The predator in the mirror

She fell silent, because she suddenly realized: this murder wasn't just a murder. It was a message. To someone. Maybe to Morrison himself. Maybe to the police. Maybe to her.

Alice looked once more at the dead woman's face and caught herself thinking it reminded her of someone. Someone from the distant past, whose face had faded from memory but remained in her subconscious like a heavy stone, periodically pressing on her heart, reminding her of itself at the most inopportune moments.

"Miranda," she whispered inaudibly, just moving her lips.

"What?" Marty asked, leaning closer.

"Nothing." Alice straightened up sharply, shaking off the delusion. "Just a thought. You know how it is-a familiar face, but you can't place it."

"It happens," Marty agreed, but something flickered in his eyes-understanding? sympathy? He knew about her sister, about that old cold case that had weighed on her all these years. Knew, but never brought it up first.

Alice turned away from the body and walked toward her car, feeling her colleagues' gazes on her back. She needed to go see Morrison. Needed to understand what game this writer was playing, whose books sold millions of copies and now, it seemed, had become an instruction manual for a killer.

But inside her, the mechanism that never stopped had already started: comparing facts, searching for connections, trying to climb into the killer's head, understand his motives, his desires, his fears. Only now, something personal was mixed in-a feeling that the threads of this case led not just to dark corners of the city, but deeper, into those layers of memory she tried not to disturb, because every time she touched them, she felt herself falling apart.

The rain intensified. Alice got in the car, turned the heater on full blast to warm up a little, and dialed the number the publisher had given her. As the phone rang, she looked at her hands-slender, with long fingers that could be both gentle and harsh, depending on the circumstances. On the ring finger of her right hand was still a barely noticeable mark from her wedding band, which she'd taken off three years ago after her divorce. Sometimes she thought the mark would never disappear-like the scars on her soul that never fully heal.

The receiver was picked up after the third ring.

"David Morrison?" she asked, trying to keep her voice even and official.

"Yes," answered a low, slightly tired voice. It had that particular huskiness common to people who either haven't slept all night or smoke a lot. Or both.

"FBI Special Agent Alice Wood. We need to meet. Immediately."

A pause. So long that Alice was about to repeat herself, but then came the voice again:

"I've been expecting this call."

And something in those words-in their calm, almost resigned intonation-made her heart beat faster.

She pressed the gas pedal and pulled away from the crime scene without even looking back. In the rearview mirror, the park, the yellow tape, the figures of police officers, and the body being covered with a black bag remained behind. The woman whose name they wouldn't know for several hours, until they found her documents and notified her relatives, remained behind.

The mystery they had to solve remained behind.

But Alice didn't know then that this mystery was just the first piece of a mosaic that would form a picture capable of destroying everything she believed in.

Chapter 2. The Writer and His Shadow

"A writer thinks he creates his stories. But in reality, the stories create him. They wait in the darkness, patient as spiders, and one day they weave a web from which you can no longer escape." – David Morrison, from an interview with The New Yorker, 2018

Alice hadn't slept all night.

She sat in her office on the twenty-third floor of the federal building, surrounded by stacks of papers, photos, and reports Marty had sent to her email the evening before. Outside the window, the rain intensified and subsided by turns, and the lights of Manhattan blurred into colored blobs on the wet glass, reminding her of an impressionist painter's palette, only instead of paints there was neon, blood, and despair.

She laid out before her the letters she'd taken from Morrison. Ten sheets, ten messages from the darkness, ten steps into the abyss of someone else's mind. Alice read them again and again, trying to grasp the rhythm, the intonation, the hidden hints. The author wrote in impeccable English, but there was something unnatural in the phrasing, as if the language wasn't native, even though there were no mistakes. Or perhaps it was someone who'd read too much classical literature and unconsciously imitated the style of Victorian novels.

"Mr. Morrison, your books are the only thing keeping me in this world. When I read your lines, it seems you are sitting beside me, telling me stories no one else can tell. You know me. You've always known. And I know you. I know what you are writing now. I know about the woman in the red dress, about the rain, about the finger gun. I know, because I was there. I am always where you are."

