The next few days were quiet.
No deaths. No murders. No word from the killer. The city held its breath, and nothing happened. It was eerily quiet — the kind of quiet that felt heavier than noise.
McGee checked her phone a hundred times a day. Nothing. No unknown numbers. No calls.
She almost wished he'd call.
---
It had been a long day, and they were about to go home for the evening. McGee and Hannah sat at McGee's desk in the empty bullpen, not talking about the case for once.
"My sister keeps trying to set me up," McGee said, spinning a pen between her fingers. "Blind dates. Every one worse than the last."
Hannah laughed — a real laugh, the first McGee had heard from her in days. "How bad?"
"The last one talked about his ex-wife for two hours. His ex-wife. On a first date."
"That's rough."
"What about you? Anyone waiting at home?"
Hannah's smile faded a little. "Divorced. Three years now. I live alone in D.C. — just me and a cat who hates me."
"What's the cat's name?"
"Agent." Hannah grinned. "I named him before the divorce. My ex thought it was hilarious. Then it wasn't."
McGee laughed. It felt good. Normal. For a minute they weren't a detective and an FBI agent hunting a serial killer. They were just two people, sitting at a desk, talking.
Then McGee's desk phone rang.
They both looked at it. The caller ID said: UNKNOWN NUMBER.
McGee's blood went cold. She looked at Hannah, who nodded once — sharp, alert, all business now.
McGee picked up. "Good evening."
A pause. Then a voice — calm, warm, almost friendly.
"Good evening, Marcene."
McGee's face turned red. She started waving frantically at the bullpen — trace it, trace it now — while keeping her voice steady. They'd set up the trace equipment on her desk phone days ago, just in case. Just for this.
She hit the speakerphone button. "Hello."
"Ah," the voice said, pleased. "I see that I'm on speakerphone. Is that Hannah Ray sitting next to you?"
Hannah went rigid.
"Tell her I say hi."
McGee looked at Hannah. Hannah mouthed: keep him talking.
"Now, Marcene," Fauwks continued, "you have been doing an amazing job. Really. You found the fingerprint of the bishop."
He laughed. Not a cruel laugh — a delighted one, warm and genuine, like a man sharing a joke with a friend.
McGee's stomach turned. He'd planted it. He knew they'd found it. He was happy about it.
"I would like for us to meet," he said. "I have something I would really enjoy discussing with you."
Hannah was shaking her head violently — no, no, no — but McGee kept her eyes on the phone.
"I would like you to be standing at the corner of Fourth and Twenty-Seventh," Fauwks said, "tomorrow at two PM. Try not to bring anybody."
A pause.
"But I know you will."
McGee could hear the smile in his voice.
"And please, my lady —" he said gently, "could you please change your shirt? That mustard stain is getting nasty."
McGee looked down. The stain was right there on her white shirt, the one she could never get clean.
He'd seen her. Up close.
"Toodaloo."
*Click.*
The line went dead.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Hannah was on her feet, shouting for the tech team, and McGee just sat there staring at the stain on her shirt.
An officer came running up, breathless. "We traced the call. It's a burner phone, but we were able to pinpoint the location —"
"Where?" Hannah demanded.
The officer swallowed. "It's in the building. Right now."
---
"Search the place!" Captain Fredericks was yelling, his voice echoing through the precinct. "Lock it down — NOW! Nobody leaves!"
Officers fanned out. Every floor, every room, every hallway. Hannah and McGee moved with them, checking offices, bathrooms, stairwells.
They found the phone on the elevator. Just sitting there on the floor, in the corner. A cheap burner, the call log showing one outgoing number — McGee's desk.
No man. No fingerprints. Nothing.
"Surveillance," Hannah said. "Pull every camera in the building for the last hour."
They crowded into the security office. The tech pulled up the feeds, scanning through timestamps. And there — on the second-floor hallway camera, twenty minutes ago — a man in a hoodie, face down, walking with unhurried steps.
He stopped under the camera.
Slowly, he looked up.
A Guy Fawkes mask stared into the lens. Pale face. Thin smile.
He tilted his head to the left — studying the camera, studying them.
And then his hand rose to his throat, adjusting a tie that wasn't there. He was wearing a hoodie. There was no tie. But his fingers moved through the motion anyway — straightening, smoothing — pure muscle memory.
Then he lowered his face and walked on, out of frame.
The room was silent.
"He wanted us to find the phone," Hannah said quietly. "He wanted us to see the footage."
McGee stared at the frozen image on the screen — the mask, the tilted head, the hand at the throat.
"He was never in danger," she said. "None of this was danger. It was all —"
" Theater," Hannah finished.
McGee looked down at her shirt. At the mustard stain.
Tomorrow. Two PM. Fourth and Twenty-Seventh.
Chapter 12