Stop time, p.8
STOP TIME, page 8
She walked to the railing, gripping the metal that should have felt cold but instead felt perfect, like it was exactly the right temperature for her hands. The city below looked like a child's toy set—tiny cars moving along tiny streets, dollhouse buildings with windows glowing yellow in the twilight.
"I could fly," she said, and the words felt true. Not literally—she wasn't that far gone—but spiritually. She could leave all of this behind. The failed papers, the disappointed parents, the friends who only called when they needed something. She could be seven years old on a beach in Maine forever.
Her heart was racing now, but it felt good. Like running. Like dancing. Like that time, she and Zoe had taken ecstasy at Coachella and spent hours lying in the grass, watching the stars spin overhead while music washed over them in waves.
"Zo," Madison whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend. I'm sorry I didn't answer your call that night."
The warmth in her chest was changing now, tightening. Her heart wasn't just racing—it was galloping, thundering against her ribs like a caged animal. Madison pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the frantic rhythm.
"That's not right," she said, but her voice sounded far away.
She tried to walk back toward the door, but her legs weren't cooperating. The roof deck tilted sideways, or maybe she did. Her knees hit the wooden decking, and she was vaguely aware that it should have hurt but didn't.
The pill. The damn pill. Someone must've been in her apartment and must've tampered with her medication. It was the only explanation.
The cleaning service? The maintenance guy who'd fixed her dishwasher last week?
Madison fumbled for her phone, but her fingers felt like they belonged to someone else. She needed to call 911. Needed to get help before—
Her heart stuttered, skipped, found a rhythm that wasn't quite right. The city lights below blurred into streamers of color, beautiful and terrible. She thought about her term paper, still unfinished on her laptop. Professor Fielder would be disappointed but not surprised. Everyone was always disappointed but not surprised by Madison Wells.
"I was going to be better," she whispered to the darkening sky. "I was going to be brave."
The warmth was everywhere now, lifting her up, carrying her back to that beach in Maine where the water was always perfect, and her grandmother's voice called her in for dinner, and she was seven years old forever and ever.
Madison's hand relaxed, the phone slipping from her fingers to skitter across the deck. Somewhere in the city below, sirens wailed, but they were too far away to matter. Everything was too far away except the warmth and the memory of being loved without conditions or expectations.
She lay back on the deck, looking up at the first stars appearing in the purple sky. They looked like the shells she used to collect, scattered across the darkening beach of heaven. She reached up to touch them, and for a moment—just a moment—she could.
Then her heart, exhausted from its impossible race, simply stopped.
CHAPTER TEN
The federal courthouse in Philadelphia felt different at six in the evening—quieter, with most of the daily business concluded, leaving only the urgent matters that couldn't wait for morning. Beth sat on a wooden bench outside Judge Patricia Walters's chambers, reviewing her warrant application for the dozenth time while Cole paced the marble hallway.
"She's been in there forty minutes," Cole said, checking his watch again. "How long does it take to read twelve pages?"
"As long as it takes to decide whether we have probable cause to search a respected psychiatrist's confidential files," Beth replied, though her own patience was wearing thin. They'd spent the last four hours crafting the warrant application, carefully building their case without mentioning Beth's unauthorized glimpse at Donovan's notes.
Her phone buzzed with a text from the surveillance team: Subject returning home from office. No stops. No unusual activity.
Cole noticed her checking her phone and raised his eyebrows expectantly. She shook her head to tell him not to get his hopes up. "Third update today saying the same thing," she said. "Donovan goes to work, sees patients, goes home. Nothing suspicious."
"Maybe because she knows we're watching."
"Or maybe because she's taking a break after Barrett. Letting the heat die down before selecting the next victim."
Cole stopped pacing. "You're really convinced it's her."
"Everything fits. The chemistry background, access to the victims, the nephew who died. And those notes—"
"Which we can't use."
"Which is why we need this warrant." Beth held up the application. "Once we can legally review her files, we'll find more. Maybe references to the other victims, notes about their 'unsalvageable' lives. Something that proves she's been planning this."
The door to Judge Walters's chambers opened, and her clerk appeared—a young man who looked exhausted. "The judge will see you now."
Judge Patricia Walters sat behind a massive oak desk, Beth's warrant application spread before her. At sixty-two, she had a reputation for being thorough, fair, and absolutely intolerant of fishing expeditions. Her reading glasses perched on her nose as she studied Beth and Cole over the documents.
"Agents," she said without looking up. "Sit."
Beth and Cole took the chairs across from her desk, waiting while she finished reading. The office was imposing—law books floor to ceiling, diplomas from Harvard and Yale, photos with Supreme Court justices. This wasn't a judge who would be easily swayed.
Finally, Judge Walters removed her glasses and fixed them with a stern gaze. "You want to search the confidential psychiatric records of six deceased patients."
"Yes, Your Honor," Beth said. "We believe these records may contain evidence related to their murders."
"Based on what, exactly? Your application mentions 'suspicious language' in session notes but doesn't specify how you became aware of this language."