Alice set the letter aside and rubbed her temples. Her head throbbed from lack of sleep and tension. The coffee in her mug had long gone cold, but she kept mechanically bringing it to her lips, wincing at the bitterness each time.

The second letter was even more disturbing:

"You are afraid of the dark, Mr. Morrison. I know this, because I am afraid too. But my darkness is inside me. I carry it with me, like carrying a child in the womb. It grows, stirs, demands release. Your books help me let it out. Thank you for that. Without you, I would have gone mad. Or have I already?"

"Who are you?" Alice whispered, peering at the even lines. "A crazy fan? Or someone who really knows Morrison?"

She opened her laptop and typed in the search bar: "David Morrison biography." Page after page-standard facts: born in New York, studied at Columbia University, debut novel in 2010, seven bestsellers, a bunch of awards. Not a word about parents, about childhood, about where this phenomenal talent came from. In interviews, he always avoided personal questions, citing that "a writer should remain in the shadow of his books."

But Alice knew: shadows are always cast by something. Or someone.

She picked up her phone and dialed Marty's number. It was well past midnight, but the detective, like her, wasn't sleeping-you don't sleep on cases like this.

"Anything on the clinic?" she asked without preamble.

"Yes," Marty's voice sounded excited, a rarity for him. "Quiet Haven isn't just any psych ward. It's a closed facility for particularly dangerous criminals deemed insane. They've got murderers, maniacs, pedophiles-everyone society wants to forget. Security level is above average. But the most interesting thing-ten years ago, there was a fire there."

"A fire?" Alice perked up.

"Yeah. In 2005. One of the wings burned down. Three patients and two staff members died. One of them was Dr. Philip Novak, head of the department. That same night, his house in the suburbs burned down. His wife and two children died. Investigators linked the events, but never found the culprit. Ruled it an accident, faulty wiring or something."

Alice went cold.

"Novak?" she repeated. "Philip Novak?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Lina Novak-the patient in Quiet Haven. The one who's been silent for ten years. Novak's daughter?"

"Looks like it," Marty confirmed. "She was admitted there a few months after the fire. Transferred from another clinic with a diagnosis of 'post-traumatic stress disorder with psychotic episodes.' Hasn't spoken since."

Alice stood up from her desk and walked to the window. Rain drummed against the glass, and the city lights blurred like watercolors.

"And the son?" she asked. "Novak had a son, Simon. What happened to him?"

"The son's body was found at the fire site," Marty replied. "Identified by dental records. He was presumed dead."

"Presumed," Alice repeated. "But what if he didn't die? What if he survived and someone took him?"

"You think David Morrison is Simon Novak?"

"I don't think anything," Alice shook her head, though Marty couldn't see it. "I'm just connecting facts. A writer who remembers nothing about his past. Books in which someone else's memories come to life. Letters from the clinic where his sister is held. Too many coincidences."

"Coincidences don't happen," Marty echoed her own words.

"Exactly." Alice paused. "Marty, tomorrow morning I'm going to see Morrison again. Need to talk to him openly. You keep digging. I need to know everything about the Novak family. Who these people were, what they did, who they associated with, who might have wished them harm."

"Will do. And Alice…" Marty hesitated.

"What?"

"Be careful. If Morrison really is Simon Novak, and his sister is in the psych ward sending him letters with murder details… this could be very dangerous. For both of you."

"I know," Alice replied quietly. "But I have no choice. This case smells of something bigger than just a murder. And if my sister is involved…"

She didn't finish. Marty knew about Miranda. Everyone in the department knew, but kept silent.

"Keep me posted," he said and hung up.

Morning greeted Alice with gray skies and a headache. She'd barely slept, just dozed for an hour right in her chair, and woke to her own scream-she'd dreamed of a fire, a child's cry, and someone's hands reaching for her from the flames.

She washed her face with cold water, drank a double espresso from the vending machine in the hallway, and drove to SoHo.

