BENEATH HEMLOCK SKIES

FBI TASK FORCE S.W.O.R.D.

BOOK 4

D.D. BLACK

DARKNESS AND LIGHT PUBLISHING

"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live."

- Norman Cousins

“Socrates was a philosopher. He went around pointing out errors in the way things were done. They fed him hemlock.”

- Gil Amelio

"He who is not busy being born is busy dying."

- Bob Dylan

"The eyes of the dead are closed gently; we also have to open gently the eyes of the living."

- Jean Cocteau

PART I

THE FINAL BREATH OF THE INNOCENT

1

SUBJECT 002 – INITIAL OBSERVATION

Name: Julia Marek

Age: 16 years, 3 months

Sex: Female

Ethnicity: Caucasian (Central European descent)

Weight: 120 lbs

Height: 5'5"

Baseline Vitals:

- Heart Rate: 72 bpm

- Blood Pressure: 118/72 mmHg

- Respiratory Rate: 14 breaths/minute

- Oxygen Saturation: 99%

- Core Temperature: 98.6°F (37°C)

- Pupillary Response: Reactive, symmetrical

Julia Marek presents as a physiologically optimal candidate. Preliminary review of medical records indicates no congenital abnormalities or significant illnesses; noted history includes mild anemia at age 13, resolved without pharmacological intervention. No history of psychiatric conditions. Excellent baseline for initial test subject. No known allergies. No current medications or illicit substance usage detected in preliminary screenings. Ideal initial subject.

Beneath hemlock skies, the wind forgets its name.

8:03 PM: Dose administered

8:12 PM: Subject remains conscious, responsive to visual stimuli. Mild increase in heart rate (78 bpm), consistent with stress response. Peripheral fasciculations noted, predominantly in distal extremities. Subject's gaze tracks observer movements. Pupillary response reactive, symmetrical, but slightly delayed. Initial Theta-wave Oscillation Monitoring stable, baseline activity noted.

Silence pools in the mouth of the earth.

8:15 PM: Peripheral shutdown proceeding within projected parameters. Loss of voluntary muscular control apparent; subject attempting minor finger movements. No evidence of significant distress—subject facial expression neutral but attentive. Pupils remain reactive but beginning to exhibit signs of delayed constriction. Glial Cell Activity Index (GCAI) beginning to fluctuate outside baseline parameters.

Socrates drinks & the world leans back.

8:17 PM: First notable decline in heart rate (65 bpm). Subject's musculature showing expected signs of paralysis onset—minor involuntary twitching in fingers ceasing. Breathing rate reduced slightly (12 breaths/minute), depth shallow but adequate. Subject attempts no vocal communication despite evident awareness. Possibly voluntary suppression or psychological acceptance; exact state uncertain. Significant rise in Cortical Quantum Resonance (CQR) detected, implications currently unknown.

Waiting for the moment between.

8:19 PM: Heart rate dropping consistently, now at 52 bpm. Respiratory irregularity noted. Pupillary responsiveness sluggish, dilation delayed and unequal. Subject's gaze fixed, intensity reduced, though slight eye movement remains detectable in response to stimuli. Voluntary motor control lost entirely. Subject conscious status unclear—possibly aware but unable to demonstrate responsiveness. Theta-wave oscillation elevated dramatically, suggesting intense cognitive activity or distress despite outward calmness.

Thought & no thought.

8:23 PM: Breathing severely diminished (4 breaths/minute). Irregular. Heart rate 38 bpm. Pupil response now non-reactive, fixed mid-dilation. Cerebral activity presumed ongoing; definitive measurement currently unavailable. Subject expression unchanged, devoid of apparent distress or discomfort—optimal outcome. GCAI sharply decreased, approaching terminal values.

Breath & the last of breath.

8:26 PM: Complete cessation of respiratory function confirmed. Heart rate minimal, intermittent beats recorded at approximately 20 bpm. Visual response absent. No measurable neurological activity in primary motor cortex. Consciousness presumed terminated. Final muscular relaxation observed. CQR stabilizing, suggesting possible consciousness dissipation or termination.

Does the dark unfold like a hand, like a door—or does nothing come at all?

8:25:34 PM: Time of expiration officially noted.

Subject performed within expected parameters. Data promising but inconclusive regarding exact moment of conscious cessation. Subsequent subjects will require refined observation protocols for more precise determination, especially regarding Theta-wave Oscillation, Glial Cell Activity Index, and Cortical Quantum Resonance.

The body stiffens like a question half-asked. The night does not answer.

Object will be laid to rest in the Hoh Rainforest, Northwest Quadrant.

Only the hemlocks sway. Only the sky remains.

Subject 003 will be acquired within the week.

END OF REPORT

2

Claire Anderson surveyed the basement conference room nicknamed "The Boiler Room," her eyes lingering on the two empty chairs. "Anyone know where Jack and Kiko are?"

A relic of the building's origins, the centerpiece of the room was a massive steel table that had seen years of use. No windows broke up the pale concrete walls, giving the room a basement feel despite its high-tech functions. A large display screen took up one wall, its glow bouncing off the exposed pipes and brick.

"Hello? Does anyone know why Jack and Kiko aren’t here?" Her voice cut through the quiet hum of computer fans and the distant rumble of the building's actual boiler system.

Violet Wei looked up from her laptop, the glow of three monitors reflecting in her glasses. Purple hair framed her face—a new shade this week, electric and unapologetic. "Not a clue. Tried texting Kiko, but..." She shrugged, returning to her rapid-fire typing.

Fitz Pembroke sat opposite Claire, rolling an ancient Roman coin between his knuckles. The weathered coin—probably worth more than his frayed tweed jacket—caught the light as it danced across his fingers. The movement was hypnotic, almost meditative. Claire wondered if it was therapy or compulsion. After the way he’d been played in his recent relationship, she felt bad for the man, but, selfishly, she was happy to have him back on the team.

"Quite the remarkable shade of purple," Fitz said, nodding toward Violet. "One could almost mistake you for a particularly vibrant species of sea anemone." His British accent gave the observation a scholarly tone that Claire thought ridiculous given the subject.

"Thanks, I think?" Violet tugged at a strand. "It's called 'Electric Ultraviolet.' Took three bleachings and stained my bathtub."

Claire checked her watch—8:17 AM. The morning briefing should have started seventeen minutes ago. But with two agents missing and no pressing cases, the meeting had dissolved into casual conversation.

"I've been considering a change myself," Fitz mused, still manipulating the coin. "Perhaps purple would suit me. Might get noticed for something other than my mental peculiarities for once."

"Or," Violet suggested with a grin, "we could dye Ranger's fur. Turn him into the FBI's first purple detection dog."

At the sound of his name, Ranger lifted his head from his sprawled position near Claire's feet. The golden retriever's tail swished across the floor in an enthusiastic arc. Claire reached down to scratch behind his ears, and he responded by pressing his head into her palm with unwavering devotion. Though Fitz had been the one to bring Ranger onto the team, Claire was growing more and more fond of him.

He rolled onto his back, offering his honey-colored belly for attention.

"You're shameless," Claire murmured, obliging with a quick belly rub.

"The girls are back in town, aren't they?" Violet asked, briefly looking up from her screen.

Claire nodded. "Just until the end of August."

"The prodigal twins return." Fitz stopped the coin between his thumb and forefinger. "I trust they're flourishing in their academic pursuits?"

"Caroline is on the dean's list. Political science," Claire said. "And Jacqueline switched majors again—archeology now. Or maybe anthropology. I have a hard time keeping up."

Violet swiveled in her chair. "Hey Fitz, how are you doing these days? You know, post-everything?" She waved her hands indicating some large circle of things, but they all knew what she meant.

Post-everything.

Fitz's expression shifted. "I'm like a particularly complex Swiss timepiece—functioning admirably on the surface while various internal mechanisms teeter on the edge of catastrophic failure."

Claire understood the complexity of putting oneself back together after being shattered, and Fitz had seemed at least functional over the last months. Given the lows she’d seen from him, she’d take it.

"I believe it was you who observed that perhaps I’m only at my best when I'm at my worst." Fitz resumed the hypnotic movement of the coin. "There's a fascinating psychological principle at work there—the Yerkes-Dodson law. Optimal performance often occurs under stress. Too little, and we stagnate. But too much..." The coin faltered between his fingers. "Well."

The door swung open and Jack entered with Kiko close behind him. Jack's button-down shirt was perfectly pressed, but Kiko’s blouse and slacks were wrinkled and they seemed to be the same ones she was wearing yesterday.

And, of course, Claire didn't miss the fact that they'd arrived together and neither seemed to want to make eye contact. "Nice of you both to join us."

"Sorry." Jack took a seat, his posture rigid. "Got a call from a buddy in the Park Service. Body found in the Hoh Rainforest."

Claire narrowed her eyes. "And you were getting a briefing because...?" She kept her tone even, but couldn't help feeling a flicker of territorial protectiveness. This was her team, her case load.

"Not a briefing," Jack corrected, meeting her gaze. "Just a courtesy call. He's sending the files over now."

"Since when do Park Rangers call FBI field agents directly?" Claire pressed.

"We served together. He knows I like the national parks." Jack's face remained impassive. "The hot springs, specifically. Not a big deal. Just wanted to bounce the case off me."

"Ah, the hot springs." Fitz leaned forward. "Fascinating geological formations. Who did you go with last time? Someone special, perhaps?"

Jack frowned. "That's not relevant."

Claire turned to Kiko, who was sliding into her chair as though trying not to be noticed.

"And you? Traffic issues?"

"Major accident on I-5." Kiko's response came too quickly. "Backed up for miles." When acting or playing a role, Kiko was one of the most talented liars Claire had ever seen. But when playing herself and simply lying, she was terrible at it.

Something was developing between those two—again—but that was a complication for another day. Claire was unwilling to derail the meeting further.

"So what information did your friend share?" she asked, redirecting the conversation.

Jack pulled out his phone. "Multiple jurisdictions are already fighting over it. Hoh Tribe Police, National Park Service Investigative Branch, Jefferson County Sheriff. Body was found at the edge of tribal land, partially on national park territory."

"How unfortunate for the deceased," Fitz remarked, "to die in such a bureaucratically complex location."

Claire shot him a look. Fitz really could be an insensitive jerk. Then she asked Jack, "What makes it interesting for us? How does it connect to this task force?”

Jack's expression darkened. "Ritualistic elements. Body posed with a Hemlock twig. Some media outlets are already calling it the work of the 'Hemlock Assassin' or the 'Rainforest Recluse.'"

"Dramatic nomenclature aside," Fitz interjected, "what other specific ritualistic elements?"

"That's what we're waiting to find out," Jack said. "Photos and preliminary reports should be here any minute."

“Wait,” Claire said, “I’m still confused. Are we involved because it looks like a potential serial killer, or because of the jurisdictional issues?”

Jack tapped the desk. “Both, but we’re not involved, yet. That’s your call. I’m having the files sent over.”

Violet's computer pinged. "Speaking of which." She tapped a few keys and the large, wall-mounted screen lit up. "Just came through."

Claire studied the images as they loaded. The victim appeared to be a teenage girl, which hit Claire hard. She lay on a bed of moss and ferns, arms outstretched, hemlock woven through the fingers. The face was peaceful, almost serene. "Preliminary ID?" Claire asked. “On the victim?”

"Julia Marek, 16," Violet said, reading from the report. "High school student from Seattle. Caucasian, five-foot-five, about one-twenty. Reported missing three days ago when she didn't come home from a study group."

“Witnesses?” Claire asked. “Suspects?”

“Nothing,” Violet said. “Unless you count the media reports with clever nicknames for the person who did this.”

"Call him whatever you want," Jack said, his voice flat. "The bottom line is there's another sick bastard on the loose in Washington State, the U.S. capital of serial killers."

Fitz sighed. “As much as I hate to agree with Rambo here, I think he may be right.”

3

"Let's address the elephant in the room," Claire said, watching her team's faces reflect the blue-white glow of the wall-mounted screen. "Jurisdictional nightmare. If I’m gonna ask for this case, I need to know what’s what."

"Three-way tug-of-war,” Jack said. “National Park Service claims authority because the body was discovered within park boundaries, technically. Jefferson County Sheriff thinks it's their case since the access point falls under their jurisdiction."

"And the Hoh Tribe Police will likely have legitimate cultural and territorial concerns," Kiko added, tapping a pen against the conference table.

"Bureaucracy,” Fitz said, “is civilization's most reliable impediment to progress."

Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. Three agencies, each convinced of their primacy in the investigation. Each with their own protocols, their own agendas, their own ways of mishandling evidence if given half a chance.

She shook her head. "I’m not seeing why we're jumping in."

"Because this has serial killer written all over it," Jack said flatly. "Even if it's just the first victim."

"We don't know that yet," Claire cautioned, though her instincts told her he was probably right. Something about the meticulous arrangement of the body, the calculated symbolism—it carried the hallmarks of a killer with purpose.

"We'll deal with territorial disputes when we need to," she said finally. "For now, let's focus on understanding what we're looking at. Violet?"

Violet clicked through several windows on her monitor. The large flatscreen on the wall illuminated with the first crime scene photo. "Like I said, Julia Marek, sixteen, honor student at Roosevelt High in Seattle."

Claire studied the image, her focus narrowing to exclude everything but the details before her. Every case she worked left a mark on her, a layer of scar tissue that would never go away. But cases involving children cut deeper. She'd seen too many futures extinguished, reduced to evidence markers and toxicology reports. Plus, Julia Marek reminded her of her own girls.

"Autopsy preliminary indicates death by respiratory and cardiac arrest," Violet continued, advancing to the next image—a close-up of Julia's face, pallid against the deep green of moss. "Tox screen shows presence of an unidentified compound, possibly derived from hemlock, but not matching known profiles. Lab's running more tests."

"No signs of struggle," Jack observed, leaning forward in his chair. "Look at the clothing—pristine condition. For a body found in one of the wettest, muddiest environments in the continental US, she's remarkably clean."

Claire nodded. He was right. Julia's light blue sweater and dark jeans showed no signs of the environment around her. No mud spatters, no torn fabric, no defensive wounds on her exposed skin.

"She wasn't killed there," Claire said. "She was placed."

"Displayed," Fitz corrected, his accent precise and deliberate. "Note the positioning. This isn't merely disposal—it's presentation."

The next image showed a wider angle of the scene. Julia lay on a bed of moss, arms arranged with deliberate care. Claire found herself holding her breath as she absorbed the details. The girl's open eyes stared at nothing, yet seemed to hold something—a question, perhaps, or an answer none of them could yet comprehend.

"No DNA evidence recovered from the scene or the body," Violet said, scrolling through the report on her screen. "No physical evidence under fingernails. No sign of sexual assault. Whoever did this was methodical, careful."

"Her left hand," Fitz said suddenly, straightening in his chair. "Can you go back?"

Violet returned to the previous image. Claire followed Fitz's gaze to the girl's left hand, which delicately clutched a sprig of hemlock, fingers arranged as though presenting an offering.

"And her right hand," Fitz continued, his voice taking on that scholarly quality Claire had come to recognize when patterns emerged for him. "Palm up, fingers slightly curled. It's reminiscent of⁠—"

"The sunlight," Kiko interrupted, pushing her chair back slightly. "Look at how her face is positioned, the way the light is hitting it. Was the body facing east?"

Violet consulted the report. "Yes. She was aligned perfectly with the sunrise—her face tilted just slightly toward where the light would have first hit at dawn."

Fitz stared at the table, unusually quiet. "He wanted her to see the sun rise," Fitz murmured. "Or perhaps, more accurately, he wanted the dawn to illuminate her."

Claire studied the peaceful expression on Julia Marek's face. Sixteen years old. Honor student. Someone's daughter, someone's friend. Now a canvas for a killer's vision, a vessel for his twisted symbolism.

"What are we looking at, Fitz?" she asked quietly.

"The hemlock—poison of philosophers, Socrates' final draught. The positioning toward dawn—rebirth, renewal. The clean clothes. This murder was almost—and I hate to say it—non-violent. Our killer isn't merely extinguishing life; he's... he’s doing something else."

"Like what?" Claire pressed.

"That," Fitz said, his eyes still fixed on the image of Julia's serene face, "is the question upon which everything hinges."

“Preliminary psych eval?” Claire asked.

Fitz frowned, clearly annoyed, but moved to the front of the room, his heavy frame blocking part of the screen behind him.

He gestured to Violet with a flick of his wrist. "A blank screen, if you please."

Violet exchanged a glance with Claire, eyebrows raised, before obliging. The wall mounted display shifted from the crime scene photos to an empty black rectangle. "There," Fitz announced, turning to face the team with theatrical flourish. "Behold my preliminary psychological assessment."

Claire leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "A blank screen?"

"Precisely." Fitz tapped his temple. "Because that's exactly what we know about this killer—nothing. Absolutely nothing."

The recycled air in the Boiler Room carried the faint scent of old coffee and electronics. Claire noted the slight tremor in Fitz's hands as he reached for his coin—a tell she'd come to recognize when his confidence wavered.

"We've seen one death. From this, we're meant to divine motive, method, pathology?" He shook his head. "Everyone wants to leap to classifications. Serial killer. Ritualistic murderer. Hemlock Assassin. Humans desperate to impose order on chaos."

Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You've profiled with less before." His voice remained neutral, but Claire caught the underlying challenge. "Or is this about what happened in the case of the widows?"

A muscle twitched in Fitz's jaw. Claire recognized the look—a raw nerve exposed. His failed relationship and failure on the last case had left him questioning his own judgment, a psychological wound still tender to the touch.

"This has nothing to do with my personal life," Fitz snapped, the professional veneer cracking just enough to reveal the vulnerability beneath. "This is about methodological integrity."

"Fitz," Claire interjected, redirecting the conversation before it derailed completely. "Earlier, you started to say something about Julia's positioning before Kiko noticed the sunlight alignment. What was it?"

Fitz blinked and rubbed his jaw, looking back at the screen as Violet restored the crime scene photo.

"Probably coincidental," he said, voice regaining its academic detachment. "But her positioning—the hemlock sprig in her left hand, her right palm facing upward—it's reminiscent of an image I've seen before." He paused, retrieving a memory. "The poetry of Jonas Keating. Mid-century American, known for sparse, existential work. His collection Beneath Hemlock Skies, featured a similar image on the cover. Deals with the mystery of death, the transition from consciousness to... whatever follows."

Claire felt her pulse quicken slightly. Poetry. Ritual. Symbolism. The pieces weren't fitting yet, but at least they were beginning to resemble pieces rather than random noise.

"Oh no," Violet muttered from behind her array of monitors.

Claire turned. "What?"

Violet grimaced, a strand of purple hair falling across her face as she shook her head. "You know how you hate when family members hit social media before we've had a chance to establish narrative control?" She tapped a few keys, and the wall screen shifted to a video. "Julia's mother, Kelly Marek, is already giving interviews."

The screen filled with the image of a local news channel's hastily assembled remote broadcast. A woman in her forties stood wrapped in a beige cardigan and her face bore the hollow-eyed shock of recent grief.

Her voice remained surprisingly steady as she spoke to a reporter. "Julia was just... normal. A good kid." Kelly Marek's hands twisted the edges of her cardigan. "Honor society. Debate team. She wanted to study medicine." Her voice caught. "She helped me take care of my mother—her grandmother—who has Alzheimer's. Even when she had tests, she'd sit and read to her for hours."

Claire watched, the familiar ache of witnessing raw parental grief settling in. Not a performance for the cameras. Not a bid for attention. Just a mother trying to make sense of the senseless by speaking her daughter's life into the record before it was defined solely by her death.

“Turn it off,” Claire said, and Violet muted the feed.

They all sat in silence for a long moment, then Fitz said, “Vi, you find anything else on the victim?”

"Poking around as we talked. She really was exceptional—4.0 GPA, volunteer work at a nursing home, well liked but not super popular. No obvious enemies. No secret online life I can find. No boyfriend or girlfriend troubles that had hit social media. Teachers described her as 'conscientious,' 'kind,' 'mature beyond her years.'"

"Perfect victim," Jack said, his voice flat.

Claire considered this as Ranger shifted at her feet, sensing her disquiet. Perfect wasn't a word that belonged in murder investigations, yet it kept circling back: Julia's pristine clothing at the scene. Her seemingly uncomplicated life. The meticulously arranged scene of her death.

She turned back to Fitz, who had fallen unusually quiet, staring at the frozen image of Kelly Marek on the screen.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"That our killer," Fitz said softly, "may have selected Julia Marek not for who she was, but for what she represented. Purity, perhaps. Potential. A vessel worthy of...transformation. I’m not sure this is a serial yet,” Fitz said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Claire studied the careful placement of the body. Something stirred in her memory—another similar scene, another ritualistic killing. But before she could articulate the connection, her phone vibrated. Hightower.

"We need to get out there." Claire straightened. "But first I need to talk to Hightower and get the go ahead. Jack, since you have the contact, coordinate with the Park Service. Kiko, reach out to the Hoh Tribe—we need their cooperation. Violet, dig into Julia's background, online activity, etc. And Fitz..." She paused, watching him pocket his coin. "Start doing whatever it is you do."

Fitz steepled his fingers under his chin. “I already have, my dear Claire."

Ranger moved to Claire's side, pressing against her leg as if sensing the shift in the room's energy.

She rested her hand on his warm head, drawing comfort from his presence. The simplicity of his devotion anchored her as her mind began to catalog and organize the information, preparing for the darkness that waited in the Hoh Rainforest.

4

As the elevator ascended from the basement-level Boiler Room, each floor added another layer of polish and professionalism to the surroundings. Claire watched the numbers illuminate in sequence, feeling her frustration rise alongside them.

The conference room on the executive floor bore little resemblance to their underground lair. Polished mahogany replaced utilitarian metal, abstract art hung where crime scene photos usually loomed, and floor-to-ceiling windows offered views of the Olympic Mountains beyond, a cinematic backdrop for institutional power plays.

Assistant Director in Charge E.J. Ley stood at the head of the table, her posture too perfect to be anything but deliberate. Special Agent in Charge Gerald Hightower occupied the chair to her right, his expression neutral. Claire liked Hightower, but whenever Ley was in town he was forced to wear the mask of a man caught between competing loyalties.

"Thank you for coming up," Ley said, gesturing for Claire and Jack to sit. No small talk, no preamble. Ley never wasted words—one of the few qualities Claire genuinely admired about her. "I understand you've begun investigating a case? Julia Marek?"

"Yes," Claire said. "Initial findings suggest ritualistic elements that may indicate⁠—"

"I've read the preliminary," Ley interjected, sliding a folder across the table's gleaming surface. "But there's a more pressing matter requiring S.W.O.R.D.'s attention."

Claire was surprised. She'd anticipated this meeting would be a routine briefing, perhaps some territorial negotiations with the local agencies. Not an abrupt redirection.

"We've been building a case for over a year against North Cascadia Defense Solutions," Ley continued, "a Seattle-based government contractor specializing in cybersecurity infrastructure for classified military installations. We have evidence that they've been systematically inflating contract costs, siphoning millions in taxpayer dollars into offshore accounts, and laundering that money through shell corporations linked to executives with direct ties to high-level defense officials."

Jack shifted in his chair, his back straightening at the mention of defense contracts. Claire assumed that his military experience made a case like this hit differently for him.

"We're talking about over $200 million in federal fraud," Ley said, her voice gaining momentum, "and if we don't lock this down fast, those responsible are going to disappear before we can get indictments in place. The Bureau wants S.W.O.R.D. on this because this isn't just financial crime—it's national security. We need to know who's on the inside, whether this is just corporate greed or something more coordinated, and we need to be ahead of this before it turns into a Washington Post headline about how the FBI let the next big defense slide."

Claire studied the folder without opening it. "With all due respect, this sounds like a case for the Financial Crimes Division."

"It was," Ley acknowledged. "But they've hit barriers that require your team's... particular approach."

Claire sighed. She knew what this meant. They needed Violet's technical expertise—her algorithmic analysis, digital forensics skills, and data interpretation abilities. It was well known that she was better than anyone in the Financial Crimes Division.

But the image of Julia Marek lying on a bed of moss was fresh in Claire’s mind, as was the threat of her killer potentially selecting the next victim. "Gerald," she said, deliberately using Hightower's first name—an appeal to their shared history. "You promised me discretion over which cases S.W.O.R.D. takes on."

Hightower's gaze flickered between Claire and Ley, the political calculus evident in the tightness around his eyes. "I did. But the ADIC's directive supersedes my authority."

Claire swallowed her frustration, struggling to keep her expression professional. Promises within the Bureau were always conditional, she knew that—but the reminder still stung.

Ley's expression remained composed, her eyes coolly evaluating. "Agent Anderson, I understand you feel strongly about the Marek case. But S.W.O.R.D. wasn't established to function as an autonomous unit pursuing only what interests its members."

"A sixteen-year-old girl was murdered and posed like artwork," Claire said, her voice rising despite her best intentions. "Her killer left ritual markers suggesting he'll strike again. My team is down there making progress as we speak, and you want us chasing spreadsheets and offshore accounts instead? It's a waste of resources."

"Claire," Hightower warned quietly.

Jack cleared his throat. "If I may, ADIC Ley." His tone carried the respectful formality of his military background. "The financial crimes case does fall within our mandate. Perhaps we could propose a structured approach to both investigations."

Claire caught the subtle shift in Jack's allegiance—not betrayal, exactly, but a clear signal that he believed in following the chain of command, even when it diverted from what felt right.

Ley nodded appreciatively at Jack. "I'm glad someone recognizes the bigger picture."

Claire felt the implied criticism land squarely on her shoulders. She shouldn't have allowed emotion to surface—it had only given Ley the upper hand.

Ley leaned forward, palms flat against the table. "Is that what you think we do here, Agent Anderson? Waste resources?" Her voice remained even, reasonable—making Claire's concern seem petulant by comparison. "I'm not asking you to choose between tracking a murderer and preventing financial malfeasance. I'm asking you to recognize that leadership means balancing competing priorities, even when one feels more urgent than another."

Claire recognized herself being outmaneuvered. Even worse, she recognized the validity of Ley's argument, which only fueled her frustration.

"If I may," Hightower interjected. "Perhaps there's a middle path. S.W.O.R.D. could allocate resources to both investigations—primary focus on North Cascadia, with a smaller team maintaining momentum on the Marek case until we determine whether it's truly the work of a serial killer."

Ley considered this, her gaze traveling from Hightower to Claire and finally resting on Jack. "Agent Russo? Your thoughts?"

"We can handle both," Jack said, his tone confident. "Split the team, coordinate efforts, reassess priorities as new evidence emerges in either case. The Bureau's priorities come first, of course, but we can maintain surveillance on the Marek investigation. See what develops in the next twenty-four hours."

Claire measured Jack's careful phrasing—acknowledging the Bureau's hierarchy while creating space for their continued work. Smart.

"Very well." Ley nodded, closing her folder with a decisive motion. "Agent Anderson, assign your resources accordingly, but understand that North Cascadia is the Bureau's priority. When the next funding cycle comes, I want S.W.O.R.D. on the positive side of the ledger."

Claire recognized the implied threat—perform or be dissolved—but kept her expression neutral. "Understood."

Ley stood, signaling the meeting's conclusion. "Leadership isn't about doing what we want, Agent Anderson. It's about doing what's needed, even when it lacks the emotional satisfaction of hunting monsters."

Claire nodded, unwilling to continue a battle she couldn't win in this particular arena. Ley’s remark landed precisely where intended—a professional critique wrapped in philosophical wisdom.

As they filed out of the conference room, Jack fell into step beside her, waiting until they were alone in the elevator before speaking.

"That could have gone better," he observed.

Claire punched the basement button with unnecessary force. "You think?"

"We can make this work."

"Can we? While Violet runs financial algorithms, our killer could be selecting his next canvas."

The elevator descended, retracing their earlier journey as Claire's mind raced ahead. She would follow orders—officially. But S.W.O.R.D. had been created precisely for cases like the Marek murder, and she wouldn't abandon that mission, even if it meant navigating around bureaucratic roadblocks.

"Split the team, coordinate efforts," she murmured, echoing Jack's suggestion. "I suppose that's our only play."

"Unless there's another option you're considering.”

Claire heard the comment as a question and met his gaze as the elevator reached the basement, the doors sliding open to reveal their underground domain. "Officially? No."

Jack's mouth quirked into the ghost of a smile. "Officially. Got it.

5

"So what's the plan?" Kiko asked, passing out the sandwiches and drinks that had just arrived for a late lunch.

Claire massaged her temples, trying to push back against the headache that had been threatening since the meeting with Ley. Five faces turned toward her, expectant. Even in moments of institutional disruption, they still looked to her for direction. Ranger dozed under the table, his warm weight pressed against her ankle—a small comfort in a day that had veered sharply off course.

"We split our focus," she said. "Tomorrow, we start juggling."

"Do we head out to the scene?" Jack asked.

Claire shook her head. "Not yet. Violet, any update on the jurisdictional fight?”

“National Park Service won their territorial battle—at least for now. They're sending over soil samples, additional photographs, and a detailed site analysis.”

Claire nodded. “Good. For now we let them lead. Jack, coordinate. Get everything they have, and find out what they aren't telling us."

"I'll reach out to my contact tonight," Jack said.

"What about this North Cascadia case?" Violet asked. “I just got about twenty-thousand pages of documents and...”

"That's our official priority," Claire said, the words tasting bitter. "Violet, I need you to start with a comprehensive digital sweep—financial records, personnel files, contract histories. Look for inconsistencies in the data."

Violet's eyes lit with the challenge. "I'll run parallel extraction protocols on their accounting systems and personnel databases. Cross-reference executive travel with offshore banking activity, isolate anomalous transaction patterns, and map relational networks between key players and defense officials." She cracked her knuckles. "If someone's siphoning government funds, they've left digital fingerprints. Probably think they're clever, but corporate types always underpay their IT security."

"I’m sensing the meeting didn’t go ideally," Fitz said, studying Claire from across the table. "I assume our dear ADIC was her usual delightful self?"

Claire gave him a thin smile, trying to relax her shoulders. "Hightower got big-timed by Ley. Bureau priorities have shifted. We're now chasing financial criminals instead of protecting potential victims."

"Ah," Fitz said, leaning back in his chair. His substantial frame made the office chair creak in protest. "The eternal bureaucratic pursuit of measurable outcomes. Bodies make for uncomfortable metrics, whereas recovered millions translate beautifully to congressional testimonies."

"We'll manage both," Jack insisted.

"Do you know what's fascinating about hemlock?" Fitz asked suddenly, his eyes taking on that distant quality that signaled the beginning of one of his impromptu lectures. "Not just its botanical properties, but its historical significance. Who's the most famous person to die by hemlock poisoning?"

"Socrates," Violet answered without looking up from her screen.

"Precisely." Fitz nodded approvingly. "Athens' most brilliant philosopher, condemned to death not for any true crime, but for asking too many questions. For challenging the established order. For making powerful people uncomfortable with his pursuit of truth." He reached into his pocket and withdrew his coin, turning it between his fingers. "When Socrates became too influential, too well-known, too brilliant—they silenced him with hemlock. Not unlike Ley and⁠—"

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Don’t tell me you’re about to compare our unit to Socrates."

“Or worse yet, yourself to Socrates,” Kiko added.

Fitz shook his head. "Not me, and not us to Socrates, but perhaps our circumstances to his." Fitz tossed a slice of turkey from his sandwich to Ranger, who caught it mid-air with gentle precision. "Hate to say it, folks, but this could be our last ride. Ley, it appears, wants to feed us hemlock."

Claire considered Fitz's words. There was truth in his theatrical assessment— S.W.O.R.D. had been formed to handle exactly the kind of case they were now being diverted from. The budget reviews, the reassigned priorities, the subtle undermining of their autonomy. All signs pointing toward possible dissolution.

"If that's true," Claire said, "then we go out on our terms, not theirs." She looked around the table, meeting each set of eyes in turn. "We do both cases. We give them what they want on North Cascadia, but we don't abandon Julia Marek." Her voice left no room for debate.

"Seven tomorrow morning," Claire said, closing her folder with finality. "We reconvene here with fresh eyes and divided focus."

Jack and Kiko gathered their things, the synchronized nature of their movements not escaping Claire's notice. The two had developed an unspoken rhythm that hinted at time spent together outside these walls—a complication she'd need to address eventually, but not today.

As they filtered out, Violet remained hunched over her array of screens, fingers flying across the keyboard, already deep into systems that likely required warrants to access. Fitz showed no signs of leaving either, instead settling more comfortably into his chair, withdrawing a weathered copy of what appeared to be a book of poetry from his jacket pocket.

Claire gathered her own papers, thinking of the twins waiting at her house and Benny, who would be finishing his summer coding program soon.

She paused at the door, looking back at the disparate remnants of her team—Violet with her purple hair illuminated by monitor glow, Fitz with his ancient wisdom and modern demons, Ranger now stretched alongside Violet's chair contentedly.

6

Fitz watched Violet work, her hair now pulled back in a messy knot secured with what appeared to be a pencil. Ranger had migrated to her side, golden head resting on her foot.

"How goes our bureaucratic imposition?" Fitz asked.

"Already into their first layer of security. North Cascadia's system is actually impressive—multilayered encryption, segmented data storage, enterprise-grade firewalls." She glanced up, noting his expression. "Think of it as a digital fortress with multiple walls and guard towers. I'm tunneling underneath while distracting the sentries."

"Ah," Fitz nodded. "And this will yield...?"

"I'm creating a shadow network that mirrors their accounting system," Violet explained, pausing to take a swig from her energy drink. "Once established, I can trace money flows without triggering security alerts. Like watching them count cash through a one-way mirror. They track government contracts worth millions—I follow where the decimal points disappear."

"Decimal points can't simply vanish into the digital ether, surely?"

"They do when someone builds hidden backdoors into the accounting software." Violet grinned. "These corporate types create system modifications that siphon small percentages from large contracts—amounts too small for automatic audits but significant when aggregated across hundreds of transactions."

Fitz shrugged. He vaguely understood about half of what she was saying, but was glad it wasn’t his job. He preferred the less technical aspects of life.

"Search algorithms are running,” she said with a flourish. “System will ping when it identifies anomalies in their financials."

Fitz cleared his throat. "Perhaps while we wait, we might turn our attention to matters more deserving of our expertise. The Hemlock situation."

Violet looked up, relief evident in her expression. "I was hoping you'd say that."

"Julia Marek deserves our attention, bureaucracy be damned." Fitz set aside Jonas Keating's poetry collection. "This level of ritualistic precision rarely emerges fully formed. There should be precursors—earlier attempts showing similar signatures."

"I can set up a search," Violet offered, already pulling up a new screen. "Parameters?"

"Outdoor disposal sites, plant material evidence, particularly hemlock. Victims under twenty-five. Any mention of ritual elements." Fitz listed the criteria methodically. "Within a hundred-mile radius, perhaps going back three years. No, make it seven years."

Violet nodded, creating the search parameters. "This might take a while. These databases aren't exactly optimized for cross-jurisdictional queries."

"While you do your work," Fitz said, watching as Violet entered the search criteria into various FBI databases, "here’s a question for you...”

"If you're asking about Jack and Kiko, just say so." Violet smirked, glancing back briefly from her monitor.

"Their synchronized arrival and departure today did not go unnoticed."

Violet's mouth twitched. "You mean the not-so-subtle mating dance they think no one sees?"

"Precisely that." Fitz watched her reaction carefully. Violet's brief entanglement with Jack, and Kiko’s perhaps ongoing one, had created undercurrents within the team that occasionally rippled to the surface.

"They're adults," Violet shrugged, the nonchalance not quite reaching her eyes. "I just hope they know what they're doing. Team dynamics get messy when people start sleeping together."

"You don't seem particularly distressed."

"Ancient history," she said, turning back to her screen. "Besides, watching Jack try to be discreet is actually entertaining. Military guy thinks he's so tactical, but he looks at her like she's the last bottle of water in the desert."

"And Kiko?"

"Better at deception. But she's been wearing her 'special occasion' perfume more often." Violet shook her head with a wry smile. "Kids these days."

