Behind The Hidden Door

David spent most of his Sunday at his office. The silent escape this place offered was necessary for him to think, plan, and investigate. Unlike workdays, on Sundays he had a bottle of whiskey and a glass on his desk. The aroma of the strong drink filled the sterile white room. David felt an unusual tightness in his chest. He was growing impatient. He had finally taken the first step, and the game was about to begin.

He sat at his desk and sipped the whiskey, neat. As his thoughts grew heavier, he got up and paced back and forth in front of the large white bookcase.

All those murders… they’re all here. He pressed his fingers to his forehead. Every single one of them.

He stopped in front of the bookcase and reached for a book with a red cover. His fingers searched for the hidden button—he knew exactly where it was. David pressed it and watched the bookcase slowly slide aside, revealing a dark hollow behind it. He grabbed the bottle and glass and stepped into the darkness.

His hand found the light switch. A single bright bulb illuminated the small, empty room. There was no furniture besides a chair he had spent countless hours in, staring at the wall covered in yellowed newspaper clippings chronicling unsolved murder cases and photographs of the victims. His eyes scanned the wall, absorbing every detail.

Seven women. Killed from March 2002 to September 2012.

Before them, the first two: Sarah and Sylvia—kidnapped in October 2000 and 2001. The only two victims who survived.

Then nothing. Silence. Until four weeks ago. August 12th.

David traced a finger along the large city map stretched across the wall. Red dots, connected by frayed strings, traced the locations where the bodies had been found. He tapped the last location.

“She went missing, then her body was found deep in the woods.” He leaned closer to study the picture.
“Ah… of course. Same cut on the left arm, tortured, starved.” Sweat beaded on his forehead. Heat rose in waves through his chest.
“Of course it’s him. Back… killing again. Just like before, leaving the bodies naked, exposed.”

He poured whiskey into his glass and sat down. The burn went straight to his throat. He swallowed hard.

The cut… always the left arm.

He reached for the cardboard box next to his chair and pulled out his notebook. Opening it, he read the notes he had made weeks ago:

All murders are undoubtedly connected.
Single mothers. One child each. Different neighborhoods, different schools. How did he find them? How did he choose them? Why?
Parks? Playgrounds? Could be anything.
Cristine Robertson and her mother might give me more information.
Sylvia Robertson has spent 24 years in a mental clinic… Is it even possible to make her speak?

He closed the notebook and rested it on his knees.

If I can get her to talk, even for a moment, she could give me the missing piece of the puzzle.
Cristine will have to let me work with her mother. If she won’t… I’ll make her.

He exhaled a long, tired breath.

I need air. A walk. Something.

He checked his watch. Ten p.m. David locked the office and descended the stairs, lost in thought. The rain had stopped, but the chill hung heavy in the air. Wet asphalt reflected the streetlights. He hurried to his car, shivering slightly.

“Why is it so damn cold tonight?” he muttered, rubbing his hands and blowing on them before gripping the wheel.

He lived in a clean, spacious apartment, similar in style to his office. The bed and the shower were the only reasons he even went home.

Detective Brook can help me with this… now that he’s working on the new case. They don’t want me involved. But Brook… Brook will help me. I know he will.

His mind refused to quiet. The morning would come too soon. Tomorrow at nine, he would see Cristine in his office.

Nothing matters now… besides her.

Every workday with Cristine sitting across from him demanded a patience he rarely possessed. Frustration and curiosity sometimes cracked David’s usual cold demeanor. He had to make an immense effort to give Cristine time—to get used to the office, the work, and, of course, himself. Lunch breaks became his brief escape, the only moments of isolation he allowed himself.

She isn’t ready yet, he thought, watching her frown as she worked through the folders containing old murder cases he had once handled.

She has to feel more confident—about her work, and about me as her boss and teacher.

David’s plan went smoothly for nearly a month. Every day, he watched Cristine dive deeper into the files, organize his schedule, and speak with his clients. More than once, he caught himself nodding in quiet approval as she handled a difficult situation with unexpected composure.

She might not be so hopeless after all.

He couldn’t ignore how much more orderly his days had become. His schedule was precise now, his appointments spaced at hours that suited him better. He had to admit it—she was doing her job well.

In his darker, deeper thoughts, however, David knew he needed Cristine for something that had nothing to do with her position. And he was ready to reveal part of the truth to her.

Not all of it.

Not yet.