David Morrison opened the door immediately, as if he'd been waiting for her on the threshold. He looked even worse than yesterday-dark circles under his eyes, stubble, wet hair from a recent shower.

"Agent Wood," he said, letting her in. "I thought you'd come earlier."

"I had things to do," Alice replied curtly, stepping into the living room. "We need to talk seriously."

"I'm listening."

They sat opposite each other-like yesterday, but the atmosphere was different now. More tense, heavier. Alice sensed David was holding something back, and it worried her.

"Mr. Morrison," she began, "I've done some digging. About the Quiet Haven clinic and the fire there ten years ago."

David flinched. His face paled.

"Why?"

"Because it might be connected to your letters. And to the murder." Alice watched him carefully. "You said you remembered nothing about your past. But your adoptive parents gave you documents. Do you know your real name is Simon Novak?"

David was silent for a few seconds, then slowly nodded.

"Yes. I know."

"You knew? And you didn't tell me?"

"What for?" bitterness crept into his voice. "I only found out yesterday, after you left. I found an old folder my adoptive parents had hidden away years ago. There were documents. Birth certificate. Photos." He stood, walked to his desk, and took out the very folder Alice had briefly seen last time. "Here."

She took the folder, opened it. Birth certificate for Simon Novak, a family photo-a man, a woman, two children. A girl about ten, thin, with big eyes, and an older boy. The boy looked very much like David.

"That's you," Alice said, pointing to the boy.

"Yes. And that's Lina." David pointed to the girl. "My sister. She's alive. All this time, she was in that damn clinic, and I didn't even know."

"You couldn't have known," Alice said softly. "You were given a new name, a new life. It's not your fault."

"But she wrote to me." David clenched his fists. "All those letters… she was trying to reach me, and I thought it was a crazy fan. I didn't even answer her. Not once."

"You didn't know."

"Knowing or not-what difference does it make?" He spun around and walked to the window, turning his back to her. "She's been there ten years. Silent. And I was writing books about killers, thinking it was my imagination. But it was her memories. Our shared memories."

Alice walked over and stood beside him.

"David, listen to me. Your sister isn't just a victim. She knows something. Something important. Otherwise, why would she write to you now, after all these years? She wants you to come. She wants you to help."

"I'm going there," David said firmly. "Today."

"I'm coming with you. But first, we need to understand exactly what she's trying to say. Do you have all the letters?"

"Yes. I kept every one."

They sat at the table, spread out the letters. Alice reread them now with new knowledge, and much became clear. The lines about the past, about pain, about memory-all of it was addressed to the brother Lina had lost and hoped to find.

"Look," Alice said, pointing to one of the letters. "Here she writes: 'I know what you're writing now. I know about the woman in the red dress.' How could she know, if you told no one?"

"I don't know." David shook his head. "Maybe she reads my thoughts? Or… or am I writing her thoughts?"

"What do you mean?"

"I told you-I remember nothing about my childhood. But when I write, images sometimes come. People. Events. I thought it was imagination, but now…" He paused, searching for words. "Now it seems like memory. My memory, returning through books."

Alice looked at him and understood this man was telling the truth. She'd seen many liars in her career, and David Morrison wasn't one of them. He was confused, frightened, devastated-but not lying.

"David," she said quietly, "we need to go to the clinic. Talk to Lina. She's the only one who can tell us what happened that night. And who's killing now."

"You think it's connected?"

"I'm sure." Alice stood. "Get ready. We leave in an hour."

Chapter 3. Imprint of the Past

"The past never truly dies. It doesn't even pass. It just waits, patiently, like a spider in a dark corner, to one day weave a web you'll stumble into when you least expect it." – From the diaries of Special Agent Alice Wood

New York greeted her with the same endless rain that seemed to have been falling for a week, washing not only the dirt from the city but also the colors, leaving only gray, black, and wet asphalt gleam. Alice drove slowly, though the roads were nearly empty-one in the morning, downtown, only the occasional taxi and fellow insomniacs like her.