Fitz chuckled at the incongruity of Violet—younger than him by about twenty-five years—adopting the tone of a world-weary observer.

The computer ran its search algorithms in silence for nearly forty minutes. Fitz used the time to review his notes on the Marek case, while Violet alternated between monitoring the financial crime search and running supplemental queries on similar cases. The methodical work of investigation—unglamorous, tedious, necessary.

Finally, Violet straightened. "Potential match. Bainbridge Island, fourteen months ago."

Fitz moved to her side of the table as she enlarged the file. Crime scene photos appeared, showing a tableau with disturbing similarities to Julia Marek's scene. "Mei-Lin Chang, seventeen," Violet read. "Honor student, early admission to Stanford. Found in Eagle Harbor Nature Preserve. Body arranged on a bed of local flora."

Fitz studied the images. The victim lay in a clearing, arms positioned in a manner reminiscent of Julia Marek's—though the photographs were fewer and taken from different angles.

He’d been fairly sure they’d find a similar case somewhere out there, but he hadn’t expected it to come back so quickly, or be so close to home. Bainbridge Island was just a forty minute ferry ride away.

"Some similarities in the positioning," he noted cautiously. "Does the report mention hemlock?"

Violet skimmed the document. "Yes—'various plant species including hemlock were collected from the immediate vicinity.' But they classified it as environmental coincidence, not evidence."

"Cause of death?"

"Unknown toxin causing respiratory failure." Violet looked up. "Sound familiar?"

"Potentially," Fitz said, tempering his conclusions. "Different jurisdiction, different investigators. Without context, they'd have no reason to flag the ritualistic elements."

"The file's incomplete," Violet noted with frustration. "Missing the full toxicology report and detailed scene analysis."

"Can you request the complete records?"

Violet's fingers moved across the keyboard. "Already on it. But it'll take time—Bainbridge Island PD won't prioritize a fourteen-month-old case without official channels."

"Two cases with potential similarities doesn't confirm serial classification," Fitz reminded her, though his instincts suggested otherwise. "But the timeframe and methodological parallels warrant investigation."

"Both exceptional young women," Violet observed. "Both found in natural settings with hemlock present."

Ranger lifted his head suddenly, ears perked toward the door.

Fitz tensed temporarily. “Who’s there?”

A moment later, the security pad beeped and the courier from the front desk came in. The golden retriever's tail began wagging in anticipation.

“Oh right,” Fitz said, “you ordered pizza.”

“I figured it would be a long night,” Violet said.

7

Claire's living room felt like a snapshot from another life—the three Anderson children absorbed in their separate digital worlds while she sank deeper into the cushions of her couch. Her wineglass caught the evening light, casting a ruby shadow across her hand.

Jacqueline and Caroline occupied opposite ends of the sectional, both engrossed in their phones, occasionally snorting at something amusing or showing each other videos with hushed commentary. Benny sat cross-legged on the floor, his tongue peeking out the side of his mouth in concentration as his thumbs worked the Xbox controller. The familiar soundtrack of explosions and victory fanfares provided a strange counterpoint to Claire's thoughts.

She took another sip of pinot noir, letting the warmth spread through her chest. Moments like these—quiet, ordinary—had become rare treasures. With the twins at college and Benny's schedule packed with therapy sessions and extracurriculars, their time together as a complete unit felt increasingly precious. And fleeting.

Claire found herself wondering, not for the first time, how different these evenings might be if she and her ex had worked through their issues. Would they be sitting side by side on this couch? Would his presence fill the empty space beside her, his arm casually draped across her shoulders? Would they exchange knowing glances over the tops of their children's heads, sharing the secret language of long-married couples?

Then she remembered the coldness that had crept into his eyes whenever Benny needed extra attention. The way Brian would check his watch during Benny's doctor appointments, already mentally at his next meeting. The countless baseball games and school plays he'd missed, citing work emergencies that always seemed to coincide with Benny's events.

No, Claire decided, taking another sip. Some doors were better left closed.

"Mom, have you seen this?" Caroline held her phone toward Claire, face illuminated by the screen's blue glow.

Claire set down her wineglass and took the phone. A TikTok video played, showing a young man with carefully tousled hair and overconfident eyes. A banner beneath him identified him as "Colt Redding: True Crime Insider."

"—Julia Marek's body was arranged with remarkable precision," Colt's voice stated with rehearsed gravity. "Sources close to the investigation reveal that despite being found in the muddy Hoh Rainforest, her clothing was pristine—suggesting she was killed elsewhere and carefully positioned at the scene."

Claire's muscles tensed. The video continued.

"Most telling is the victim's head placement—deliberately angled to face the rising sun. This ritualistic element suggests a killer with profound symbolic intentions⁠—"

Claire handed the phone back to Caroline, trying to keep her face neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in her head. "Where did you find this?"

Caroline shrugged. "It's all over my feed. This guy has like half a million followers. He does these 'breaking news' crime updates before the regular media picks stuff up."

"How accurate is he usually?"

"Pretty solid, actually," Jacqueline chimed in without looking up from her own phone. "He called the Evergreen Kidnapper case last year before the police made their announcement."

Claire reached for her wine, mind racing through possibilities. The sunlight orientation detail hadn't been released to the media. The body's cleanliness had been mentioned in the official statement, but without emphasis. Both elements had been discussed just hours ago in the Boiler Room meeting.

Someone was talking. Someone with access to the details of the investigation was feeding information to a TikTok crime commentator.

It could be someone from the Jefferson County Sheriff's Office or the Park Service —both had access to the scene. But the specificity of the details, particularly the sunlight orientation that Jack had pointed out during their briefing, suggested a closer source.

Claire felt a headache forming at her temples. As if juggling a murder investigation and a financial crimes case under Ley's watchful eye wasn't challenging enough, now she had to worry about a potential leak within her team.

Benny whooped as his game character achieved some victory, the sound pulling Claire back to the present moment—to this room, to her children, to the slice of normal life she'd carved out against all odds.

"Everything okay, Mom?" Caroline asked.

"Just work stuff," Claire said, forcing a smile. "Nothing important."

She picked up her wineglass again, letting the warmth of family and wine temporarily displace her concerns. Tomorrow would likely bring more horrendous details about the Julia Marek case, a financial investigation she didn't want, and now a potential security breach.

But tonight—tonight was for her children, for this rare moment.

A couple hours later, Benny had gone to bed and the girls were in their room doing God knows what. Claire settled deeper into the couch, the second glass of wine pooling warmth through her limbs. The silence of her home wrapped around her like an old quilt—comforting but worn thin in places where memories had rubbed against reality. She traced her finger around the rim of her glass, watching the subtle ripples distort the deep burgundy surface.

Her phone vibrated against the coffee table. Sy's name illuminated the screen, and Claire felt a small flutter of relief. A friendly voice was exactly what she needed tonight.

"Perfect timing," Claire answered, tucking her feet beneath her. "I was just thinking about calling you."

"Psychic connection," Sy laughed, her voice carrying a warmth that relaxed her more than the wine. "How's your team of misfits?"

"Complicated," Claire said, taking another sip. "New case that's... disturbing. Bureau politics as usual."

“Fitz declare his love for you lately?”

Claire scoffed. “Not since the first time. How about you? How's pregnancy treating you?"

"I've forgotten what wine tastes like," Sy sighed dramatically. "Otherwise, not bad. The little parasite is draining my energy but my hair has never looked better."

Claire smiled, memories of her own pregnancies surfacing—the strange mixture of exhaustion and vitality, of feeling simultaneously powerful and vulnerable. "I've almost forgotten what it was like. Feels like a lifetime ago."

"Trust me, your body remembers," Sy said. Her tone shifted. "Hey—any word on Diego Vega?"

Claire let out a slow breath. She set the glass down, watching the last trace of wine cling to the sides. "Nothing. We just had one brief conversation. He said he wanted to meet properly, that he had something important, but then..." She shook her head. "The car bomb took care of that."

Sy's voice lowered. "Before that happened, he told me there was more to the case than anyone realized. More to what happened..."

Claire frowned, her eyes on the rain threading down the window. "But what kind of 'more'? That's the thing. What could be so dangerous that just hinting at it gets you blown to pieces?"

"That's what I've been turning over in my mind," Sy said. "I mean... this wasn’t some minor procedural error, Claire. People don't die like that over paperwork."

Claire’s thoughts drifted to the headlines from her childhood—the mass suicide, nearly an entire community gone overnight. Her parents among them. "Maybe it was never just a cult," she said slowly. "Maybe there was something bigger, something under the surface."

"Like what?" Sy pressed. "Government experiment? Secret military project? Some classified operation they were caught in the middle of?"

Claire rubbed her temple. "I don’t know. Every theory feels like reaching, but something about it—something about the way it all got buried so fast—feels wrong."

Sy was quiet for a beat. Then, carefully, "Do you think they were silenced? All of them?"

"I think," Claire said, her voice tight, "that Diego Vega found a thread someone didn’t want him to pull."

"And you were next on his list to talk to," Sy added.

Claire exhaled, the weight of it catching her off guard. "Yeah," she said quietly. "I was."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain continued its steady tapping, the house creaking softly in the wind.

"Maybe it’s not just about what happened back then," Sy finally said. "Maybe it’s about what’s still happening."

Claire let that settle in her chest—not like fog, not like a weight, but something sharper. A splinter beneath the skin, too deep to pull free.

A yawn caught her off guard. She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I’ve got a long day tomorrow," she said, her voice rough with fatigue. "I should try to get some sleep."

"Yeah," Sy agreed softly. "We’ll keep talking about it. Be careful, Claire."

Claire ended the call and let the phone slide from her fingers to the cushion beside her. She stayed on the couch, watching the reflections of the rain slide down the window, lines of water that seemed to erase her face bit by bit.

Tomorrow, she would chase a killer. Tonight, she let the unanswered questions remain, for now.

8

The Boiler Room's electronic hum filled the air like white noise in an abandoned recording studio. Fitz tapped his knuckles against the edge of the desk, caught in the space between working and waiting. It was 9:00 p.m., and the task force office had emptied hours ago, leaving just him and Violet to sift through digital debris for scraps of meaning.

"So," Fitz said, breaking the silence. "Whatever actually did happen between you and Jack?"

Violet didn't look up from her screens where data streamed in constant rivers. "Nothing happened."

"Come now," Fitz persisted. "There was clearly something."

"There really wasn't." Violet's voice remained clinical. She tapped a key with more force than necessary, bringing up a new search window. "Just a weird vibe for a while. Chemistry without application."

Fitz studied her as she worked, noting how she kept her focus divided between their conversation and three different search algorithms running simultaneously. One scanned criminal databases, another crawled through social media posts, while a third sifted newspaper archives.

"Funny thing about relationships," he mused. "Opposites so often attract. The rigid soldier and the theatrical chameleon. Jack and Kiko make a peculiar sort of sense, don't they?"

Violet's typing paused for a fraction of a second. "I suppose they do."

Fitz wasn’t only thinking of his colleagues. Rarely did a day go by without the thought crossing his mind that he and Claire fit that bill as well.

"By that logic," Violet continued, her voice taking on an edge of sarcasm, "what kind of guy should I be looking for? Don't say an overweight British guy who's twenty years older than me and likes to hear himself talk."

Fitz clutched his chest in mock offense. "You wound me, Violet. Truly."

She finally looked up, a smile at the corner of her mouth. "Your ego will recover."

Her attention shifted back to the center screen where fragments of data coalesced into patterns. Fitz took another sip of cold coffee, grimacing at the taste.

"I sometimes wish I had a bigger role on the team," Violet said suddenly, her voice quieter than usual. "Not just the tech support. Not just the gadget girl."

Fitz was caught off guard by the confession.

"I was always the lazy slacker screw-up as a kid," she continued. "But I fantasized about being the superhero, you know? I wanted to be James Bond, not the dude who gives James Bond gadgets and runs his computers."

Fitz chuckled, but there was warmth in it, not mockery. "Q was always more interesting than Bond, if you ask me."

"You would say that."

"Your role is indispensable," Fitz said, leaning forward. "Claire can manage, Jack can shoot, Kiko can play-act, and I can pontificate, but none of us can do what you do." He gestured at the array of screens. "You're a digital savant in a world where most crimes leave electronic breadcrumbs."

Violet gave a noncommittal grunt. On the leftmost screen, a red notification flashed—one of her search algorithms had found something.

"Hit," she said, straightening in her chair. "That first victim—Mei-Lin Chang—the one we think might have been the Hemlock Killer's first? I've been cross-referencing her activities in the weeks before her death."

Fitz moved to stand behind her, studying the screen. "What did you find?"

"She attended a lecture at UW," Violet said as she pulled up additional information. "Given by a Dr. Leonard Sutter." She clicked through several windows. "Former neuroscientist. Lost his university funding and academic standing due to 'unethical research practices'—specifically, experiments related to near-death experiences."

Fitz leaned closer. "What kind of experiments?"

"That's where it gets murky," Violet replied, scrolling through a sparse academic profile. "Most of his work has been scrubbed from official databases. But there are references to 'consciousness mapping during terminal phases' and something called 'transition state monitoring.'"

"Transition states," Fitz murmured, his mind already connecting disparate points. "The moment between life and death."

"You think that means something?" Violet asked, glancing up at him.

Fitz began to pace, the cramped space of the Boiler Room suddenly insufficient for the expansion of his thoughts. He couldn’t define it, but he knew they were on to something. "Perhaps. Our victims are arranged to face the dawn. Hemlock—the poison of philosophers, specifically Socrates. And now a disgraced scientist studying the threshold between life and death." He stopped pacing. "There's something here."

"Should I keep digging into Sutter?"

"Absolutely," Fitz said. "Find out where he is now, what he's doing. And check if Julia Marek ever attended any of his lectures or had any connection to him."

Violet nodded, already typing new search parameters. "On it."

Fitz returned to his chair, pulling his coin out of his pocket but not playing with it. He held it still between his fingers, his gaze unfocused as he absorbed this new information.

Whether this connection to Dr. Leonard Sutter proved substantial or merely coincidental, Claire deserved to hear about it. “It’s getting late,” he said, “but can you put this all together so we can show Claire first thing tomorrow?”

9

The house of Julia Marek's parents sat nestled in the Green Lake neighborhood—a modest two-story with blue siding and a neat front yard, unremarkable except for the media vans clustered like vultures along the curb.

Claire parked her government-issue sedan behind an unmarked police cruiser and surveyed the scene. Jack and Kiko were already there, standing near the edge of the property in what appeared to be an intense conversation.

Claire needed to address whatever was brewing between those two, but that particular HR challenge would have to wait. As she stepped from her car, a man in his thirties with three-day stubble and a vintage flannel shirt hurried toward her, his phone already raised to capture her approach. A press badge hung around his neck, though it looked more like a concert laminate than proper media credentials. She thought she recognized him, but from where?

"Agent Anderson? Colt Redding." He extended his hand. "You're heading the Hemlock Killer investigation, right?"

Claire didn't take his hand. The title struck her as absurd—a hodgepodge of buzzwords masquerading as journalism. But now she knew why she recognized him. He was from the TikTok she’d watched the night before. "No comment."

"Come on," he persisted, falling into step beside her. "People have a right to know what's happening. Your team found evidence the killer staged Julia's body to face the dawn—an elaborate ritual with hemlock. A symbolic killing."

Claire stopped walking. The precise details he'd just rattled off had been discussed only in the Boiler Room. She studied him—earnest eyes beneath a furrowed brow, the slight hunching of his shoulders as though perpetually braced for rejection.

"I don't suppose you'd tell me where you got that information?" Claire kept her voice level.

Redding laughed, the sound sharp in the quiet neighborhood. "Sources are protected. It's part of the job."

"Part of the job," Claire repeated, her tone flattening. "And what job is that, exactly? Compromising active investigations for clicks?"

"Keeping the public informed," he countered. "Keeping pressure on law enforcement to solve cases. And ‘clicks’ are from like 2010. Now we do it for ‘views.’"

"Pressure." Claire let the word hang between them. "Mr. Redding, I've been solving homicides since you were in college. I don't need social media pressure to do my job."

"With all due respect, Agent Anderson, everybody needs pressure," Redding said. "Serial killings get attention for a week, maybe two, then fade from public interest. My platform keeps them front and center."

From the corner of her eye, Claire spotted Jack and Kiko approaching. Jack's posture had stiffened, his shoulders squared as he recognized who she was speaking with. Kiko moved a half-step behind him, her expression carefully neutral, though Claire caught the wariness in her eyes.

"Problem?" Jack asked, his eyes hardening as he stared at Redding.

"Agent Russo," Redding nodded, unfazed. "Just discussing the public's right to information."

"You mean your right to interfere with our case," Jack said.

Kiko stepped forward. "Your video compromised sensitive details. That doesn't help the victim or her family."

"Doesn't it?" Redding's voice took on a new edge.

Claire noticed a subtle shift in his stance—he was recording them. His phone, half concealed by his sleeve, was capturing everything.

"You want to talk about justice?" Redding continued, his voice rising with passion and performance. "You think the system works if you just sit back and let the Bureau handle it? Let me tell you something. When my sister disappeared—when that sick bastard nabbed her off her bike—the cops filed it away in a drawer. Runaway, they said. She wasn't. We were out there alone, fighting for her life, and do you know who saved her? Not the detectives, not the task force. The people. The media. The ones who didn't let her name disappear."

Claire watched him carefully, noting the genuine emotion beneath the practiced delivery.

"If my parents hadn't turned our house into a goddamn war room, if the press hadn't run her picture every night, she'd be bones in the woods. Bones. In. The. Woods." He let that hang there. "But someone out there saw those reports, heard the coverage, and finally spoke up. That's how she was found. Not because of secrecy. Because of exposure."

His eyes darted between them, capturing their reactions, cataloging them for his audience.

"So yeah, I leak things. Not to ruin your investigation, not to make a mess—to make sure no one forgets. To make sure the next Lena Redding doesn't rot in some torture basement while the cops and the FBI shuffle paperwork and wait for the right moment to act. Information saves lives. That's what I do. And I won't apologize for it."

Jack stepped forward, the distance between them collapsing to inches. "So we look like we're shuffling paperwork?"

Claire put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back, but Jack shook himself free.

"Take a look at our record," Jack continued. "You're an influencer who's high on his own supply."

Redding's eyes gleamed—partly with anger, partly with the thrill of capturing confrontation. Content, Claire realized. This wasn't just passion; it was performance. Their anger, their frustration—it would be edited, packaged, and served to millions by nightfall.

"We need to go," Claire said firmly, making a decision. "We have a family waiting for us, one whose grief doesn't need to be a backdrop for your social media presence."

Redding opened his mouth to reply, but Claire was already walking away, Jack and Kiko falling in beside her as she headed up the narrow concrete path that bisected the lawn.

"Did he just record all of that?" Kiko asked under her breath.

"Every word," Claire replied, mounting the steps to the porch. She paused at the door, glancing back at Redding, who now stood at the edge of the property, still filming. "And he's going to use it."

The doorbell chimed with a gentle, ordinary sound. The crime scene photos of Julia Marek moved to the front of her mind and Claire knew that, behind this door was a home where nothing would ever be ordinary again.

10

The Marek living room encapsulated modest middle-class comfort—a beige sectional sofa slightly indented from years of use, framed school photos arranged on a wooden console, throw pillows that matched the pale green curtains. Claire absorbed the details as Kelly and Robert Marek welcomed them inside, their matching silver-flecked brown hair and similar heights giving them the appearance of a couple who had grown to resemble each other through decades of marriage.

A young man—mid-twenties, wearing a faded university sweatshirt—sat hunched in an armchair, staring at his phone with hollow eyes. Photos of Julia lined the mantel: Julia in volleyball uniform, Julia at some award ceremony, Julia laughing with the young man. The visual timeline of a life cut short.

"Thank you for coming," Kelly Marek said, her voice brittle, as though it might shatter at any moment. "We've been... we keep hoping..."

"OH GOD, OH GOD, NOT AGAIN!"

The scream—perfectly human in pitch and terror—erupted from a corner of the room. Claire's hand instinctively moved toward her weapon before she registered the source: an African Grey parrot perched in an elaborate cage near the window. The bird tilted its head, black eyes gleaming with unsettling intelligence.

Kelly Marek didn't continue. She simply stood there, fingers pressed against her lips, eyes darting between the agents and the floor as if uncertain where to land. The silence expanded, awkward and heavy.

"Mrs. Marek," Claire began gently, "I'm Agent Anderson. This is Agent Russo and Agent Greene. We want you to know we're pursuing every possible lead in your daughter's case."

"Mom! Stop! You're embarrassing me!" The parrot's voice shifted to a perfect teenage girl's inflection.

Kelly Marek's face crumpled, the façade of composure dissolving. She turned away, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Robert moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her, his own eyes red-rimmed and haunted.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "The bird... it was Julia's. She taught it everything." He guided his wife to the couch, where she sank down, pressing a tissue to her face. "Our son has been trying to help with the investigation."

The young man looked up, his face a mask of exhaustion. "I'm Oliver," he said flatly. "Julia's brother."

Claire nodded. “Can you tell us anything about changes in her behavior in the last, well, six months or so?”

"She'd been really interested in neuroscience lately," Robert said, his words coming in uneven bursts. "Philosophy too. Not normal teenage stuff. She was always reading something, asking big questions about consciousness, about... existence. She'd spend hours on these online forums."

"You're all going to die someday!" the parrot announced cheerfully.

Oliver looked embarrassed. “She taught the parrot all those phrases as a joke. She wasn’t actually a dark person.”

Claire maintained her focus on Robert, whose hands trembled as he reached for a photo of Julia on the coffee table. "Did your daughter ever mention meeting anyone specific through these forums? Someone who shared her interests?"

Robert hesitated. "There was someone," Robert finally managed. "No name, but a few weeks ago she talked about meeting someone online who had these 'profound insights' about death." His voice broke. "I should have paid more attention. I just thought... she was so bright, but still just a kid playing with ideas. She loved volleyball and baking cookies. Then suddenly she's talking about consciousness after death."

Kelly lifted her head. "We didn't understand what she was getting into," she whispered. "We thought it was just... a phase."

"Did she ever meet this person in real life?" Kiko asked softly.

Kelly shook her head, the movement almost violent. "We don't think so. Oh God—" She pressed her fist against her mouth. "She seemed... different. More withdrawn. She kept mentioning these ideas about what happens when you die, about some research she'd read."

"It wasn't me! I swear!" The parrot's laughter cut through the room like breaking glass.

Jack cleared his throat loudly, shifting in his seat.

"Could we see her computer?" Claire asked.

Oliver stood and retrieved a laptop from a side table. "I've already checked it," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Most of her online activity was wiped right before..." He didn't finish the sentence. "But I restored what I could. I work in IT."

He powered on the laptop before passing it to Claire. "Her browser history, saved passwords, everything I could recover is there. She was active on these philosophy forums, but there were also these weird encrypted messages from a user who disappeared right after she..."

Claire opened the browser history, scanning through links to volleyball stats, cookie recipes, college application prep sites, interspersed with forums on consciousness studies and neuroscience. The juxtaposition of the ordinary and the esoteric painted a portrait of a young woman poised between adolescence and intellectual awakening.

"Here," Robert pointed at the screen. "This was the last exchange she had on the forum."

Claire read the thread:

QuantumMind: The boundary between life and death isn't a line but a state—one that can be studied, mapped, perhaps even traversed. What if consciousness persists? What if it transforms?

Jules16: But how would anyone know for sure?

QuantumMind: There are ways to glimpse beyond. The moment of transition holds answers. We should discuss this further, privately.

The conversation continued in private messages, culminating in a final cryptic message:

QuantumMind: The moment between the last thought and no thought—that's where truth resides. Would you like to see?

"MOM! DAD! HELP ME!" The parrot's sudden, childlike shriek shattered the room's quiet tension. Claire startled, her heart racing at the genuine terror in the voice.

Robert pressed his eyes closed. "Julia taught it that when she was ten," he said, voice breaking. "The damn bird won't let it go."

Claire steadied herself, focusing back on the screen. "This user, QuantumMind—did Julia ever mention who they might be?"

"No," Kelly said, tears streaming unchecked down her face. "But she was excited about the conversations. Said this person understood things about death and consciousness that nobody else did." She clutched her husband's hand, knuckles white. “We didn’t think she was going to actually go see anyone in real life.”

“Everyone knows,” Oliver added, “you don’t meet randoms from the internet in real life.”

"We should have known,” Robert said. “We should have checked."

Claire scrolled through more of Julia's online activity, noting participation in several scientific forums where discussions of near-death experiences and consciousness took place. "Obviously we will look into this QuantumMind person in more detail. Did Julia have any falling out with friends recently? Any conflicts that seemed significant?"

The Mareks exchanged a look loaded with unspoken meaning.

"There was Hannah," Kelly said quietly.

Claire looked up from the laptop. "Tell us about Hannah."

11

"So, are field investigations living up to the James Bond fantasy?" Fitz asked, keeping pace with Violet as they crossed the sun-dappled quad of the University of Washington campus.

Violet squinted against the light, her purple hair catching the midday sun as she stepped carefully across the grass. "Honestly? It beats staring at screens all day. Though I'm not sure Q ever had to 'touch grass.'"

"Touch grass?" Fitz repeated, puzzled.

"Online joke. When someone's been gaming or doomscrolling too long, you tell them to 'touch grass'—basically, go outside, rejoin reality." Violet held up her palm, displaying blades of grass stuck to her skin. "Mission accomplished."

They approached the Psychology Department—a red brick building with modernist touches that seemed to bridge the university's historic past and its cutting-edge present. Inside, the air cooled instantly, carrying the faint scent of coffee and floor polish that reminded Fitz of a dozen other academic spaces he’d been in.

The hallways were lined with research posters, bulletin boards plastered with study sign-up sheets, and faculty doors adorned with cartoons about the human mind. Fitz noted the absence of any references to Dr. Leonard Sutter—no name on office doors, no published papers proudly displayed.

Violet checked her phone. "Department Chair's office should be at the end of the hall."

Dr. Cynthia Roma's office door stood open, revealing a space that was both meticulously organized and somehow lived-in. Books lined the walls, interspersed with framed diplomas and photos of research teams through the years. Dr. Roma herself sat behind her desk, a woman in her fifties with prematurely white hair cut in a sharp bob that framed an angular face.

She looked up as they knocked, her expression shifting from annoyance at the interruption to professional curiosity. "Can I help you?"

Fitz held up his credentials. "Fitz Pembroke, FBI. This is Violet Wei, our technical analyst. We'd like to ask you about a former faculty member—Dr. Leonard Sutter."

Something flickered across Roma's face—recognition, then wariness. She gestured to the chairs across from her desk. "Close the door, would you?"

Fitz complied, then settled into one of the offered chairs. Roma folded her hands on the desk, assessing them both before speaking.

"Dr. Sutter was before my time," she said carefully. "I've been department chair for only four years. But of course, I know the name. Academic departments are like small towns—our scandals become folklore."

"What exactly was the scandal?" Violet asked.

Roma's fingers drummed against her desk. Not nervously, Fitz thought. But the woman wasn’t exactly relaxed, either. "Officially? An internal ethics investigation that resulted in the termination of his research program. No criminal charges were filed, no formal disciplinary action taken by the university. He resigned voluntarily, and the matter was... contained."

"Contained," Fitz repeated. "That's an interesting word choice."

"It's the appropriate one." Roma reached for a glass of water beside her computer. "Academia has its own way of handling problems. Quiet retirement announcements, vague references to 'pursuing other opportunities.' Sutter's work was... complex. Controversial."

"Near-death experiences," Violet prompted.

Roma nodded. "Initially, yes. The study of consciousness during the transition state—as he called it. What happens to awareness as the brain begins to shut down. It started as legitimate neuroscience, funded through a grant from a private foundation. But there were whispers that he'd partnered with a classified experimental program, one that pushed ethical boundaries."

"What kind of boundaries?" Fitz asked.

Roma's expression tightened. "I can't speak to specifics. Those records would be sealed, if they exist at all. What I do know is that the research was terminated after complaints from graduate students who worked in his lab."

"Do you have names for these students?" Fitz asked.

"Most have moved on. Academic careers elsewhere. Some left the field entirely." Roma hesitated. "There were other issues as well. Sutter had a... particular interest in certain graduate students. Not illegal, but certainly inappropriate."

"Did he have a list of favorite students? People he spent more time with?" Violet asked.

"You'd have to ask those who worked with him directly. I believe Dr. Kellerman in Neuroscience was a colleague. She might know more." Roma glanced at her watch. "Listen, I'm late for a faculty meeting. Is there anything else?"

"We need to find Sutter," Fitz said. "Current address, contact information."

Roma frowned. "Can't you just... look him up? Google him?"

"We've tried that approach," Violet said. "He has no digital footprint—no property records, no DMV registration, no social media, not even academic citations in the past five years. It's like he disappeared."

"That's... unusual," Roma admitted. "When faculty leave, even under circumstances like his, they typically maintain some professional presence."

She tapped at her keyboard, then shook her head. "I don't have a forwarding address. His university email would have been deactivated years ago." She paused, thinking. "There might be something, though. When he left, he abandoned most of his office belongings. Standard procedure is to box them up and hold them in storage, then dispose of them if unclaimed after a few years. But I remember seeing a few books from his collection in our department library. Professional courtesy—we kept the academic texts."

"Do you know which ones?" Fitz asked.

Roma stood, indicating the meeting she needed to attend. "I can show you quickly. They're in the special collections section—not regularly circulated."

She led them down the corridor to a small, climate-controlled room with glassfronted bookcases. Using a key from her ring, she unlocked one cabinet and scanned the shelves. "Here," she said, pointing to a shelf with three volumes. "These were his. You're welcome to examine them, but they can't leave the room."

Fitz noted the titles:

On the Edge of Being: Death, the Soul, and the Afterlife in Greek Thought

The Dying Brain: Consciousness and the Science of the Final Moments

The Psychology of the Dying Mind

"Cheerful reading," Violet murmured.

Roma checked her watch again. "I really must go. Lock up when you're done, and leave the key with my assistant."

After she left, Violet pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves from her pocket and carefully removed the first book from the shelf. "What kind of person reads these books?"

"The same kind who might be interested in watching someone die," Fitz said grimly. "And I've read this one, actually," he said, holding up The Dying Brain. "It's not as fringe as the title suggests. There's legitimate neuroscience in here, mixed with some more speculative theories."

Violet raised an eyebrow. "You read books about death and consciousness in your spare time?"

"Don't judge. Some of us have intellectual curiosity beyond video games and Marvel movies." He flipped carefully through a few pages, then handed it to Violet. "Look for marginalia—notes, underlines, anything personal."

Next he examined On the Edge of Being, noting extensive annotations in the margins— precise, angular handwriting that dissected philosophical arguments with clinical precision. "Sutter was thorough in his reading," he observed. "And particularly interested in Socrates' death by hemlock."

Violet glanced up sharply. "Like our victim."

"Exactly like our victim," Fitz confirmed. "Listen to this notation: 'Hemlock produces a unique transition state—consciousness remains while the body fails systematically from the extremities inward.'" He turned the page. "And here: 'The ideal study would monitor neural activity during hemlock poisoning to map the precise pathway of consciousness as it detaches from physical sensation.'"

"That's..." Violet hesitated.

"Disturbing," Fitz finished. "And potentially damning."

He carefully placed the book on the table and took out his phone to document the annotations. "Sutter is looking more and more like our primary suspect. The question is, how do we find him?"

Violet's fingers hovered over the third book, The Psychology of the Dying Mind. As she opened it, a slip of paper fluttered out—a receipt, yellowed with age. She picked it up carefully.

"Luna Coffee House," she read. "Dated five years ago—around when Sutter would have been leaving the university."

Fitz leaned in to examine it. "Could be nothing. Could be something. At minimum, it's a location associated with him."

"Should I call Claire?" Violet asked.

Fitz nodded, his expression grim. "Tell her we've found Sutter's literary tastes to be more than just a curiosity. And that our best lead is a coffee shop receipt from five years back."

"Not exactly the breakthrough we were hoping for," Violet muttered.

Fitz's gaze narrowed. "Maybe not. But small things leave deep shadows. Let’s see what’s hiding behind this one."

Violet dialed Claire. “Hey boss, yeah. We have quite a bit of new info you’re going to want to hear.”

12

The University of Washington's Health Sciences Building loomed ahead, its modern glass façade reflecting the pale morning light. Claire led Jack and Kiko across the red-bricked plaza where students hurried past with coffee cups and tense expressions, their conversations a blur of medical terminology and academic anxiety.

During the drive from the Mareks' home, Claire had heard from Violet about a former professor named Leonard Sutter and had agreed that he looked like a promising suspect. But she’d also absorbed what they'd learned about Hannah Weaver from the grieving parents and Violet's rapid-fire research. Hannah—twenty-two, first-year medical student, and once Julia's closest friend—had been more than just a peer. According to Kelly Marek, Hannah had been a mentor figure, guiding Julia's intellectual pursuits with an almost possessive intensity.

"I pulled up Hannah's social media," Jack said, checking his phone as they approached the building. "Instagram post from last night says 'Dreading Levin's 11 AM neuroanatomy exam. If anyone sees me passed out in the med library tomorrow, just leave me there.'"

The relationship between Hannah and Julia had fractured in the months before Julia's death. What had begun as intellectual camaraderie had curdled into something contentious when Julia's interests veered into fringe theories about consciousness and near-death experiences—interests Hannah had apparently dismissed as unscientific and dangerous.

Their last interaction, according to what Oliver had reluctantly shared, was an argument so bitter that Julia had come home in tears, refusing to discuss what was said. Since Julia’s death, no one in the family had heard a word from Hannah.

"There," Kiko said quietly, nodding toward a young woman approaching the building's entrance.

Hannah Weaver moved with the brittle precision of someone holding themselves together through willpower, caffeine and, perhaps, Claire thought, pharmacology. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun, strands escaping at odd angles. She wore a wrinkled white lab coat over jeans, heavy textbooks weighing down her backpack. Even from a distance, Claire noted the faint tremor in her hands as she fumbled with her student ID.

Claire intercepted her before she reached the door. "Hannah Weaver? I'm Special Agent Claire Anderson with the FBI. Could we speak with you for a moment?"

Hannah's reaction was immediate—a tightening around her eyes, a quick darting glance at her watch, then to the doors, as if calculating an escape route. "I have an exam in twenty minutes," she said, her voice carrying a controlled flatness that didn't match the panic in her eyes. "I can't miss it."

"This won't take long," Claire said, already noting the slight dilation of Hannah's pupils, the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot. "It's about Julia Marek."

Hannah's face drained of color. "Julia," she repeated, as if testing the shape of the name in her mouth. "I heard what happened. It's been... I haven't been sleeping well since." The grief in her voice seemed genuine, but something in her expression didn't align—a dissonance Claire couldn't quite place.

Students brushed past them, casting curious glances.

Hannah stepped back, gesturing toward a side hallway. "Not here," she muttered.

They followed her to a quieter corridor lined with glass-walled laboratories. Hannah positioned herself against the wall, her back to a fire extinguisher cabinet, arms crossed defensively.

"When was the last time you saw Julia?" Claire asked.

"Three weeks before she—" Hannah stopped herself. "Before it happened. We had coffee. It wasn't a big deal."

"That's not what her parents say," Jack said, his tone harder than Claire's, playing the role of pressure to her patience. "They say you two had a falling out. A serious one."

Hannah's fingers tapped against her arm, a rapid, irregular rhythm. "We disagreed about some things. It happens."

"What things?" Claire pressed.

"Academic stuff. Nothing important."

"Nothing important enough to end a four-year friendship?" Kiko asked.

Hannah's eyes darted to her bag, then back to Claire. "Look, Julia got obsessed with some pseudo-scientific garbage about consciousness and near-death experiences. I told her she was wasting her potential. That's it."

"Did she mention someone she was talking to online about these topics?" Claire asked, watching Hannah's reactions carefully.

A flash of something—recognition, fear?—crossed Hannah's face. "She was on those forums all the time. Talking to people who filled her head with—" She stopped, taking a breath. "I don't know who specifically. She didn't share names."

