Check if he filed any leave?”
She tapped on her keyboard and shook her head. “Nada. Calendar’s clear.”
That did it.
Marquez didn’t wait to explain himself. He just grabbed his coat, badge, and gun, and headed out.
Aaron Cole’s apartment was on the east side of town, tucked inside a sterile complex that looked like a showroom catalogue—grey stone accents, perfect hedges, not a hair out of place. Marquez parked at the curb, eyeing the second-floor windows.
Curtains drawn. No movement.
He buzzed the intercom. No response.
Again. Nothing.
Marquez pulled out his phone and dialled Aaron’s number. Two rings, then voicemail.
> “This is Cole. Leave it clean.”
Marquez scoffed. Typical. He waited for the tone.
“Cole, it’s Marquez. You didn’t show up. You didn’t call in. If this is one of your twisted mental reset days, I'd better see a form on my desk by noon. Otherwise, I’m kicking your door in. Call me.”
He hung up, jaw tight. Something was wrong.
He circled the building until he found the external staircase to the rear balconies. Apartment 2B sat dark and still. The air around it felt... hollow.
Marquez went back to the leasing office. A flash of the badge, a few sharp questions, and the property manager—a jittery girl in her twenties—reluctantly handed over the master key.
Back at the police station Jessie is in the morgue. The sterile hum of the morgue always soothed Jessie Black.
The harsh fluorescent lights, the chill of cold steel drawers, the faint chemical tang of disinfectant—most people recoiled from it. Jessie breathed it in like fresh air.
She stood alone at the examination table, gloved hands buried deep in the chest cavity of a John Doe. One of the street overdoses. Simple case. No foul play. No message stitched into his skin.
That, at least, was a relief.
Still, her mind wasn’t here.
She barely registered the weight of the rib cutters in her palm or the satisfying snip of cartilage as she cracked open the sternum. Muscle memory guided her hands while her thoughts ran in jagged circles, all orbiting one name:
Aaron Cole.
He was locked up now—tied to a rusted chair in a forgotten corner of the abandoned textile mill on Holloway Street. She’d watched him twist and groan in the dim light before she’d left Levi behind to keep him sedated.
But now, back in her lab coat and under the comfort of hospital-grade lighting, doubt began to creep in like rot.
Was this the right call?
She’d caught him. The copycat. The man who’d mutilated innocent people in her name. Who’d made a mockery of the justice she carved into flesh.
She should hate him.
She did hate him.
And yet...
Jessie stepped back from the table, snapping her gloves off and tossing them into the bin. Her fingers trembled. Not from guilt. Guilt had long since been cauterized from her system.
This was something else.
Curiosity.
She leaned against the sink, staring at her reflection in the polished steel. The Jessie in the mirror looked the same—calm, calculating, composed. But underneath, questions churned:
Why did he do it?
Why her?
How much did he know?
Could he see her for what she truly was?
And if he could…
What would he do with that truth?
The thought burrowed into her like a splinter. She’d danced so carefully around her secret for years. Even Levi, who had seen her hands stained red, only knew fragments. Aaron had glimpsed more than anyone else. He’d profiled her murders with chilling precision. Had he admired her work? Or was he trying to become her?
And now, tied to a chair in a warehouse, he was completely at her mercy.
Jessie clenched her jaw and turned away from the mirror.
She grabbed the clipboard from the end of the table and pretended to study the vitals recorded during the autopsy. Her fingers tightened around the edge.
Was it time to tell him?
To finally put the monster on the table and name it?
The thought electrified her.
Not out of guilt. Not out of desperation.
But out of need.
Aaron was like her. She could feel it. Not in the obvious way—not in the messiness of his murders or the arrogance in his stitched words. No, it was subtler. His calm exterior, the way he wore normalcy like a well-fitted costume.
She knew that trick. She’d invented it.
Telling him the truth might be dangerous, but it could also be enlightening. She could look him in the eyes and watch what happened when the mask fell.
Would he be afraid?
Would he admire her?
Would he understand?
"Jess?"
Jessie looked up, startled. Carla from the evidence team poked her head into the autopsy room, eyes wide.
"You okay? You've been down here three hours and didn’t check in for lunch."
Jessie forced a smile. “I had a backlog. Just finished.”
Carla lingered. “You sure? You look... I don’t know. Tense.”
Jessie’s smile never reached her eyes. “Long week.”
“Mm. Aren’t they all?” Carla gave her a nod. “Don’t forget the Barlow file. On your desk.”
“Thanks.”
When she was gone, Jessie slipped out of her gown, left the body prepped for refrigeration, and made her way back upstairs to her office.
Each footstep echoed louder than it should have. She passed the bullpen where Levi usually sat—empty. She hadn’t told anyone where he was. No one had asked.
In her office, Jessie locked the door behind her, closed the blinds, and sat at her desk.
She stared at the black-and-white crime scene photos scattered across the table—the copycat’s work.
Her work.
They blurred together now, a shared legacy of blood.
Jessie picked up her pen and flipped open her private notebook, the one she never let out of her sight. Inside, lists of names. Victims. Monsters. Dead men who once hurt others and had it coming.
At the top of the blank page, she wrote one name.
Aaron Cole.
Below it, she wrote a question:
> Does he deserve the truth?
And beneath that, another:
> What would I gain by showing him who I am?
Jessie set the pen down.
This wasn’t just about him anymore. It was about her. About what she needed. About the line between mask and mirror.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Levi:
“He’s awake.”
Jessie stared at the screen for a long time.
Then she stood, smoothed the front of her blouse, and slipped the notebook into her bag.
Maybe it was time to stop pretending.
Maybe it was time to see if monsters could recognize their reflection.
- Writer