Fragments of information swirled in her head like pieces of a puzzle that refused to form a coherent picture. Lina Novak, her brother Simon aka David Morrison, the fire, the clinic, the letters, the murder. And now this girl-Miranda Stone, whose body was never found, whose face in the old photograph stared at her from the computer screen with eyes she saw every morning in the mirror.

"Coincidence," Alice whispered, but her voice sounded unconvincing even to herself. "Just coincidence."

She pulled into the underground garage of her building on the Upper West Side, parked in her usual spot, and sat in the car for a long time, staring at the concrete walls and dim lights. The thoughts wouldn't let go. What if it wasn't coincidence? What if she was somehow connected to this family? But how? She remembered her childhood-or thought she did. Mother, father, a little house in New Jersey, school years, then college, the FBI Academy. Everything was in place, everything logical. Except for one thing-Miranda.

Miranda had entered her life when Alice was fifteen. Her parents adopted the girl from an orphanage-that's what they said. Small, thin, with big frightened eyes, she'd cling to Alice at night and whisper, "Don't leave me." And then she disappeared. Just left school one day and never came back. The police searched, but in vain. Her parents died a few years later-father from a heart attack, mother from cancer. And Alice was left alone with an unhealed wound and an unsolved case she carried inside her like a splinter that never works its way out.

She went up to her apartment, not turning on the lights, walked into the bedroom, and took a box from the closet. Old, cardboard, tied with string. On the lid was written: "Miranda." Alice hadn't opened it for about two years-since the last time she'd sorted through things in a fit of desperate hope to find some clue.

She sat on the floor, turned on the desk lamp, and untied the string.

Inside were photographs, drawings, school notebooks, a few toys. Alice carefully sorted through them, each item sending a pang of pain through her chest. Here's a photo: Miranda in the park on a swing, laughing, hair blowing in the wind. Another one: the two of them together, Alice with her arm around her sister's shoulders, both smiling at the camera. Alice was sixteen then, Miranda eleven. A year later, she would disappear.

Alice picked up the photo and stared at her sister's face. And suddenly she felt as if struck by lightning: Miranda's eyes-the same eyes that stared at her from the photo of Miranda Stone in the Novak case file. Same shape, same cut, same gaze-trusting and slightly frightened at once.

"It's impossible," she whispered, but her fingers were already trembling, and her heart pounded in her throat.

She rushed to her laptop, opened the files Marty had sent, and brought up the photo of Miranda Stone on the screen. Beside it, she placed the photo of her own sister. She compared them for a long time, feverishly, afraid to believe and afraid to be wrong.

They looked alike. Very much alike. But that meant nothing-children often look alike. Alice needed proof. DNA, documents, witnesses.

She looked at the clock-half past two in the morning. Marty was surely asleep, but she didn't care. She dialed his number.

"Alice?" Sleepy, alarmed voice. "What's wrong?"

"Marty, I need you to find everything you can about Margaret Stone. Where she lived, where she came from, who her relatives were. And especially about her daughter Miranda. I need photos, documents, everything."

"Why?"

"Because, it seems, she might be my sister." Alice herself didn't believe what she was saying. "Or… I don't know. Just find it."

Pause. Then Marty said quietly:

"I'll find it. You okay?"

"I'm fine." She wasn't fine. "Just do it."

She hung up and stared at the photos again. Somewhere deep in her memory, something stirred-vague, warm like a summer day. The smell of smoke. Someone's hands scooping her up. Running through the forest. Screams.

Alice squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold onto the vision, but it slipped away, leaving only a headache and nausea.

She lay down on the floor, right next to the box, and closed her eyes. Sleep came instantly-heavy, dreamless, like falling into a black pit.

She woke to the phone ringing. It was already light outside-a gray, wet dawn. Alice sat up, rubbing her stiff neck, and answered.

"Agent Wood," Marty's voice came, "I found something. You need to see this."

"What?"

"Margaret Stone was a patient of Philip Novak's for three years, from 2002 to 2005. Diagnosis-dissociative identity disorder complicated by post-traumatic stress syndrome. She was admitted with her daughter, who was placed in the clinic's shelter. In 2005, shortly before the fire, Novak obtained guardianship of the girl. Officially-to provide her with normal conditions. Unofficially… I don't know."