"Her parents mentioned a particular person," Claire said, testing. "Someone who seemed to have a strong influence on her thinking."

Hannah's lips pressed into a bloodless line. "She called him her 'mentor.' Said he understood things about consciousness that regular science was too afraid to explore. It was cult-like, the way she talked about him."

“You said ‘him,’” Claire said. “You know it was a man?”

Hannah shrugged. “Just assumed. Arrogant bastard academics online usually are.”

"Did she ever mention Dr. Leonard Sutter?" Claire asked.

Hannah's reaction was instant, sharp. "How do you know about Sutter?"

"So you're familiar with him," Claire said, filing away the confirmation.

Hannah's hand moved to her jacket pocket, fingers pressing against something inside. "Everyone in neuroscience knows about Sutter. He was brilliant before he went off the deep end with his death experiments." Her voice carried a bitter edge. "Julia was fascinated by his work. Thought he was misunderstood."

"Did she attend his lectures?" Jack asked.

"I mean, she was in like middle school when he was still a prof here, but she watched his videos and stuff.” Hannah's eyes darted to her watch. "Is this relevant? Because Julia getting caught up in Sutter's pseudoscience had nothing to do with—" She stopped.

"With what happened to her?" Claire finished.

Hannah looked away. "I told her those ideas were dangerous. That Sutter was dangerous. She wouldn't listen."

"We'll need to see your phone," Jack said, not a request.

Hannah's posture shifted, defiance replacing anxiety. "No. I have privacy rights."

"Not when it comes to a murder investigation," Jack countered.

"I don't have it anymore," Hannah said too quickly. "I lost it. Got a new one last week."

"Convenient," Jack said.

Claire stepped closer to Hannah, whose shallow breathing and slightly unfocused gaze suggested more than just exam anxiety. "Hannah, if there's something you're not telling us⁠—"

"I didn't kill her!" The words burst out, loud enough to draw stares from passing students. Hannah's hand was now visibly shaking, and she shoved it into her pocket. "I didn't—I wouldn't—" She was blinking rapidly now. "I tried to protect her. I warned her."

"About Sutter?" Claire asked.

"About all of it." Hannah's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "The experiments, the 'transition state' studies. She kept saying she wanted to 'see beyond the veil.' I told her it was dangerous, but she said I was just afraid of what I couldn't understand."

Students filed past, a steady stream heading toward lecture halls. Hannah checked her watch again, anxiety tightening her features. "I need to go."

"We're not finished," Jack said.

Hannah's control slipped further. "I have to take this exam. I have to—" She reached into her pocket, and Claire caught a glimpse of an orange prescription bottle before Hannah concealed it again.

"Hannah," Claire said, her voice gentler now, "were you with Julia the night she disappeared?"

"No," Hannah said, but her eyes slid away from Claire's. "I was studying."

"Can anyone verify that?" Jack pressed.

Hannah hesitated a beat too long. "I was alone in my apartment."

Claire glanced at the pocket where Hannah had hidden the pill bottle. "Are those prescribed to you?"

Hannah stiffened. "I don't have to answer that."

"No," Claire agreed. "But I think you should know that withholding information in a federal investigation is a serious offense. Whatever you're hiding—whether it's about your relationship with Julia, your whereabouts that night, or what's in your pocket right now—it's only going to look worse if we find out later."

Hannah's composure fractured. "I told her not to go!" The words escaped like air from a punctured tire. "She called me that night. Said she was going to meet him—her mentor. I told her she was being stupid, reckless. We fought. Again." Tears welled in her eyes. "That's the last time I talked to her."

Claire felt the subtle shift in the air—the breakthrough moment. "Did she tell you his name? Where they were meeting?"

Hannah shook her head, wiping angrily at her eyes. "No. Just that it was 'somewhere quiet.' That he'd promised to show her what happens at the moment of death."

Students continued streaming past toward their lecture halls. Hannah looked desperately in their direction. "Please. I have to go."

Claire handed her a business card. "We'll need to continue this conversation. Today."

Hannah took the card, her fingers trembling. "Fine. After my exam." She started to turn away, then paused. "Agent Anderson? Julia was the smartest person I knew. But she believed you could experience death and come back. That there was something on 'the other side' worth seeing." Her voice cracked. "I think she went willingly. Whatever happened to her... I don’t know... it may not have been murder."

13

Claire unwrapped her turkey on rye and surveyed her team. Jack and Kiko sat across from each other, a careful distance maintained between them that only highlighted their awareness of each other. Fitz occupied his usual chair, casually tossing bits of roast beef to Ranger, who caught each morsel with precision.

"Violet," Claire said, "where are we on the North Cascadia investigation? Ley's going to want an update."

Violet's head snapped up, her eyes darting between her monitors like a shoplifter scanning for exits. "The financial thing? Right, yes." She switched between windows, closing what appeared to be research tabs and pulling up spreadsheets and data visualizations. "Just about to send you preliminary findings."

Claire noted the swift change of screens, the slight flush creeping up Violet's neck. Whatever she'd been working on, it wasn't North Cascadia Defense Solutions. "You were supposed to be running systems analysis on their accounting software," Claire said, keeping her tone neutral while fixing Violet with a look that said she wasn't fooled.

"I am. It's running." Violet gestured to one of her secondary monitors where progress bars crawled at a glacial pace. "Background processes, Claire. I can multitask."

Claire took a bite of her sandwich, letting the mild tension hang for a moment.

"Fitz, what else did you and Violet find at UW about our professor?"

Fitz dusted crumbs from his fingers before answering. "Dr. Leonard Sutter—former neuroscience professor, specializing in consciousness research with a particular interest in near-death experiences." He leaned forward, warming to the subject. "His research program was quietly shut down after an internal ethics investigation. No criminal charges, just academic exile."

"The kind of scandal that stays within academia," Claire observed.

"Precisely," Fitz agreed. "According to the Psychology Department Chair, Sutter was involved in a classified experimental program studying the transition between life and death. The specifics were vague, but ethically questionable enough to end his career."

"Any direct connection to Julia Marek?" Claire asked. “We know she watched some of his videos, and he may well have been corresponding with her online, but...”

"She was too young to have been in any of his classes,” Fitz said, “and we have no idea where he is now. But he had borrowed three rather illuminating texts. Academic works on death, consciousness, and the final moments of life. One focused heavily on Socrates and hemlock poisoning, with Sutter's personal annotations about monitoring neural activity during precisely that type of death."

Claire felt a certainty settling into her bones. "So he wasn't just theorizing. He was planning."

"Quite possibly," Fitz said. "He wrote about hemlock producing a 'unique transition state' where consciousness remains while the body systematically shuts down."

"Just like our victims," Claire said.

Fitz nodded, his expression distant. "It reminded me of that poem I mentioned earlier—the one by Jonas Keating. I looked it up last night." He closed his eyes, reciting from memory:

"beneath hemlock skies the wind forgets its name

& silence pools in the mouth of the earth

socrates drinks & the world leans back waiting for the moment between thought & no thought

breath & the last of breath

does the dark unfold like a hand, like a door— or does nothing come at all?

the body stiffens like a question half-asked the night does not answer

only the hemlocks sway

only the sky remains.

Jack snorted. "What pretentious BS. I don't even know what half of that means."

Fitz's gaze refocused, surprisingly intense. "It's about the threshold moment, Jack. The space between being and non-being." His voice softened, carrying a weight. "We all fear death, but what terrifies us most isn't the end—it's the not knowing. That millisecond when consciousness confronts its own extinction. Do we simply wink out, like a light switch? Or is there a transition, a liminal space where we're both here and not here?" He paused, absently stroking Ranger's head. "Keating lost his entire unit in World War II. He spent his life trying to understand that boundary. The poem isn't pretentious—it's desperate. A man trying to face the void with dignity."

Claire watched him as the room fell silent. He appeared visibly moved.

"Actually," Violet interrupted, breaking the moment, "the books were a better lead than we initially thought." She spun in her chair, abandoning any pretense of working on the financial case. "So here's the thing—Sutter doesn't exist in any housing records, no property ownership, no DMV address, nothing that would show up in a federal system. But he does exist in one place—library records." Violet's words picked up speed as she warmed to her discovery. "After the lady at UW mentioned the books, I ran a search on interlibrary loan databases and small regional systems. Turns out, four years ago, someone using Sutter's old faculty ID checked out the exact same book from a tiny public library in Index, Washington."

Claire straightened, sandwich forgotten. "You found him?"

"Libraries require proof of residence to issue cards," Violet continued. "So he must have given them an address—but since he probably pays cash for rent and utilities, that address never made it into any official databases. He's not off the grid, Fitz—he's just analog. And now we've got a location."

Claire felt the familiar surge of momentum that came with a solid lead. "Good work, both of you." She turned to Jack and Kiko. "What about Hannah Weaver? Any impressions?"

"She's hiding something," Jack said. "Maybe not murder, but definitely information."

"Agreed," Kiko added. "The way she reacted when we mentioned Sutter—like she was afraid of him, or maybe for Julia because of him."

Claire nodded. "We need to pursue both angles—Sutter and Hannah. Here's how we break it down." She tapped her fingers against the table, mentally assigning tasks. "Fitz, you and Violet follow up on the library lead—after Violet makes actual progress on the financial case to keep Ley off our backs." Violet groaned but nodded.

"Jack, Kiko, and I will focus on Hannah," Claire continued. "We'll pull her records, check campus surveillance, analyze her financial transactions. I want to know everything about her movements the night Julia disappeared. If there are deleted messages or calls between them, we find them."

"We're pulling on two threads," Jack observed, "seeing which one unravels the sweater."

"Pull this thread as I walk away," Fitz murmured.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"It’s a Weezer song," he explained with a shrug. "About unraveling sweaters and such. It’s a metaphor."

“For what?” Jack asked.

“Love, like damn near every other metaphor out there.”

"Sometimes I forget you're slightly younger than the dinosaurs," Violet said with a smirk.

Fitz shot her a wounded look. "I'm cultured across multiple generations, thank you very much."

Claire brought them back to focus. "Both leads are solid. Either Hannah knows more than she's telling us, or Sutter is directly involved. Possibly both. We follow every thread until we have our killer."

As the meeting broke up and the team scattered to their assignments, Claire couldn't shake the image from Keating's poem—bodies stiffening like questions half asked, waiting for answers that might never come.

She only hoped they could reach those answers before another victim was silenced.

PART II

THE ETERNAL QUESTION

14

Sunset painted the sky in brushstrokes of amber and pink as Fitz navigated the winding road into Index. The small mountain town nestled in the foothills of the Cascades, barely a dot on the map, felt worlds away from Seattle despite being just over an hour's drive. Shadows lengthened across the forested landscape as their government issue sedan crawled past weathered buildings that seemed to have grown organically from the rocky terrain.

"It's like stepping into another decade," Fitz remarked, turning onto a narrow side street. "Even the air feels different."

Violet peered at her phone's GPS. "Should be just up ahead. On the right."

The house that allegedly belonged to Dr. Leonard Sutter sat back from the road, partially obscured by cedars. It wasn't what Fitz had expected—neither dilapidated nor impressive, but rather unremarkable. A single-story cedar cabin with a covered porch and metal roof, the structure might have been picturesque if not for the utilitarian additions: a satellite dish mounted awkwardly on one corner, mismatched window frames suggesting hasty repairs, and a concrete slab extension that served as a carport. No vehicle occupied the space.

"Do professors typically retire to remote mountain cabins?" Violet asked, closing the car door with a soft thud.

"Only the ones with something to hide," Fitz replied.

As they approached the front door, Fitz noticed Violet's appearance for the first time since they'd left Seattle. Gone was her usual baggy tech-company sweatshirt, replaced by a tailored blazer over a plain blouse. Her hair, lately a chaotic purple explosion, had been tamed into a sleek ponytail.

"You look positively professional," Fitz observed.

Violet smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve. "Just in case I need to pull a Kiko. Pretend to be a fawning grad student or whatever."

"Something other than FBI tech support?"

"Options are always good." She shrugged. "Plus, I was due for a laundry day."

Fitz knocked on the weathered door, listening for movement inside. Silence answered him. He tried again, louder, then stepped back to peer through a window.

"No lights, no movement," he said after a moment. "And no car in the carport."

Violet circled to the side of the house. "Windows are covered. Can't see anything."

"Our professor is either very private or very absent," Fitz said, rejoining her. "Given our luck, I'm betting on the latter."

"Now what?" Violet asked, glancing at her watch. "It's getting late."

Fitz's stomach answered with an audible rumble. "When in doubt, follow the food."

"The food?"

"Small towns often have one gathering spot," Fitz explained. "Usually a diner. If we want information about our elusive professor, that's where we'll find it."

The Mountain View Diner occupied the ground floor of a two-story building at Index's main crossroads. Its large windows glowed with warm light, illuminating a handful of occupied tables inside. A neon "OPEN" sign buzzed fitfully in the gathering dusk.

Inside, the diner embraced its Pacific Northwest identity with zealous commitment.

Mounted fish competed with vintage logging equipment for wall space. Laminated placemats featured maps of local hiking trails. The air smelled of coffee, bacon, and something Fitz could only identify as earthy.

"Welcome to the View." A middle-aged waitress greeted them from behind the counter. "Sit anywhere you like. We specialize in breakfast. Breakfast for breakfast, breakfast for lunch, breakfast for dinner."

“Any sandwiches?” Violet asked.

The woman looked slightly put out. “We can put some eggs and bacon between two pancakes if you like.”

Fitz chose a booth with a clear view of both the entrance and the counter, where two men hunched over plates of pancakes and eggs. Apparently she wasn’t kidding about ‘breakfast for dinner.’ The older man wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms mapped with age spots and scars. His companion, younger but still weathered, nursed a mug of coffee while stabbing at his hash browns.

"Coffee?" the waitress asked, appearing at their table with menus.

"Please," Fitz and Violet answered in unison.

"You folks just passing through?" The waitress filled their mugs.

"Looking for someone, actually," Fitz said casually. "Dr. Sutter. Leonard Sutter. Any chance you know him?"

The waitress's expression revealed nothing. "Can't say I'm familiar. Specials are on the board. I'll give you a minute."

As she walked away, Fitz caught Violet's skeptical look. "She's lying," he whispered. "Her eye contact shifted when I mentioned his name."

"So what's the play? Press her? Ask around?"

"Patience," Fitz counseled. "People talk naturally. We listen."

They ordered—waffles for Violet, the "Lumberjack Special" for Fitz—and settled into a comfortable silence punctuated by the clink of silverware and murmured conversations around them. Fitz kept his attention on the two men at the counter, whose voices occasionally carried across the half-empty diner.

"—still don't see why it matters," the younger man was saying. "Dead is dead."

The older man shook his head. "That's the point you're missing, Chris. It's not about after you're dead. It's about that moment, that fraction of a second when you're both here and not here."

Fitz's hand froze, coffee mug halfway to his lips.

"The eternal question," the older man continued, his voice carrying a peculiar intensity. "What happens in the precise moment consciousness ceases? Is there awareness of its own ending? Or does perception simply stop, like turning off a light?"

Fitz set down his mug carefully, every sense suddenly alert. The man's phrasing, the specific philosophical inquiry.

"Doc, you've been hanging out in those mountains too long," the younger man— Chris—replied with a laugh. "Next you'll be telling me you've figured out how to catch that moment in a bottle."

The older man's response was too quiet to hear, but his profile as he turned toward his companion was suddenly, starkly familiar to Fitz. The high forehead, the distinctive nose, the way he gestured with precise, controlled movements.

Fitz caught Violet's eye across the table and mouthed a single word: "Sutter."

Violet had already noticed as well. As the conversation continued, she took out her phone and casually began recording the audio in the diner.

15

"So what's going on with you and Kiko?" Claire asked, breaking the silence that had settled in the surveillance van.

Jack's shoulders tensed visibly. "Nothing's going on."

"You've been acting weird around each other for days."

"Can we not do this right now?" Jack shifted in his seat, gaze fixed firmly on the apartment building across the street.

Claire followed his line of sight to Hannah Weaver's building—a forgettable four story brick structure with weathered trim and a small, neglected courtyard. A couple of windows glowed with warm light, but most remained dark, including Hannah's third floor corner unit.

The evening air had turned unseasonably cold, making the van's interior feel almost cozy by comparison. Claire blew across the top of her coffee, watching steam spiral upward before disappearing. In the driver's seat, Butch Winters—a Bureau surveillance specialist who'd been with the Seattle office for fifteen years—quietly sipped from his thermos, pretending not to hear their conversation.

"You two arrived together at Julia Marek's house," Claire said, keeping her voice low. "You’ve been conspicuously avoiding eye contact at meetings."

"We're not involved again," Jack said firmly. "Not like that."

"Jack, you're lying to my face."

He exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the window. "I apologize, but can we do this another time? Preferably when we're not sitting in a surveillance van with an audience."

Butch suddenly became very interested in adjusting the radio, though the police scanner continued its steady stream of static and routine calls.

Claire leaned back in her seat. She should be home with Benny and the twins right now, not quizzing Jack about his personal life in a cramped van that smelled of grime and Butch's watermelon air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.

She'd already missed dinner, calling ahead to let Benny and the twins know she'd be late. Again.

The van fell silent. Claire's mind drifted back to Hannah Weaver, the medical student whose carefully constructed facade had begun to crack under questioning. The rest of the day had yielded information that was frustratingly inconclusive.

Hannah had access to the university's chemical storerooms through her lab work—places where she could theoretically obtain compounds similar to the hemlock toxin found in Julia's system. But access didn't equal guilt. The warrants for Hannah's financial records and phone data were still processing through the system, hampered by the usual bureaucratic delays.

They'd confirmed she didn't have classes the morning Julia's body was found, giving her a window of opportunity. But without evidence placing her at the Hoh Rainforest that morning, or any witness who could confirm her whereabouts, they were left with circumstantial connections and gut feelings.

What troubled Claire most was Hannah's knowledge of the "mentor" figure Julia had met that night. Her reaction had seemed genuine—distress, not guilt. Was Hannah protecting this person? Afraid of them? Or simply processing her own grief in the complicated way of someone who'd had a falling out with a friend right before their death?

The radio crackled, pulling Claire from her thoughts.

"It's Kiko," the voice came through, slightly breathless. "Hannah's approaching from the east side of Ravenna Avenue. Should pass your position in about a minute."

Claire straightened, scanning the sidewalk through the tinted windows.

"Copy that," Jack replied, his tone professional. "Anyone with her?"

"Negative. She's alone, walking slow. Carrying what looks like a laptop bag and takeout from a Thai place."

"Got it," Jack said. "Keep your distance."

Claire watched as a figure emerged from around the corner, moving with the hunched, exhausted gait of someone at the end of a very long day.

Hannah Weaver was coming home.

16

An hour later, bellies full, Fitz and Violet followed Sutter out of the diner. The conversation Fitz had overheard ranged from the Seattle Seahawks' dismal season to the Mariners' playoff chances to the weather patterns shifting over the Cascades to the best fishing spots along the Columbia. But beneath each topic lurked an undercurrent of existential darkness that seemed to consume Sutter.

"Death comes for us all," Sutter had told his companion over coffee. "The question isn't if, but when and how. Some people just get to observe the process more intimately than others. And if you can do so while still alive, well... that unlocks everything."

A chill had settled in Fitz's stomach when Sutter mentioned Julia Merrick—not taking credit for her death, of course, but speaking with unsettling familiarity about "that poor girl who was found in the Hoh rainforest last week."

The case was all over the news, so the mention of Julia could be explained multiple ways. But Fitz had caught Violet's eye across the table at the mention and both recognized the red flag. Killers often circled back to their handiwork, unable to resist subtle bragging.

Now they trailed Sutter down the rain-slicked sidewalk, keeping a measured distance. He moved with a surprising grace, hands tucked into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the drizzle.

"We need to isolate him," Fitz murmured. "Get him talking without an audience."

Violet nodded. "There's his car." She gestured toward an aging Volvo parked half a block ahead.

They quickened their pace as Sutter approached his vehicle. Just as he reached for his keys, Violet called out, "Dr. Sutter?"

He turned, revealing a thin face framed by an unkempt gray beard that matched his disheveled hair. At around sixty, Sutter had the lean frame of someone who neither exercised nor overindulged in food—all angles and sharp edges wrapped in rumpled clothing. But his eyes were startlingly bright and alert, reflecting an intelligence that seemed to assess and catalog them instantly.

His hand slipped into his pocket as wariness settled over his features.

Fitz raised both hands, palms forward. "We just want to talk."

"Who are you people?" Sutter asked, eyes darting between them.

"I'm Fitzgerald Pembroke," Fitz said, lowering his hands slowly. "This is Violet Wei. We're with the FBI." He produced his credentials briefly. "I've read your work on neural activity during death transitions. Fascinating methodology."

Something flickered in Sutter's expression—first alarm at the FBI identification, then surprise, perhaps even pleasure at the recognition of his research.

"Which papers specifically?" Sutter asked, suspicion evident but curiosity winning out.

Fitz stepped closer, careful to maintain a non-threatening posture. "Your research on theta-wave oscillation was particularly compelling. The theory that a spike at death might reveal the precise instant when conscious thought transitions to nonexistence—brilliant premise."

Sutter's stance relaxed slightly. "Most law enforcement types wouldn't understand the significance. How does the FBI come to be interested in neurological death research?"

"I'm not most types," Fitz said, reaching into his pocket. Sutter tensed again as Fitz pulled out his antique coin, rolling it across his knuckles as he spoke. "Before the Bureau, I was in academia. Sort of. I’ve been expelled from some of the finest institutions in the world.” He smiled, trying to connect with the man. When Sutter frowned, Fitz continued. “I'm particularly interested in your work on the Glial Cell Activity Index."

"GCAI," Sutter nodded, eyes following the coin's movement. "Maintenance functions in the brain carry on after what we conventionally consider death. Monitoring those functions could potentially pinpoint the biological boundary between life and death with unprecedented precision."

Violet stepped forward. "And the Cortical Quantum Resonance research? That's where the real boundary questions come in, right?"

Sutter studied her with new interest. "You've done your homework, Agent Wei. Yes, CQR represents a theoretical quantum-level event within the brain—possibly indicating the moment consciousness separates from physical reality."

"We're investigating Julia Merrick's death," Fitz said, watching Sutter's face carefully. "Given your expertise, we thought you might offer some insight."

Sutter's expression closed. "I read about that. Unfortunate. But I have no idea what it could have to do with me or my research."

"She was interested in your work,” Violet said. “Had watched some of your videos online.”

Sutter shrugged. “So have a lot of people.”

“Particularly interesting was the paralytic agent used," Fitz said. "I wondered if natural alternatives like hemlock might produce similar results—paralysis with preserved consciousness before death. Would that be detectable in your research model?"

Sutter's eyes narrowed. "Possible, I suppose. Hemlock contains coniine, which blocks neuromuscular junctions. But I wouldn't really know the practical applications."

"Wouldn't you?" Violet asked quietly.

"What exactly are you implying?" Sutter's voice hardened.

"Just seeking expert consultation," Fitz said smoothly. "Your research explores consciousness at death. The way she died suggests she may have died while fully conscious, paralyzed but aware as her breathing stopped."

"I study death. I don't cause it," Sutter snapped.

"Of course," Fitz nodded, coin still dancing between his fingers. "But you understand how certain... coincidences might appear. Your research requires precise measurement of death transitions. Julia Merrick's murder displayed extraordinary precision in maintaining consciousness throughout death."

"Where were you the night she died?" Violet asked.

Sutter's face paled. "This is absurd. I'm a respected researcher."

"Not especially respected,” Fitz corrected. “Exiled, from what we hear. And with a particular interest in experiencing death from the victim's perspective. Your unpublished notes are quite explicit on that point."

Sutter's eyes widened. "How did you⁠—"

"We're thorough," Fitz interrupted. "Here's where we stand, Dr. Sutter. Either you come with us now for a formal conversation, or we start getting warrants for everything you've ever touched—your home, your computers, your phone records. Your research will be scrutinized in ways that might raise questions about your methodologies."

"You're threatening me."

"I'm explaining consequences," Fitz corrected. "Your choice how we proceed."

Sutter seemed to deflate, glancing between them before his shoulders sagged.

"Fine. I'll come with you. But I want a lawyer present."

"Of course," Violet said.

Fitz watched Sutter carefully. The man wasn't broken—not yet—but he was rattled. Whether from guilt or mere academic anxiety remained to be seen. Either way, they'd cracked his composed facade. Now they just needed to find what lay beneath.

17

"We've got movement," Kiko's voice crackled through Claire's earpiece. "Hannah just exited her building."

Claire straightened in the driver's seat, adjusting the binoculars. Jack leaned forward beside her in the surveillance van, his attention sharpening.

"Visual?" Claire asked, scanning the street.

"Affirmative. Blue raincoat, black bag." Kiko's voice was steady, professional. "She's heading west on University Way."

Claire spotted Hannah, moving with purpose through the light evening drizzle, hood pulled up against the rain. Something about her posture seemed off—too rigid, too deliberate.

"She's passing her apartment building," Kiko reported. "Not stopping."

Claire frowned. "Stay on her. Jack, note the time."

Jack checked his watch. "19:42."

They watched as Hannah continued down the block, her pace slowing as she approached a small café with outdoor seating despite the weather. A man sat alone at a metal table, coffee untouched in front of him, phone in hand.

"She's stopping to talk to someone," Kiko murmured. "Male, thirties, green jacket."

Claire zoomed in with the binoculars. The conversation lasted less than thirty seconds. No smiles, no handshakes. Hannah's hand dipped briefly into her pocket, then out. The man never looked up from his phone.

"That was... interesting," Kiko said, her voice low. "She's heading back now. Moving quickly."

"What did you see?" Claire asked.

"Not entirely sure, but I'm pretty certain that was a drug deal of some kind. Quick exchange, minimal contact, classic dead drop technique."

"Perfect," Claire said, setting down the binoculars. "If she's carrying, that gives us probable cause."

Hannah turned back toward her apartment building, walking faster now. Claire watched her scan the street, the alertness in her movements suggesting heightened awareness—or paranoia.

"She's acting shady," Kiko reported. "Checking over her shoulder every few seconds."

Claire made a decision. "Jack, we're moving. Kiko, maintain distance but keep visual contact."

They exited the van, Claire leading with Jack half a step behind. The plan was simple: intercept Hannah before she reached her building, identify themselves, and request to speak with her. If she ran, that only added to their suspicions.

Claire spotted Hannah thirty yards ahead. The young woman stopped suddenly, staring directly at Claire and Jack. Recognition flashed across her face.

For a second, nobody moved. Then Hannah bolted, darting down a narrow alley between buildings.

"FBI! Stop!" Claire called out, breaking into a run.

The chase was on. Claire sprinted after Hannah, Jack keeping pace beside her. Behind them, she heard Kiko's voice on the radio: "Suspect fleeing west through the alley toward campus grounds."

Hannah emerged from the alley onto a side street and veered south, heading directly for the University of Washington campus. Smart—the busy public space would make pursuit more difficult.

Claire pushed herself harder, breathing steady, grateful for the morning runs that kept her in decent shape. Hannah had youth on her side, but Claire had tactical experience and knew the campus layout.

"She's heading for the quad," Claire called to Jack. "Circle around through the Arts building. I'll stay on her."

Jack peeled off without a word, disappearing into a campus building to cut off Hannah's escape route.

Hannah glanced back, terror visible on her face as she ran across the wide-open campus lawn. Students milled about, some stopping to stare at the unfolding chase. Claire kept pace, dodging groups of undergrads while keeping Hannah in sight.

"FBI! Move!" Claire called when needed, her badge out. Most students scattered; a few stood frozen, watching with wide eyes.

Hannah reached the far side of the quad and hesitated, looking frantically in both directions before darting toward a crowded plaza where a student event was underway. Music pounded from speakers, banners fluttered in the breeze, and at least a hundred students clustered in small groups.

Claire slowed to a walk, keeping visual contact with Hannah, who was now trying to blend in, moving through the crowd with forced casualness. Claire touched her earpiece.

"Jack, she's in the west plaza. Moving through the crowd."

"Copy that. I'm approaching from the north entrance. Kiko's covering the south."

Claire continued forward, maintaining a steady pace to avoid causing panic in the crowd. Hannah had slowed too, glancing nervously over her shoulder while pretending to check her phone.

Claire weaved through clusters of chatting students, closing the distance. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten.

Hannah looked up, saw Claire, and her face contorted. She spun around—directly into Jack, who had materialized behind her.

"Hannah Weaver," he said quietly, badge visible in his hand. "FBI. We need to talk." Hannah tried to sidestep, but Claire was already there, blocking her escape.

"It's over, Hannah," Claire said, keeping her voice firm. "Don't make this worse than it already is."

The fight seemed to drain out of Hannah. Her shoulders slumped as Kiko appeared, completing the circle around her.

"Is this about the drugs?" Hannah asked, voice barely audible over the music. "Because I just⁠—"

"This is about Julia," Claire cut in, watching Hannah's face carefully.

Hannah's expression shifted from resignation to something harder to read.

"Were the drugs for your next victim?” Jack asked. “Maybe the same paralytic compound you used on Julia?"

Hannah closed her eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Claire didn't answer. Instead, she nodded to Jack, who stepped forward with restraints. "Hannah Weaver, you're being detained for questioning in connection with the murder of Julia Marek."

"I didn't kill her," Hannah's voice rose. "They’re just for studying. You don't understand⁠—"

"You have the right to remain silent," Claire said, reciting the Miranda warning as Jack secured the restraints. Students had begun to notice, a few pulling out phones to record.

"Let's move," Claire said to her team, guiding Hannah firmly toward the edge of the plaza.

They walked her back through campus, Kiko scouting ahead to clear a path while Claire and Jack flanked Hannah. The young woman had gone silent—shock or calculation, Claire couldn't tell which.

As they approached the van, Claire studied Hannah's face, looking for guilt, for fear, for any tell that might confirm their suspicions. The drugs, it turned out, were Adderall, a stimulant common among students and often used for late night study sessions. A serious drug and, without a prescription, a crime to obtain. But far from the drugs used to kill Julia.

Jack opened the van's side door and guided Hannah in. Claire took one last look at the campus behind them before climbing in after them.

Whatever Hannah Weaver knew about Julia Marek’s death, they'd find out soon enough.

18

"You've got to be kidding me," Claire muttered, tapping the screen of her phone harder than necessary.

At 7:00 AM, the Boiler Room belonged to her alone—a rare moment of solitude in the perpetual chaos of the investigation, of her life.

She replayed the TikTok video, Colt Redding's self-assured voice filling the empty room.

"Sources confirm the FBI has detained Hannah Weaver, a medical student at the University of Washington, in connection with Julia Marek's murder," Redding announced, his somber tone barely concealing his excitement. "Weaver and Marek were close friends before a falling out over Julia's interest in fringe consciousness theories."

Claire's grip tightened on her coffee cup. The video continued, showing shaky footage of yesterday's pursuit across the UW campus—Hannah running, Claire and Jack in pursuit, the final confrontation. Someone had recorded it all and posted it online. Redding had spliced the video into his own.

"Witnesses report that Weaver fled when approached by FBI agents, leading to a dramatic chase across campus before her eventual capture," Redding continued. "Sources inside the investigation tell me the FBI is eager to question Weaver about her expertise with certain chemicals that may match the toxin used to kill Julia Marek." Claire set down the phone, a knot forming in her stomach. The information about Hannah's medical background, her relationship with Julia—that could have come from the Mareks. But the details about yesterday's pursuit, the specifics about questioning her regarding chemicals—that came from within.

The sound of the security door opening pulled Claire from her thoughts. Jack entered, bringing with him the scent of rain and coffee. He paused when he saw her expression.

"Morning. You look ready to murder someone," he said, hanging his jacket on the back of his chair.

"Someone's leaking to that TikTok guy. Redding." Claire pushed her phone across the table. "Take a look."

She watched Jack watch the video, his face hardening with each passing second. She didn’t want to think he could be the leaker, but he was already lying to her about Kiko.

When the video ended, he slid the phone back. "It could be Jefferson County. Or the Park Service," he offered, but his tone suggested he didn't believe it.

"He knows about the chemicals, Jack. About Hannah's expertise. About questioning her. That's us. Anything you want to tell me?"

The door opened again as Violet arrived, hair damp from the morning drizzle, followed closely by Fitz. Kiko trailed behind them, keeping a careful distance from Jack that only emphasized their connection.

"What's happening?" Violet asked, glancing between Claire and Jack. "Did we break the case overnight?"

"Someone broke something," Claire said, gesturing for everyone to sit. "We have a leak."

She played Redding's video one more time. The team watched in silence.

"Well, that's concerning," Fitz commented when it ended. "Rather specific details too. Not mere speculation."

"It's not speculation at all," Claire said. "Someone in this room is talking to him." The silence that followed was weighted with accusation and defense.

"Maybe not in this room," Kiko suggested. "Lots of people knew about the arrest. Campus police, witnesses⁠—"

"They didn't know about the chemicals," Claire cut in. "Or about our questioning strategy."

"I want to be clear," she continued, looking at each team member in turn, "this stops now. Redding is compromising our investigation for clicks, or views, or whatever the hell he said. I don't care what your reasons might be—whether you think the public has a right to know, or you believe in transparency, or you just like seeing your work acknowledged. It stops." No one spoke. No one met her gaze directly.

"Now," Claire said, shifting gears, "let's focus on what we can control. Situation update."

"Hannah Weaver is in a holding cell," Jack reported. "She's been asking for a lawyer. We told her one's being arranged, but we're slow-walking it."

"Sutter's at the Cascade Hotel," Violet added. "Agent Morales is stationed outside his room. No legal grounds to hold him, but he's playing nice so far. Said he wants to 'clear his name.'"

"Excellent," Claire nodded. "Here's today's plan. We're switching things up. Fitz, I want you to talk to Hannah."

Fitz looked up, surprised. "Me? Not you or Jack?"

"You. She's expecting us to come at her hard, law enforcement style. But you're different—academic, thoughtful. You can connect with her intellectually about consciousness theories, Sutter's research. Get her guard down."

"And what will you be doing?" Fitz asked.

"Jack and I will talk to Sutter. If he's our killer, I want to see him face-to-face."

"That leaves Kiko and me with the North Cascadia financial investigation?" Violet confirmed.

"Exactly. Keep Ley off our backs. Make it look like we're making progress."

Claire pushed back from the table, ready to set the day in motion. "Let's move⁠—"

The security door beeped, interrupting her mid-sentence. A young man in a crisp suit entered, his posture broadcasting institutional authority despite his youth. Claire recognized him immediately—Brian Chen, Ley's executive assistant.

"Agent Anderson," he said, his tone professionally detached. "AD Ley needs to see you immediately."

Claire struggled to keep her face blank, but inside she was cursing. Perfect timing.

19

Claire crossed the executive floor, her footsteps muffled by institutional carpeting that cost more than her monthly mortgage. Executives and administrators glanced up as she passed, then quickly away—word traveled fast when E.J. Ley's assistant appeared in the Boiler Room, commanding Claire's immediate presence upstairs.

The morning light spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the stark contrast between S.W.O.R.D.'s basement domain and this rarified atmosphere. Here, the Bureau's power resided in polished surfaces and strategic sightlines, in the calculated distance between furniture pieces and the artwork selected to convey institutional gravitas without personality.

Ley's secretary—a reed-thin woman whose skirt suits never showed a wrinkle—nodded once as Claire approached. "She's waiting." The words carried the weight of a pronouncement rather than mere information.

Claire took a steadying breath before entering. E.J. Ley sat behind her imposing desk, silver-streaked hair framing a face more accustomed to issuing judgments than receiving them. She didn't rise when Claire entered, didn't offer a seat—power dynamics established before a single word was exchanged.

"Agent Anderson." Ley's gaze remained fixed on her computer screen for three deliberate seconds before shifting to Claire. "I've just reviewed your team's hours for the past week."

Claire looked down at her, hands clasped loosely behind her back. "You wanted a progress report on North Cascadia?"

