Out-Smarting Outsmarter 2

                                    

                                          
The room reeked like dog poop, and the dim light cast an eerie, almost comedic horror vibe. There was another smell too, something burnt. Navilla instantly regretted stepping into this place.
Until they were 18, Navilla and Zarif shared a room. After they turned 18, their parents gave them separate rooms. For two whole years, since Zarif had started living alone, Navilla had never set foot inside his room. Now, after all that time, she realized why. The smell, the sounds, the lighting—it was all horrifyingly disgusting.
"Have you ever cleaned your room?" Navilla asked, trying not to gag.
"Obviously, I do," Zarif replied.
"When was the last time?" she asked.
"Last year... Or maybe when I first moved in," Zarif said, scratching his head.
"You haven't cleaned this room in two years?" Navilla's voice rose in disbelief.
"Does it really matter?" Zarif shrugged.
"Whatever, just show me what you wanted to show me," she said, waving her hand dismissively, eager to get this over with.
Zarif shuffled over to his desk and returned with a towering pile of newspapers. The top one had a section circled in red marker. He handed it to Navilla, who cautiously took it and started reading.
It was filled with pictures of young women, all receiving some kind of award from the President himself.
"What's this?" she asked, puzzled.
"That's the PS Scout Award," Zarif explained. "It's the highest honor in scouting."
"Okay, and how does that matter?" she asked, still confused.
"To earn a PS badge, you have to prove your swimming skills. If you can't swim, you don't get the badge. Now, look at the third picture from the bottom," Zarif pointed out.
Navilla's eyes followed his finger. Her heart skipped a beat. "Wait... Is this...?"
"That's when I knew it wasn't an accident," Zarif continued, his voice low. "That was his 19th murder."
"How did you know it was his 19th?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Simple," Zarif said, matter-of-factly. "I tracked every so-called accident."
Zarif flicked on the light, and Navilla gasped. The walls were plastered with pictures—photos of women, each with a number beside them. Numbers ranging from 1 to 42. Navilla's eyes darted from one picture to the next. She recognized two of them: 41, Hanifa and 42—herself.
"You knew all of this from the start?" she asked, her voice shaking with disbelief.
"Almost everything," Zarif replied casually.
"But he's already escaped! How are you planning to catch him?" Navilla asked, panic rising in her chest.
"I actually predicted that he'd escape," Zarif said calmly.
"You knew that too?" Navilla asked, even more shocked.
"The prediction was based on logic," Zarif said with a shrug.
"Then why did you even try?" she asked, confused.
Zarif walked over to his desk, where the wall of pictures loomed ominously behind him. His gaze never left the collage of faces as he spoke.
"Every psychopath has a pattern. Do you know what Isac's was?" he asked, turning slightly toward her.
"No, what was it?" Navilla asked, desperate for answers.