Friday, 7:12 PM
The Harrison Walker Foundation's annual charity gala was held in the Modern Wing of the Chicago Art Institute. Beyond the glass curtain wall, Lake Michigan resembled a vast ink stain in the twilight.
Liam stood at the entrance, his black suit fitting every muscle perfectly—a gift from Sophia three birthdays ago. He remembered the label: "Italian bespoke, requires regular dry cleaning." Details mattered. Details could save a life.
"Nervous?" Sophia wore a deep blue evening gown, her badge pinned discreetly at her waist with a special clasp. Her earrings were simple pearls, but the left one contained a miniature microphone.
"Heart rate 92, blood pressure normal." Liam said calmly. "Fear index below threshold."
"I wasn't asking for your vitals." Sophia squeezed his hand. "I was asking about you."
This distinction was something Liam was still learning. He looked down at their hands—hers slender but strong, with thin calluses from gripping a gun; his long-fingered, with faint welding scars at the knuckles.
"If I said I was afraid," he spoke slowly, "would you suggest we leave?"
"No." Sophia smiled. "Because I'm afraid too. But fear isn't a reason to stop. It's a sign you're on the right path."
Security at the entrance was stricter than airport screening: metal detectors, handheld scanners, two suited guards checking every invitation. Liam noticed one guard's ear—a spiderweb tattoo poorly concealed with foundation.
"Mr. Stone," the guard verified his photo on a tablet, "your seat is in Section A, third row. Please wear this."
He handed Liam a black wristband with an embedded RFID chip. As Liam took it, he felt a tiny raised edge—a micro-tracker.
"Do all guests wear these?" Sophia asked.
"Important guests do." The guard's voice was flat. "For emergency location."
Sophia's badge glinted. She'd already switched to her own wristband—police-issued, with an emergency alert function.
They entered the main hall. Beneath the soaring dome, a massive crystal chandelier hung, its light dancing across the faces of three hundred guests. Liam immediately began scanning:
To the left, Harrison Walker stood on a small stage—sixty-five, perfectly groomed grey hair, a smile with a calculated curve. He was speaking with the Mayor of Chicago, his grip on the champagne flute revealing control—thumb pressed atop the stem, a knife-holding gesture.
To the right, Olivia Chase wore a strapless crimson gown, like a drop of blood in a sea of champagne. She held a recorder, interviewing a foundation board member, but her eyes drifted toward the entrance every thirty seconds.
Behind them, Mark Rosen and three FBI agents were disguised as waiters, communication devices concealed beneath their white gloves.
"He's here." Liam murmured.
"Who?"
"The copycat." Liam's gaze swept the crowd. "He's observing, learning, preparing. Something will happen tonight."
Sophia's fingers tightened. "Evidence?"
"Seventeen guests on the list are connected to the fifteen-year-old case. Including the cleaner who testified seeing 'Lucas Green' flee the scene—now a foundation project manager." Liam took a glass of water from a passing tray. "Also, do you smell the air?"
Sophia inhaled deeply. "Disinfectant? Museums always—"
"Not ordinary disinfectant." Liam said. "Sodium hypochlorite mixed with hydrogen peroxide. A formula forensic labs use to eliminate biological evidence."
7:48 PM
The gala began. Walker stepped onto the stage, spotlight making him look like a prophet from a religious painting.
"Tonight we gather," his voice echoed through the hall, "not only to celebrate art, but to celebrate the power of truth."
Liam felt Sophia's body tense slightly.
"Fifteen years ago," Walker continued, "my dear friend, Professor Richard Green, was brutally murdered in his pursuit of scientific truth. The killer remains at large."
Murmurs rippled through the audience. Liam's breathing rhythm didn't change, but his pupils contracted slightly—a physiological fear response he couldn't fully control.
"But tonight," Walker raised a document, "I announce that the Walker Foundation will offer a five-million-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of the true killer."
Thunderous applause. Camera flashes like lightning.
Olivia stood up, her crimson gown burning under the lights. "Mr. Walker! The Chicago Tribune received an anonymous tip that the real killer may be among tonight's guests! Any comment?"