"What I want," Ley said, finally looking up, "is an explanation for why Violet Wei has logged forty-three hours on systems analysis with minimal documented progress on our priority case." She tapped a key, turning her monitor so Claire could see a spreadsheet of personnel hours. "Or why Dr. Pembroke and Agent Greene have both requisitioned vehicles for fieldwork completely unrelated to North Cascadia."

Claire measured her response against Ley's displeasure. "We're pursuing both cases, as agreed."

"No." The single syllable cut through the air. "The agreement was clear. North Cascadia is priority, with minimal resources allocated to the Marek case until serial classification." Ley leaned forward, her presence expanding to fill the space between them. "The Defense Oversight Committee is pressuring us for results. Your team's divided attention undermines Bureau objectives."

Claire placed a folder on Ley's desk. "We've made a breakthrough in the Marek case. A second victim with similar methodology—Mei-Lin Chang, fourteen months ago." She opened the folder, revealing comparative autopsy reports. "Same toxin profile, same ritualistic positioning, same victim type. And we've identified a suspect—Dr. Leonard Sutter, former UW neuroscience professor specializing in death transition studies. And also Hannah Weaver, a friend we believe may be involved as well."

Something flashed across Ley's expression—recognition, perhaps concern—before disappearing beneath professional composure. "Interesting, but ultimately irrelevant to our current priorities," Ley said, pushing the folder away without examining it. "I'm reassigning the Marek case to Violent Crimes. Your team will focus exclusively on North Cascadia."

The declaration hung in the air between them. Claire felt the calculated finality in Ley's tone—this wasn't just bureaucratic reshuffling. This was purposeful separation.

"There's a problem with that approach," Claire said, retrieving the folder. She extracted a printout of a TikTok profile—Colt Redding's account, with screenshots of his videos about the Hemlock Killer. "Sensitive operational details from our investigation have been appearing on social media. Details only discussed in our briefing room."

Ley took the printout, examining it with clinical detachment. "This is another reason I'm reassigning the case. Your team clearly has security issues." She scanned the content, her mouth tightening. "When did these leaks start?"

"After our initial briefing. Details about the body positioning, the sunrise alignment—information that wasn't in any public statement."

Ley set the papers down. "And you're telling me this now? This compromises the entire investigation."

"Which is exactly why transferring it creates more problems than it solves," Claire countered. "Violent Crimes would be starting from scratch. We have two suspects, and I’m close to identifying the source of the leaks.” The second part was a total fabrication, but Claire knew how seriously Ley took leaking, and hoped it would help.

"How close?" Ley's voice sharpened.

"I’ll have an update soon," Claire said.

Ley stared at her, expression unreadable. "Do you understand what this means for your team, Anderson? It means you've lost control of your people. After the Color Killer case, after the Interstate Reaper, after Medina—I expected better operational security from you."

The reference to her previous cases landed like a punch—Claire and her team’s hard-won successes now used as ammunition.

"Or it means someone with access to our briefings is talking," Claire said. "Could be a bug in our office, a cyber issue. Someone who's not directly on my team."

Ley's finger tapped against her desk once, twice. "Are you suggesting interference from another department?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm stating facts about the nature of information security. If we transfer this case now, the leak pattern becomes harder to track."

Ley studied her for a long moment. Claire recognized the calculation happening behind those shrewd eyes—weighing options, assessing costs.

"You're losing focus, Anderson," Ley said finally. "Your personal investment in these cases is clouding your judgment. It's happening again."

The words stung precisely where intended—a reference to Claire's occasional tendency to become consumed by cases.

"And your team..." Ley continued. "Perhaps if you spent more time managing your personnel and less time chasing headlines, you'd notice the obvious issues developing. Agent Russo and Agent Greene, for instance."

Claire kept her expression neutral, though the comment caught her off guard. "What about them?"

"Don't insult my intelligence. The Bureau has policies regarding fraternization within units, especially specialized teams. Their... relationship creates liability issues."

The revelation that Ley knew about Jack and Kiko—something Claire herself knew about but hadn’t actually confirmed—suggested surveillance beyond normal oversight.

"I'm handling internal team dynamics," Claire said. "That's not relevant to the Marek case."

"Everything is relevant when it impacts operational integrity." Ley rose from her chair, moving to the window where Seattle spread beneath her like a tactical map. "Here's what I don't understand. Why this particular case? You're risking insubordination over a dead teenager."

"Two dead teenagers," Claire corrected. "And possibly more if we don't stop him."

Ley turned, silhouetted against the gray-white sky. "Him? You think this Sutter is your killer."

"His research focused explicitly on monitoring consciousness during death by hemlock poisoning. The victimology matches his academic interests. Both victims were aware of his work."

Ley returned to her desk, movements measured and precise. She pressed a button on her phone. "Cancel my next appointment," she instructed her assistant, then focused on Claire. "This stays within S.W.O.R.D. No additional personnel, no expanded resources. You maintain North Cascadia as your official priority, but..." She paused, selecting her words with care. "I recognize the value of not fragmenting an active serial investigation."

Claire kept her expression neutral despite the small victory. This wasn't generosity —it was calculation. The question was why.

"One more thing," Ley added, her tone casual in a way that signaled its importance. "All findings related to Dr. Sutter are to be reported directly to me, not through standard channels. There may be... sensitivities regarding his previous research affiliations."

"What kind of sensitivities?" Claire asked.

"Classified." Ley's mouth curved into something adjacent to a smile. "Need-to-know basis, Agent Anderson. For now, you don't."

Ley gathered the printouts, handing them back to Claire with finality. "And I want this leak identified and plugged. Immediately. I won't have operational details broadcast while this case remains active."

Claire accepted the papers, wondering at Ley's intensity regarding the leaks. The concern seemed genuine, but disproportionate—as though the existence of leaks mattered more than their content.

"I'll review our communications protocols," Claire said.

"See that you do. And get your team in order. All aspects of it." The implication about Jack and Kiko was clear. "Remember that your first priority is still North Cascadia. I expect substantive progress there by the end of the week."

Claire recognized the dismissal and turned to leave.

"One more thing, Anderson." Ley's voice stopped her at the door. "Don't mistake this accommodation for weakness. If I find you've diverted excessive resources from North Cascadia, I'll shut down S.W.O.R.D. entirely. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly." Claire met her gaze, neither woman blinking.

In the elevator, Claire processed what had just happened. She'd gained continuing authorization for the Hemlock investigation, but the cost remained unclear. Ley's interest in Sutter, her insistence on direct reporting, her knowledge of Jack and Kiko—all suggested something more personal than bureaucratic maneuvering.

But for now she had a case to manage, and a suspect to interrogate.

20

Fitz chose the Bureau's "soft interview" room—a deliberate departure from standard interrogation aesthetics. Muted walls, a round table of simulated walnut, chairs with proper lumbar support. The psychology was simple: reduce environmental stress to encourage disclosure. Make the subject momentarily forget they sat within the FBI's domain.

He arrived early to arrange the space to his specifications. Three water bottles at equal distances from center positions. Thermostat adjusted two degrees warmer than Bureau standard—cold rooms induced physiological discomfort that manifested as psychological defensiveness. His worn leather portfolio containing Hannah's meager file lay closed before him.

The door opened. Hannah entered first, her medical student's pallor accentuated by a navy blouse that hung slightly loose on her frame. Sleep deprivation mapped itself in purple shadows beneath her eyes. Behind her came someone Fitz hadn't expected—a woman perhaps in her early thirties, South Asian, with a geometric haircut and silver-rimmed glasses. She wore a structured burgundy jumpsuit beneath a cropped black blazer, defying traditional legal aesthetics.

"Dr. Pembroke," she said without preamble, extending her hand. "Priya Nair, representing Ms. Weaver. I understand you've been detaining my client for fourteen hours without formal charges."

"Fourteen hours is well within legal parameters for questioning related to a federal homicide investigation," Fitz responded, gesturing toward the seats. "Your client was found with controlled substances that she acquired without prescription, and fled from federal agents." He paused. “She should be grateful she’s not in some crap-stained jail cell.”

"Prescription stimulants used by approximately twenty percent of medical students nationwide," Nair countered, guiding Hannah to a seat. "Hardly the profile of a serial killer."

Hannah sat with the careful movements of someone conserving energy. She hadn't spoken yet, her gaze fixed on the water bottle before her. Nair placed a sleek tablet on the table, activating it with a gesture.

"Let's begin with something unconventional," Fitz said, retrieving his phone. "I believe in transparency, Ms. Weaver, even when it's uncomfortable." He placed the phone between them and tapped the screen, bringing up a TikTok video.

Colt Redding's face filled the display: "Breaking update on the Hemlock Killer investigation. The FBI has detained Hannah Weaver, former friend of victim Julia Marek, after she fled from agents and was found with illegal substances. Sources say Weaver had a bitter falling out with Marek shortly before her death and possesses the biochemical knowledge to create the specialized toxin used in both killings. Is she our Hemlock Killer? Or just another UW medical student using Adderall to get by?"

Hannah's reaction was immediate—a sharp intake of breath, color draining from her face. Shock, betrayal, fear cycling in rapid succession across her features.

"Turn that off," Nair demanded, placing her hand over the screen. "This is precisely why my client ran from your agents."

Fitz stopped the video, leaving his phone on the table. "The Bureau didn't release this information. Someone is leaking."

"And how does publicly smearing my client help your case?" Nair's voice remained controlled, but her posture shifted forward, protective.

"It doesn't," Fitz said. "That's why I'm showing you this. I want Ms. Weaver to understand that what she says in this room isn't what's appearing on social media. That video was posted three hours ago—while she was already in our custody."

Hannah looked up, her eyes rimmed red. "Everyone will see that. My professors, my classmates." Her voice emerged thin, stretched. "They'll think I killed Julia."

"I understand how distressing this is," Fitz said, regret coloring his tone. "But it's precisely why we need to clear the air."

Nair's eyes narrowed. "Are you admitting the FBI has compromised operational security in an active murder investigation?"

"I'm acknowledging reality," Fitz replied. He turned his attention back to Hannah. "You were close with Julia once. I'd like to understand what happened between you."

Hannah's fingers twisted around the water bottle. "We were friends. Then we weren't. It happens."

"Friends who had a public argument bad enough that her family heard about it. And not long before she was killed," Fitz noted, opening his portfolio and extracting a witness statement. "According to a barista at Elm Street Coffee, you told her she was 'getting involved in dangerous bullshit' and 'throwing away her future on pseudoscience garbage.'"

Hannah's face flushed. "And I already admitted that to the blond lady and the others. Your colleagues or whatever.” She let out a long breath. “Look, Julia was brilliant. Then she got obsessed with Sutter's consciousness research and started talking about experiencing death transitions. I tried to pull her back to reality."

"Dr. Leonard Sutter," Fitz said, observing her reaction to the name. "When did Julia first mention him?"

Hannah glanced at her lawyer, who nodded once.

"About three months ago. She texted me a YouTube video, went down a rabbit hole. Next time I found her she was... different. Like she'd found religion."

"Different how, specifically?" Fitz kept his tone conversational.

"Distant. Distracted. She started spending hours on these fringe philosophy forums talking about consciousness and death. She said Sutter helped her see that most researchers were too afraid to explore the final frontier. Where religion and rigorous science can finally meet." Hannah's voice took on a bitter edge. "It was cult-like, the way she talked about him."

Fitz noted the consistency with Claire's earlier interview—the cult reference matched almost verbatim, suggesting genuine recall rather than fabrication.

"Did you ever meet Sutter yourself?" he asked.

"No, and I don’t think Julia did, either. This was just a random internet infatuation. In case you haven’t heard, they’re not that uncommon. Anyway, I looked into him and found out he lost his position at UW for ethics violations. I tried to warn her."

"But she didn't listen."

"She said I was closed-minded. That I was afraid of what I couldn't understand." Hannah's voice caught. "Our last conversation was a fight. She called me that day—the day she disappeared. Said she was going to meet her 'mentor.' That he was going to show her 'the moment of transition.'"

Fitz watched her closely, noting the increased respiration, the slight tremor in her hands.

"What did you do after that call?" Fitz asked, his tone softening.

"I was studying for exams," Hannah said. "I stayed in my apartment all night."

"Alone?" Fitz caught a microexpression—a fleeting tightness around her mouth.

"Yes."

Nair interjected, "My client has already provided this information. Is there a reason you're circling back?"

Fitz ignored the question, focusing on Hannah. "Your phone pinged from tower locations near the University District, then Capitol Hill, then back to your apartment that night. That's quite a study circuit." The warrant on her phone had finally come through, and Fitz could see the shock on both Hannah and her lawyer’s face.

Hannah's breathing changed—shorter, shallower. "I went to get coffee. I couldn't focus."

"For three hours?" Fitz kept his tone neutral.

"Time gets away from me when I'm stressed," she said, avoiding his eyes.

Fitz studied her evasiveness—not the pattern of someone concealing murder, but someone hiding something less sinister yet personally damaging.

"Hannah," he said gently, "let me be direct. The stimulants we found aren't my primary concern. I’ve had a drug problem myself, well in the past now but I know what it’s like. If you can be honest with me, I promise you we can work with your lawyer on that. But your movements that night, your reluctance to provide a complete account—these create questions I need to resolve."

Hannah's shoulders tensed. "If I tell you where I was, will it go in the official record?"

"That depends on its relevance to Julia's death."

Hannah closed her eyes briefly. "I was at a place called The Underground. It's where medical students and residents go to buy study drugs. Black market Adderall, Modafinil, Ritalin." She swallowed. "I was there for three hours because my regular contact wasn't there, and I had to wait."

"While your best friend was meeting someone who concerned you enough to argue about it?" Fitz kept his voice free of judgment.

"I had exams," Hannah said, the words hollow. "I needed to pass. That's what medical school does to you—warps your priorities until nothing matters except surviving to the next test."

Nair placed a protective hand on Hannah's arm. "I think that's enough. Either charge my client formally or release her."

Fitz closed his portfolio. "One final question, if Ms. Weaver is willing."

Hannah looked up, exhaustion evident in every line of her face.

"Did you ever hear Julia mention someone called Quantum_Mind online? Someone she communicated with about consciousness and death transitions?"

Hannah's expression shifted subtly. Recognition. "Yes. Her online mentor. She wouldn't tell me who it was, just that they understood things about death that science couldn't explain."

She paused. "I know you think it’s Sutter, and it might be. But there are a lot of people out there into this stuff."

Fitz nodded, filing away the information. "Thank you for your honesty."

"Are we free to go?" Nair asked, already gathering her tablet.

"Ms. Weaver is being processed for release now," Fitz said, rising. "The possession charges were going to be referred to the Seattle DA's office, but I can make you a deal. I’ll get that stalled for a few days if you promise to keep in touch. I may well need to speak with you again."

"Fine," Nair replied. "And Dr. Pembroke? If my client's name appears in another social media leak, I'll be filing formal complaints against both you personally and the Bureau."

After they left, Fitz remained seated, turning the water bottle in front of him. His assessment crystallized: Hannah Weaver wasn't their killer. Her grief carried authenticity's unmistakable timbre. Her evasiveness stemmed not from murderous guilt but from the compromised priorities of a student risking everything for academic survival. Rumors on TikTok were one thing, but if she was charged with possession of a Schedule 2 substance, she’d be expelled, her career over before it started.

The FBI agent in him recognized the leverage her drug possession offered—a pressure point that could extract further cooperation. But the psychologist in him, the part that had studied human behavior through decades of both academic rigor and field experience, recognized the damage such an approach would cause.

He'd been wrong before. The woman he'd trusted last year had manipulated him masterfully, using his vulnerabilities against him. His confidence in his own judgment remained fractured, the pieces still sharp enough to draw blood.

He gathered his notes, his assessment clear: their path now led unequivocally toward Dr. Leonard Sutter and his experiments in consciousness at the moment of death.

21

Claire settled into the chair as Jack folded his arms and leaned against the wall. Interrogation Room Three was not the "soft interview" space Fitz had used with Hannah, but a more traditional setting with its subtle psychological architecture. The metal table, bolted to the floor. The slight tilt to the suspect's chair, designed to create physical discomfort over time. The temperature, calibrated to run two degrees cooler than comfortable.

Dr. Leonard Sutter sat opposite them, his unkempt gray beard and disheveled appearance at odds with the sharp alertness in his eyes. For a man facing federal questioning about two murders, he maintained remarkable composure. His court-appointed attorney, a tired-looking man in his fifties with thinning hair and coffee-stained shirt cuffs, sat beside him, periodically checking his watch.

"For the record," Claire began, "this is Special Agent Claire Anderson and Special Agent Jack Russo interviewing Dr. Leonard Sutter regarding the deaths of Julia Marek and Mei-Lin Chang." She placed two photographs on the table—crime scene images showing each victim positioned in their forest tableaux, faces arranged toward the dawn. "Do you recognize these women, Dr. Sutter?"

Sutter glanced at the photos without flinching. "I recognize them from news reports."

"Not from your lecture series?” Claire asked. “Not from your research forums?"

"I've spoken to hundreds of students over the years." Sutter's voice carried the weary cadence of an academic accustomed to explaining complex concepts to simpler minds. "I can't be expected to remember every face."

Jack leaned forward slightly. "Dr. Sutter, we understand the pressure you must be feeling. We're just trying to establish connections here."

Claire noted the performance of their agreed-upon dynamic—Jack as the voice of reason and empathy, she as the relentless pressure. They'd used this approach countless times, though typically with Jack in the aggressive role. The reversal felt strange but necessary. Sutter's intellectual vanity would respond differently to female aggression than male.

"Your career studying death transitions seems relevant to our investigation," Claire continued, opening a folder. "These young women died in a way that mirrors your research interests with remarkable precision."

"Correlation isn't causation, Agent Anderson." Sutter's mouth curled into something adjacent to a smile. "Basic scientific principle."

"Explain your research to me," Claire said, folding her hands on the table. "In terms even a federal agent might understand."

The subtle insult registered in Sutter's eyes—a flash of indignation, quickly suppressed. He glanced at his attorney, who nodded once.

"My work examines consciousness during terminal phases," Sutter began, his posture straightening as he shifted into lecture mode. "Specifically, I study measurable neural patterns that might indicate when awareness ceases relative to biological death."

"And these patterns have names," Claire pressed. "Theta-wave Oscillation. Glial Cell Activity Index. Cortical Quantum Resonance. Explain these terms."

Sutter's eyebrows lifted, perhaps surprised at her familiarity with his terminology. "Theta waves are neural oscillations associated with states between wakefulness and sleep. During death, there's evidence of a significant spike in theta activity, possibly representing the final surge of consciousness before its cessation."

Claire watched his face as he spoke. His voice had taken on a rhythmic cadence, energized by the subject matter despite the circumstances.

"The Glial Cell Activity Index tracks supportive brain cells that persist after neurons cease firing," he continued. "These cells maintain metabolic processes even after what we conventionally define as death. By monitoring their deterioration pattern, we can potentially identify the precise biological threshold between life and death."

"And Cortical Quantum Resonance?" Claire kept her expression neutral despite the growing discomfort settling inside her. Despite all the technical jargon, the actual subject matter at hand was intriguing. The moments between life and death, and what happens in them, had always fascinated her.

"A theoretical quantum event within the brain," Sutter said, his eyes brightening with enthusiasm that seemed inappropriate for an interrogation. "Conventional medicine views consciousness as an emergent property of neural activity, but CQR suggests consciousness may have quantum properties—that the mind might actually separate from physical substrate at death." He turned slightly and made eye contact with Jack, then shifted his gaze back to Claire. “The soul, Agent Anderson. The soul leaving the body, reincarnation... don’t you see. I’m trying to answer the most important questions humans have ever asked.”

Claire was growing uncomfortable. She’d often wondered about her parents, hoping they might somehow have continued on in some form after their deaths. But, of course, she needed to stay professional. "And you measure these phenomena how, exactly?" she asked.

"Specialized equipment. EEG modifications, quantum-sensitive detectors, proprietary algorithms." His answers came smoothly, practiced. "Nothing illegal or unethical."

Jack shifted forward. "Your research sounds academically rigorous, Dr. Sutter. Which makes me wonder why UW terminated your position."

Sutter's rhythm faltered, the first crack in his facade. "Academic politics. My methodologies challenged conventional paradigms." He cleared his throat. Academia is actually a very conservative place. Want to do research to make cancer treatments 2% more effective, easy to get millions in grant money. Want to solve the meaning of life and death?” He offered a dismissive wave of the hand. “Nothing.”

"Your methodologies included unauthorized human trials," Claire corrected, consulting her notes. "Specifically, monitoring terminal patients without proper consent protocols."

"That allegation was never proven," Sutter's attorney interjected.

Claire ignored him, focusing on Sutter's face. "Here's what interests me, Doctor. Both victims were found positioned to face the rising sun. Both died from a hemlock derived compound that paralyzed their bodies while leaving their minds aware until the final moment. Both had plant material arranged in specific patterns around their bodies." She leaned forward. "It's as if someone wanted to observe death consciousness under carefully controlled conditions."

"I observe death. I don't cause it," Sutter said, echoing his words to Fitz and Violet.

"Yet you maintain detailed notes on the precise effects of hemlock poisoning," Claire countered. "Notes that describe, and I quote, 'the ideal monitoring conditions for consciousness as the body systematically shuts down, maintaining awareness until the final threshold is crossed.'"

"Academic speculation," Sutter replied.

Sweat had begun to bead at his temples despite the room's coolness, but Claire was having trouble getting a read on the guy.

Jack placed a hand lightly on Claire's arm, as if restraining her intensity. "Dr. Sutter, we're not here to debate the ethics of theoretical research. We're investigating two murders with specific signatures that align with your field of study."

"Where were you the night Julia Marek disappeared?" Claire asked.

"At home. Working."

"Can anyone verify that?"

"I live alone."

"Of course you do," Claire said, allowing the implication to hang. "What about Mei-Lin Chang? Where were you fourteen months ago when she vanished?"

"I don't track my whereabouts by the disappearances of strangers," Sutter snapped.

“A little less combative,” his lawyer added, “or we’re leaving. As I told you on the phone, we’re working on figuring that out. My client doesn’t keep a detailed day planner since leaving academia.”

Claire extracted another document from her folder. "Are you familiar with the poetry of Jonas Keating?"

Sutter blinked at the abrupt change in direction. "The name sounds vaguely familiar. Mid-century American poet, I believe?"

Claire nodded, unfolding a printed page. "His collection 'Beneath Hemlock Skies' contains imagery remarkably similar to the way our victims were positioned."

She began to read:

"beneath hemlock skies the wind forgets its name & silence pools in the mouth of the earth socrates drinks & the world leans back waiting for the moment between thought & no thought breath & the last of breath does the dark unfold like a hand, like a door— or does nothing come at all? the body stiffens like a question half-asked

the night does not answer only the hemlocks sway only the sky remains."

Claire felt a peculiar resonance within herself—a dark curiosity about that final threshold that disturbed her more than she cared to admit. And something shifted in the room, too. Almost as though, by reading the poem, she’d proven the importance of his research.

Sutter's expression was satisfied, almost smug. "Keating was asking the same questions as me. The same question everyone asks themselves as they slide under the covers as night, as the drama of the day fades away and we face the eternal darkness."

"The parallels are striking, no?" Claire pressed. "The hemlock reference, the fixation on the moment between thought and no thought—exactly what your research claims to measure?"

"Agent Anderson," Sutter leaned forward, his voice lowering. "There are only so many ways to conceptualize death. Literature, science, religion—all circle the same fundamental human mystery. Finding parallels isn't evidence of wrongdoing."

"You communicated with Julia Marek online," Claire said, changing tactics again. "Under the username Quantum_Mind."

A small tell—the slight widening of Sutter's eyes before he regained control. "I participate in numerous academic forums. I can't track every online interaction."

"Did you meet with her the night she disappeared?"

"No."

"Did you administer a paralytic compound derived from hemlock to observe her death consciousness?"

"No."

"Did you arrange her body beneath the hemlock trees, facing east to catch first light?"

He smiled. "Absolutely not, and this is where you really ought to know I’m telling the truth. I am interested in the moment of death. Hours after death has occurred, why would I care which direction the remaining meat sack is facing, why would I put Hemlock in the hands of the dead?"

"Did you murder Mei-Lin Chang fourteen months ago?"

"No." Sutter's knuckles whitened where his hands clasped together. "I didn't kill either of these women. I don't know who did."

Jack eased forward, his posture non-threatening. "Dr. Sutter, help us understand. Someone with detailed knowledge of your research is committing murders that mirror your theoretical work. If not you, then who?"

Sutter's lips pressed together, his gaze drifting to the middle distance. "My research attracts... devoted followers. People seeking answers to questions most find uncomfortable to consider."

"Names, Doctor," Claire demanded.

"I don't maintain a roster." Sutter's attention snapped back to her. "My work has been available online, discussed in forums and private groups. Anyone with interest in consciousness studies could have accessed it."

Claire gathered the photographs, sliding them back into her folder with deliberate slowness. "We'll be obtaining warrants for your personal records, your communications, your research notes. Every aspect of your life will be examined in microscopic detail."

"You're making a mistake," Sutter said.

"Maybe," Claire acknowledged, standing. "We'll know soon enough."

As they exited the interrogation room, Jack fell into step beside her.

"What's your read?" he asked quietly.

Claire paused in the corridor, considering. "He's hiding something, but I'm not convinced it's murder. His reaction to the online alias was genuine surprise."

"If not Sutter, then who? A student? A devotee?"

"Someone who thinks they're conducting research," she said finally. "Someone who believes they're uncovering the greatest mystery of human existence, justifying murder as scientific necessity."

Jack nodded slowly. "A disciple continuing the master's work."

"The question is," Claire said, "does the master know his teachings are being applied so literally?"

The lights buzzed overhead, casting stark shadows in the empty hallway. Claire felt the same darkness that had stirred in her during the interview—the uncomfortable recognition that death's final moment held a terrible fascination, not just for killers and researchers, but for anyone who had ever contemplated their own mortality.

22

"The more I look at these numbers, the less sense they make." Violet's voice carried an edge of sleep-deprived frustration.

Claire was hungry as hell. She unwrapped her turkey sandwich and took a bite without tasting it, her attention split between Violet's financial diagrams and the manila folders stacked beside her elbow. The team had gathered for their midday briefing, carryout containers and coffee cups cluttering the conference table.

"Let's start with North Cascadia," Claire said. "Where are we on the money trail?"

Violet swiveled toward her center monitor, purple hair piled atop her head. Dark circles beneath her eyes suggested consecutive all-nighters.

"It's a shell game played by masters," she said, gesturing toward a complex network diagram pulsing with interconnected nodes. "North Cascadia isn't just siphoning defense money—they're funneling it through nonprofits, research foundations, and private think tanks."

The display shifted to a cascade of financial transfers, each represented by colored lines threading between institutional logos.

"I've tracked transaction patterns to the Meridian Institute for Advanced Neural Study, the Coalition for Cognitive Research Ethics, and something called the Threshold Foundation." Violet tapped keys, highlighting each entity. "Most are legitimate organizations with decades of credentials, but they're all receiving unusual funding patterns from accounts linked to North Cascadia subsidiaries."

"Any connection to our murder investigation?" Claire asked, noting how Jack studiously avoided eye contact with Kiko as he reached for a napkin.

"Nothing direct yet," Violet admitted. "But there's a pattern of research grants focused on neural monitoring technology and consciousness studies dating back six years."

A sudden scrambling noise interrupted her as Ranger lurched from beneath the table and bolted toward the corner of the room. The golden retriever rose onto his hind legs, front paws scrabbling against the wall beside a filing cabinet, his nose working furiously.

"What the hell?" Claire set her sandwich down.

Ranger dropped to all fours, trotted to the battered television stand, and repeated his performance—back legs tensed, front paws elevated, nostrils flaring with purpose.

"Fitzgerald," Claire said slowly, "why is Ranger performing circus tricks in the middle of our briefing?"

Fitz cleared his throat, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "A bit of impromptu rehabilitation. I may have hidden small portions of pastrami in strategic locations throughout the room."

"You what?"

"Olfactory enrichment," Fitz explained. "I’ve been trying to rehab Ranger's sense of smell at home, but his recovery has plateaued recently. I thought perhaps a controlled environment with high-value stimuli might encourage further healing of his scent receptors."

Ranger discovered a morsel tucked behind the coffee maker, his tail sweeping papers from a nearby desk as he wagged in triumph.

"You turned our briefing room into a canine Easter egg hunt," Claire said flatly.

"More of a controlled experimental environment," Fitz corrected. "And I must say, his performance exceeds expectations. It’s not my area of expertise, but from what I’ve read, the hypothalamus is capable of remarkable neuroplasticity, even in cases of severe olfactory damage."

Claire watched as Ranger discovered another pastrami piece wedged between sofa cushions, his entire body vibrating with enthusiasm. Despite herself, she felt a smile forming as she shook her head.

"Can we get back to the case?" she asked, redirecting attention from Ranger's victory lap around the conference table.

"Right," Violet nodded, clicking through screens. "I've been digging into both suspects. Hannah has the more substantial digital footprint—active on academic forums, social media, the usual Gen Z presence. Sutter's essentially a ghost online, but his early research papers are archived in academic databases."

She projected comparative profiles onto the wall screen—Hannah's vibrant digital presence contrasted with Sutter's sparse, antiquated footprint.

"Personality-wise, we're looking at polar opposites," Violet continued. "Hannah's the high-achieving stress case with a stimulant problem, deeply enmeshed in her social networks. Sutter's the reclusive genius type, minimal connections outside his research sphere."

"Either this is a mean girls thing gone homicidal," Kiko interjected, gesturing toward Hannah's profile, "or a dirty old recluse nut job professor." She nodded toward Sutter's image.

Jack tapped his pen against his notepad. "Hannah's lawyer is making noise about unlawful detention. We can hold her on the drug charges if we want, but not indefinitely."

“I already floated releasing her if she stays in touch,” Fitz said. “She has been cooperative, and she’s not our gal. That I promise you.”

Jack looked at him, frowning. “You as sure as you were about Suzanne Hartman?”

Fitz looked at the table, uncharacteristically cowed.

"I'm inclined to release her with restrictions," Claire said. "Daily check-ins. Her lawyer seems reasonable—if we offer this instead of pressing the drug charges, I think she'll cooperate."

"Nair will agree to that," Fitz confirmed. "She's pragmatic, and she knows Hannah isn't flight risk material. And, as I said, I don't believe Hannah is our killer. Her psychological profile doesn't align with the meticulous, ritualistic nature of these crimes."

"Which brings us back to Sutter," Claire said. "Fitz, I want you to take another run at him. Your academic background gives you the best chance at breaking through his intellectual defenses."

Fitz nodded.

"One more thing," Claire added, her voice carefully modulated. "I just got a call from the NPS Investigative Services Branch. Apparently, there's a detail that got buried in jurisdictional hand-offs. When they found Julia Marek's body, she was clutching a note."

She watched their reactions closely. Violet's immediate attention, Kiko's slight frown, Jack's carefully neutral expression, Fitz's raised eyebrow.

"What did it say?" Violet asked, already reaching for her keyboard.

Ranger returned to Claire's side, pressing his warm body against her leg, his mission accomplished. She scratched behind his ears, wondering if his recovering nose could detect the subtle wrongness now circulating through the Boiler Room.

"Never mind that for now," Claire said, gathering her lunch wrapper. "More on that later. Let's focus on what we have confirmed." The detail was entirely fabricated, and Claire was monitoring what happened next precisely. Someone was betraying case details. The note that never existed would be her test, her attempt to find out who.

After the team dispersed, Claire waited by the door as Jack collected his notes. When he reached her, she placed her hand lightly on his forearm.

"About that note," she said, voice low though they were alone. "I actually wanted to get your thoughts. It said 'I am the one who knows.' The lab's running analysis on the handwriting."

Jack nodded, his expression giving nothing away. "Interesting. Almost sounds like a confession.”

"Or a taunt," Claire replied, watching his face for any flicker of reaction before letting him pass.

“Either way, there’s no way a teenage girl writes that. Ask me, it’ll turn out to be Sutter."

She followed the sound of the ancient coffee maker's gurgle to the break area, where Kiko stood watching the dark liquid drip with the intensity of someone monitoring a bomb timer.

"Hey," Claire said, leaning against the doorframe. "Quick thing before you head out. That note I mentioned? It read 'I was chosen.' Seems like our killer might have a messiah complex."

Kiko glanced up, a frown creasing her forehead. "That fits with the ritualistic elements. Are you telling everyone, or just me?"

"Keeping it tight for now," Claire said. "Don't mention it outside the team."

Back in the Boiler Room, Violet had returned from the soda machine and was hunched over her keyboard, bathed in the blue light of multiple monitors.

Claire bent close to her ear. "That note I mentioned? The one found with Julia? It said 'I am the one.' I want you to run it against known manifestos, see if there's a pattern match."

Violet nodded without looking up. "On it. Any other details about the paper, ink, anything?"

"Not yet," Claire lied, straightening. "I'll forward the file when it comes in."

Finally, she composed a text to Fitz, who was already en route to his second interview with Sutter: Update on the note found with Julia's body. Message read "I am her." What do you make of that? Maybe identity transference or surrogate relationship with victim? Anyway, might be useful in your questioning.

Claire slipped her phone into her pocket and closed her eyes briefly. The betrayal that necessitated this trap left a bitter taste in her mouth. There were times when she couldn’t tell her team everything, but she’d never lied like this. And she hated doing it. But it was necessary.

When Colt Redding's next video dropped, she would have her answer, but she’d lose something valuable in the process. One of her team members.

In the corner, Ranger had found one final piece of pastrami, his victory quiet and complete as Claire stood alone in the room, surrounded by the strange isolation of her own making.

23

Fitz stared at the text from Claire, his brow furrowing. Update on the note found with Julia's body. Message read "I am her." What do you make of that? Maybe identity transference or surrogate relationship with victim? Anyway, might be useful in your questioning.

“I am her,” he whispered.

Something about the text struck him as odd. Claire typically delivered case facts without interpretive flourishes—she preferred raw information, allowing the team to form their own conclusions. This psychological theory tucked neatly behind the fact felt calculated, almost leading. Not like her at all.

He tucked the phone away, filing the peculiarity for later consideration. The interrogation room door loomed ahead, its institutional gray surface bearing decades of scuffs and scrapes. Fitz straightened his rumpled jacket and collected his thoughts. Beyond that door waited Leonard Sutter—brilliant mind, academic outcast, and either an innocent researcher or a methodical killer.

Fitz entered to find Sutter already seated, hands folded atop the metal table. The former professor's gray hair stood in tufts, as though he'd been running his fingers through it repeatedly. His eyes, however, remained alert—assessing Fitz with the clinical detachment of a scientist studying an experimental subject.

Sutter’s lawyer greeted Fitz and made a series of pronouncements about how they were cooperating voluntarily, but that Sutter had nothing to hide and was eager to be cleared of any suspicion. Fitz listened, his eyes on Sutter the whole time, trying to get a read on him.

"Dr. Sutter," Fitz began, settling into the chair opposite him. "I appreciate your continued cooperation."

Sutter's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. "I’ve heard you’re the smart one, though that Claire lady had at least memorized a few terms relevant to my work.”

"A productive conversation benefits us both," Fitz replied, opening the folder he'd brought with him. "Since we last spoke, we've learned more about your academic trajectory."

He laid out several printouts—academic papers, institutional memos, grant applications. Violet's research had yielded a wealth of information, painting a portrait of Sutter's professional rise and fall with devastating precision.

"Your early work on consciousness was quite conventional," Fitz noted, tapping a paper from 2005. "Neurological correlates of awareness, standard EEG methodology, peer-reviewed publications in respected journals."

Sutter's expression remained neutral, though his fingers drummed lightly against the tabletop.

"Then something shifted," Fitz continued. "Around 2011, your research proposals began exploring more... speculative territory. Consciousness mapping during terminal phases. Transition state monitoring." He looked up. "That's when your grant funding patterns changed as well."

"Science evolves," Sutter said simply. "My interests shifted toward underdeveloped research areas."