Beth had anticipated this. "Through interviews with family members, Your Honor. Several mentioned that Dr. Donovan had expressed concerns about their children being 'beyond help' or 'lost causes.' This aligns with evidence found at the crime scenes, suggesting the killer views the victims as corrupted souls needing salvation."
It wasn't entirely a lie—some family members had mentioned Donovan's pessimism about their children's chances for recovery. Beth had just connected dots they hadn't.
As she spoke, she sensed Cole's discomfort. She was going out on a limb here, and she was taking him with her.
Judge Walters studied her for a long moment. "And the connection to these designer drugs? This 'Phantom' you mention?"
Cole cleared his throat. "Dr. Donovan has a PhD in neuropharmacology from MIT," he explained. "Her dissertation focused on synthesizing compounds targeting specific neurotransmitter systems. She has the expertise to create the modified MDMA that killed these victims."
"Having expertise isn't a crime, Agent Jackson. Half the professors at Penn could probably synthesize illegal drugs if they chose to."
"But they don't have six dead patients," Beth said. "They don't have a nephew who died from an overdose fourteen months ago. They don't have session notes questioning whether certain patients are salvageable."
Judge Walters leaned back in her chair. "This nephew—tell me more."
Beth pulled out a file. "Kevin Donovan, seventeen. Died of a fentanyl overdose. The dealer was never caught. According to school records, Kevin had been friends with Lucas Barrett and Bradley Ashford—both recent victims. They all attended the same parties and ran in the same circles."
"So you're suggesting Dr. Donovan is killing her nephew's friends?"
"We're suggesting she may have snapped after his death," Cole said carefully. "Started seeing her wealthy patients not as individuals needing help, but as symbols of the system that killed her nephew. The timing fits—Kevin died fourteen months ago, the murders started six weeks ago. That gap could represent planning time, perfecting the formula."
Judge Walters was quiet for several minutes, tapping her pen against the desk. Beth could feel the whole case balanced on the edge of that pen—get the warrant and potentially stop a killer, or get rejected and watch more kids die while they scrambled for another approach.
"The Fourth Amendment protects citizens from unreasonable searches," Judge Walters finally said. "Psychiatric records are particularly sensitive, protected by doctor-patient privilege even after death. What you're asking for is extraordinary."
"The situation is extraordinary, Your Honor," Beth said. "Eight young people are dead. A ninth is in a coma. We have reason to believe the killer is someone they trusted, someone who used their knowledge of the victims' vulnerabilities against them. Dr. Donovan fits that profile perfectly."
"Perfectly is a strong word, Agent Drake." Judge Walters picked up the warrant application again. "What about other suspects? Other people with access to these victims?"
"We've investigated Lucas Barrett's distribution network, other dealers in the area, even vigilante groups targeting drug users. None have Donovan's specific combination of chemical expertise, victim access, and motive."
"And this Phantom drug—you believe it's connected to all these deaths?"
Beth leaned forward. "We've tracked over three hundred Phantom deaths across the Eastern seaboard, Your Honor. But these eight victims represent an evolution—a more sophisticated version of the drug, distributed to a specific population through trusted channels. We believe whoever created Phantom has refined it for these targeted killings."
"You believe. You suspect. You theorize." Judge Walters's tone was sharp. "What do you know?"
"We know all eight victims were patients of Dr. Donovan. We know she has the expertise to create the drug that killed them. We know she suffered a personal loss that could serve as motive. And we know she became defensive and demanded a lawyer when questioned about the deaths."
"Anyone would demand a lawyer if accused of murder, Agent Drake."
The judge returned to the warrant application, reading certain sections again. Beth could feel sweat building under her blazer despite the air conditioning. She couldn't tell whether the judge was just being hard-nosed or if she had already made up her mind to refuse their request.
Finally, Judge Walters began writing. "I'm granting a limited warrant," she said, not looking up. "You may search Dr. Donovan's patient files for the six deceased individuals named in your application. You may not access other patient records. You may not search her personal property without additional cause. And Agent Drake?"
"Yes, Your Honor?"
Judge Walters looked up, her expression severe. "If this warrant turns up nothing substantive, if you've violated doctor-patient privilege on a fishing expedition, there will be consequences. Serious ones. Am I clear?"
"Crystal clear, Your Honor."
The judge signed the warrant and handed it across the desk. "You have seventy-two hours to execute this. After that, you'll need to reapply with additional evidence. Don't waste my time—or yours."
"Yes, Your Honor," Beth said, barely able to contain her relief.
Outside the courthouse, Beth and Cole stood on the steps, warrant in hand, the evening air cool against their faces.
"That was close," Cole said. "I thought she was going to deny it."
"She still might have if we hadn't connected Kevin Donovan to the victims." Beth pulled out her phone to call Morgan. "We need to serve this tonight before Donovan's lawyer finds a way to challenge it."
Before she could call Morgan, however, her phone began to buzz. It was Morgan, ironically enough.
"We were just about to call you," Beth said as she answered. "We got the warrant for Donovan's files."
