[AN – Hey everyone. I wanted to thank you all for your support. I honestly didn't think I would release a chapter today since it's my birthday. I tried to write what I had planned, but to me it feels a bit shorter than expected. I apologize for that. Enjoy the reading!]
The morning greeted John with its calm and serenity. Snow was falling quietly outside, painting Chicago in white — almost sterile in its purity. The air was dense and cold, as if the city was breathing slowly, carefully, afraid to disturb the fresh layer of snow. Over the past few weeks, John had been living in this silence — and his "Constructor" hadn't spoken since the last killing, which only pleased him. Days unfolded steadily: studying, meeting with Mia, the same repeating movement of life. But everything comes to an end — for better or worse.
He dressed warmly, zipping his jacket up to his chin, and stepped out into the streets of Chicago. The city was barely waking up: a few early passersby with faces hidden in scarves; shoulders hunched forward against the cold January air. Snow crunched under his boots, and the air was fresh and clean.
Today John was heading to the Criminal Court Administration Building. He walked inside, brushed the snow off his shoulders, climbed to the required floor and entered courtroom 7D — one of the rooms where open criminal hearings took place. Spacious, yet stuffy, it smelled of old wood, paper, and human anticipation.
John sat in the third row, closer to the wall, pretending to be a random observer. In his hands — a notebook, though its pages remained almost empty. He took notes not with a pen, but with his eyes — sharp and attentive.
The trial had been going on for three days. The defendant was Maria Radford, 31, a PR consultant. A woman used to shaping impressions. Today she sat perfectly straight, her hands neatly folded on her knees, as if she had come not to court but to an interview.
John listened half-heartedly — until a sentence pulled his attention sharply back to the trial.
Maria's lawyer, a perfectly groomed man in an expensive suit, paced confidently before the jury. His voice was even, soft — almost soothing.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is a tragedy. An accident…"
Maria sat motionless. Fingers — neatly intertwined, almost static. Her face — smooth, calm, empty. John noted: not a single emotion, except the carefully maintained softness. When the lawyer mentioned "a sudden gust of wind," she tilted her head slightly, as if agreeing. A rehearsed gesture.
The prosecutor tried to pull the jury back:
"There were symmetrical bruises on the victim's arms. You cannot get those simply by falling over a railing."
Photos lit up on the screen. Several jurors winced, someone looked away.
Maria did not lift even an eyebrow.
John noticed: the moment the photos appeared, her right foot tapped the floor — barely audible, a micro-slip, irritation.
The judge asked the medical examiner:
"Could these marks be sustained from a fall?"
The expert hesitated — a short, betraying pause. John caught it.
"Theoretically… possible," the expert said.
John exhaled quietly: "Theoretically possible" — a gift to the defense.
The prosecutor pulled out surveillance logs.
"The camera across from the incident site was disabled manually at 00:59. You claim you don't know who turned it off?"
The security guard shifted nervously, eyes down. Maria turned her head slightly toward him — a quick, assessing predator's glance.
He said nothing.
The lawyer quickly regained control:
"There were no defensive injuries on Maria's body at all…"
The jurors accepted that argument easily. John saw their gazes soften. Maria pressed her lips together — satisfaction.
"We cannot build a case on coincidences," the lawyer concluded gently. "A husband died. A wife grieves. Do not search for a crime where there is none."
The jurors looked at Maria — her calm posture, sorrowful eyes, the image of a "quiet widow." They saw the façade.
John saw beneath it — the tension in her shoulders, like a tightened string ready to vibrate.
The jury returned in forty minutes — far too quickly.
"Not guilty."
Maria closed her eyes as if in relief. But John saw something else: for a fraction of a second the mask dropped. In her eyes — cold steel.
Then everything returned: a soft smile, a grateful nod to her lawyer.
As the courtroom began to empty, John stayed seated, listening to the fading murmur. The jurors saw what they were shown. He saw what she concealed. For Harry's Code, this wasn't enough yet. But it was enough to dig deeper.
A few days of observation later, John gathered the first confirmation. Six days after her husband's death, Maria filed for insurance — 1.2 million dollars.
Relatives came to offer condolences. Maria cried, her voice trembling — the perfect widow.
But once they left — music, light and rhythmic, and she would dance lightly around the room. Not a trace of grief.
John wrote it down in his notebook and continued.
Night.
Cars rumbled above — flashes of headlights cutting across the concrete. The air was cold, damp, smelling of the river, diesel, and something rusty. That smell was unmistakable: Lower Wacker — the city's gut.
John walked slowly, as if simply heading home. His eyes scanned the shadows, the alcoves, the hiding spots.
The man he was looking for stood near a column, wearing an old army coat. His face hidden under a hood. Beside him — a tin can, a bag.
John stopped a couple of meters away.
"You're here often," he said calmly. "Which means you saw what happened the night the man fell from DuSable Bridge."
The homeless man did not lift his head.
"I don't know what you're talking about…" — his voice rasped like rust scraping his throat.
John crouched slightly, keeping distance.
"The police received an anonymous call after the trial. Cheap phone. Traced near Wacker Drive. That was you."
Fingers under the coat twitched.
"If I saw something…" the man whispered. "I better stay quiet."
John exhaled calmly.
"I'm not the police," he said. "I just need the truth."
The man finally lifted his eyes. Red, swollen — but honest.
Then he jerked his chin toward the river.
"She pushed him. They argued quietly. He didn't walk away. Just turned toward the water. And she…" — he repeated a quick movement of his hand. — "Fast and sharp. He didn't even have time to scream…"
John listened silently.
"I don't need trouble," the man added, lowering his head again.
John stood up.
"Thank you. That's enough."
As he walked away, snow crunched beneath his boots. In his mind: "I think that's enough for Harry's Code."
After confirming every detail, the days turned into routine surveillance. John followed each of Maria's routes, each of her steps. Meanwhile, he built the test — carefully, methodically, as always.
He needed to catch her before she left for a "new life" with money earned by someone else's death.
And the day finally came.
The trap was ready. Maria — almost inside it.
John stood in the alleyway, hidden in the shadows. Cold air bit at his face. Nearby, cars hummed, and somewhere far away a train howled.
He thought of his older brother and his voice. Faintly smiling, he wondered what Dexter would say now.
John whispered:
"Tonight's the Night."