"Underdeveloped areas that prompted an ethics investigation by your university," Fitz countered. "Resulting in your rather abrupt departure from academia."

Sutter leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed. "The ethics committee was populated by intellectual cowards afraid to push boundaries. They preferred MRI studies of college sophomores pressing buttons to actual breakthrough research."

Fitz nodded, almost sympathetically. "The eternal struggle between institutional conservatism and scientific progress. I experienced similar resistance during my time at Cambridge, though perhaps less dramatically."

A flicker of interest crossed Sutter's face. "You were at Cambridge?"

"Theological philosophy, primarily," Fitz confirmed. "Though my interests eventually led me toward criminal psychology. The fundamental questions remain remarkably similar—what makes us human? Where does consciousness reside? What happens when we cease to exist?"

"The eternal questions," Sutter murmured.

"All that said, I was expelled, not unlike yourself. For me it was due to personal issues. For you, an increasingly unorthodox approach to research. Particularly your work on hemlock-derived compounds and their effects on neural activity during death."

Sutter's expression sharpened. "That research was theoretical. Computational models, literature reviews. Not experimental."

"Was it?" Fitz removed another document from his folder—a requisition form from the university's chemical storage facility, dated six months before Sutter's resignation. "This request for controlled botanical specimens suggests otherwise. Conium maculatum. Common name: hemlock."

Sutter frowned. "For extraction and comparative chemical analysis only. The toxicology of coniine is well-documented."

"Of course," Fitz nodded. "Though one wonders why a neurologist would need raw botanical specimens rather than purified compounds from a standard supplier."

"The process matters," Sutter replied. "Natural extraction yields subtle molecular variations absent in synthetic versions."

Fitz leaned forward. "Like the variations found in Julia Marek's bloodstream? A hemlock-derived compound, but not matching standard pharmaceutical profiles."

"I'm a scientist, not a murderer," Sutter said tightly.

"The Greek philosophers viewed those roles as potentially compatible," Fitz observed. "Socrates died by hemlock, did he not? A death both methodical and philosophical. His students documented his passing with remarkable precision—the gradual numbing beginning in his feet, slowly ascending while his mind remained clear until the very end."

Something flickered in Sutter's eyes. Not guilt, Fitz thought, but recognition. Professional fascination, perhaps.

"Plato's account in Phaedo is likely dramatized," Sutter replied after a pause. "Though the progression he describes aligns with modern understanding of coniine's pharmacological action. Peripheral nerve blockade causing ascending paralysis while preserving consciousness."

"An ideal methodology for observing the transition between life and death," Fitz suggested. "The subject remains aware throughout the process, able to report sensations until the final moment."

Sutter leaned forward. "Theoretically, yes. Which is why it features prominently in philosophical and scientific literature on consciousness. But there's a vast distance between theoretical interest and practical application."

"Is there?" Fitz countered. "Your research specifically sought to measure that transition moment—what you called the 'threshold state' between being and non-being. Your grant applications proposed developing methodologies to capture neural activity during the precise instant of death."

"Within ethical parameters," Sutter insisted.

"Parameters your university deemed inadequate," Fitz reminded him. "Shortly before your forced resignation."

The conversation continued its cerebral dance, two minds circling each other. Fitz noted how Sutter grew increasingly animated when discussing the philosophical implications of his research, his hands gesturing emphatically as he quoted Kant, Heidegger, even William James. The former professor seemed to relish the opportunity to engage with someone who understood the intellectual underpinnings of his work, which Fitz did.

"The noumenal world—the thing-in-itself—remains forever beyond our direct perception," Sutter argued, citing Kant. "Except, perhaps, in that split second when consciousness slips its material bonds. What if that final moment gives us a glimpse beyond the phenomenal world we're trapped within? What if dying allows us to perceive reality directly, if only for an instant?"

"An appealing hypothesis," Fitz acknowledged. "Though one that presents obvious experimental challenges."

"Challenges that conventional research ethics couldn't accommodate," Sutter said bitterly. "They weren't prepared for paradigm-shifting questions."

"So you continued your research privately?"

"Theoretical work only," Sutter insisted. "Computer modeling, literature analysis. Nothing requiring human subjects."

Fitz removed one final document from his folder—a list of names. "These young women attended your lectures before their deaths. Julia Marek. Mei-Lin Chang. Both found posed in natural settings, both with evidence of hemlock-derived compounds in their systems. Both died fully conscious as paralysis stopped their breathing."

"Someone is using my research," Sutter said slowly. "Someone is... implementing my theories."

"A convenient explanation," Fitz observed.

Sutter's composure shattered. He slammed his palm against the table, eyes wide. "You really think I did this?! I agreed to help because I wanted you to catch the bastard who's ruining my research! Someone has taken my theoretical framework and perverted it into... this abomination." His voice cracked on the final word, genuine anguish coloring his tone. "My work was meant to expand human understanding, not end human lives."

Fitz studied him carefully. The indignation seemed authentic, the distress genuine rather than performed. He'd interrogated countless suspects over the years, developed an almost preternatural sensitivity to deception. Sutter's reaction carried the unmistakable cadence of horrified recognition rather than guilty denial.

"These murders," Sutter continued, his voice lower now, "they're a perversion of everything I worked toward. Someone has twisted my research into something monstrous. You have to believe me."

Fitz felt himself growing angry, but then all of a sudden he let out a long breath, deflated. He didn’t know why, but he knew Sutter wasn’t their guy.

He'd rarely encountered a suspect who presented such contradictory indicators. Everything about Sutter's research, his background, his connections to the victims screamed guilt. Yet his reactions, his genuine horror at the details... Fitz had never seen a man so guilty who he didn't think did it.

Fitz gathered the documents, sliding them back into his folder with deliberate care.

Fitz stood, shot a look at the lawyer. “We’d like Professor Sutter to spend one more night in the city before returning home, so that we might follow up in the morning.”

The lawyer nodded and Fitz turned to go.

As he closed the door behind him, Fitz wondered what Claire would make of his assessment. The text message about the note flashed in his mind again—I am her—and he considered what identity transference might suggest if Sutter wasn't their killer.

Someone was out there, implementing Sutter's theories with methodical precision. Someone who believed they were accessing the threshold between life and death, perhaps even crossing it. Someone who had appointed themselves the guardian of that threshold.

And Fitz couldn't shake the growing conviction that Sutter, for all his oddities and ethical ambiguities, was not that someone.

24

Jack stared at the motel door, the green neon "VACANCY" sign casting an eerie glow across Sutter's room. Room 114. The kind of place where you paid cash and the front desk didn't look too closely at ID cards. Perfect for surveillance, terrible for comfort.

With the cut to their budget, it was all they could pony up for his stay.

He shifted in the driver's seat, his back stiff from hours of watching. Beside him, Kiko rested her head against the window, her silhouette etched against the gathering darkness.

"You ever wonder how we ended up back here?" she asked, breaking the silence.

Jack smiled. "You mean in a cramped car watching a suspect's door for hours, or us being together again?"

"Both, I guess." Her laugh was soft, genuine. "After all those promises we made to keep things professional."

"I think it was your bookshelf," Jack said, remembering the moment with surprising clarity. "When I helped you move into that apartment. You had that ridiculous collection of spy novels arranged by cover color instead of author."

Kiko turned toward him. "And you said it was the most unprofessional organization system you'd ever seen."

"Then you said 'good thing we're off duty' and kissed me," Jack finished. "And that was that."

"That was that," she echoed, her voice warm in the darkness of the car.

Jack had always been good at compartmentalizing his personal life. But somehow, with Kiko, it hadn’t worked.

"Would you leave the team?" Kiko asked suddenly. "For this. For us."

The question caught him off guard. Jack had always defined himself through service—military, then FBI. The team was his anchor.

"Would you?" he countered.

"Yes," she said without hesitation. "In a heartbeat."

Jack was surprised to hear himself say, "I would too." The words felt foreign yet undeniably true. "If it came to that, yes."

Kiko reached across the console and took his hand, her fingers interlacing with his. Her palm was warm against his skin, a small point of human connection in the isolation of their surveillance post.

"Claire would kill us both," Jack said, but he was smiling.

"Probably," Kiko agreed.

The thought should have terrified him—giving up his career, his team, for a relationship. But as he looked at Kiko's face in the half-light, he realized that some things mattered more than the job.

Claire settled onto her patio chair, breathing in the evening air. The small vegetable garden she'd started last year was finally taking shape—tomatoes climbing their trellises, basil releasing its fragrance when the breeze stirred.

Through the sliding glass door, she could see her children gathered around the television, the colorful chaos of Mario Kart reflected in their animated faces. Benny sat between his older sisters, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he navigated his cart along a wild-looking rainbow-colored road in the sky.

She'd tried joining them earlier, but kept physically leaning with each turn, much to Benny's endless amusement. "Mom, the controller knows you're turning! You don't have to move!" he'd explained between fits of giggles.

Claire sipped her wine, savoring the moment of normalcy. These evenings at home had become her sanctuary—the place where murder boards and jurisdictional disputes couldn't follow. The place where she was just Mom, not Special Agent in Charge.

Her phone buzzed on the patio table. Claire considered ignoring it, letting this rare peaceful moment stretch uninterrupted. But twenty years of FBI work had conditioned her to respond. It could be a break in the case. It could be Violet with a lead on Sutter. It could be Fitz with an insight from his interrogation.

She glanced at the screen. A notification from TikTok: "ColtTrueCrime just posted a new video."

Claire's chest tightened as she tapped the icon. The bait she'd planted was about to reveal whether she had a traitor on her team. And if so, which one.

Jack blinked, fighting the fatigue that had settled into his bones. They'd agreed to work in shifts, alternating two hours of watch with two hours of rest. Kiko had lasted all of twenty minutes into her first watch before falling asleep, her head resting against the passenger window.

He didn't have the heart to wake her. She had this remarkable ability to fall asleep instantly, anywhere—during stakeouts, on flights, once even standing up during a particularly boring FBI training seminar.

Jack took another sip from his thermos, grimacing at the taste of lukewarm coffee. He'd always hated stakeouts—the tedium, the discomfort, the way time seemed to stretch into infinity when nothing happened. But he'd volunteered for this one, partly because he didn't trust anyone else to maintain proper surveillance on Sutter, and partly because it gave him time alone with Kiko.

She mumbled something in her sleep, curling slightly toward him in the passenger seat. Her dark hair fell across her face, and Jack resisted the urge to brush it back.

He checked his watch. Four more hours until their relief arrived. Jack shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that didn't aggravate his lower back. Ten years ago, an all-night stakeout wouldn't have fazed him. Now his body kept a running tally of every hour spent in a car seat.

The motel remained quiet, no movement around Sutter's door. Jack kept his eyes trained on the entrance, determined to stay alert despite the warmth of the car and the rhythmic sound of Kiko's breathing beside him.

If Sutter was their killer, Jack wasn't going to let him slip away because he'd dozed off.

Claire watched the TikTok with dread. Colt Redding appeared on screen, his expression schooled into the somber intensity that had become his trademark. Behind him, a digitally enhanced image of hemlock branches framed his face like a macabre halo.

"Breaking update on the Hemlock Killer case," he began, voice modulated to convey authority. "FBI sources confirm that victim Julia Marek was found clutching a note reading 'I am the one who knows'—suggesting the killer believes himself to be revealing hidden truths through these ritualistic murders."

He continued talking, speculating about what the message might mean, but Claire had stopped listening. Not the message she'd given to Violet, or Kiko, or Fitz. The unique variant she had crafted specifically to identify a leak.

Redding had shared exact words she'd shared with Jack—and only Jack.

Her hand lowered to her lap, the phone's glow illuminating her face in the gathering dusk. The garden's tranquility felt suddenly remote, its peace artificial.

Jack. Of all people.

The betrayal settled in her stomach, cold and undeniable. Jack Russo—ex-military, disciplined, the team member she'd trusted most with operational security—was feeding case details to a TikTok crime commentator.

Behind her, through the glass door, she heard Benny's triumphant shout as he apparently won his race. The normal world continued, oblivious to the fracture that had just opened in hers.

Claire took a long sip of Cabernet, trying to process what came next. Confrontation? Surveillance to gather evidence? Immediate removal from the case?

The phone buzzed again in her hand.

A text from Fitz: Interesting development with Sutter. Call when you can.

She would. But first, she needed to understand why Jack Russo, of all people, had betrayed her trust. And what the hell she was going to do about it.

25

Subject 003

Age: 23 years

Sex: Female

Ethnicity: Mixed racial background

Weight: 160 lbs

Height: 5'8"

Baseline Vitals:

- Heart Rate: 69 bpm

- Blood Pressure: 122/75 mmHg

- Respiratory Rate: 16 breaths/minute

- Oxygen Saturation: 98%

- Core Temperature: 98.4°F (36.9°C)

- Pupillary Response: Asymmetrical, right slightly more reactive

Subject 003 represents an advanced candidate. Medical history suggests increased neural plasticity, potential genetic markers for enhanced awareness. Preliminary psychological profile indicates heightened introspective capabilities. Optimal selection for continued research into consciousness transition.

Between breath and stillness, a membrane thinner than thought.

Dose Administered: 7:58 PM

8:03 PM: Subject demonstrates heightened initial resistance. Heart rate accelerates to 82 bpm. Peripheral nervous system responses more complex than previous subject. Muscular fasciculations exhibit unique oscillation pattern. Gaze tracking reveals subtle cognitive engagement beyond standard stress response. Theta-wave Oscillation shows unexpected complexity.

The moment learns its own name, then forgets.

8:07 PM: Neurological shutdown initiating. Voluntary motor control progressively compromised. Subject displays remarkable awareness—micro-expressions suggest internal dialogue. Pupils now exhibiting nonlinear dilation response. Glial Cell Activity Index (GCAI) presenting anomalous fluctuations beyond predicted parameters.

Consciousness unspools like a thread pulled from darkness.

8:11 PM: Significant neurological divergence detected. Heart rate destabilizing (57 bpm). Respiratory patterns displaying quantum-level irregularities. Subject appears to be negotiating the boundary between perceptual states. Cortical Quantum Resonance (CQR) spiking—potential breakthrough in understanding transitional consciousness.

The border between being and not-being trembles.

8:15 PM: Critical observation point. Neurological activity suggests subject experiencing multi-dimensional awareness. Breathing reduced to 6 breaths/minute. Pupils now fixed, but internal neural networks continue complex signaling. Hypothesis forming: Consciousness does not terminate—it transforms.

Thought fragments into pure potential.

8:19 PM: Respiratory function near cessation. Heart rate intermittent (42 bpm). Extraordinary neural activity persists beyond physiological shutdown. Subject's internal landscape appears to be expanding rather than contracting. Theta-wave Oscillation reaches unprecedented amplitude.

The last breath becomes a doorway.

8:23 PM: Biological termination imminent. Yet neural networks continue complex signaling. Something emerges—not death, but transition. Subject's consciousness seems to be mapping its own dissolution. CQR indicates potential quantum-level information transfer.

Between memory and oblivion, a universe breathes.

8:26:47 PM: Physiological cessation confirmed. Heart rate zero. No measurable brain stem activity. Yet—something remains. Neural echoes. Quantum resonances. The experiment approaches its true revelation.

Preliminary conclusion: Consciousness is not an endpoint, but a continuous transformation. Subject 002 provides critical evidence of survival beyond biological limitation.

Only the experiment remembers. Only the question remains.

Subject 004 preparation commencing. Proximity to total understanding of death increases with each iteration.

END OF PRELIMINARY REPORT

26

Claire stepped into the Boiler Room, shaking raindrops from her jacket. The morning drizzle had soaked through her clothes during the short walk from the parking garage, adding a physical dampness to her already dark mood.

After discovering Jack's betrayal last night, she'd barely slept, her mind churning through possibilities and consequences.

Violet was already at her station, fingers flying across her keyboard with unusual urgency. Three monitors displayed different screens—one with satellite imagery, another with police communications, and a third filled with what appeared to be medical examiner protocols.

"We've got another one," Violet said without preamble, not even turning to acknowledge Claire's arrival. Her voice carried a tight, controlled panic. "Tiger Mountain State Forest. Seattle PD just confirmed it matches our killer's MO."

Claire set down her coffee, adrenaline instantly washing away her fatigue. "How recent?"

"Found by hikers around five this morning. Detective Sorenson from SPD called me directly—we exchanged contact information during a case last year." Violet finally swiveled in her chair, her expression grim. "Female victim, posed with hemlock. Facing east."

"Dammit," Claire muttered. "Where's everyone else?"

"Jack and Kiko were on Sutter surveillance all night. They haven't checked in yet." Violet's eyes darted back to her screens. "Seattle PD is securing the scene, but they're holding back until we arrive. State Park jurisdiction is complicating things."

Claire nodded, already pulling out her phone to call Fitz. He answered on the second ring.

"Fitzgerald Pembroke speaking."

"Fitz, we've got another victim. Tiger Mountain. Meet me there ASAP.”

"On my way," he replied without hesitation. "What about Sutter?"

"Jack and Kiko had eyes on him all night. I'll check with them, but this means either Sutter isn't our guy, or he's got an accomplice." Claire gathered her keys, gesturing for Violet to follow. "Where's Hannah Kettering? Has she checked in as required?"

Violet shook her head, gathering her laptop. "I tried her cell. No answer."

A cold dread settled in Claire's stomach. "Call her lawyer."

Violet dialed the number, putting it on speaker as they hurried toward the elevator.

"Nair Legal Services," a receptionist answered.

"This is Violet Wei, FBI. I need to speak with Nair immediately regarding Hannah Kettering."

"Please hold."

The elevator doors closed as tinny hold music filled the small space. Claire and Violet exchanged grim looks. If Hannah had slipped her monitoring and disappeared...

"Ms. Wei," Nair's crisp voice cut through the music. "What can I do for you?"

"We need Hannah Kettering's location immediately," Claire cut in. "She's not responding to check-in protocols."

"That's odd," Nair replied, sounding puzzled. "She was absolutely committed to following all requirements. Have you checked her apartment?"

"Working on that now," Violet said, already typing on her phone. "When did you last speak with her?"

"Yesterday evening, around six. She sounded... relieved, actually. Said she had remembered something that might help your investigation." Nair paused. "She was planning to contact you this morning."

"We'll get back to you, Ms. Nair. And if you hear from her, tell her to call us immediately."

As the elevator reached the parking garage, Claire shook her head. "We made a mistake letting her out."

"You think she's our killer?" Violet asked, hurrying to keep pace with Claire's determined stride.

“I didn’t before, but...” Claire didn’t want to say it out loud. “If we let her walk and she’s the killer...”

“Not good, but there’s another option.”

Claire glanced at her.

“She could be the victim.”

The rain intensified during the forty-minute drive to Tiger Mountain, transforming from a gentle mist to steady sheets that hammered against the windshield. The wipers struggled to maintain visibility as Claire navigated the twisting road leading into the state forest. By the time they pulled into the hastily established command area, the downpour had turned the parking lot into a maze of puddles.

A kaleidoscope of emergency vehicles lined the perimeter—Seattle PD cruisers, State Park ranger trucks, a Medical Examiner's van, even a Department of Natural Resources vehicle. Uniformed personnel in rain gear moved between vehicles, some holding clipboards protected by plastic sheets, others huddled in small groups beneath portable canopies.

Claire spotted Fitz standing beneath a large blue tent that had been erected near the trailhead. He wore a tweed jacket utterly unsuitable for the weather, now darkened with moisture despite his position under shelter.

"Territorial disputes?" Claire asked as she approached, noting the distinct groupings of different agencies keeping their distance from each other.

"Reaching biblical proportions," Fitz confirmed. "State Parks claims jurisdiction because it's their land. Seattle PD argues it's their case because it connects to ongoing investigations. The ME just wants to process the scene before evidence deteriorates further, and everyone else seems primarily concerned with asserting their administrative relevance."

"Where's the victim?" Claire's tone left no room for bureaucratic nonsense.

Fitz gestured toward a cordoned area fifty yards down a muddy trail, barely visible through the rain. A second blue tent had been erected there, larger than the command post, its sides flapping in the wind.

"Detective Sorenson is expecting you," he said. “I spoke with her briefly but she wanted to wait until you arrived to get into it.”

Claire nodded, already starting toward the scene. Violet and Fitz fell in step beside her, their shoes squelching in mud with each step. The rain pounded against their shoulders, the smell of wet earth and pine filling the air.

A tall woman in a Seattle PD rain jacket stood at the entrance to the tent, her dark hair plastered to her face despite the hood. "Agent Anderson? Detective Miranda Sorenson. Thanks for coming so quickly."

"What can you tell me?" Claire asked, ducking into the relative dryness of the tent.

"Female victim,” Sorenson said. “Mid-twenties.”

Claire’s stomach churned as Violet glanced at her, frowning.

“Found by hikers shortly after dawn. Same positioning as your other cases—laid out on natural foliage, arms arranged, facing east." Sorenson's voice was professional, detached. "ME hasn't determined cause of death yet, but preliminary observation suggests the same type of paralytic compound."

In the center of the tent, a body lay covered by a white sheet, surrounded by evidence markers and photography equipment. Two technicians in ME jackets worked methodically at a portable table nearby, cataloging samples.

"The victim had no identification," Sorenson continued. "But..." She hesitated, glancing at Claire with an expression that mixed professional detachment with genuine sympathy. "We believe there's a connection to your active case."

Claire stepped forward, her hand reaching for the edge of the sheet. "May I?"

Sorenson nodded.

Claire steeled herself and pulled back the covering, revealing the victim's face.

The shock hit her like a physical blow, driving the air from her lungs.

Hannah Kettering lay on the damp earth, her face peaceful despite the circumstances of her death. Her dark hair was arranged carefully around her head, her expression serene. Small white flowers had been woven through her fingers, hemlock sprigs placed with deliberate care over her heart.

Fitz stepped closer, his face ashen. "She wasn't running from us, wasn’t scared of us.”

"She was the next victim," Claire finished, the weight of their mistake settling over her like the relentless rain outside. "And we let her walk right into it."

Violet turned away, hand covering her mouth. "Her lawyer said she had new information. I wonder if the killer had tried to contact her."

Behind them, the jurisdictional disputes continued, voices rising and falling like distant thunder. But inside the tent, beneath the harsh portable lights, Claire could see only their failure—a young woman they should have protected, transformed instead into evidence of a killer they were no closer to catching.

27

Jack jerked awake to the shrill ring of his phone, momentarily disoriented in the cramped space of the surveillance vehicle. Kiko remained asleep beside him, her breathing steady and untroubled. The digital display on the dashboard showed 8:22 AM. Outside the windshield, the motel parking lot sat empty except for a few scattered vehicles.

"Russo," he answered, his voice hoarse and sleepy despite his best efforts to sound alert.

"Is Sutter still there?" Claire's voice crackled with urgency. "Jack, we need eyes on him now."

The intensity in her tone cleared the fog from his mind instantly. "What's happened?"

"Hannah Kettering's dead. Found at Tiger Mountain this morning. Same MO as the others."

Jack sat upright, adrenaline flooding his system. "That's impossible. We've had eyes on Sutter all night⁠—"

"Have you?" Claire cut in. "Or did you fall asleep?"

The silence that followed was answer enough. Jack glanced at Sutter's motel door, still closed, no signs of disturbance. But he'd been out for—he checked his watch against his last clear memory—at least an hour.

"Confirm Sutter is in that room," Claire ordered. "Now."

Jack ended the call, immediately shaking Kiko awake. "We need to move. Hannah Kettering dead."

Kiko blinked rapidly, processing his words. "How? We've been watching Sutter all night."

The unspoken truth hung between them. They hadn't been watching. They'd failed.

Jack exited the car, drawing his sidearm. The guilt crystallized into something hard and sharp in his chest. If Sutter had slipped past them while they slept, if he'd killed Hannah because of their negligence...

"Cover the window," he instructed Kiko as they approached Room 114. "If he tries to bolt⁠—"

"Got it," she replied, all traces of sleep vanished as she positioned herself with a clear view of both the window and potential escape routes.

Jack pounded on the door. "FBI! Dr. Sutter, open up!" Silence answered him.

He knocked again, harder. "Leonard Sutter! FBI! Open this door now!" Nothing.

Jack met Kiko's eyes, seeing his own concern mirrored there. He tried the handle— locked. He stepped back, positioning himself beside the door.

"We're coming in!" Jack called out, then delivered a powerful kick just beside the doorknob. The frame splintered but held.

He kicked again, throwing his full weight behind it. The door burst inward with a crack of breaking wood.

The smell hit him first—metallic and unmistakable. Jack entered with his weapon raised, sweeping the small room methodically.

"Oh god," Kiko whispered behind him.

Leonard Sutter lay sprawled across the bed, one arm dangling toward the floor. A single bullet wound marked the center of his forehead, the exit wound having left a dark stain on the pillow beneath him. His eyes remained open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.

"Clear," Jack confirmed, checking the bathroom before holstering his weapon.

Kiko approached the body carefully. "Rigor just starting to set in. Blood's somewhat coagulated." She glanced at the room's undisturbed appearance. "No signs of struggle."

Jack touched Sutter's wrist, confirming the complete absence of pulse and the cool, stiff nature of the flesh. "He's been dead for two hours. Maybe three. Shot in his sleep."

"Which means..." Kiko began.

Jack held up a hand and closed his eyes tight. There were moments he knew he’d never forget, and this was one of them. He moved to the wall, striking it hard with an open palm, leaving a dent in the sheetrock.

He walked slowly to the door he’d just kicked in, each splinter distinct and clear.

Kiko approached him from behind. “Jack?”

He shook himself free of her touch and walked out.

28

Claire stared at the contents of her salad container without appetite. The Boiler Room had fallen into an unusual silence, punctuated only by the hum of computers and the occasional click of plastic utensils against takeout containers. No one seemed particularly interested in eating, but they went through the motions anyway, a performance of normalcy in the face of catastrophic failure.

Fitz sat next to her, absently feeding small pieces of his sandwich to Ranger, who accepted each offering with uncharacteristic gentleness.

Jack and Kiko occupied opposite sides of the room—Jack reviewing the Sutter crime scene photos with grim focus, Kiko documenting the timeline of their surveillance in painfully precise detail.

Violet hunched over her keyboard, face illuminated by her screens, fingers moving without their usual energy.

"The coroner's preliminary report on Sutter confirms time of death between five and six AM," Jack said, breaking the silence. He stood and looked at Claire. “And I’m offering the team my resignation.”

“There will be time for recriminations,” Claire said, “but for now⁠—”

“With all due respect, I don’t deserve to⁠—”

“Don’t interrupt me, Jack.” Claire stood. “You work for me until further notice. Your resignation is denied. There will be time for recriminations. And believe me, we will have those talks. For now...” she paused, making eye contact with every member of her team. “No time for pity. Just work.”

Claire sat, pushing her salad aside. On her desk, Jonas Keating's slim volume lay open to the poem that had haunted their investigation since the beginning. "Beneath Hemlock Skies." She'd read it so many times today she could recite it from memory, each sparse line etched into her consciousness like a crime scene photograph.

The cover featured a man's silhouette against a twilight sky, a sprig of hemlock held delicately between his fingers. Something about the image kept drawing her back, like a witness statement with inconsistencies that couldn't quite be articulated.

"What do we know about Keating?" Claire asked, looking up from the book.

Fitz paused in his surreptitious feeding of Ranger. "Served in World War II as a radio operator. Published a few collections in the late forties and early fifties before taking his own life in '53." His voice carried the flat cadence of someone reciting facts to avoid confronting emotions. "Not widely read during his lifetime. Found posthumous appreciation among the existentialists."

"And our killer is a fan," Claire said, tapping the book's cover.

"Someone educated," Fitz agreed. "Someone familiar with both literary obscurity and advanced neurological research. Someone with access to specialized compounds and knowledge of anatomy."

"Someone who murdered three people while we chased shadows," Jack said, his voice tight with self-recrimination.

The room fell silent again. Claire couldn't argue with the assessment. They'd fixated on Hannah, then Sutter, while the real killer had moved freely.

Violet straightened suddenly in her chair. "Colt's posted a new video."

No one needed to ask which Colt. Claire moved to stand behind Violet's chair, the others gathering around as the TikTok video loaded on the center monitor.

Colt Redding stared into the camera, his expression somber beneath carefully tousled hair. Behind him, digitally edited images of hemlock and crime scene tape created a ghoulish backdrop.

"The FBI's elite S.W.O.R.D. team has suffered a devastating setback in the Hemlock Killer investigation," he began, his voice modulated for maximum dramatic effect. "With the discovery of medical student Hannah Kettering's body this morning, followed by the execution-style murder of former neuroscience professor Leonard Sutter, it's clear the killer is not only still at large but actively dismantling the investigation's primary suspects."

Claire felt her team's collective tension as Redding continued, revealing details that should have been tightly controlled.

"Sources close to the investigation confirm that both Kettering and Sutter were considered persons of interest before their deaths," Redding said. "The killer appears to be systematically eliminating anyone who might help authorities understand the ritualistic nature of these murders."

"Turn it off," Claire said quietly.

Violet closed the window that had been playing the video, leaving the screen blank. No one spoke for several moments.

"Ms. Anderson?" The voice came from the doorway, where an administrative assistant stood holding an envelope. "This just arrived from Nair Legal Services. Marked urgent."

Claire accepted the envelope, opening it as the assistant retreated. She scanned the contents, then passed the document to Fitz.

"Hannah's statement," she explained. "What she was planning to share with us before she was killed."

Fitz read aloud: "'I, Hannah Kettering, provide this statement voluntarily to clarify my relationship with Julia Marek and my actions following her death. Julia and I were close friends who had a falling out over her increasing interest in fringe theories about consciousness and death. The night she disappeared, she called to tell me she was meeting someone who shared these interests. I discouraged her but did not alert authorities, a decision I will regret forever.'"

He continued reading, detailing how Hannah had deleted their communications out of guilt and fear after Julia's death. Her prescription drug use—Adderall and Ritalin to keep up with medical school demands—had made her paranoid about formal investigation. She'd moved in some of the same online forums as Julia, making her fear she'd be considered a suspect.

"'I have information about the online persona Julia was communicating with before her death,'" Fitz read the final paragraph. "'The username Quantum_Mind appears in multiple consciousness research forums dating back three years, often discussing theories about monitoring neural activity during death. Julia believed this person had conducted actual experiments capturing the moment of death. I dismissed this as fringe pseudoscience. I now believe this person may be responsible for Julia's murder.'"

Fitz set the statement down.

"And we still have no idea who Quantum_Mind is?" Jack asked.

"No,” Violet said. “And I’ve looked hard.”

“So where does that leave us?" Kiko asked.

Claire surveyed her team—exhausted, demoralized, but still here. Still breathing. Still fighting. Unlike Hannah. Unlike Julia. Unlike Sutter.

"It leaves us back at the beginning," she said finally. "With new information and no more room for mistakes. Tomorrow, we start fresh." She gathered her files. "For now, go home. Get some rest. We regroup at seven AM."

The team dispersed slowly, gathering belongings with the weariness of soldiers after a lost battle. As Jack headed for the door, Claire called out, "Jack, hang back a minute."

He turned, his expression carefully neutral as the others filed out, leaving them alone in the Boiler Room.

29

Claire shut the door to the Boiler Room with deliberate care, the soft click somehow more final than a slam would have been. Jack stood by the conference table, his posture rigid—the military bearing he reverted to under stress.

"We need to talk," Claire said.

"About tomorrow's approach?" Jack asked.

His eyes told her he knew better. "About Colt Redding." She moved to stand across from him, the table a neutral zone between them. "About why case details I shared only with you appeared in his videos."

Jack's expression shifted, surprise showing briefly on his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't." Claire's voice hardened. "I gave each team member different versions of the note supposedly found with Julia's body. You got 'I am the one who knows.' That exact phrase showed up in Redding's TikTok last night."

She watched his face carefully, cataloging every micro-expression.

Confusion. Then realization. Then something like anger.

"You're saying I leaked to Redding?" The question came out flat, controlled.

"I'm saying I know you did." Claire leaned forward slightly. "What I don't know is why."

Jack straightened. "I have never spoken to Colt Redding. Not once."

"The information came from somewhere, Jack. I gave that specific version only to you."

"I don't leak case details to social media personalities." His voice remained steady, but Claire caught the undercurrent of frustration.

"Then how did he get it?" Claire pressed.

Jack hesitated, something unreadable flashing across his face. "I can't tell you that."

The non-denial hit Claire like a physical blow. Not "I don't know" but "I can't tell you." Meaning he knew exactly how the information had traveled.

"That's not good enough," she said. "Three people are dead. A fourth could be targeted any moment. If you're compromising this investigation⁠—"

"I'm not." Jack cut her off, his tone sharper than she'd ever heard him use with her. "What I'm doing has nothing to do with Redding. Nothing to do with compromising our work."

Claire studied him. Twenty years in the Bureau had taught her to read people, to sense the shape of lies and truths. Jack wasn't lying about not speaking to Redding directly. But he was hiding something significant.

"You've been my right hand at S.W.O.R.D. since day one," she said quietly. "I thought I knew you."

Something flared in Jack's eyes—hurt, perhaps, or disappointment. "You do know me. Which is why this accusation should tell you something's very wrong here."

"What's wrong is that critical case information is showing up on TikTok hours after I share it with you," Claire countered.

Jack ran a hand over his face, exhaustion briefly overtaking his controlled demeanor. "You may not believe me right now," he said finally, "but can you trust me to continue this case?"

The question caught her off guard.

Did she trust him? Despite everything?

A memory surfaced—her college basketball coach addressing the team after a devastating loss where miscommunications had cost them the game. Even when someone is messing up, until they're off your team, they're on it. You trust them because the uniform says you do.

Claire rubbed her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. "Yes," she admitted. "God help me, I do."

Jack nodded once, relief visible in the slight relaxation of his shoulders. "Thank you." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Claire... there are layers here you don't see yet. But I've never betrayed this team, and I never will."

Before she could respond, he was gone, leaving her alone with questions that seemed to multiplying.

The afternoon sun broke intermittently through Seattle's cloud cover as Claire walked along the waterfront. Elliott Bay stretched before her, ferry boats cutting white paths across the steely water. She'd left the office without destination or purpose, needing movement, air, distance from the suffocating weight of failure that permeated the Boiler Room.

Pausing at a wooden railing, she pulled out her phone, already open to another Keating poem.

Between breath and stillness, a membrane thinner than thought.

The moment learns its own name, then forgets.

Consciousness unspools like a thread pulled from darkness.

The border between being and not-being trembles.

Thought fragments into pure potential.

The last breath becomes a doorway.

Between memory and oblivion, a universe breathes.

Only the experiment remembers. Only the question remains.

The last time she’d written poetry had been in sixth grade English class, and it had been much more in the roses are red, violets are blue tradition.

She didn’t read much poetry either, but there was something about Keating. It brought her into a contemplation of death that she usually preferred to avoid. As sick and twisted as their killer was, she was beginning to feel like she could understand his obsession with the moment of death.

Her phone vibrated. Benny's face filled the screen, his wide smile a welcome sight.

"Hey, Mom! You coming home soon?" His voice carried the particular cadence that was uniquely his, slightly elongated vowels and carefully enunciated consonants.

"Not yet, buddy. Just taking a walk." She settled onto a bench facing the water.

"Where are the girls?"

"Jacqueline's room. They're arguing about clothes." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Boring."

Claire smiled despite herself. "Very boring," she agreed. "What have you been up to?"

Benny launched into an enthusiastic explanation of his latest YouTube video concept, something involving Minecraft and narrative storytelling that Claire couldn't quite follow. His passion washed over her, a reminder of life beyond the darkness she waded through daily.

After promising to be home for dinner, Claire ended the call and sat watching the water, her thoughts returning to the question that had haunted her since she was small—why this life? Why pursue darkness when she could have chosen light?

The answer lay buried with her parents, their deaths when she was barely two years old classified as a cult suicide. No explanations. No closure.

And now Diego Vega—the journalist who had promised information about her parents' involvement in something called the Ascension Project—was dead too, his car a smoking wreck before their scheduled meeting.