"That's great, but we have a bigger problem." Morgan's voice was tense. "Another body just turned up."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The flashing lights of emergency vehicles painted the brick facade of Madison Wells's apartment building in alternating red and blue. Beth pulled up behind a patrol car and killed the engine, taking in the scene. Unlike the chaos at Barrett's mansion, this was controlled—uniforms had already established a perimeter, keeping the gathering crowd of curious students and residents at a respectful distance.
"Twenty-second floor," Morgan said, meeting them at the building entrance. "Roof deck. She was found by a friend who'd come to check on her after she missed a study group."
They rode the elevator in silence, Beth's mind already processing the scene they were about to encounter. Another young life cut short, another family about to be destroyed by a phone call that would divide their lives into before and after.
The roof deck was a testament to upscale student living—sleek outdoor furniture, a professional-grade grilling station, potted plants that someone actually maintained. Madison Wells lay near the eastern railing, her body carefully covered by a sheet while crime scene techs worked around her.
"Can I see her?" Beth asked the lead technician.
He nodded, pulling back the sheet. Madison looked peaceful, almost sleeping—except for the unnatural stillness and the fixed dilation of her pupils. She wore designer jeans and a Penn sweatshirt, no shoes.
Beth pulled on latex gloves and knelt beside the body, beginning her examination. Madison's pockets yielded the usual—iPhone in a designer case, keys with a Mercedes fob, a credit card holder. But in the inside pocket of her jeans, folded carefully, was something that made Beth's pulse quicken.
A photograph. Old, edges worn, showing a young girl in a school uniform seated at what appeared to be a library table, books spread before her, looking at the camera with intense concentration. The girl couldn't have been more than seven or eight, her mouth open in a gap-toothed smile.
"Another childhood photo," Cole said, looking over her shoulder. "Same MO as Barrett."
Beth stared at the image, her mind racing. "That's two out of ten victims with photos. Why these two specifically?"
"Maybe the killer didn't have photos of the others?" Cole suggested. "Or didn't have the opportunity to plant them?"
Morgan had joined them, looking at the photo. "Maybe Barrett and Madison were special somehow. Different from the others."
"First and most recent?" Cole tried. "Making a statement with the beginning and end?"
Beth shook her head. "We don't know if Madison will be the last."
"Then what connects these two specifically?" Morgan asked.
Beth thought about it. Lucas Barrett, a drug dealer who'd been distributing to his peers. Madison Wells, struggling college student who'd just lost her best friend. "They're different victim types. Barrett was dealing, Madison was just using. Different ages, different schools..."
"Maybe it's not about who they were," Cole said slowly. "Maybe it's about how the killer knew them. Or when they knew them."
"The photos are both from around the same age—seven, eight years old," Beth observed as she carefully bagged the evidence. "But why not leave photos with the others?"
Cole was pacing now, thinking. "What if the killer only kept photos of certain kids? The ones who disappointed them the most?"
"Or the ones they cared about most," Beth countered. "The photos are worn and handled frequently. You don't do that with pictures of kids you hate."
"So we have a killer who cared deeply about at least two of their victims as children," Morgan summarized. "Kept their photos for years, carried them to the murder scenes."
"Which means this was planned far in advance," Beth said. "You don't just happen to have childhood photos of your victims on hand. This killer has been thinking about these specific kids for a long time."
"But again—why just these two?" Cole pressed. "What made Barrett and Madison special enough to get photos while the others didn't?"
They stood in silence for a moment, the question hanging in the air. Beth could feel they were missing something crucial, some connection that would explain the selective nature of the photo placement.
"Maybe," Morgan said finally, "maybe the killer's still carrying the other photos. Maybe they plan to leave them with future victims."
The thought chilled them all. If that was true, then the killer wasn't done. There were more childhood photos in someone's pocket, waiting to be placed on more young bodies.
"Or," Beth said quietly, "maybe the photos aren't calling cards—they're apologies."
"Apologizing for killing them?" Cole sounded skeptical.
"For having to kill them. For what they became." Beth looked at Madison's peaceful face, then at the photo of the happy child she'd been. "This killer knew these kids. Cared about them. And somehow decided death was better than letting them continue on their current path."
"That's a hell of a psychological profile," Morgan said.
"Yeah," Beth agreed. "And it means our killer isn't some random psychopath. This is personal. Deeply, disturbingly personal." She looked at Morgan. "Where's the friend who found Madison?"
"Inside. Building management let us use their conference room. She's... not doing well."
The conference room was on the fifteenth floor, all glass and chrome, with a view of the city lights. A young woman sat at the polished table, tissues crumpled in her hands, mascara streaking her cheeks. She looked up when they entered, fresh tears spilling over.
"I'm Agent Drake, this is Agent Jackson," Beth said gently, taking a seat across from her. "I know this is incredibly difficult, but we need to ask you some questions about Madison."
"Stephanie Fairchild," the girl managed. "I'm... I was Madison's study partner. We were supposed to work on our upcoming midterms together."
"How long had you known Madison?"
"Since freshman year. We lived in the same dorm." Stephanie's voice broke. "God, I can't believe she's gone. I just saw her yesterday. She seemed fine. Maybe a little stressed about her paper, but fine."