Alice listened, holding her breath.

"And the mother?"

"Died in the fire. Body identified by dental records. The girl… the girl disappeared. The documents say she was presumed dead as well, but no body was found. Case closed for lack of evidence."

"Where could she have been?" Alice whispered.

"I don't know. But there's more." Marty paused. "I found a photo of Margaret Stone. Want to see?"

"Send it."

A minute later, a photo of a woman around thirty, with dark hair and tired eyes, appeared on the screen. Alice looked at it and felt everything inside her collapse.

This was her mother. Her real mother, whom she'd thought died many years ago. Only her name wasn't Margaret Stone, but Anna Wood. And she didn't die in a fire, but of cancer, when Alice was twenty.

Or did she?

Alice frantically opened old photos of her parents. Compared. The woman in the clinic photo was eerily similar to her mother, but not identical. Different hairstyle, different expression, but the features… God, it was the same face!

"Did I have a twin sister?" Alice whispered into the phone.

"What?"

"My mother… did she have a twin sister? I don't know. I don't know anything."

"Alice, are you okay? Want me to come over?"

"No. I'm fine. Thanks, Marty."

She hung up and stared blankly. Thoughts tangled, superimposed, spawned monstrous conjectures. If Margaret Stone was her mother's sister, then Miranda Stone was her cousin. But why did the photo of Miranda Stone look so much like her own sister Miranda? Because they were the same person?

Alice jumped up, paced the room frantically. It couldn't be. It simply couldn't be.

She grabbed her phone and dialed David's number. It rang a long time, then a sleepy voice answered:

"Hello?"

"David, it's Alice. Sorry to wake you. I need to ask you something about your family."

"About my family?" He was instantly awake, his voice alarmed. "What happened?"

"Your father, Philip Novak. Did he ever mention a woman named Margaret Stone? Or a girl named Miranda?"

Silence. So long Alice thought he'd hung up.

"David?"

"I… I don't know," his voice trembled. "But I had a dream last night. For the first time in years. I dreamed of a girl. She was sitting in a tree, crying. And I was standing below, saying, 'Don't be afraid, Miranda, I'm here.' I called her Miranda."

Alice's breath caught.

"What else?"

"Fire. Screams. And someone's hands pulling me through a window. I don't know whose."

"David, we need to meet. Urgently."

"I was planning to go to the clinic. This morning. I can't wait."

"Don't go alone. I'm coming with you. Wait for me; I'll be there in an hour."

Chapter 4. The Quiet Ward

"There are places where time stops. Where people exist outside society, outside memory, outside hope. Closed psychiatric hospitals are purgatory on earth. Those whom society wants to forget end up here. And here they wait-for death, for clarity, or for a miracle. But miracles don't happen. Only silence does."

– From a report by Special Agent Alice Wood

Mornings at the federal building started early. By seven, the corridors were already buzzing with voices, shuffling feet, clinking cups, and endless phone calls. Alice sat in Marty Cole's office, drinking her fourth cup of coffee, staring at the documents spread before them. Overnight, Marty had done the impossible-compiled a file on the Quiet Haven clinic a good five centimeters thick.

"I didn't sleep all night," he said, rubbing his red eyes. "But it was worth it. Listen to what I found."

He spread out a map of New York State in front of Alice and jabbed a finger at a point north of Albany.

"Here, in the woods, an hour's drive from the nearest town, is Quiet Haven. The location isn't random-wilderness, no neighbors, just forest and river. The clinic was founded in 1952 as a tuberculosis sanatorium, later repurposed into a psychiatric hospital. Since the seventies-a closed facility for particularly dangerous patients."

"Particularly dangerous?" Alice repeated, peering at the map.

"Yes. Those who committed serious crimes but were deemed insane. Murderers, maniacs, rapists. Currently about a hundred and fifty patients. Security level-like a maximum-security prison."