Claire had been embarrassed to admit even to herself how nervous she'd been about meeting him. It had felt like a date, though it wasn't—just two professionals discussing a cold case. Still, she'd chosen her outfit carefully, applied makeup with more attention than usual. Such a human moment before another door to her past had slammed shut.

A ferry horn sounded across the water, long and mournful. Claire watched it pull away from the dock, carrying passengers toward islands and peninsulas, toward homes and loved ones.

Her life wasn't bad. She had three amazing children, work that mattered, a home full of love, laughter, and good wine. Her ex-husband wasn't a monster—just a man who couldn't handle the complexities of raising a child with special needs alongside her demanding career.

So why did she feel so hollow?

Three victims dead. Two suspects eliminated. Her team fractured by distrust. Her most reliable agent apparently leaking information through channels she couldn't identify.

Claire stared out at the darkening water, grateful she'd never developed a drinking problem. If there was ever a night to get hammered, this would be it. Instead, she'd go home to her children, maintain the routine they all depended on, and return tomorrow to hunt monsters with a team she no longer fully trusted.

The sun dipped behind Olympic peaks, casting long shadows across the bay. Claire stood, pulled her jacket tighter around herself, and began the long walk back to where she'd parked.

30

Claire arrived at the Boiler Room earlier than usual.

She’d expected it to be empty but Violet was already at her computer, or perhaps still there from the night before. But Claire got the sense that she was in the middle of something, so she took her normal seat at the head of the table and sipped foam off her second cappuccino of the day.

Claire had spent twenty minutes on the phone with Gerald Hightower before even leaving home, navigating the bureaucratic minefield that their case had become. Three victims, two dead suspects who weren't suspects at all, and a social media personality broadcasting their failures to millions.

The pressure from above was intense.

But Hightower had come through, promising to keep EJ Ley off their backs for at least another forty-eight hours. "Consider it a professional courtesy," he'd said, though Claire suspected it had more to do with his own reputation being tied to S.W.O.R.D.'s success than any actual goodwill. Whatever his motives, they had breathing room—a rare commodity in the Bureau's ecosystem.

By seven, the entire team had assembled. The scent of fresh coffee permeated the space, paper cups and mugs clutched in hands as though they contained salvation rather than caffeine. Claire decided not to mention yesterday's confrontations or failures, and she had a speech prepared in her head.

“Today is about moving forward,” she began. “I⁠—”

"Holy hell!” Violet exclaimed, not turning around.

“What is it?” Claire asked.

She turned slowly. “I found something.” Her monitors displayed a complex network of corporate entities, financial transfers, and research grants. "There's a connection between our financial crimes case and the Hemlock killings."

“Holy hell indeed,” Fitz said.

Claire moved to stand behind Violet. "What kind of connection?"

"One of the shell companies that North Cascadia used to launder defense contracts—Meridian Institute for Advanced Neural Study—previously funded research related to altered states of consciousness." Violet clicked through several documents. "Dating back to 2011, they financed multiple studies at private research facilities, including some focused specifically on near-death experiences."

"The kind of research that wouldn't look good on official military or intelligence budgets," Jack observed, moving closer to examine the data.

"Exactly," Violet confirmed. "Black budget neuroscience, essentially. Consciousness exploration, neural mapping during trauma states, even attempts to quantify what happens in the moments before death." She pulled up a document. "This grant went to a private research group studying the 'transition threshold between consciousness and non-being.' Sound familiar?"

"Sutter's work," Fitz murmured.

"Not just Sutter," Violet corrected. "There's a whole network of researchers who've been working on this, most outside traditional academic channels. And Meridian funded multiple projects before their connection to North Cascadia."

Claire felt the first stirrings of momentum. "So our killer could be connected to this research network?"

"It's not just possible, it's likely," Violet replied. "The methodologies, the specialized knowledge about hemlock compounds, the philosophical framework—it all points to someone with access to this research sphere."

Kiko, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since arriving, finally spoke up. "But, I mean...” She stood and began pacing. “Does that mean these companies could actually be involved in the killings? And therefore the killings are almost, government funded?”

“No way,” Jack said.

“That would be a scandal, wouldn’t it?” Fitz asked rhetorically. “But I’m with Jack on this. It’s actually not a surprise that offshoot government contractors would be working on this stuff, but I’d bet our killer is only tangentially involved, at best.”

Claire paced the length of the conference table, energy building with each step. "We've been reactive too long. It's time to get ahead of this." She turned to face her team. "I think our killer will retreat to familiar ground—back to the Hoh Rainforest, where Julia was found. The other victims were reactions, deviations from his plan. Now he'll return to his comfort zone."

She looked from face to face. All seemed ready to jump into action. Even Ranger, dozing beneath the table, lifted his head as though sensing the shift in energy.

"Here's how we play it," Claire continued. "Jack, you handle field operations. I want you to coordinate everything from door-knocking to site surveillance. Whatever local resources are available, get them organized. The jurisdiction is a mess, but make it work."

Jack nodded, already making notes.

"Fitz, I need you to contact Colt Redding."

Fitz's eyebrows shot up. "I beg your pardon?"

"Tell him you're frustrated with the team, that we're ignoring your insights. Let him think we have zero suspects, zero leads, but you're certain the killer has moved to the Seattle area." Claire's smile held no warmth. "Feed him false information. Let's use his platform to our advantage for once."

"A disinformation campaign," Fitz murmured, understanding dawning. "Quite brilliant, actually."

"Violet, you stay here. Two primary tasks: keep digging into that research network and create an online history for Kiko."

"What kind of history?" Violet asked.

"The kind that would interest our killer," Claire explained. "A young woman fascinated by consciousness research, death philosophy, Keating's poetry. Make her active on the same forums where Julia and Hannah participated."

Understanding bloomed across Kiko's face. "You want to use me as bait."

"Hope you don’t mind," Claire confirmed.

Kiko smiled. “Nothing I’d enjoy more than meeting one on one with this bastard and cuffing him myself.”

"We're going to draw him out,” Claire said. “But we control the narrative this time."

The room fell silent. It was bold, potentially dangerous, but after weeks of reacting to the killer's moves, the prospect of seizing initiative energized them all.

"What about the leak?" Violet asked quietly.

Claire glanced at Jack, then let her eyes move from team member to team member. "We operate with the knowledge that our communications may be compromised. Everything we discuss stays in this room. No phones, no emails, no texts about operational details. Got it?”

Everyone nodded.

“We've made mistakes," Claire acknowledged. "We've been playing catch-up while our killer set the rules. That ends today." She placed her hands on the table, leaning forward. "We know more than we did yesterday. We have a direction, a strategy, and each other. That's how we start turning this around."

They had failed. They had mourned. And now, they would hunt.

31

Jack stood at the head of the conference table in the Jefferson County Sheriff's Office, muscles taut with focused energy. The room buzzed with a chaotic mix of uniforms— county deputies, Park Service rangers, Hoh Tribal Police officers, even a couple of Fish and Wildlife agents. Jurisdictional rivalries had transformed this same room into a territorial battlefield, but Jack had no patience for those games.

"Three victims," he began, voice silencing various side conversations. "Three young women murdered with the same methodology, arranged with the same ritualistic precision." He tapped the evidence board where photos of Julia, Mei-Lin, and Hannah stared back at them. "We believe our killer is returning to the Hoh Rainforest. That's where he started, and that's where he'll retreat."

Jack felt the familiar surge of hyper-awareness—what he liked to call tactical insight mode—the state where details crystallized with preternatural clarity. Every face, every reaction, every micro-expression registered as he scanned the room.

"Park Service, I need comprehensive mapping of remote areas with east-facing clearings," he directed, pointing to the rangers. "Sheriff's deputies, establish checkpoints on forest access roads with vehicle logs. Tribal Police, your knowledge of the land is invaluable—I’d love a report from your terrain specialists on possible hideouts."

His commands left no room for debate, and he saw the hesitation in some faces. They weren't used to FBI taking charge so completely. Jack didn't care. Claire trusted him to build this operation, and he wouldn't fail her again.

"Questions?" he asked, though his tone suggested there shouldn't be any.

"With all due respect," a senior deputy began, "this is our jurisdiction⁠—"

"With all due respect," Jack interrupted, "three women are dead, and your jurisdictional concerns didn't save them." The room went silent. "I'm not here to take credit for your work. I'm here to make sure we don't lose a fourth victim while arguing about who's in charge. Are we clear?"

The deputy held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded.

"Good," Jack continued. "You all have your assignments. Operational briefing every four hours. Let's move."

As the room emptied, Jack allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. Claire needed results. He'd deliver them, whatever it took.

Fitz surveyed the hotel suite with mild disappointment. Despite the "executive" designation, it offered all the character of a corporate waiting room—beige walls, generic paintings, furniture designed for durability rather than comfort. Still, it would serve their purpose.

Claire paced near the window, phone pressed to her ear as she coordinated with Violet back at headquarters. Kiko sat cross-legged on one of the beds, laptop open before her, crafting her online persona with meticulous attention to detail. Ranger had claimed the other bed, his golden form sprawled across the duvet in contented repose.

"What about 'MindfulSeeker'?" Kiko suggested, glancing up from her screen. "Too obvious?"

"Perhaps 'ThresholdQuestions' instead," Fitz offered. "Suggests curiosity about boundaries between states of consciousness without being heavy-handed."

"I like it," Kiko nodded, typing rapidly.

Claire ended her call, joining them at the improvised workstation. "Violet's setting up the digital infrastructure now. How's the profile coming?"

"Almost ready," Kiko replied. "We're creating a 19-year-old community college student named Maya Jackson. Parents divorced, somewhat adrift, recently fascinated by consciousness research and death philosophy after a near-drowning experience last summer."

"The near-death angle is crucial," Fitz noted. "It creates the perfect vulnerability for our killer to exploit—someone who's glimpsed beyond the veil and craves deeper understanding."

Claire nodded. "And you've crafted posts referencing Keating's poetry?"

"Subtle references," Kiko confirmed. "Nothing too obvious. We want him to think he's discovered her, not that she's hunting him."

Fitz moved to the window, watching raindrops trace patterns on the glass. "The challenge will be making our communications believable without endangering Kiko.

We must establish authentic intellectual curiosity while conveying vulnerability."

"I'll start participating in the forums tonight," Kiko said. "Building a presence. According to Violet's analysis of the previous victims' online activity, it took about two weeks of engagement before they were contacted privately."

"We don't have two weeks," Claire pointed out.

"Hence my task with Mr. Redding," Fitz sighed. "If the killer is sure we’re on the wrong path, maybe he’ll be bolder."

He'd spent hours crafting his approach to Redding, and it had worked perfectly. He’d made himself into a disgruntled FBI consultant, frustrated by bureaucratic blindness, reaching out to a journalist known for circumventing official channels. The story he told: the FBI was ignoring crucial evidence suggesting the killer had relocated to Seattle, leaving the Hoh region unguarded. If it worked, the killer would seize the opportunity as quickly as possible.

Ranger lifted his head suddenly. Claire had wanted to bring him, but Fitz had insisted. The golden retriever’s ears perked toward the door seconds before a knock sounded.

"Room service," a voice called.

"Perfect timing," Fitz said, moving to answer. "One can hardly scheme on an empty stomach."

32

"Agent Russo!" Deputy Alvarez called across the command center. "Got someone you might want to talk to."

Jack crossed the space where maps covered folding tables beneath the canvas tent. Rain tapped steadily on the tarp overhead.

"Local reported suspicious activity near the northeast sector," Alvarez explained. "Guy named Wendell Harmon. Lives off-grid about three miles from where Julia was found."

"And he's credible?"

Alvarez's expression was diplomatic. "He's... an acquired taste. Thinks the government's tracking him through his dental fillings. But he sees everything that moves in these woods. Nothing gets past him."

Twenty minutes later, Jack's SUV bounced down what barely qualified as a road. The path ended at a clearing where a ramshackle cabin stood surrounded by rain barrels, solar panels, and what appeared to be homemade caltrops scattered strategically around the perimeter.

A figure emerged, shotgun cradled casually in one arm. He wore camouflage overalls, flannel, and a beard that would make ZZ Top envious. A raccoon-skin cap completed the ensemble.

"That's far enough, government man!" the figure called.

Jack stopped the vehicle, stepping out with hands visible. "Agent Russo, FBI." He approached, badge extended. "Mr. Harmon?"

"You wearing a wire? Got satellites tracking me right now?" Wendell squinted suspiciously. "And ain't no mister. Just Wendell." His gaze traveled over Jack's pristine shirt and polished shoes. "You look like you walked out of a catalog. Feds sure love their dress code."

"I understand you saw something suspicious in the woods?"

Wendell spat on the ground. "Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't."

Jack sighed. "Look, I drove all the way out here because Deputy Alvarez said you had information that might help with a murder investigation."

"You got coffee in that fancy vehicle? Mine ran out three days ago."

"No, I don't have⁠—"

"No coffee, no talk." Wendell turned back toward his cabin.

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll have coffee brought out. Now can we discuss what you saw?"

Wendell paused. "Two sugars, splash of cream."

"Fine," Jack said, reaching for his phone to arrange for the delivery. "Now, tell me what you saw in the woods."

"Depends what you call suspicious," Wendell said, leaning his shotgun against a tree stump. "Ain't normal for city folk to be wandering my stretch at three in the morning."

"Can you describe this person?"

"You writing this down?" Wendell asked, suddenly concerned. "Because I don't want my name on no official papers. Government's got enough on me already."

"Just tell me what you saw," Jack said, patience thinning.

"Man. Not as tall as you. Maybe five-ten. Slender but strong. Moved quiet-like, not stomping around like tourists. Or like you," he added with a smirk.

"Was he carrying anything?"

"Hold up," Wendell said, raising his hand. "You think I'm just giving this information away? Information's valuable, Agent Catalog Model."

Jack crossed his arms. "What do you want, Wendell?"

"My property taxes forgiven for the next five years."

"You don't pay property taxes. You told me you live off-grid."

Wendell grinned, revealing a surprising set of perfect teeth. "Just testing if you're paying attention."

Jack fought the urge to turn around and leave. "Let's try again. The man in the woods. Was he carrying anything?"

"Funny you should ask. Had something long wrapped in canvas. Could've been a rifle, 'cept it wasn't the right shape." Wendell mimed the dimensions with his hands. "Too thin in parts, bulky in others."

"Did you interact with him?"

"Hell no. I observe. Difference between me and the sheep is I see without being seen." Wendell gestured toward the woods with theatrical flourish. "Followed him for near a mile."

"Why'd you follow him?" Jack asked.

"Do I need a reason?"

Jack smiled tightly. "Humor me."

"Because he was in my territory," Wendell said, suddenly serious. "These are my woods, even the ones that ain't legally mine. I know every animal, every tree. And he didn't belong."

"Any distinguishing features?" Jack asked.

"You mean besides being where he shouldn't be at three in the morning?" Wendell scratched his beard thoughtfully. "Had this real deliberate way of walking. Each step placed just so, like he was measuring the ground. And he stopped at this one clearing—same place where that girl was found. Stood there a good twenty minutes, just... looking."

Jack's interest sharpened. "Would you recognize him again?"

"That's a dumb question," Wendell said. "Course I would. I've got the memory of⁠—"

"An elephant?" Jack suggested.

"A Wendell Harmon," he corrected. "Which is better than any elephant. Plus, I took pictures."

"Pictures?" Jack failed to hide his surprise.

"What? You think because I don't trust the government, I don't use technology?" Wendell laughed. "I've got motion-activated game cameras all through these woods. Solar powered. Send images straight to my tablet."

"Why would someone who thinks the government is tracking him put cameras everywhere?"

Wendell tapped his temple. "Because I'm tracking them back, Agent Fancy Pants."

After five more minutes of negotiation that included promises of coffee delivery, immunity from surveillance—which Jack couldn't actually grant—and acknowledgment that Wendell's raccoon-skin cap was "tactical headgear," the man finally retrieved his tablet.

He swiped through a series of grainy night-vision images. A figure in a hooded rain jacket stood in a small clearing, head tilted back as though looking at the stars.

"See?" Wendell said triumphantly. "Told you I had proof. Now what do you say to that?"

"I say I need those photos," Jack replied, already mentally composing his report to Claire.

"Oh no," Wendell clutched the tablet to his chest. "This stays with me. Government would just delete it, claim it never existed."

"Wendell," Jack said, finding a reserve of patience he didn't know he had. "I'm trying to catch a killer. Those photos could help identify him."

"And what do I get if I share my intellectual property with the federal establishment?"

Jack sighed. "Besides the coffee?"

"I want official acknowledgment."

"Of what?"

"That I, Wendell Harmon, assisted the Federal Bureau of Investigation in a high-profile murder case." He puffed out his chest. "In writing."

Jack stared at him for a long moment. "Fine. I'll mention your assistance in my report."

"And protection," Wendell added. "In case he comes back."

"I'll have patrols increase their presence in the area," Jack promised.

Wendell considered this, then finally nodded. "Deal." He handed over the tablet. "Email address is WendellTheWatcher@protonmail.com. And it's encrypted, so don't try anything funny."

Jack nodded, quickly sending the photos to his own account before returning the tablet. "Did you see where this man went after the clearing?"

"Old service road," Wendell said, suddenly serious. "Only leads to a couple properties—one being this big house deep in the woods. Old Mackenzie place. Sits on about forty acres, been abandoned for years till someone bought it recently."

"How far?"

"Four miles northeast." Wendell pointed. "Past the lightning-struck cedar. Can't miss it."

Jack was already moving toward his SUV. "Thanks for your help. The coffee should be here soon."

"Agent Fancy Pants," Wendell called after him. "Watch yourself. Man who moves like that in the dark—he ain't just hiking. And those woods..." he lowered his voice dramatically, "they're full of secrets. Full of darkness."

33

Claire sat in the rented SUV, binoculars trained on the small café across the street where Kiko waited at an outdoor table. The rain had eased to a misty drizzle. From this distance, Kiko appeared relaxed, a college student enjoying coffee while typing on her laptop.

Fitz sat beside Claire, tension evident in his normally languid movements. "Anything?"

"Nothing yet," Claire replied, not lowering the binoculars.

Kiko's fake profile—"ThresholdQuestions"—had garnered immediate attention in the consciousness research forums. Among the flood of messages, one user named "QuantumObserver" had reached out with text that mirrored what had been sent to Julia Marek, leading to this arranged meeting.

Her phone rang—Violet. "Go ahead."

"I think I found something," Violet said, her voice taut with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. "A guy named Gabriel Velasco, 34. He was working with Sutter before both their careers went sideways."

"What kind of connection are we talking about?" Claire asked, sitting up straighter.

"It's... complicated." The sound of rapid typing came through the phone. "Velasco was Sutter's research assistant. Co-authored several papers on neural activity during death transitions. When Sutter got pushed out, Velasco faced his own ethics investigation."

"Why haven't we seen his name before now?"

Violet sighed. "Because he's practically a ghost. His academic profile was scrubbed clean after the scandal. I only found him by cross-referencing authors cited in Sutter's bibliographies with university employment records. Plus he published under a different name after leaving academia—Gabriel V. Merida."

Claire's tablet pinged with the incoming file. She scanned it, noting the abrupt end to Velasco's formal academic career. "Current whereabouts?"

"That's where it gets interesting," Violet said, her voice dropping. "Nothing official, but I found property tax records for a cabin near Jefferson County, roughly seven miles from Julia Marek's disposal site. Purchased through a complicated chain of LLCs three years ago."

"And you think this is our guy?"

"I think he's worth looking at. The timing fits. His research with Sutter focused specifically on monitoring consciousness during death. And get this—the cabin purchase traces back to funding from Meridian Institute."

Claire frowned. "The same shell company from our financial case?"

"The very same," Violet confirmed. "I need more time to be certain, but there's definitely smoke here. Maybe fire."

Claire examined the photo of a thin-faced man with intense eyes. Not the monster she'd imagined, but something more disturbing—a researcher who saw human beings as experimental subjects.

"I'm sending this to Jack," Violet said.

Claire ended the call, turning to Fitz. "We may have our killer."

Her phone rang again—Jack. "Anderson."

"I've got a location," Jack said. "About four miles northeast of the first crime scene. Local witness spotted a suspicious man in the area last night."

"Start heading over there, but don’t make yourself known yet," Claire ordered. "We’ve got Kiko waiting for the meetup now. Let’s see if he shows before you go knocking on doors."

Claire had just ended her call when movement at the far end of the street caught her eye. A figure in a charcoal peacoat approached with measured steps, each footfall deliberate as though testing the ground before committing his weight.

"He's here," Claire said.

Fitz squinted through the windshield. " Velasco?"

"In the flesh."

They watched as Velasco moved steadily toward the café where Kiko sat alone, pretending to be absorbed in her laptop. His gait was unhurried but purposeful, hands tucked into his coat pockets, collar turned up against the persistent drizzle.

"Kiko," Claire murmured into her mic. "Target approaching from the south. Maintain position."

Through the binoculars, Claire studied Velasco's face—angular features framed by dark hair cut close at the sides, longer on top. His eyes scanned the street with quiet intensity, taking in details most would miss. Twenty feet from the café now. Fifteen.

Then he stopped.

The sudden halt made Claire's pulse quicken. She watched him turn slightly, gaze sweeping the storefronts with newfound attention.

"Something's wrong," Fitz observed. "Look at his shoulders—tension's building."

Velasco pulled out his phone, glancing at the screen. His posture shifted—the casual confidence hardening into something more alert, more predatory. Claire knew immediately what was happening as his eyes tracked deliberately across the parked vehicles, lingering for just a heartbeat too long on their surveillance van.

"He knows," she said.

"Impossible," Fitz countered. "How could he possibly⁠—"

Velasco's eyes darted to the café window where Kiko sat, then back at his phone. His expression changed—subtle but unmistakable. Recognition. Or confirmation.

He turned and ran.

"He made us," Claire said, already moving. She burst from the SUV, Fitz lumbering after her. "Alert the team," she called over her shoulder.

Velasco moved with unexpected speed, his lean frame cutting through the rain-damp air as he veered across the street toward an alley. Claire followed, dodging a delivery truck that honked in protest. From the corner of her eye, she saw Kiko abandoning her post, joining the pursuit from the café side.

"FBI! Stop!" Claire shouted, knowing it was futile.

Velasco glanced back once, his expression not panicked but calculating. He veered suddenly into a narrow passage between buildings, disappearing from view.

Claire followed, pulse pounding as she reached the alley entrance, and caught a glimpse of his dark jacket as he vaulted over a chain-link fence at the far end. She pushed herself harder, racing down the damp corridor.

The alley opened onto a delivery area behind several businesses. Velasco was already halfway across the loading zone, heading toward another narrow passage. Claire gained ground on the open stretch, close enough now to see the raindrops beading on his jacket.

Then her foot caught on an uneven piece of pavement. She went down hard, palm and knee striking concrete. Pain flashed through her, but she rolled and pushed herself back up without breaking stride, wetness seeping through her torn pants leg.

"He's cutting through the hardware store!" Kiko's voice came from somewhere to her right.

Claire veered, catching the door before it closed. Inside, startled customers stared as she raced down the central aisle, badge out. "FBI! Which way?"

An older man pointed toward the garden section. Claire burst through double doors into an outdoor area filled with plant displays and stacks of landscaping materials. No sign of Velasco.

Kiko appeared beside her, breathing hard. "You see him?"

Claire scanned the area, eyes moving from the fence line to the gate leading to the street. Nothing.

"Split up," she ordered. "You take the perimeter, I'll check the street."

They separated, Claire pushing through the gate onto a side street lined with small businesses. She turned slowly, searching doorways, alleyways, parked cars. Velasco had vanished as completely as if he'd dissolved into the misty air.

Kiko joined her moments later, shaking her head. "No sign of him."

"He didn't have time to reach a vehicle," Claire said, scanning the street again.

"Unless someone was waiting for him."

"No," Claire said firmly. "We had eyes on every approach. No cars moved during that time frame." She winced, finally acknowledging the stinging in her knee. Blood seeped through her torn pants.

"You're hurt," Kiko observed.

"It's nothing." Claire pulled out her phone to update the team. "Something about this doesn't make sense. How did he know? We were careful. The profile was perfect." Kiko scanned the quiet street. "Maybe he's just paranoid."

"Or maybe he's smarter than we thought." Claire pointed to a drainage grate in the curb, its iron cover slightly askew. "Check that."

Kiko crouched, examining the grate. With effort, she lifted the heavy cover, revealing the storm drain below. "Damn," she muttered.

Claire leaned over to look. Footprints in the silt below led into the darkness of the drainage tunnel—just large enough for a slender man to navigate in a crouch.

"He went underground," Claire said, a reluctant admiration coloring her tone. "Used the town's drainage system to escape."

She straightened, wiping rain from her face as she surveyed the quiet street. Somewhere beneath their feet, Gabriel Velasco was moving through darkness.

"Call Jack," Claire said, still staring at the open drain. "Tell him to approach that property with extreme caution. Our suspect is coming home—and now he knows we're hunting him."

34

Jack glanced at his watch. Thirty-six minutes since Claire's call about Velasco's escape. Thirty-six minutes of navigating unnamed forest roads, doubling back at dead ends, and following Alvarez's increasingly uncertain directions.

"Should be just ahead," Alvarez said for the third time, peering through the SUV's windshield at the tangle of overgrown road ahead. The Jefferson County deputy's earlier confidence had eroded with each wrong turn.

"You said that ten minutes ago," Jack replied, keeping his tone level despite his growing impatience.

Alvarez shifted uncomfortably. "These access roads all look the same, especially in the rain. Mackenzie property doesn't show up on GPS."

Jack slowed as they approached a fork in the narrow dirt track. Both options disappeared into dense forest, neither showing signs of recent use. He was about to demand Alvarez make a decision when he noticed thin tire tracks cutting through mud on the right path.

"There," he pointed. "Someone's been through here recently."

Alvarez nodded, visibly relieved. "That's gotta be it."

The path wound deeper into the forest, climbing slightly before opening onto a clearing where a small cabin stood beside an outbuilding that appeared to be a woodshed. Both structures appeared well-maintained—not the abandoned property Jack had expected. The cabin's metal roof gleamed dully in the filtered light, its cedar siding recently stained. No vehicles were visible.

"Stay alert," Jack warned, drawing his weapon as they approached. "Remember what we're dealing with."

They cleared the perimeter first, moving methodically around both structures. The outbuilding's padlocked door showed no signs of recent entry, but a window revealed what looked like five years' worth of firewood—neatly stacked, dry, untouched. But just behind the woodpile, partially obscured by dust and cobwebs, sat a jumble of old equipment: a rust-stained metal tripod, several large flasks, and what looked like a cracked hot plate. A stained five-gallon plastic bucket sat beneath a warped wooden table.

"Bingo," Jack said, moving toward the cabin's front porch.

The wood creaked beneath their weight as they positioned themselves beside the door. Jack tried the handle—locked.

"County Sheriff! FBI!" Jack called out. "Gabriel Velasco, if you're inside, identify yourself now!"

Silence answered him. Jack nodded to Alvarez, who took position covering the door as Jack tried to peer through the window. The interior was dim but orderly.

"Legal justification for entry?" Alvarez asked, his tone suggesting he wanted reassurance more than legal advice.

"Pursuing a dangerous suspect with reason to believe he's inside or has been recently," Jack replied. "Plus potential evidence of potential criminal activity in plain view—makeshift lab gear, back there in the outbuilding."

Alvarez considered this, then nodded. "Good enough for me."

Jack tested the door's sturdiness, then delivered a powerful kick just beside the handle. The frame splintered and the door swung inward. They entered in standard formation, clearing each room.

The cabin's interior was surprisingly austere—a single bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and main living area. Everything was meticulously organized, almost sterile in its precision. No photographs adorned the walls, no personal items cluttered the surfaces. It felt more like a research station than a home.

"Clear," Jack called after they'd checked the final room. "But he's been here recently."

Alvarez holstered his weapon. "How can you tell?"

Jack pointed to a coffee pot on the counter. "Still warm.”

Books lined a small shelf in the living area—academic works on neuroscience, consciousness studies, philosophy of mind. Jack scanned the titles: The Dying Brain: Neural Activity at the Threshold of Death; Beyond Consciousness: Mapping the Final Transition; The Quantum Mind and Terminal Awareness.

On the cabin's small desk, neatly arranged research papers bore Velasco's name alongside other authors, including Leonard Sutter. Their titles echoed themes of consciousness persistence, neural mapping during death processes, and experiential documentation of dying.

"This guy's obsessed with death," Alvarez observed, leafing through a journal filled with handwritten notes.

"Not death exactly," Jack corrected, examining a diagram that appeared to show neural activity during various states of consciousness. "The moment of transition. The precise instant between life and non-life."

A corkboard mounted above the desk held newspaper clippings about near death experiences, alongside more academic papers. "He was experimenting on them," Jack said quietly, the reality of Velasco's work settling into his bones. "Killing them systematically to observe their dying consciousness."

His phone buzzed with an incoming message from Claire: Backup arriving your location in 15. Secure scene but DO NOT enter. Wait for me.

"Too late," Jack muttered, texting back: Already in cabin. This is Velasco’s place, but he didn’t return here.

"What now?" Alvarez asked, still examining the cabin's contents.

Jack holstered his weapon. "Now we process this scene by the book. Whatever Velasco was doing here, we make sure it sticks to him in court."

He moved to the window, looking out at the outbuilding. In his twenty years of law enforcement, Jack had encountered every shade of human darkness. But there was something uniquely disturbing about Velasco's methodical pursuit of death as a research subject—the clinical detachment that transformed human beings into data points in an experiment.

"What the hell kind of person does this?" Alvarez asked, echoing Jack's thoughts.

"The kind who thinks understanding death is worth killing for.”

Jack surveyed the cabin's main room one last time while Alvarez documented the scene with his phone camera. Everything was perfect—the meticulous organization, the precisely aligned books, the absence of normal living clutter.

"You smell that?" Jack asked suddenly, his nose catching something faint but distinct.

Alvarez paused, sniffing. "Gas?"

"Maybe." Jack moved toward the kitchen, following the scent. It was subtle but unmistakable—a slight chemical odor beneath the cabin's natural wood smell.

He scanned the room again, this time looking with different eyes. Not at the evidence, but at the cabin itself. The books on the shelf were perfectly aligned, their spines forming an unnaturally even line.

Except one.

A large encyclopedia-style volume sat slightly askew. Jack approached carefully, examining it without touching. The book's title read Neural Networks and Consciousness Mapping, but something about it seemed wrong. The spine was too rigid, the cover too new compared to the worn edges of neighboring volumes.

Jack leaned closer and noticed a tiny glint of light from a pinhole in the book's spine.

"Camera," he said quietly. "We're being watched."

Alvarez froze. "What?"

"Fake book. Surveillance camera." Jack pointed without touching. "Which means⁠—"

A soft, almost imperceptible click sounded from somewhere within the walls. Jack's combat instincts flared. "Out! Now!"

35

Claire gripped the steering wheel tightly as her SUV bounced along the rutted forest road. The GPS on her phone had failed twenty minutes ago, the satellite signal swallowed by dense tree cover and steep terrain. The standard Bureau-issue satellite phone was only marginally better, connecting just long enough to receive Jack's coordinates before dropping again.

"Damn mountains," she muttered, navigating around a fallen branch. The FBI's mobile network booster—supposedly capable of amplifying even the weakest signals—was rendered nearly useless by the combination of weather and geography. Even the TEOCOMM secure connection system required some minimal signal to enhance.

Heavy clouds had gathered again, darkening the forest to twilight despite the afternoon hour. Rain resumed, fat drops striking the windshield with increasing intensity. Claire squinted through the streaked glass, searching for the turnoff Jack had described.

There—nearly hidden by overgrowth—a narrow track branching off the road. She turned carefully, the SUV's tires struggling for purchase on the slick earth. Through breaks in the trees, she glimpsed what might be a structure ahead.

Her phone suddenly chimed, signal briefly returning. A single text from Jack appeared: Already in cabin. This is Velasco’s place, but he didn’t return here.

Claire accelerated slightly, relief mingling with continued urgency. At least they'd found Velasco's location, even if the man himself remained elusive. With proper forensics, they could⁠—

The world erupted.

A massive orange fireball bloomed ahead, momentarily turning the rainy forest daylight-bright. The concussion wave hit seconds later, rocking her vehicle and sending debris raining down onto the hood and roof.

Claire slammed on the brakes, instinctively ducking as a branch crashed onto the windshield, splintering the glass. When she looked up, black smoke billowed where the cabin had been, flames visible through the trees.

"Jack," she whispered, then louder: "Jack!"

She was out of the SUV before it fully stopped, running toward the inferno.

The force of the explosion lifted Jack off his feet, hurling him backwards as the cabin's front wall disintegrated into deadly shrapnel. He had time only to turn, shielding his head with his arms before impact.

Heat seared his back, pain erupting across his shoulders as debris rained down. The world became fire and noise, then suddenly, sickeningly quiet as the blast temporarily deafened him.

Jack found himself facedown, something heavy pinning his legs. His training took over, pushing through the shock and pain. Head injury assessment: conscious but dizzy. Hearing: temporarily compromised. Breathing: difficult but possible despite thick smoke. Extremities: legs pinned but could feel them, arms functional despite burning pain.

Through ringing ears, he heard screaming. Alvarez? He couldn't turn to look, couldn't move beneath the weight crushing his lower body.

Fire consumed what remained of the cabin, flames devouring the dry wood. Smoke thickened, filling his lungs with each breath. Jack tried to call out but produced only a ragged cough.

The weight on his legs shifted slightly as something nearby collapsed. Pain flared, bright and immediate. Jack felt consciousness beginning to slip, darkness edging his vision despite the surrounding flames.

His last coherent thought was of Claire—her face when she'd questioned his loyalty, the hurt behind her suspicion. He should have told her everything, consequences be damned.

Too late now.

Darkness claimed him as the fire roared on.

Claire reached the burning clearing, heat assaulting her face despite being thirty yards from the cabin. Where a small house had stood minutes before, only a burning shell remained, flames engulfing the structure completely.

A figure staggered from the inferno—his uniform smoking, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. “I’m Alvarez. Your man is...” He stumbled toward her, coughing violently.

"Jack?" Claire shouted, grabbing the deputy's shoulders. "Where's Agent Russo?"

Alvarez shook his head, gasping for breath. "Still... inside. We were... just leaving... when..."

Claire pushed him toward the relative safety of the tree line. "Radio for help. Fire, ambulance, everything."

Without waiting for his response, she pulled her jacket over her head and moved closer to the blaze, circling to where the front door had been. The heat was unbearable, the smoke thick and acrid.

"Jack!" she called, scanning the flaming debris for any sign of movement.

A section of roof collapsed with a shower of sparks. Claire shielded her face, refusing to retreat. Through watering eyes, she spotted something amid the rubble—a hand protruding from beneath a fallen beam near what had been the front wall.

Claire moved without thinking, navigating burning debris to reach the prone figure half-buried in wreckage. Jack lay face down, a heavy beam across his legs, unmoving.

She grabbed the beam, then recoiled as the hot wood seared her palms. Using her jacket as protection, she tried again, straining against the weight. It shifted slightly, enough to pull Jack free.

His uniform was scorched, blood matting his hair, but she felt a pulse at his neck—weak but present.

"I've got you," she said, though he couldn't hear her. "Stay with me."

Claire hooked her arms beneath his shoulders and dragged him inch by painful inch away from the flames, her muscles screaming with the effort. By the time they reached the tree line, her lungs burned and spots danced in her vision.

She lowered Jack to the ground, quickly assessing his injuries. Second-degree burns on his back and shoulders. Possible broken ribs. Leg injury, maybe worse. But breathing.

Alvarez appeared beside her, still coughing but functional. "Help's coming. Fifteen minutes out."

Claire nodded, not taking her eyes off Jack's face, now streaked with soot and blood. She tore strips from her shirt, using them to stanch the worst of the bleeding from a gash on his temple.

"He knew," she said quietly. "Somehow Velasco knew we'd found this place. This wasn't random—it was waiting for us."