Dead silence.
All eyes turned to her, then began scrutinizing each other.
A crack appeared on Walker's face for the first time—extremely subtle, detectable only to a trained eye. The muscle beneath his left eye twitched for 0.3 seconds.
"I trust the expertise of the Chicago PD and the FBI." His voice remained steady. "If the killer is bold enough to appear here, he will be brought to justice."
His gaze swept the hall, lingering on Liam's face for exactly one second.
8:17 PM
During the main course, the lights suddenly dimmed. Not a blackout—a carefully choreographed light show.
Blue and purple beams wove through the air, projecting artworks funded by the foundation. Liam stared at the images, his brain matching patterns:
First image: An abstract painting, color composition 87% similar to the bloodstain pattern on the lab wall fifteen years ago.
Second image: A sculpture photo, its metal component assembly method structurally echoed his early works.
Third image—
"That's your piece." Sophia whispered.
Projected was Liam's metal sculpture The Penitent—a kneeling man holding an iris. But the image had been altered: the kneeling man's face was pixelated, the flower in his hand replaced with a dagger.
Confused whispers filled the hall. When the lights brightened again, Olivia was already on the small stage, microphone in hand.
"Apologies for the interruption," her voice sweet as poison, "but art sometimes reveals truths we'd rather not face. Like this piece—The Penitent. The artist is our esteemed community artist, Mr. Liam Stone."
Three hundred pairs of eyes turned to Liam. He could feel the weight of those gazes like physical pressure on his skin.
"Interestingly," Olivia enlarged the projection, "this work bears a striking resemblance to a detail from an unsolved case at MIT. The killer left a pressed iris at the scene—and at the center of Mr. Stone's work is a metal iris."
Sophia stood. "Ms. Chase, this is a charity gala, not a courtroom."
"On the contrary, Lieutenant Carter." Olivia smiled. "Truth is the greatest charity. And I'm curious how Mr. Stone explains this… coincidence?"
All cameras swung to Liam. Spotlight whited out his vision. His brain presented response options:
Option A: Deny, claim artistic inspiration is broad.
Option B: Storm out angrily, play the victim.
Option C: Remain silent, let lawyers handle it.
But these options all assumed he needed to defend himself.
Liam slowly rose. His suit whispered faintly as he moved, like a blade being drawn.
"I did go to Boston." His voice carried through the silent hall via microphone. "Fall 2005, I audited a sculpture class at MIT. My teacher was Professor Richard Green."
Sophia's fingers dug into her palms. Mark's hand moved toward his waist.
"The professor was strict but kind." Liam continued. "He taught me that metal isn't like clay—you can't shape it arbitrarily. You must understand its nature, its limits, what it wants to become. He said art, like science, is a pursuit of truth."
Olivia's eyes gleamed dangerously. "So you admit—"
"I admit the professor changed my life." Liam interrupted. "And I admit that after his death, I started a new life under a different name. Because I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?" Olivia pressed.
"Afraid that someone would discover that Lucas Green, the wanted student, wasn't in Boston when the crime happened."
Silence turned to uproar. Journalists scribbled frantically, guests whispered, security began to move.
"I have proof." Liam pulled a yellowed paper from his inner suit pocket. "This is the sign-in record for the Seattle Art Center exhibition on March 14, 2007. It has my fingerprint and signature. Professor Green died at 10 PM on March 14. Even by private jet, Seattle to Boston takes at least six hours."
He handed the paper to the nearest waiter—Mark in disguise. "The FBI can verify its authenticity."
Mark took the paper, his expression complex. He nodded, and two agents immediately secured it.
Olivia's face paled. "That's impossible… all evidence pointed to…"
"To a perfect scapegoat." Liam turned to Walker on the stage. "Isn't that right, Mr. Walker? A student with an emotional disorder, unable to provide emotional testimony for his innocence. A perfect template for a killer."
Walker stood in the spotlight like a wax figure. His smile was frozen, but something burned in his eyes—not anger, excitement.
"Young man," his voice remained steady, "your story is moving. But fifteen years on the run isn't the behavior of an innocent person."
