Twisted roots

Secrets in Silence

The abandoned textile mill groaned in protest as Jessie slipped through its side entrance, the rusted metal door scraping against concrete like a warning. Faded graffiti sprawled across the crumbling brick walls, and the faint scent of mould and old oil lingered in the stale air.

It was nearly midnight. The outside world was quiet. Inside, silence felt heavier.

Jessie moved with precision, her footsteps muted against the dust-coated floor. The only light came from a swinging lantern Levi had hung from a ceiling beam, casting shadows that danced along the exposed piping.

In the far corner, just beyond the collapsed machinery and debris, Aaron Cole was still slumped in the chair—limp, bound at the wrists and ankles, head lolled forward. He looked peaceful, almost innocent. But Jessie knew better.

She approached quietly, the chloroform-soaked rag already prepared in her gloved hand just in case. His breathing was shallow and steady. Not awake. Not yet.

But close.

Too close.

Jessie glanced toward the makeshift table Levi had set up—tools, water bottles, a burner phone, first-aid kit. A flashlight lay beside a small notebook scrawled with Levi’s messy handwriting. Observation notes.

She moved behind Aaron and pressed the cloth gently against his face again, holding it there longer than necessary. She counted silently to thirty. When she was sure, sure, he was unconscious, she turned away and found Levi standing in the shadowed doorway behind her, arms crossed, face grim.

“How long’s he been drifting in and out?” she asked.

Levi stepped forward. “Woke up twice since you left. Mumbled something about ‘cleansing guilt.’ He’s deep in his psychosis.”

Jessie studied the still figure in the chair. “He doesn’t know who I am.”

“Yet.”

She turned to Levi, voice flat. “That’s what we need to talk about.”

Levi blinked. “Jess, please tell me you’re not considering telling him the truth.”

She said nothing at first. She walked to the far wall, leaned against a rusting support beam, arms folded across her chest. For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the lantern and the slow, rhythmic drip of water leaking through the ceiling.

Then, quietly:

“I think he already suspects.”

Levi swore under his breath. “That’s not a reason to confirm it.”

Jessie looked up at him. Her expression was unreadable. “He’s not just copying my kills. He understands them. He mirrors the message, the stitching, and the posture of the bodies. He’s not just mimicking. He’s studying me. Like he knows me.”

“Or like he’s obsessed with you,” Levi snapped. “That’s what this is. Obsession. You’re feeding it.”

She pushed off the wall and took a slow step toward him. “Then what do you suggest? Keep lying? Let him spiral deeper into a fantasy until he figures it out on his own? Because he will, Levi. Sooner or later.”

Levi’s jaw clenched. “He doesn’t need more information. He needs to rot in that chair until we figure out what to do with him.”

Jessie raised an eyebrow. “You think we can keep him down here forever? You think Marquez isn’t already asking questions?”

Levi looked away.

Jessie softened, just slightly. “I’m not saying I’ll tell him everything. I’m saying we need to understand who we’re dealing with—and right now, the only way to do that might be…to let him see me.”

“No.” Levi’s voice was firm now. “He’s dangerous, Jess. He’s not like you. He’s not careful. He’s not controlled. He’s a killer trying to wear your skin.”

Jessie tilted her head. “So am I.”

Levi stepped forward, frustration flaring in his eyes. “No. You did what you had to do. You made rules. You had lines you wouldn’t cross. Aaron? He crossed them on day one. Torture. Innocents. Messy trails. You’re not the same.”

Jessie exhaled through her nose. “You’ve seen what I do.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “But I’ve also seen why you do it.”

That gave her pause.

She looked back at Aaron—his limp form now breathing heavier, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Subconscious activity. He was still somewhere in there, listening to his madness.

Jessie lowered her voice. “If I tell him… just enough… maybe I can control the narrative. Maybe I can redirect the obsession. He wants to be like me? Fine. Let’s see how far he’s willing to follow.”

Levi shook his head, more desperate now. “And if he turns on you? If he figures out you’re the original? He won’t admire you, Jess. He’ll destroy you. Or worse—he’ll expose you.”

Her gaze darkened. “Then I’ll kill him.”

Silence stretched between them like a taut wire.

Finally, Levi looked down. “You can’t keep balancing on the edge like this. One day you’ll fall.”

Jessie walked past him, brushing his arm. “I’ve been falling for years. I just learned how to land.”

She returned to Aaron’s side, crouched, and inspected his restraints. Secure.

Then she looked back at Levi. “I won’t tell him everything. Not yet. But I need to talk to him. When he wakes up… I want to see who he is when he looks at me.”

Levi opened his mouth to argue—but stopped. There was no changing her mind. He knew that look in her eyes.

It wasn’t recklessness.

It was hunger.

The door opened with a soft click.

Inside, silence.

The apartment was pristine, almost clinical. Minimalist furniture. No clutter. The faint scent of lavender disinfectant hung in the air.

“Cole?” Marquez called.

No answer.

He moved through the space cautiously, one hand near his weapon. Bedroom—empty. The bed was made so tight he could bounce a coin on it. Bathroom—dry towel, unused soap. Toothbrush untouched.

That’s when it struck him: nothing had been used since yesterday.

He stepped into the kitchen and noticed a coffee mug on the table. Cold. Half-full. That was the first real crack in the polished image. Aaron never left cups out. Never.

Then his eyes scanned the bookshelf.

Something was missing.

The journal. Cole’s private case log—where he wrote his observations, scribbled theories, and practised the killer’s handwriting. It was always there.

Gone.

Marquez’s frown deepened. He did one last sweep and opened the front coat closet.

Aaron’s long grey wool coat was hanging inside.

That was all the confirmation he needed. Aaron hadn’t left voluntarily. He’d vanished in the middle of routine—and left all his habits behind.

Back at the precinct later that day, Marquez stood alone in the evidence room. The photos of the victims—the ones mimicking Jessie Black’s vigilante killings—lined the board like ghosts watching him.

The stitched word Guilty stared back from each image.

Marquez narrowed his eyes. There was something hauntingly familiar about the stitchwork—symmetrical, careful, obsessive.

Like Cole’s penmanship. Too clean. Too deliberate.

And then he remembered something Aaron had once said over whiskey and a debate on criminal pathology:

> “To understand the killer… You must become him.”

A shiver crawled down Marquez’s spine.

He stepped back from the board and whispered, “What the hell are you, Cole?”