Jack's breathing hitched, then steadied again as Claire maintained pressure on his wound. Around them, the forest dripped with rain while behind them, the cabin burned—evidence and answers disappearing in the flames.

36

SUBJECT 004 – PRE-TERMINAL OBSERVATION

Age: 37 years

Sex: Male

Ethnicity: Latino/Caucasian

Weight: 185 lbs

Height: 6'1"

Baseline Vitals:

Heart Rate: 75 bpm

Blood Pressure: 130/80 mmHg

Respiratory Rate: 18 breaths/minute

Oxygen Saturation: 97%

Core Temperature: 98.5°F (37°C)

Pupillary Response: Resistant, variable

Subject 004 represents the apex of prior trials. Every failure has refined this moment. No other subject possessed this combination of psychological insight, physiological resilience, and neural adaptability. The perfect candidate. The only candidate.

Selection was never the challenge—creation was. This subject has been carefully prepared, trained for self-observation, and shaped to withstand the threshold others could not cross.

He will not simply reach the end. He will witness it.

Beneath hemlock skies, the final membrane trembles.

Dose Administered: 8:01 PM

8:05 PM:

Initial response arrives as expected: neural systems tighten, muscles lock, heart rate spikes to 96 bpm. But control remains intact. Consciousness observes. Patterns emerge. Resistance is not reflexive—it is strategic.

Suppression triggers adaptive re-routing. Theta-wave Oscillation destabilizes, then returns stronger. The brain is reorganizing in real time.

Consciousness learns its own resistance.

8:10 PM:

Muscular control diminishes, yet thought remains clear. Vision tunnels. Sounds distort. But the mind responds with new structures.

The Glial Cell Activity Index (GCAI) surges. Internal systems adapt faster than predicted. Neural networks generate fresh pathways with each wave of suppression.

This is not decay. This is design.

The moment fights to define itself.

8:14 PM:

Heart rate slows. 62 bpm. Then 54. Breaths stagger. Consciousness flickers—but holds.

Then: expansion.

The brain moves into Cortical Quantum Resonance (CQR). Amplitude beyond anything recorded.

Perception no longer follows time. Self-awareness folds in on itself.

Thought becomes its own weapon.

8:18 PM:

The edge approaches. Boundaries dissolve. Neural containment fails, but something deeper forms in its place—quantum indeterminacy, yes, but with structure.

A trace of self remains, mapped in echo.

The hypothesis holds: consciousness may be quantum, self-preserving, transferable.

And still...

Between memory and oblivion, a universe breathes.

8:22 PM:

Breathing slows—3 breaths per minute. Heart rate at 38 bpm. Internal systems near collapse. Vision narrows. Sound ceases.

Then—stillness.

And within the stillness: a choice.

The neural flame does not extinguish. It flickers. Reaches. Refuses.

Neural persistence becomes reclamation. Data stabilizes. Systems recover.

He returns. Slowly. Completely.

The last breath becomes pure knowledge.

8:26:13 PM:

Consciousness restored.

CQR levels remain elevated. GCAI trending downward. Respiratory and cardiac functions normalize within tolerable limits.

No loss of higher function. No damage to cortical systems.

Subject 004 has reached the threshold. Touched death. And come back.

He alone has seen what lies beyond.

And now, he knows.

37

Claire sat on a molded plastic chair, staring at the institutional green walls without seeing them. Her hands, bandaged where she'd gripped the burning beam, throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

Deputy Alvarez was dead. After rescuing Jack, Claire had tried to revive him, but he’d been bleeding internally and by the time the ambulance had arrived, it was too late.

The thirty-two-year-old officer had been positioned at the rear of the cabin when the explosion occurred, taking the full force of a collapsing wall. He'd left behind a pregnant wife and a four-year-old son. Claire had spoken to the Sheriff briefly, both of them exchanging the hollow platitudes that accompanied a line-of-duty death.

Jack remained in surgery. Burns, broken ribs, internal bleeding, a severe concussion. "We'll know more in a few hours," the trauma surgeon had told her. "He won't be conscious for at least a day or two."

Claire flexed her bandaged hands, welcoming the pain. It was cleaner than the guilt.

Across the room, Kiko paced a tight circuit between vending machines and water fountain, her usual fluid grace disrupted by jerky, anxious movements. Fitz sat nearby, coin moving mechanically across his knuckles, his gaze distant.

Claire watched Kiko check her phone for the dozenth time, noted the naked fear in her eyes. Not the concern of a colleague, but something deeper.

"Kiko," Claire called softly. "Sit down for a minute."

The younger agent looked up, startled, then crossed to take the seat beside Claire. Her fingers twisted together in her lap.

"How long?" Claire asked simply.

Kiko didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Month or two," she admitted. "We tried to keep it professional, tried to end. We did end it when we told you we did, but..." She looked down at her hands. "I love him, Claire."

Claire nodded, too exhausted for anger or disappointment. Bureau regulations on romantic involvement between agents existed for good reasons—reasons currently playing out in this waiting room.

"We'll deal with that later," she said finally. "After he's stable."

Kiko opened her mouth as if to say more, then closed it again, nodding.

Claire's phone vibrated. Hightower. She stepped down the hallway, away from Kiko, before answering.

"How's Russo?" Hightower asked without preamble.

"Still in surgery. It's bad, but he's fighting."

"I heard there was a fatality."

"Name was Alvarez.”

A heavy sigh from the other end. "Claire, I need you to listen carefully. EJ Ley is on the warpath. She knows you've been prioritizing the Hemlock Killer over the North Cascadia case. The helicopter requisition to Hoh was the last straw."

Claire leaned against the wall, suddenly bone-weary. "A local officer is dead, one of my agents is critical, and three women have been murdered. The financial crimes can wait."

"Not according to Ley. She's talking about reassigning the case, possibly disbanding S.W.O.R.D. altogether." Hightower's voice lowered. "I've bought you some time, but I can't protect you much longer. You need a win, Claire. Soon."

"I hear you," she said.

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, you're chasing a ghost while ignoring a slam-dunk financial crimes case that would make the Bureau look good to Congress."

Claire felt anger flare. "Is that what matters here? Looking good to Congress?"

"You know better than that," Hightower replied, his voice hardening. "This isn't just about optics. It's about resource allocation, about picking battles we can win."

"And the young women who died? They're just acceptable losses?"

"Don't put words in my mouth." Hightower paused. "Look, I'm on your side. But you're out of runway. Find this guy in the next forty-eight hours, or Ley pulls the case. That's reality."

The call ended, leaving Claire staring at her phone. Forty-eight hours to catch a killer who had outmaneuvered them at every turn. Who had disappeared underground. Who had just leveled a building rather than leave evidence behind.

She returned to the waiting room, where Fitz had finally stopped manipulating his coin.

"Hightower?" he asked, reading her expression.

Claire nodded. "The hourglass is running out."

Her phone buzzed again with an incoming video call. The twins. Claire considered ignoring it, then sighed and answered.

"Hey, Mom," Jacqueline's face appeared, her bedroom visible in the background. "You okay? You look terrible."

"Thanks, sweetie. Just a long day. A bad day." Claire managed a smile. "How's Benny?"

"He's fine. We made spaghetti and watched that dinosaur documentary again." The camera shifted to show Caroline and Benny sprawled on the floor, a board game between them. "He's destroying Caroline at Monopoly."

"That's my boy," Claire said, warmth briefly cutting through her exhaustion. "I might be another night. You guys okay holding down the fort?"

"We're adults, Mom." Jacqueline rolled her eyes. "We've got this."

After ending the call, Claire leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, letting her eyes close. Just for a moment, she told herself.

She woke to Fitz gently shaking her shoulder. Sunlight streamed through windows that had been dark when she'd closed her eyes. Her neck screamed in protest as she straightened.

"What time is it?" she asked, voice rough with sleep.

"Just after five," Fitz replied. "Jack's out of surgery. Still unconscious but stable."

Claire nodded, relief washing through her. "Can we see him?"

38

An hour later, Claire sat beside Jack's hospital bed, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. Bandages covered his shoulders and arms where the worst burns had been, and his face was mottled with cuts and bruises. An IV dripped pain medication into his arm. According to the doctors, he was lucky—another few minutes in that inferno and his injuries would have been fatal.

She'd been sitting with him for nearly twenty minutes when his eyelids finally fluttered.

His gaze wandered the room, unfocused at first, then settling on her face.

"Welcome back," Claire said softly.

Jack tried to speak, coughed instead. Claire held a cup of water with a straw to his lips. He took a small sip.

"Alvarez?" he asked, voice raspy.

Claire shook her head.

Jack closed his eyes briefly, a muscle in his cheek twitching with suppressed emotion. When he opened them again, they held the sharp clarity she recognized—his mind pushing through the fog of medication and injury.

Fitz entered the room, nodding his approval at seeing Jack conscious. "Good to have you back among the living."

"What happened?" Jack asked, struggling to piece together the fragmented memories. "There was a smell... I saw a camera..."

"Velasco rigged the cabin," Claire explained. "The explosion destroyed most of the evidence, but the fire investigator found remnants of a remote-controlled device."

Jack nodded slightly, wincing at the movement. "That fits. I noticed something off about a book on the shelf—it was a camera housing. He was watching us."

"Premeditated," Fitz observed. "He anticipated we would find the location."

"It was a trap," Claire said. "We think that once he confirmed you were inside, he remotely opened a gas valve connected to the main line. Let the place fill, then triggered an ignition source—probably a modified electrical outlet or thermostat."

"Simple but effective," Fitz agreed. "Common household gas, no exotic explosives or bomb components needed."

"I've seen similar setups," Jack added, his breathing becoming more labored as he spoke. "Insurgents would rig houses to eliminate approaching forces. Simple engineering, maximum damage."

Claire noticed the increased pallor of his face with the effort of conversation. "We should let you rest."

"Wait," Jack said, reaching for her wrist with his less-damaged hand. "There's something in the outbuilding. Lab equipment. Didn't have time to examine it but⁠—"

"The explosion destroyed both structures," Claire said gently.

Jack's expression hardened. "Convenient for him. No evidence."

"We'll find him," Claire assured him, though the promise felt hollow after their repeated failures.

She studied his face, noting the subtle tension around his eyes that wasn't just from physical pain. "What is it? There's something you're not telling me."

Jack held her gaze for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. "I've been reporting to EJ Ley."

Claire was shocked, but somehow not surprised. Actually, it made all the leaks make sense. "Directly?" she asked, trying to hide the hurt she felt.

Jack nodded. "She approached me three weeks ago. Said she needed updates on S.W.O.R.D. operations outside the normal channels. I was ordered to keep her informed of our progress, especially on high-profile cases."

"And the leaks to Colt Redding?" Claire pressed.

"That's what I couldn't figure out," Jack said, frustration evident in his voice. "I never spoke to Redding. Never leaked to media. But every detail I reported to Ley somehow made its way to his videos."

Claire sat back, processing this revelation. "You think Ley is the source of the leaks?"

"I know she is," Jack said firmly. "The timing is too perfect. Details I shared only with her appeared in Redding's next broadcast. Every time."

"Why would an ADIC leak information to a TikTok crime commentator?" Fitz wondered. "What does she gain?"

"Control of the narrative," Claire suggested. "Public pressure on the investigation. Maybe justification for reassigning cases or restructuring units."

"Like disbanding S.W.O.R.D.," Jack added.

Claire rubbed her temples. "We can't untangle that web right now. Our priority has to be Velasco."

"Actually," Fitz interjected, "we may have caught a break." He passed a tablet to Claire. "Jefferson County Sheriff's Office received a call from Cascade View Psychiatric Hospital. A nurse reported that one of their long-term patients has been exhibiting agitated behavior, specifically mentioning someone named Velasco."

Claire scanned the report. "Patient's been there fifteen years?"

"Yes, which means they're not our killer," Fitz acknowledged. "But they might know something. I'd like to follow up."

Claire considered this. "Go. Take Kiko with you."

Fitz nodded. "I'll keep you updated."

After he left, Claire turned back to Jack, who was fighting to keep his eyes open as the pain medication pulled him toward sleep.

"Velasco thinks he's untouchable," Jack murmured. "Watches us chasing our tails while he continues his 'research.'"

"Not for long," Claire replied. "I've got Violet mapping possible locations based on where the neighbor spotted him, his known property, and the body dump sites. If there's a pattern, she'll find it."

Jack's eyes drifted closed, then snapped open again. "Claire, I should have told you about Ley sooner. But I thought I was following orders."

"Not now," she interrupted. "Focus on healing. We'll sort everything else later."

His hand found hers, squeezing with surprising strength. "Trust your team," he whispered, eyes finally closing as the medication won out. "Even the ones you're not sure about."

Claire sat with him until his breathing deepened into sleep, his words echoing in her mind. Trust your team. Even when evidence suggested she shouldn't. Even when her instincts warned her someone wasn't being truthful.

She gently released his hand and stepped into the hallway, pulling out her phone to call Violet.

"Anything yet?" she asked when Violet answered.

"I've been running geographical analyses since the latest victim was found. Like you suggested, I used the neighbor's sighting, the cabin location, all the body dump sites. The pattern isn't obvious, but it's there."

"What kind of pattern?" Claire asked.

"Too hard to explain, but trust me. I've identified three abandoned properties that match our search parameters—remote, accessible by service roads, purchased within the last five years through shell companies."

Claire felt the first spark of genuine hope in days. "Send the coordinates to my phone."

PART III

WHAT DYING EYES SEE

39

Cascade View Psychiatric Hospital rose from the landscape like a Victorian specter, its red brick facade darkened by decades of Pacific Northwest rain. The facility—originally built in the 1930s as a tuberculosis sanitarium—had been repurposed in the 1950s but retained the institutional grimness of its original purpose. Three stories of weathered brick encased narrow windows, many still fitted with decorative iron grates that had once been functional barriers.

Fitz surveyed the building as he and Kiko approached the entrance. "Not exactly the cutting edge of modern psychiatric care, is it?"

"State funding cuts hit mental health hardest," Kiko replied. "From what I read, this place has been on the closure list for years, but they keep it open because there's nowhere else for long-term patients to go."

The reception area smelled of industrial disinfectant. The vinyl flooring, once white with blue speckles, had worn to a uniform grayish hue in the high traffic areas. Behind a plexiglass barrier, a receptionist glanced up from her computer, expression professionally neutral.

Fitz presented his credentials. "Fitzgerald Pembroke, FBI. This is Agent Greene. We're here about a call your facility made regarding a patient discussing someone named Velasco."

"That would be Nurse Wilkins," the receptionist replied, reaching for her phone.

"She's expecting you. Please have a seat."

Fitz settled onto a molded plastic chair while Kiko remained standing, her attention fixed on a wall of faded photographs showing the hospital through various eras. Each decade brought different treatment philosophies, different promises of breakthrough care—yet the building remained essentially unchanged, a container for society's most intractable mental health challenges.

"Dr. Pembroke?"

Fitz looked up to see a woman in her fifties approaching. She wore green scrubs beneath an unbuttoned white lab coat, her gray-streaked hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. The ID badge clipped to her pocket identified her as Marianne Wilkins, RN.

"Just Fitzgerald is fine," Fitz said, rising to shake her hand. "I'm a consultant with the FBI, not a practicing physician."

"Marianne Wilkins," she replied, her handshake firm. "I made the call about Nathan Carver."

"And we appreciate that," Kiko said. "What can you tell us about him?"

Nurse Wilkins glanced around the reception area. "Let's talk somewhere more private."

She led them through a security door and down a corridor where the linoleum gave way to institutional carpeting worn thin by foot traffic. The walls were painted a pale green that might once have been chosen for its calming properties but now simply added to the building's pervasive gloom.

"Carver's been here fifteen years," Wilkins explained as they walked. "Admitted after a 'near-death experience' left him with significant neurological damage. He's generally non-verbal, occasionally catatonic, with periods of agitation."

"What changed recently?" Fitz asked.

"Three days ago, he became unusually animated. Started repeating the name 'Velasco' and talking about threshold states." Wilkins stopped outside a small conference room. "I wouldn't have thought anything of it, but I saw the news about those murders. The Hemlock Killer. Something about the details reminded me of things Nathan has said during his more lucid periods."

They entered the room, where Wilkins retrieved a worn file from the table. "Nathan was a graduate student in neuroscience before his... incident. The doctors initially diagnosed him with hypoxic brain injury resulting from a failed suicide attempt, but there were always inconsistencies in that assessment."

"What kind of inconsistencies?" Kiko asked, taking a seat.

"His patterns of impairment don't align with typical oxygen deprivation cases." Wilkins opened the file, revealing pages of handwritten notes alongside typed medical reports. "Most hypoxic brain injuries affect memory, motor control, and attention span uniformly. Nathan's deficits are... selective. He can recite poetry he learned before his injury but can't remember what he had for breakfast. He can solve complex equations but struggles to tie his shoelaces."

Fitz leaned forward, interest piqued. "What was the nature of this 'near-death experience'?"

"That's where it gets complicated." Wilkins turned to a specific page in the file. "He was found unconscious in a research laboratory at the university. No apparent injuries, no signs of trauma, just... unresponsive. When he regained consciousness three days later, he was... different. Kept talking about seeing 'beyond the threshold' and experiencing 'the transition state.'"

Fitz and Kiko exchanged glances. The terminology aligned perfectly with Velasco's research.

"The attending physicians noted trace amounts of an unidentified compound in his bloodstream," Wilkins continued. "Similar to plant-derived paralytic agents but not matching any known pharmaceutical profile."

"Hemlock derivative," Fitz murmured.

Wilkins nodded. "That's what caught my attention when I saw the news. The same unusual compound found in those murdered women."

"You said he mentioned Velasco recently," Kiko prompted. "Had he spoken that name before?"

"Never in the years I've been his nurse." Wilkins closed the file. "Until three days ago, when he became extremely agitated after receiving a visitor."

Fitz straightened. "A visitor? Who?"

"That's the thing—I don't know. It wasn't during my shift. According to the log, someone claiming to be Nathan's cousin signed in. Spent about twenty minutes with him, then left. No name recorded, just a scribbled signature."

"We need to see Carver," Fitz said.

Wilkins hesitated. "He's having one of his better days, but I should warn you—conversation with Nathan isn't straightforward. He speaks in fragments, quotes poetry, jumps between topics. The neurologist calls it 'disrupted associative processing.'"

"We'll manage," Fitz assured her.

They followed Wilkins down another corridor to the long-term care ward. Unlike the acute treatment areas, this section housed patients who would likely never leave—those whose conditions had stabilized but remained beyond the reach of current treatment approaches.

Nathan Carver's room was small but private. He sat in a chair by the window, gazing out at the cloudy sky. A man in his early forties now, with thinning brown hair and the pale complexion of someone who spent little time outdoors. He wore hospital-issued sweatpants and a faded University of Washington t-shirt.

"Nathan," Nurse Wilkins said gently. "These people would like to speak with you. Is that all right?"

Carver turned slowly, his movements deliberate, as though each required conscious consideration. His eyes—a startling pale blue—fixed on Fitz with unsettling intensity.

"The threshold observer returns," he said, his voice surprisingly clear despite its disuse. "Beneath hemlock skies, the wind forgets its name."

Fitz recognized the line from Keating's poem immediately. "Hello, Nathan. I'm Fitzgerald Pembroke. This is Kiko Greene. We'd like to ask you about Gabriel Velasco."

At the name, Carver's body tensed visibly. "He watches the transition. The moment between thought and no thought. Breath and the last of breath."

"Did Velasco visit you recently?" Kiko asked, keeping her voice gentle.

Carver's eyes shifted to her, then back to the window. "He says I'm his success. The one who saw beyond and returned." His hands began to tremble. "The others won't come back. Only forward, never back. That's what he doesn't understand."

Fitz moved closer, careful to maintain a non-threatening posture. "Nathan, what happened to you fifteen years ago? What did Velasco do?"

"Monitored the threshold," Carver replied, as if the answer were obvious. "Thetawave oscillation. Glial cell activity index. Cortical quantum resonance." He tapped his temple. "Mapped the transition while it happened."

"He experimented on you," Fitz said, realization dawning. "Induced a near-death state to monitor your neural activity."

Carver nodded, a smile ghosting across his face. "First success. Only success. The others..." He made a floating gesture with his hand. "They crossed completely. No return ticket."

"Why did he visit you now, after all these years?" Kiko asked.

"To see if I remembered." Carver's eyes suddenly focused with startling clarity. "To confirm what worked before. He's refining the process. Needs to know why I came back when others don't. He needs another test, then he has one final subject."

A chill settled in Fitz's stomach. "You know about the women he killed?”

"Not killed," Carver corrected, his tone suddenly professorial. "Transitioned. There's a difference." His gaze drifted back to the window. "He thinks he's sending them across. But the boundary only goes one way."

Fitz exchanged a glance with Kiko, whose face had paled. "Nathan," Fitz pressed, "do you know where Velasco is now? Where he conducts his research?"

Carver's focus seemed to slip, his eyes tracking something only he could see. "One final subject, but who?”

“Who indeed?” Fitz asked. “Do you have any ideas?”

Carver had retreated into himself, gaze once again fixed on the clouds outside his window. "Beneath hemlock skies, the wind forgets its name," he murmured. "Only the hemlocks sway. Only the sky remains."

Nurse Wilkins stepped forward. "He's starting to withdraw."

Fitz pressed forward, grabbing him suddenly and locking onto his pale blue eyes. “Carver, tell me, did he visit you because he himself is the next subject? Because he had to know how you were, what had happened to you?”

Carver’s face trembled. “Cancer, he has cancer. But he said he needed one more test first.”

Fitz let go of him. “And he thinks touching the void might cure it.”

It wasn’t a question.

40

Claire ended the call with Fitz, her mind reeling from what he'd discovered. The pieces finally aligned into a coherent, if disturbing, picture: Velasco wasn't a conventional killer, but a researcher conducting methodical human experiments to map the transition between life and death. And Nathan Carver—his first subject—had somehow survived the experience, albeit with profound neurological changes.

And now, Velasco had only two victims left: another test subject, then himself.

She stared out the hotel window at the misty forest beyond. Evening was settling over the Olympic Peninsula, shadows lengthening beneath the towering conifers. Behind her, Kiko sat cross-legged on one of the beds, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keyboard as she waited.

"Velasco truly believes he succeeded with Carver," Claire said, still processing Fitz's report. "That he sent someone across the threshold of death and back again. The women he's killed since—they're attempts to replicate that initial experiment."

"With refinements," Kiko added. "Each victim positioned slightly differently, perhaps with modified chemical compounds."

Claire turned from the window. "Violet's still comparing the geographical data with the information Carver provided. All that stuff about water. She might be able to narrow down the search area."

Her phone pinged with an update from the hospital. Jack was showing significant improvement, his doctors now confident of a full recovery. One piece of good news amid the darkness.

"Any activity?" Claire asked, nodding toward Kiko's laptop.

"Nothing yet." Kiko had maintained a presence on several consciousness research forums under multiple aliases since their first failed attempt to lure Velasco. "He's gone quiet online since the cabin explosion. Maybe he's spooked."

Claire checked her watch. Nearly eight hours since they'd started the digital stakeout, with nothing to show for it. Waiting had never been her strong suit.

She paced the small room, mentally reviewing their assets. Violet was back at the Boiler Room, running geographical analyses and monitoring digital channels. Fitz was heading back from the psychiatric hospital with detailed notes from his interview with Carver. Jack was recovering, out of action but providing remote consultation when lucid. Their resources were stretched thin, their timeline compressed by EJ Ley's ultimatum.

"Hold on," Kiko straightened suddenly, attention fixed on her screen. "I've got something."

Claire moved to look over her shoulder. A private message had appeared in one of Kiko's alternate accounts—"EchoingVoid," the profile of a nineteen-year-old girl interested in near-death experiences after a car accident.

Your thoughts on Keating's work show unusual insight for someone your age. The poem you referenced—"The body stiffens like a question half-asked"—captures something profound about the transition moment.

The username: Quantum_Void.

"It's him," Claire said softly.

Despite himself, Velasco needed one more victim. He couldn’t help himself.

Kiko nodded, already typing a response: Thank you. I can't stop thinking about what it means to exist at the edge of non-existence. Like, is there a moment when you're both alive and not alive?

They waited, tension building as minutes ticked by.

Then: Precisely. Conventional science treats death as binary—a switch flipped from on to off. But the truth is more complex. There's a liminal space between states where consciousness persists even as biological functions cease.

Claire pulled up a chair, settling in beside Kiko. "Keep him engaged. Let him think he's found another perfect subject."

The conversation unfolded over hours, extending into the night and following morning. Kiko maintained the persona flawlessly—an intelligent but vulnerable teenager, traumatized by a near-death experience and seeking understanding. Velasco responded with increasing enthusiasm, sharing obscure philosophical texts and neuroscience concepts.

Claire watched the exchange with growing unease. The man's intelligence was evident in every message, his genuine belief in his research shining through his carefully considered responses. This wasn't the raving of a madman but the methodical teachings of someone convinced of his own intellectual righteousness.

By early afternoon, their strategy showed signs of success. Velasco had grown increasingly personal in his communications, asking detailed questions about Kiko's supposed accident, her medical treatment afterward, her sensations during unconsciousness.

You understand more than most, he wrote. I've been conducting research on threshold states for years. Much of it misunderstood by conventional academia.

I'd love to hear more about your research, Kiko replied, the perfect eager student.

The response came quickly: Some ideas are better discussed in person. Would you be interested in meeting? I could loan you a book that explains these concepts more thoroughly than I can in this format.

Claire and Kiko exchanged glances. The bait had been taken. Just as it had the last time.

That would be amazing! Kiko wrote. When and where?

There's a coffee shop in Port Angeles called Blackbird. Tomorrow, 2 PM. I'll bring Keating's rare second collection—it contains his most insightful work on threshold states.

Claire frowned as Kiko confirmed the meeting. "He already made you once. This won't work a second time."

"It will if he doesn't recognize me." Kiko closed the laptop and moved to her suitcase, pulling out a small makeup case. "Remember? I can become anyone."

"We tried using you as bait once already," Claire objected. "He bolted the moment he approached. What makes you think this time will be different?"

"Because now we know what he wants." Kiko sat on the edge of the bed. "He's looking for specific qualities in his subjects—intellectual curiosity about death, previous near-death experiences, youth. This time, I'll be exactly what he's searching for."

Claire studied the younger agent. Despite her concerns, she couldn't deny Kiko's unique qualifications for this operation. Her background in theater had provided skills beyond conventional law enforcement training—the ability to inhabit a character so completely that the performance became reality.

"We'll need backup in place," Claire said finally. "And a tracking device. No chances this time."

"Already planning it," Kiko replied, relief evident in her voice. "I'll work with Violet on the technical details."

Claire nodded, pulling out her phone to update the team. "I'll tell Fitz to get back here ASAP. We need everyone on this."

As she dialed, Claire couldn't shake her lingering unease. They were offering Velasco exactly what he wanted—another perfect subject for his experiments. The strategy relied on his desire overriding his caution, his scientific curiosity blinding him to the trap they were setting.

It was a calculated risk. But after chasing shadows and burying victims, they were out of alternatives. Sometimes catching a predator required offering bait too tempting to resist.

Claire only hoped they weren't underestimating Gabriel Velasco again.

41

The café bathroom mirror reflected a masterpiece of transformation. Kiko moved with the precision of a surgeon, each motion calculated to erase her professional persona and construct a vulnerable teenage identity.

She started with her hair, removing the sleek, professional clip and shaking out her shoulder-length black hair. Carefully, she applied a wig cap, then meticulously positioned the short, curly wig. The synthetic curls were strategic—looser, more chaotic than her usual controlled style, framing her face to soften her features and make her appear younger. Subtle highlights added depth, breaking up the uniformity in a way that suggested youthful experimentation.

Makeup was her next canvas. She began by neutralizing her skin tone with a lighter foundation, then used contouring techniques to subtly reshape her facial structure. Soft, blended shadows made her cheekbones appear less defined, her jaw less angular. A touch of bronzer added a hint of adolescent uneven skin tone. Her eyebrows—typically sharp and precisely groomed—were softened with a pencil, made to look less intentional, more natural.

The colored contacts transformed her most distinctive feature. Her deep, intelligent dark eyes became a soft hazel, less intense, more uncertain. She deliberately applied them with a slight tremor in her hand, mimicking a teenager unused to contact lenses.

Her wardrobe completed the metamorphosis. Gone were the tailored blazer and crisp blouse. Instead, she wore layered pieces that spoke of teenage insecurity—a slightly oversized vintage band t-shirt peeking out from under a worn denim jacket, distressed jeans that looked simultaneously too big and too short. A messenger bag replaced her professional leather briefcase, adorned with a few carefully placed pins that suggested both intellectual curiosity and adolescent uncertainty.

Finally, she altered her posture. Her usual confident, upright stance collapsed into a slight forward hunch. Shoulders slightly rounded, chin tucked, movements hesitant. She became smaller, younger, less certain.

Jack would have appreciated the performance. Despite his military rigidity and by-the-book approach to most aspects of life, he possessed an unexpected appreciation for the art of deception. That had surprised her when they first started working together—this buttoned-up ex-military man who could discuss the nuances of method acting and identity construction with genuine interest.

She took a final moment, running through a mental checklist. Each element was deliberate, each movement calculated to create the persona of "Echo"—a vulnerable, intellectually curious teenager who would attract Velasco's specific predatory interest.

Kiko adjusted the thin-framed glasses on her nose, a subtle gesture that would allow her to check the café entrance once more. The outdoor seating offered perfect sightlines to the approaching streets while giving the surveillance team clear angles.

"Still clear," she murmured, the words caught by the nearly invisible microphone adhered beneath her collar.

Claire's voice came through the equally discreet earpiece: "Copy that. All positions maintaining."

For the third time in fifteen minutes, Kiko resisted the urge to touch the tracking device disguised as a simple bracelet on her wrist. The setup was comprehensive—Claire and two agents in unmarked vehicles nearby, plainclothes officers scattered throughout the café and surrounding businesses, even a sniper positioned on a nearby rooftop.

Everything except Jack.

She sipped her tea, allowing her gaze to drift across the pedestrians moving along the sidewalk. The transformation she'd undergone still surprised her when she caught glimpses of her reflection in the café window. The short, curly wig with carefully placed highlights, subtle contouring makeup that softened her features, colored contacts that changed her distinctive dark eyes to hazel. Even her posture was different—the slight forward hunch of an insecure teenager rather than her usual confident stance.

"Subject still hasn't shown," came the update from Claire. "Two-minute check-in."

"Copy," Kiko responded softly, turning a page in the book she pretended to read.

She thought of Jack in his hospital bed, his normally commanding presence diminished by bandages and IV lines. The image tightened something in her chest. When had this happened—this shift from professional attraction to something that felt dangerously close to love?

Jack was different from her usual type. Older, more established, with the kind of solid presence that initially seemed boring after the artists and musicians she'd dated in her theater days. But beneath that disciplined exterior was a surprising playfulness he showed only in private moments—his detailed knowledge of obscure 80s movies, his terrible but enthusiastic attempts at cooking elaborate meals, the way he could tell stories about his military days that somehow found humor in even the darkest circumstances.

"Movement at northwest corner," came a voice through her earpiece—one of the surveillance team. "Possible subject approaching from Harrison Street."

Kiko kept her eyes on her book, resisting the instinct to look up immediately. Instead, she allowed her gaze to drift naturally, as though taking in her surroundings before returning to her reading. That's when she saw him.

Gabriel Velasco walked with the deliberate grace she remembered from their previous encounter—each step placed with conscious precision, his lean frame moving through space as though aware of every muscle's contribution to the whole. He wore casual clothes—jeans, a gray button-down shirt beneath a light jacket—but there was nothing casual about his awareness.

His eyes scanned the café systematically, pausing briefly on each patron before moving on. When they reached Kiko, they lingered.

She allowed a small, nervous smile to cross her face—the perfect reaction of a young girl recognizing someone she'd met online. Velasco's expression softened almost imperceptibly, his assessment shifting from caution to interest.

"Subject approaching," Kiko murmured into her mic. "He's made visual contact."

"Copy," Claire replied. "Remember, let him initiate, establish trust. We need him to lead us back to his lab."

Kiko returned her attention to her book, heart racing despite her outward calm. Footsteps approached her table, steady and measured.

"Echo?" Velasco's voice was gentle, academic. "I'm Gabriel. We spoke online about Keating's poetry."

Kiko looked up, allowing genuine wonder to fill her expression. The performance had begun.

42

Gabriel Velasco observed the girl from a careful distance before approaching. The coffee shop teemed with potential threats—each patron a possible undercover officer, each passing car potentially containing surveillance equipment. After his narrow escape in Forks, he couldn't be too cautious.

Yet here he was, risking exposure again. The subject had proven too perfect to ignore—a seventeen-year-old girl with mixed heritage, traumatic near-death experience, and intellectual curiosity about consciousness thresholds. The ideal candidate for what might be his final experiment.

He adjusted the messenger bag containing Keating's rare book—an actual first edition he'd acquired years ago, not that it mattered. The book was merely a prop, a bridge to establish trust. What mattered was the subject's mind, her unique neurological architecture shaped by genetic diversity and traumatic experience.

Her profile indicated Black and Japanese ancestry with Jewish heritage as well—a genetic tapestry similar to his own mixed background. Such diversity created unique neural pathways, consciousness structures that might finally yield the breakthrough he'd sought since Carver's partial success fifteen years ago.

Velasco scanned the area once more, noting a man who'd been reading the same newspaper page for ten minutes, a woman whose attention seemed too focused on her phone. Potential surveillance, but not definitively. The risk remained acceptable given the potential reward.

The subject—"Echo" online, though certainly a pseudonym, sat alone, absorbed in a book. Her appearance matched the vague description she'd provided: mixed-race features, curly hair, slender build. She carried herself with the slight awkwardness of late adolescence, periodically adjusting glasses that seemed new to her face.

Perfection. The culmination of years of research.

His work had been methodical, each subject carefully selected, each experiment building on previous results. The academic community had rejected his theories, but their constraints were meaningless in the face of fundamental questions about consciousness. What happened at the moment of transition? Did awareness persist beyond biological function? Could one experience death and return?

Carver had come close—glimpsing something beyond before his return damaged his neural architecture. The subsequent subjects had provided valuable data but failed to survive the transition process intact. Each death had refined his methodology, each arranged body a testament to scientific progress rather than the ritualistic killings the media portrayed.

This subject—this final experiment—might finally complete his work. The hemlock derivative had been perfected, the monitoring equipment upgraded, the recording protocols optimized. Everything awaited at his real laboratory, not the decoy cabin that had served its purpose as a distraction.

Velasco approached her table, maintaining the gentle demeanor that had served him well with previous subjects. Trust first, then intellectual engagement, then the invitation to participate in something transcendent.

"Echo?" he said softly. "I'm Gabriel. We spoke online about Keating's poetry."

She looked up, her hazel eyes widening with recognition and something like awe.

Perfect. The connection was established.

Soon, she would follow him willingly to the laboratory, eager to experience what he offered—a glimpse beyond the threshold that separated existence from whatever lay beyond.

And this time, he was certain, the experiment would succeed.

43

"I brought something I thought might interest you." Velasco placed a worn book on the table between them. "Keating's second collection—much rarer than 'Beneath Hemlock Skies,' and far more explicit about the transition state."

Kiko leaned forward, interest only partly feigned. The book was genuine—leather-bound, pages yellowed with age, its title embossed in faded gold: "The Body's Last Question."

"May I?" she asked, adopting the hesitant tone of an eager student.

"Of course."

Their fingers nearly touched as she accepted the book. Kiko opened it carefully, scanning the poems inside while maintaining the wide-eyed wonder of her character. The verses mirrored those they'd found at crime scenes—explorations of consciousness at the moment of death, questions about what lay beyond.

"These are incredible," she murmured, looking up at Velasco. His eyes studied her with scientific attention, cataloging reactions, assessing compatibility.

"I've found your perspectives on consciousness quite remarkable," he said, taking the seat across from her. "Especially given your age."