"I wasn't running from the law." Liam said. "I was running from the real person who killed the professor. Because that person had the resources to steer any investigation."
The air in the hall grew thin. Guests began to realize this was no longer charity entertainment, but something dangerous unfolding.
8:49 PM
A scream came from the rear of the hall.
Not a scream of terror, but of shock at discovering something horrific.
The crowd parted. Liam saw a waiter collapsed on the floor, tray overturned, a silver dome clattering away. Beneath it wasn't food, but a fresh iris, its petals stained dark red.
Beneath the flower, a card with printed text:
"The fifth. Homage to the true artist."
Sophia was already rushing over, her badge slipping free as she ran. She knelt beside the waiter—a young man in his early twenties, faint bruising on his neck, unconscious but breathing steadily.
"Security staff." She looked up at Mark. "Foundation-employed."
Mark pressed his earpiece. "Lock down all exits. No one leaves."
But Liam wasn't looking at the waiter. He was studying the flower. Fresh, picked that morning. Stem cut angle—upper left to lower right, a left-hander's cutting habit.
His gaze swept the crowd, locking onto a retreating figure. Dark grey suit, left hand in pocket, right hand hanging naturally but fingers slightly curled—muscle memory from holding a knife.
"Sophia," Liam's voice was soft but cut through the noise, "man in grey suit, moving toward the east emergency exit. Sharp object outline in left pocket."
Sophia looked up immediately, but the crowd blocked her view. Mark was already issuing orders through his radio.
The grey-suited man suddenly broke into a run.
Chaos erupted. Guests screamed and pushed, waiters tried to maintain order, security drew tasers. In the confusion, Liam saw Olivia holding up her phone, livestreaming, her face twisted into an expression of ecstasy in the screen's glow.
The grey-suited man slammed through the emergency exit door. Alarms shredded the air.
Liam began to move. Not running—precise navigation, like water flowing through rock crevices. He avoided shoving crowds, circumvented overturned tables, moving like a shadow in the red alarm lights.
"Liam!" Sophia's shout came from behind.
He glanced back. She was being restrained by two FBI agents, Mark shouting something at her. Protection protocols had activated—an officer's spouse was a potential target, needed isolation.
Liam made a gesture: I'm okay. Wait for me.
Then he pushed through the emergency exit door.
9:03 PM
The emergency stairwell was lit only by green exit lights. Stairs descended into darkness below, footsteps echoing—more than one person.
Liam removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie. Dress shoes were too slippery on metal stairs; he kicked them off, continuing downward in socks. The silence let him hear his own heartbeat: 112 BPM, adrenaline rising.
Second landing. Blood on the floor—fresh, less than ten minutes old. Beside it, a button, dark grey, matching the grey-suited man's coat.
And something else: a small metal component. Liam picked it up, examining it under the exit light.
Part of a welding clamp from his studio. It bore his distinctive wear pattern—left side worn 3mm more than the right, from his left-handed pressure.
The copycat had been to his studio.
Third landing. The footsteps stopped.
Liam paused at the stairwell corner, back against the wall. Breathing minimized. He counted: ten seconds, twenty, thirty…
"I know you're there."
The voice came from below—young, with a Midwestern accent. Not the grey-suited man.
Liam slowly peered around the corner. On the landing below stood two people: the grey-suited man slumped against the wall, blood on his chest, breathing labored. The other stood with his back to the stairs, wearing museum staff uniform.
"Come out, Lucas." the uniformed man said. "Or should I call you Liam? Or perhaps 'the monster who couldn't cry'?"
Liam descended the last few steps. The exit light illuminated the man's face—around thirty, brown hair, ordinary features that would disappear in a crowd. But his eyes held the same hollowness Kyle had described.
"Who are you?" Liam asked.
"An admirer." The man smiled. "My father taught me much about you. He said you were the perfect creation—a genius designed to be a killer."
The grey-suited man coughed. "He's insane… he killed the guard, put the flower…"
"Quiet." The uniformed man kicked him, the motion practiced. "I'm speaking with the artist."
Liam's brain analyzed: uniformed man was the copycat. Grey suit—accomplice or victim? Chest wound location—between third and fourth ribs left, depth approx. 5cm, not fatal but would cause pneumothorax. The killer had left him alive.
"Your father is Harrison Walker." Liam said.
The man's smile widened. "Clever. But too late. Fifteen years ago, my father needed someone to take the blame for his 'mistake.' Professor Green discovered the foundation's illegal gene experiments, was going to expose him. My father killed him, then found the perfect scapegoat—a student with an emotional disorder, a genius who couldn't defend himself."
"Why kill again now?"
"Because my father is getting old." The man's voice turned cold. "He's started repenting, donating, thinking about 'redemption.' But I believe if a work is already perfect, it shouldn't be altered. I'm going to complete his work—make you actually become the killer."
He took an evidence bag from his pocket. Inside, an engraving tool with fingerprint powder residue.
"Your prints. Taken from your studio. Tonight, someone will find this in the guard's body." He tossed the bag to Liam. "Perfect closure, isn't it? A fugitive for fifteen years, caught in the act."
Liam caught the bag, didn't open it. He stared at the man. "But you made a mistake."
"Oh?"
"The iris." Liam said. "Your father didn't leave a flower at the original scene. That's your personal signature. You have OCD, need symmetry and ritual. So you leave a flower at every scene, always freshly picked, identical stem cut angle."
The uniformed man's expression wavered for the first time.
"Also," Liam continued, "you don't understand that people with emotional disorders have one trait: we're exceptionally careful with fingerprints. Because as children, people always said things we touched 'felt wrong.' So all my tools are cleaned with acetone three times a week. No viable complete prints could be lifted."
Silence stretched under the exit lights.
The grey-suited man began gasping painfully—pneumothorax worsening.
The uniformed man slowly drew a knife from his belt. Not an engraving tool, but a tactical dagger. "Then we'll have a different ending."
Liam looked at the knife, at the man's grip—military training. He calculated: distance six meters, opponent weight approx. 80kg, blade length 20cm, his own odds of success…
"Liam!"
Sophia's voice from above the stairs. Footsteps rapid, more than one person.
The uniformed man cursed, suddenly bolted for the emergency exit. Liam could have stopped him, but he chose another path—rushing to the grey-suited man, tearing open his shirt, locating the wound.
Pleural pressure rising, needed immediate decompression. No tools, only…
Liam picked up the iris from the floor, broke the stem, extracted the hollow tube inside. Sterilize? No time.
He found the spot, inserted the stem tube above the wound. A hiss as air escaped. The grey-suited man's breathing eased slightly.
"Medics!" Liam shouted up the stairs.
When Sophia and Mark rushed down, the uniformed man was gone. Outside the emergency exit, a car engine started.
"He got away." Mark gritted his teeth. "But we've tagged the vehicle."
Sophia knelt beside Liam, looking at his bloodied hands and the stem tube protruding from the wound. Her eyes held tears, but her voice was steady. "Medics are coming. You…"
"I'm fine." Liam looked at the unconscious grey-suited man. "He's the foundation's head of security. He knows the truth."
Mark's agents began photographing the scene. Liam stood, walked to the wall, picked up the evidence bag. He opened it, took out the engraving tool, examined it under the exit light.
There were indeed fingerprints on the handle—but not his. A synthetic resin replica, edges too sharp, no natural wear.
Forged evidence, just like fifteen years ago.
"Where's Walker?" Sophia asked Mark.
"The gala's locked down, but he…" Mark pressed his earpiece, his expression changing. "He's gone. Said he was going to the restroom fifteen minutes ago, never returned."
Liam looked toward the dark emergency exit. City light seeped through the door crack, like an invitation from another world.
"He won't run." Liam said softly. "A perfect work needs a perfect ending. He'll be waiting for me somewhere."
Sophia took his hand, blood and sweat mingling. "Then we go together."
The alarms still sounded, but felt distant now. In this emergency stairwell three floors underground, under the cold green exit lights, Liam looked at his wife's face and suddenly understood something:
Fifteen years ago, he ran because he was alone.
Tonight, he stayed because he was no longer alone.
And some battles must be faced to be finished.