"My accident changed everything," she replied, the rehearsed story flowing naturally. "Three minutes clinically dead. The doctors called it a miracle when I came back. But they don't understand what I experienced during those minutes."

Velasco leaned forward slightly. "And what did you experience, Echo?"

"Something beyond words." Kiko stared into the distance, channeling the genuine trauma victims she'd interviewed for cases. "A sensation of expanding beyond my body, beyond physical limits. Like consciousness was separating from biological function. God."

"Precisely," Velasco whispered, excitement brightening his eyes. "Conventional science dismisses these experiences as oxygen-deprived hallucinations, but what if⁠—"

"Miss? Excuse me."

They both looked up. A barista stood beside their table, holding out a small cosmetic bag.

"You left this in the restroom earlier," she said, extending it toward Kiko. "The foundation and stuff."

Kiko froze. "I think you have the wrong person," she began, but the damage was done.

Velasco's expression had shifted, the academic enthusiasm replaced by sharp calculation. His eyes flickered to her face, then to her collar where the microphone was concealed, then to her hands that hadn't touched her face as any teenager constantly adjusting to new makeup would.

For one suspended moment, they stared at each other.

Then Velasco moved, knocking the table sideways into Kiko. Tea splashed across her lap as she fell backward, her chair toppling. By the time she recovered her balance, he was already sprinting toward the kitchen exit.

"Subject fleeing!" Kiko shouted into her mic, launching after him. "Rear exit!"

She pushed through the swinging kitchen doors, ignoring protests from startled staff. The narrow corridor led to a service area where trucks made deliveries. Velasco had already disappeared around the corner.

"Visual lost!" she reported, accelerating through the exit into an alley behind the café.

"All units converge on rear exit," Claire's voice commanded through the earpiece. "Kiko, stand down. I repeat, stand down. We've got the tracker on his vehicle."

Kiko slowed, scanning the alley. No sign of Velasco. He could have gone in any direction through the maze of service entrances and back streets.

"Copy," she replied, frustration evident in her voice. "Standing down."

Claire watched the tracking screen inside the unmarked SUV, where a small blue dot pulsed steadily. Two Port Angeles police officers occupied the front seats, maintaining radio contact with their colleagues surrounding the café.

"Target vehicle located," reported Officer Mendez from the driver's seat. "Black Honda Accord parked on Second Street."

"Hold positions," Claire ordered into her radio. "Let him reach the vehicle."

The rushed operation had placed tracking devices on three vehicles matching descriptions of cars Velasco might own. The Honda had been their best guess, and now they would see if that gamble paid off.

"Visual on subject," came a voice through the radio. "Approaching target vehicle from the east side of Second Street."

Claire leaned forward, watching through binoculars as Velasco emerged from between buildings. He moved with controlled urgency, scanning his surroundings without obvious panic. The methodical researcher remained evident even in his escape.

"All units maintain distance," she instructed. "Let him believe he's clear."

Velasco reached the Honda, unlocked it, and slid inside. Moments later, the car pulled away from the curb.

"Target is mobile," Officer Ramirez reported from the passenger seat. "Heading west on Second Street."

The dot on the tracking screen began moving. If they could maintain pursuit without detection, they might finally locate Velasco's true laboratory.

Kiko appeared at the SUV's side door, breathing hard. Claire slid over to make room as the younger agent climbed inside.

"He made me," Kiko said, frustration evident in her voice. "That barista⁠—"

"He’s smart."

"Not smart enough to check his car for trackers," Kiko replied, strapping in as Mendez pulled away from the curb, maintaining a four-block distance behind Velasco's Honda.

They followed the pulsing dot through Port Angeles and out onto Highway 101. Velasco drove erratically, taking sudden turns, doubling back, even pulling into parking lots only to exit moments later—all classic counter-surveillance techniques.

"He's being thorough," Claire observed as they waited at a distance while Velasco circled a shopping center for the third time.

"Too thorough to follow directly," Mendez agreed. "Good thing we've got the tracker."

After nearly an hour of evasive maneuvers, Velasco finally settled into a consistent direction, heading west along the highway before turning onto a forest service road toward the mountains.

"He's heading back toward the Hoh," Claire noted, watching the tracker's path into increasingly remote territory. "Deeper than before."

As daylight faded, they maintained a safe distance, traveling without headlights when possible, guided by the steady pulse of the tracker signal leading them deeper into the wilderness.

44

The forest service road ended at a small clearing beneath towering hemlocks. Claire signaled for Mendez to stop well before they reached it, the SUV's headlights extinguished to maintain their concealment in the gathering darkness.

"Target has stopped moving," Ramirez confirmed, studying the tracking screen. "Half a mile ahead."

Claire checked her weapon, then turned to the team. "Quiet approach from here. Non-tactical lights only. Kiko, you're with me. Officers, secure the perimeter once we identify the target location."

They moved through the forest, following game trails that paralleled the main road. The rain had softened the ground, muffling their footsteps as they approached.

After fifteen minutes of careful navigation, they reached a vantage point overlooking a small clearing. The burned shell of Velasco's cabin stood as a charred skeleton against the darkening sky, its blackened timbers like accusatory fingers pointed skyward. Nearby sat Velasco's Honda, empty and cooling in the evening air.

But of Velasco himself, there was no sign.

"Clear the vehicle first," Claire instructed. "Then we sweep the ruins."

The car contained nothing of note—no papers, no personal items, not even the book Velasco had shown Kiko at the café. The cabin ruins yielded equally little, the fire having destroyed anything of evidentiary value.

"He's not here," Kiko said, frustration evident in her voice as they regrouped at the edge of the clearing. "He just vanished."

Claire scanned the surrounding forest, the darkness now nearly complete beneath the dense canopy. "He didn't disappear. He knows these woods—knows exactly where he's going."

"But where?" Mendez asked, sweeping his flashlight across the underbrush. "There's nothing out here."

"There has to be," Claire insisted. "Carver talked about flowing water, about a confluence. A lab where Velasco conducts his experiments."

"I don't hear water," Ramirez noted, head tilted to listen. "Just wind in the trees."

Claire pulled out her phone and dialed. Despite the remote location, the Bureau's signal booster managed a weak connection.

"Violet," she said when the call connected. "We've tracked Velasco back to his property, but he's disappeared. What else do you have on this location?"

"I've been digging into county records," Violet replied, her voice breaking up slightly. "The property has been in Velasco's name for seven years, purchased through a shell company. There was a permit filed shortly after purchase."

"What kind of permit?"

"Excavation," Violet said. "Classified as 'research facility construction,' but the blueprints show what looks like a bunker or basement structure. Approximately 2,000 square feet beneath the cabin."

Claire's heart rate quickened. "He's underground. The cabin was just the entrance."

"That's my guess," Violet confirmed. "The permit also references proximity to water—something about utilizing natural hydraulic systems."

"Thanks, Violet. Send the blueprints if you can." Claire ended the call and turned to the team. "We're looking for an underground entrance. Spread out, search the perimeter of the cabin ruins. There has to be another way in."

They worked methodically, expanding their search in concentric circles from the burned structure. The darkness complicated their efforts, shadows playing tricks as flashlight beams cut through the gloom.

"Over here!" Kiko called suddenly from the northern edge of the clearing. "I've got footprints!"

Claire joined her, crouching to examine the forest floor. A subtle depression in the soft earth revealed a single bootprint, the tread pattern distinctive enough to suggest recent passage.

"Good eye," Claire said, following the direction of the track. "Let's see where it leads."

They moved carefully through the underbrush, following sporadic signs of passage—a broken twig here, a displaced stone there. The forest sloped gradually downward, the terrain becoming rockier as they descended.

"Listen," Kiko whispered, stopping suddenly. "Water."

Beneath the rustle of leaves and distant owl calls came a subtle sound—the gentle murmur of flowing water. They continued forward, the sound growing clearer until they emerged onto a rocky shelf overlooking a narrow ravine. Below, a stream coursed through the darkness, its surface occasionally catching moonlight filtering through the canopy.

"The water source Carver mentioned," Claire said. "But where's the entrance?"

Ramirez swept his flashlight along the ravine wall, the beam catching something that didn't belong among the natural stone—a metallic glint, partially obscured by carefully arranged branches and undergrowth.

"There," Claire pointed. "That's it."

They descended to the stream's edge, where what had appeared to be part of the natural rock face was revealed as a cleverly disguised metal door. Branches and camouflage material had been arranged to break up its outline, rendering it nearly invisible from more than a few feet away.

"Velasco's real laboratory," Claire said, drawing her weapon.

Mendez carefully moved aside the camouflaging material while Ramirez covered the door with his service weapon. A simple handle emerged, alongside a keypad lock.

"Violet might be able to help with the code," Kiko suggested, reaching for her phone.

"No time," Claire replied, examining the lock mechanism. "Looks like a standard electromagnetic seal. The explosion might have been a distraction, but it taught us something about Velasco's security approaches."

She turned to Mendez. "Officer, in your vehicle—do you have a portable generator or power pack?"

"Standard emergency equipment, yes."

"Get it. We're going to short-circuit this rather than crack the code."

While Mendez returned to the SUV, Claire and the others secured the perimeter, alert for any sign of Velasco returning. The forest remained eerily quiet, save for the constant whisper of the stream.

Twenty minutes later, they had bypassed the electronic lock. Claire positioned herself at the door, weapon ready, the others flanking her in standard entry formation.

"Ready?" she asked, receiving nods from her team. "On three. One, two..."

She pulled the handle. The metal door swung open silently on well-oiled hinges, revealing a dimly lit corridor descending into the earth. Cool, dry air rushed out, carrying the scent of antiseptic and something else—a subtle chemical odor Claire recognized from the descriptions of earlier crime scenes.

Hemlock.

They had found Velasco's sanctuary—the place where consciousness research had transformed into serial murder, where philosophical inquiry had become deadly experimentation.

Claire took a deep breath and stepped into the threshold, descending into the madness that awaited below.

45

Velasco's fingers danced across multiple keyboards, each movement a calculated step toward his ultimate revelation.

The laboratory breathed with silent anticipation. Slate-gray walls absorbed what little light filtered through narrow windows, creating a liminal space between clinical precision and absolute darkness.

The streaming platform pulsed with life. Numbers scrolled across multiple screens—viewer count climbing rapidly. 5,000. 10,100. 15,700. Each digit represented another witness to his transformation, another mind about to comprehend the truth he'd discovered.

"They don't understand yet," Velasco murmured, adjusting the final neural lead. The electrode felt cold against his skin, a bridge between biological limitation and infinite potential.

Three cameras captured every angle of his impending experiment. The primary camera, mounted on a precision-engineered gimbal, would track his physiological changes in real-time. Another focused on his face—a portrait of scientific martyrdom. The third captured the entire laboratory, a tableau of his life's work.

His first test on himself had been transformative, this one would be eternal. He’d wanted to run one more series of tests before the final transformation, but now it was too late.

This was the end game.

Velasco checked the redundant internet connections. Satellite. Fiber optic. Cellular. No interruption would stop his broadcast. The world would witness the moment of consciousness transition.

With methodical precision, he began to undress. Each piece of clothing removed was a ritual of scientific surrender. His shoes. His belt. Shirt buttons unfastened one by one. The clinical white hospital gown waited—a garment of transformation, of vulnerability.

The hemlock-derived compound sat in a precisely calibrated glass vial. Clear. Viscous. Waiting. He could see the chat interfaces erupting—scientists, philosophers, skeptics all watching, waiting, judging.

Naked now, Velasco moved with a surgeon's deliberation. He lifted the hospital gown, the thin fabric a membrane between his biological self and the quantum experiment about to unfold. The gown settled around his shoulders, open at the back, exposing the carefully placed neural leads and monitoring points.

His hands trembled as he prepared the final connection. Not from fear. From anticipation.

"For generations," he spoke directly into the microphone, "humanity has misunderstood the nature of consciousness. Death is not an endpoint. It is a transformation."

The vial of hemlock-derived compound caught the blue-green light from the monitors. Velasco's fingers—long, precise, surgeon-steady—traced its glass surface. Years of research distilled into this single, perfect solution. Each milliliter represented a lifetime of study, of pushing beyond the boundaries of human understanding.

The monitors before him erupted with data. Graphs tracking neural activity. Metrics measuring the most subtle biological changes. Each pixel a testament to decades of research.

Velasco looked into the primary camera. His eyes burned with a mixture of triumph and evangelical intensity. Years of research. Countless experimental subjects. All leading to this moment.

He began to prepare the injection. The needle gleamed under the laboratory lights—a precision instrument of revelation.

A sound. Distant. A voice.

Footsteps in the corridor.

He smiled. They were too late.

Consciousness was about to prove itself infinite.

Beneath hemlock skies, the final membrane trembles.

46

Claire descended the metal stairs, each step deliberate and silent, Kiko close behind. The stairwell was surprisingly well-constructed—poured concrete walls, recessed LED lighting, even handrails bolted securely to the wall. This was no hastily assembled hideout but a carefully designed facility built for long-term use.

She’d left the local officers at the entry to secure it in case Velasco returned.

At the bottom of the stairs, a short corridor led to a heavy metal door standing partially open. Claire paused, signaling Kiko to hold position while she listened. The faint hum of ventilation systems and electronic equipment was the only sound that reached them.

"We should wait for backup," Kiko whispered, her sidearm already drawn. "SWAT is twenty minutes out."

Claire nodded her agreement, but something pulled her forward—the thought of another young woman strapped to one of Velasco's monitoring devices, hemlock coursing through her veins while her consciousness was systematically mapped during death.

"If he has someone down here..." Claire left the sentence unfinished.

"I know," Kiko replied. "Let's clear it. Carefully."

They advanced through the door in tactical formation, sweeping their weapons across the space that opened before them. Claire blinked in surprise at what they found.

It wasn't merely a bunker or rudimentary lab—it was a state-of-the-art research facility that would have impressed prestigious universities. The main room stretched nearly forty feet in each direction, its white walls lined with advanced monitoring equipment. Workstations with multiple screens stood at intervals around the perimeter. In the center, a specialized medical bed surrounded by neurological monitoring equipment occupied a slightly raised platform.

"My God," Kiko breathed. "The money this would take..."

"The same money that's been flowing through North Cascadia's shell companies," Claire replied, moving deeper into the room. "This is where our financial crimes case and the murders intersect."

They moved methodically through the space, clearing each corner and alcove. The facility included a small living area with bed and kitchenette, a bathroom with shower, and what appeared to be a pharmaceutical preparation room with labeled chemical compounds stored in temperature-controlled cabinets.

"No other victims," Kiko confirmed as they completed their initial sweep. "But look at this⁠—"

She pointed to one of the computer monitors, where a program actively ran, graphs and numbers scrolling across the screen in real-time. Whatever research Velasco conducted here, it was ongoing.

A narrow hallway led from the main laboratory area, ending at another door—this one closed and featuring a much more substantial locking mechanism. Unlike the exterior entrance, this door had no physical handle, only a biometric scanner and keypad.

Claire approached cautiously, scanning for tripwires or security measures. "Panic room," she murmured. "Fallback position in case of discovery."

As they neared the door, a small screen beside it flickered to life, displaying a high-definition video feed. Through a thick polycarbonate window set into the door, Claire could see Gabriel Velasco inside what appeared to be a secondary lab space. He wore a white hospital gown, his body connected to monitoring equipment at multiple points. Electrodes attached to his scalp fed into sophisticated neurological monitoring devices. Three professional-grade cameras were positioned around him, clearly broadcasting his actions.

What caught Claire's attention most was the syringe in his hand, filled with a clear liquid she immediately recognized from the toxicology reports.

"Velasco!" she shouted, pounding on the thick transparent panel. Her fist barely made a sound against the military-grade material—designed to withstand explosives, bullets, and apparently desperate FBI agents.

"Agent Anderson," he acknowledged, his voice coming through clearly via concealed speakers. "And Agent Greene. I apologize for not offering a proper welcome to my research facility."

Claire raised her weapon toward the viewing panel, quickly assessing it. Three-inch polycarbonate composite at minimum, likely reinforced with internal kevlar webbing. Her service weapon would barely scratch it.

"Gabriel Velasco, you're under arrest for the murders of Julia Marek, Mei-Lin Chang, Hannah Kettering."

"Murders," Velasco repeated, as though considering an interesting academic proposition. "A reductive term for groundbreaking consciousness research."

"Call it what you want," Claire replied, continuing to assess the door as she spoke. The construction was military-grade—reinforced steel with no visible vulnerability. No hinges visible from their side, likely recessed into the doorframe. "You'll have plenty of time to explain your theories to a jury."

Velasco gestured to his surroundings with his free hand, the one not holding the syringe. The room behind him contained similar monitoring equipment to the main lab, though in a more compact arrangement. A small cot stood against one wall, alongside shelving containing food supplies and water. Multiple computer screens displayed a streaming interface where viewer numbers climbed into the tens of thousands.

"I think we both know I won't be leaving this facility," Velasco said. "At least not on your terms."

Claire scanned the room visible through the window, confirming what she'd already suspected—he was alone. No victims, no hostages. Just a researcher who had retreated to his final defensive position.

"There's nowhere to go, Velasco," she said. "This place is surrounded. SWAT will be here within minutes. The only question is whether you come out on your own, or we come in after you."

Velasco smiled slightly. "I designed this lab to withstand military-grade explosives. The door is six-inch reinforced steel with a tensile strength rating that exceeds anything your SWAT team will be carrying. You won't be coming in."

47

"Everyone makes mistakes," Kiko said, examining the doorframe. "Every system has weaknesses."

Claire's mind raced, assessing their dire situation. Through the viewing panel, she could see Velasco preparing to inject himself with the hemlock compound, multiple cameras positioned to capture his death from every angle. More disturbing were the screens behind him displaying viewer counts, chat interfaces, and streaming metrics.

"He's broadcasting this," Claire realized. "Look at those screens—he's livestreaming his 'experiment' to thousands of viewers."

Kiko glanced at the monitors. "That's why he isn't concerned about being caught. This isn't about escape."

Claire stepped away from the door, pulling out her phone. "I need to call Violet. Keep eyes on him."

She moved several paces down the corridor, maintaining line of sight to Kiko while dialing. Violet answered immediately.

"Claire? SWAT is en route to your⁠—"

"Velasco is broadcasting," Claire interrupted. "Livestreaming his own suicide by hemlock to prove his consciousness theories. Can you track the signal?"

"Already on it," Violet replied, surprising Claire. "After the cabin explosion, I started monitoring unusual bandwidth usage in the area. There's been massive data transfer from that location for the past hour—way more than standard communications would require."

"Can you disrupt it?" Claire asked, watching as Velasco adjusted one of his cameras, the syringe of hemlock derivative temporarily set aside.

"Working on it now. He's using multiple redundant connections—satellite uplink, cellular boosters, even a dedicated fiber line. Sophisticated setup."

"He planned this all along," Claire said. "The murders, the research, all building to his grand finale where he proves his theories by broadcasting his own death."

"I've identified his primary streaming platform," Violet reported. "It's a scientific research portal, normally used for academic conferences. He's piggybacked on their infrastructure—smart, since they're built to handle high-bandwidth transmissions of research data."

Claire returned to the door, where Kiko remained watching Velasco's preparations. He had resumed his broadcast monologue, gesturing to data scrolling across his screens as he explained his methodology to his unseen audience.

"Can you cut the connection?" Claire asked Violet.

"Better than that," Violet replied, a hint of satisfaction entering her voice. "I can replace his feed. His system is sophisticated, but he's using standard streaming protocols. I've gained access to his local broadcasting node."

"What does that mean?" Claire pressed, watching as Velasco picked up the syringe again, examining it under the harsh laboratory lights.

"It means I can insert a loop of pre-recorded data into his outgoing feed. From the viewers' perspective, everything will look normal—they'll see his preparations, hear his explanations—but when he actually injects the compound, they'll just see a repeating sequence of his previous movements. His 'groundbreaking moment of transition' will never reach his audience."

Claire felt the first spark of hope. "How long?"

"Thirty seconds. Maybe less. The intrusion code is executing now."

Claire moved to the viewing panel, raising her voice to be heard through the door. "Velasco! You need to stop this now."

He looked up, a serene smile on his face. "I'm afraid it's too late, Agent Anderson. My audience awaits the final revelation."

"What audience?" Claire countered. "Your broadcast has been compromised. No one will see your grand finale."

Velasco's expression flickered—the first genuine uncertainty she'd witnessed. "You're lying. My systems are secure, redundant."

"Check your feeds," Claire insisted. "Your data isn't reaching its destination."

Velasco glanced at his monitors, then did a double-take, his eyes widening. He moved to a keyboard, typing rapidly. "Impossible," he muttered, though Claire could see growing panic in his movements.

"It's over, Velasco," she said. "Whatever you do in there, your research dies with you. No one will see your results. No one will validate your theories. Your life's work ends here, unobserved and unproven."

His hands stilled on the keyboard. For a scientist whose entire identity revolved around observation and documentation, the thought of his final experiment going unseen struck deeper than any threat of imprisonment.

"Your only option is to come out," Claire continued. "Present your research through proper channels, let the scientific community evaluate your methods."

Velasco stared at her through the viewing panel, the serene researcher now replaced by a man confronting the collapse of his life's purpose. In his hand, the syringe of hemlock derivative trembled slightly.

"Your experiment fails if no one witnesses it," Claire pressed, seeing his resolve waver. "What's the point of proving a theory if there's no one to verify your results?"

Velasco looked from Claire to the syringe, then to the monitors displaying his now-compromised broadcast. Behind the viewing panel that separated them, the fundamental question of his research—what happens at the threshold between life and death—hung unanswered in the balance.

48

Jack's SUV bounced along the rutted forest road, each jolt sending fresh pain through his bandaged torso. The doctors had explicitly forbidden him from leaving—something about internal bleeding risk and third-degree burns requiring monitoring—but after three unsuccessful attempts to reach Claire, hospital protocols had become a secondary concern.

"Still nothing?" Fitz asked from the passenger seat, glancing at Jack's phone on the center console.

"Straight to voicemail," Jack confirmed, gripping the steering wheel tighter as they navigated around a fallen branch. "Same with Kiko."

"And Violet's not answering either," Fitz added, his normally languid demeanor replaced by tense alertness. "Something's wrong."

Jack didn't need to voice his agreement. The team's simultaneous communications blackout could only mean trouble. According to the last update he'd received before going dark, Claire and Kiko had tracked Velasco to a property deep in the Olympic Peninsula wilderness. Standard protocol would have had them waiting for backup before approach—but Claire had never been one to prioritize protocol over urgency when lives might be at stake.

From the back seat, Ranger whined softly, sensing the tension. The golden retriever's tail thumped against the upholstery as Jack glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"Not much further, boy," Jack said, the simple act of speaking causing his cracked ribs to protest.

Breaking himself out of the hospital had been less dramatic than the phrase suggested—mostly involved unplugging monitoring equipment, ignoring nurses' protests, and signing an Against Medical Advice form while still half-drugged on painkillers. Finding his badge and weapon had been harder than leaving the building.

When he'd arrived at their hotel base, only Fitz had been there, along with a restless Ranger who'd been left behind for the operation. Despite Fitz's objections about Jack's obvious physical limitations, they'd agreed that backup couldn't wait for proper authorization channels. Jack had insisted on bringing Ranger—partly to avoid leaving him alone again, partly because a dog with even diminished scent capabilities was better than nothing when tracking someone in the wilderness.

They rounded a final bend, and the burned shell of Velasco's cabin came into view. Two Bureau SUVs and a county Sheriff's vehicle were parked haphazardly near the clearing's edge. Officers moved around the perimeter, establishing a wide security cordon with yellow tape.

Jack pulled up behind the nearest Bureau vehicle and cut the engine, each movement deliberate as he worked around his injuries. The bandages beneath his shirt pulled against tender skin, and his right leg—sporting an impressive array of second-degree burns along the calf—protested as he shifted his weight onto it.

"You look like hell," Fitz observed as they exited the vehicle. "Quite literally, in fact—as though you've recently returned from a tour of the underworld."

"Thanks for the assessment," Jack replied dryly. He opened the rear door, allowing Ranger to jump down. The dog immediately began sniffing the ground, moving in widening circles from the vehicle.

A Jefferson County deputy approached, eyeing Jack's obvious injuries with concern. "Agents? The perimeter is secure. Your team is inside."

"Inside where, exactly?" Fitz asked, scanning the destroyed cabin. "That structure is hardly habitable."

"Underground facility," the deputy explained. "Entrance is down by the stream. Agent Anderson and Agent Greene entered approximately twenty minutes ago, instructed us to maintain perimeter security."

Jack exchanged glances with Fitz. An underground facility explained a lot—including the potential communications blackout if the structure had significant shielding.

"Show us," Jack said, already moving in the direction the deputy indicated, pain temporarily overridden by purpose.

They followed a narrow path down a gentle slope, Jack's injured leg making the descent treacherous. Ranger trotted ahead, nose working constantly as he processed the environment's scents. At the bottom, a small stream cut through the forest floor, its surface catching occasional sunlight filtering through the canopy.

"There," the deputy pointed toward what appeared to be a metal door set into the ravine wall, partially concealed by strategic vegetation placement. "They bypassed the electronic lock somehow."

Jack approached the entrance cautiously, drawing his weapon despite the awkwardness of the movement. "Claire? Kiko?" he called out, receiving no response.

Ranger, meanwhile, had adopted the distinctive posture that signaled detection of something significant—head lowered, body rigid, tail straight. The dog moved purposefully toward the metal door, then sat, looking back at Jack expectantly.

"His training still holds," Fitz observed with something like pride.

"Good boy," Jack murmured, moving to join the dog at the entrance. The door stood partially open, revealing a dimly lit stairwell descending into darkness. "Stay close," he instructed Ranger, who fell into position beside him.

As they prepared to enter, Fitz placed a restraining hand on Jack's shoulder. "Perhaps I should take point, given your... compromised condition."

49

Claire watched Velasco's face through the thick viewing panel, witnessing the precise moment realization struck him. His expression transformed from scientific detachment to something rawer—anger mingled with desperation as he verified what she'd told him. His life's work, his grand finale, his proof of concept—all rendered invisible to the audience he'd cultivated.

"You've destroyed everything," he said finally, his voice carrying through the speakers with a new edge. The serene researcher was gone, replaced by a man confronting the collapse of his entire purpose.

"It's over, Velasco," Claire repeated. "Your only option is to come out. Face justice for what you've done."

He stared at her through the polycarbonate barrier, eyes calculating despite his apparent defeat. "Justice?" he echoed. "You think courts can understand what I do?"

"I think the families of the women you murdered deserve closure," Claire countered. "And I think you deserve to spend the rest of your life in a cell."

Something shifted in Velasco's expression—a hardening around the eyes, a tightening of his jaw. Claire recognized the look from countless confrontations with cornered suspects. He wasn't surrendering; he was recalculating.

"I'm afraid that's not an option, Agent Anderson," he said, his tone cooling to clinical precision once more. "If I can't document the transition for others, I'll simply have to experience it personally." His eyes held hers through the barrier. "But not alone."

He moved away from the viewing panel toward one of his workstations, tapping rapidly on a sleek silver keyboard. Multiple screens changed configurations simultaneously.

"What are you doing?" Claire demanded, pressing closer to the transparent barrier.

"Ensuring my research doesn't die with me," Velasco replied without looking up. "You've blocked my broadcast, but you haven't stopped the experiment itself."

Behind her, Kiko had begun examining the edges of the door frame, looking for any vulnerability in the security system. "This seal is electromagnetic," she reported quietly to Claire. "If we could cut power to the bunker⁠—"

"Independent systems," Claire reminded her. "He said everything in there operates autonomously."

On the screens behind Velasco, Claire could see a new program initializing—something labeled "Threshold Protocol: Emergency Implementation." A schematic of the bunker appeared, sections highlighting in sequence as the system activated.

Velasco moved to a separate control panel, entering a complex sequence of commands. Behind the viewing panel, a cylindrical container emerged from the ceiling—a pressurized tank with hazard symbols clearly visible on its surface.

"You should run, Agent Anderson," Velasco said calmly. "Though I doubt it will help."

The facility's lighting shifted suddenly from white to red, and an automated voice announced through overhead speakers: "Containment protocol activated. Decontamination sequence commencing in sixty seconds."

Claire grabbed Kiko's arm. "Move. Now!"

They sprinted down the corridor toward the main lab area, the automated voice continuing its countdown behind them. As they reached the main laboratory, Claire registered a hydraulic hiss followed by a heavy thud that reverberated through the facility.

Kiko reached the exit first, her hand closing around the handle that had admitted them minutes earlier. She pulled, then pushed, her expression shifting to alarm.

"It's locked," she reported, voice tight with urgency. "Completely sealed."

Claire joined her, examining the door. No visible locking mechanism, no manual override—just a solid metal barrier now firmly shut.

The automated voice continued: "Decontamination sequence commencing in forty-five seconds. All personnel evacuate immediately."

"The other corridors," Claire suggested, already moving. "There must be another way out."

They raced across the main laboratory toward a second hallway on the opposite side, but before they could reach it, another heavy thud sounded. Metal barriers slid from recesses in the walls, sealing off all remaining exits from the main chamber.

"He's compartmentalizing the facility," Kiko realized, spinning to take stock of their situation. "Trapping us in sections."

"Decontamination sequence commencing in thirty seconds."

Above them, Claire spotted air vents in the ceiling beginning to rotate open. A faint mist emerged—barely visible in the red emergency lighting, but unmistakable.

"The hemlock compound," she said.

"Decontamination sequence commencing in twenty seconds."

Claire's mind raced through their options. She activated her radio, knowing even as she did that the signal wouldn't penetrate the facility's shielding. Static confirmed her fear.

Kiko had moved to one of the computer terminals, fingers flying across the keyboard. "It's locked down. Complete security protocols engaged."

"Decontamination sequence commencing in ten seconds."

They locked eyes across the room, the reality settling between them. No exits. No communications. No way to stop what was coming.

Claire thought of her children—Benny waiting for her to come home, the twins with their lives just beginning. She thought of Jack, lying in a hospital bed, unaware of where they were or what was happening.

The first wisps of the aerosolized compound began filtering more heavily through the vents, creating a thin haze near the ceiling.

"Nine seconds. Eight. Seven."

50

Jack's injured leg nearly buckled as he followed Fitz down the metal stairs into Velasco's underground facility. Ranger trotted between them, nose working constantly, processing the complex blend of scents. The stairwell was eerily silent except for their footsteps and Jack's labored breathing as pain flared through his bandaged torso.

"This is considerably more elaborate than I anticipated," Fitz observed, his voice low as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "Rather like a proper research institution rather than a madman's lair."

Jack nodded, conserving energy as they approached a heavy metal door at the end of a short corridor. The door stood firmly closed, with no obvious handle or entry mechanism—just a keypad and what appeared to be a biometric scanner.

"Claire and Kiko must have come through here," Jack said, examining the door. "But how?"

Fitz studied the control panel. "Perhaps they bypassed the security system somehow. Violet might⁠—"

Jack's phone suddenly buzzed in his pocket—the first signal it had received since they'd entered the stairwell. He pulled it out, surprised to see Violet's name on the screen.

"Russo," he answered.

"Jack!" Violet's voice came through with unusual urgency. "Where are you? Is Fitz with you?"

"We're at Velasco's underground facility. Just reached a door, but it's sealed."

"You need to get in there now," Violet said, the sound of typing audible in the background. "Velasco has activated some kind of 'decontamination protocol'—he's releasing aerosolized hemlock compound throughout the main laboratory."

Jack felt his blood run cold. "Claire and Kiko are inside."

"I know—I've got partial access to his security cameras. They're trapped in the main lab section with the gas already deploying."

"How do we get through this door?" Jack demanded, scanning the sealed entrance with renewed urgency.

"I'm sending a bypass code to your phone now," Violet replied. "It'll temporarily disable the electromagnetic lock. But once you're inside, you need to move fast."

In the Boiler Room, Violet hunched over her array of screens, fingers flying across multiple keyboards as she fought her way deeper into Velasco's systems. She'd been monitoring the situation remotely since Claire and Kiko had first entered the facility, maintaining a tenuous connection to Velasco's network after disrupting his broadcast.

Her primary monitor displayed a schematic of the underground laboratory with blinking red indicators showing areas where the "decontamination protocol" had activated.

Her second screen showed fragmented security camera feeds—Claire and Kiko trapped in the main laboratory, vapor beginning to fill the air around them. The third monitor displayed the complex code she was using to bypass Velasco's security systems.

"Come on, come on," she muttered, executing a brute force attack on the facility's environmental controls. She'd already compromised the communications system and parts of the security grid, but the atmospheric regulation remained stubbornly resistant.

Velasco's network architecture was impressive—redundant systems, isolated control modules, manual overrides requiring physical activation. The man had designed his facility to withstand not just physical intrusion but digital assault as well.

But Violet had identified a vulnerability in the way Velasco's streaming system interfaced with his main network. The broadcast setup he'd installed to document his "final experiment" had created a digital backdoor she could exploit.

Her fingers moved faster than they ever had before, executing a sequence that would redirect the electromagnetic pulses controlling the laboratory's security doors.

"Got you," she whispered as a section of code finally yielded to her attack. A simplified floor plan appeared on her center screen, showing the location of manual override stations throughout the facility.

She immediately dialed Jack again.

"The bypass code just came through," Jack told Fitz, showing him the message on his phone. "Violet says we need to enter it and then immediately hit the green button below the keypad."

Fitz input the code, his fingers surprisingly nimble for their size. The panel beeped once, a small light shifting from red to green. He pressed the illuminated button, and with a pneumatic hiss, the heavy door began to swing inward.

Jack's phone rang again—Violet.

"We're in," he reported as he answered.

"Listen carefully," Violet said, her voice clipped and focused. "The main lab where Claire and Kiko are trapped is sealed by an emergency containment system. You need to find the manual override. It's in a utility corridor about thirty feet to your right after you enter."

Jack and Fitz moved through the door, Ranger staying close to Jack's side. The corridor before them branched in two directions.

"I see it," Jack confirmed, spotting another hallway to their right.

"The override station looks like a red panel with a glass safety cover," Violet continued. "Break the glass, pull the lever down, then rotate it clockwise. That will restore manual control of the interior doors."

"Copy that," Jack said. "What about the gas?"

"I'm working on disrupting the environmental systems now, but it's heavily isolated from the network. There should be an emergency ventilation control in the same utility corridor—large yellow panel marked 'Atmos Control'. Once you've opened the doors, you'll need to activate the purge sequence."

Jack relayed the information to Fitz as they moved down the corridor, Ranger trotting ahead, nose still working constantly. The dog suddenly stopped, ears perking up, then darted forward with purpose.

"He's got something," Jack said, following as quickly as his injured leg would allow.

Ranger led them to a recessed area containing exactly what Violet had described—a red emergency panel with a glass cover and, beside it, a larger yellow control station.

"Remarkable," Fitz murmured, whether he was referring to Ranger's abilities or Violet's accuracy wasn't clear.

Jack used the butt of his weapon to break the glass covering the emergency override. He pulled the lever down and rotated it clockwise as instructed. A series of loud clanks echoed through the facility.

"Override engaged," Jack reported into the phone. "Moving to ventilation control."

Fitz had already opened the yellow panel, revealing a complex array of switches and digital readouts. "Which sequence activates the purge?" he asked.

Violet's voice came through the speaker: "There should be a red button marked 'Emergency Purge' in the bottom right corner. Press and hold it for five seconds, then flip the three switches above it to the 'active' position."

Fitz followed the instructions precisely, his movements deliberate despite the urgency of the situation. As he activated the final switch, a new alarm sounded throughout the facility, and mechanical whirring indicated powerful ventilation systems engaging.

"Ventilation purge initiated," Jack reported. "Are the doors open?"

"Yes," Violet confirmed. "The containment doors to the main lab should be releasing now. Get Claire and Kiko out of there—the purge system will help clear the air, but it won't completely neutralize the compound already released."

Jack and Fitz moved quickly, following Ranger, who had already begun tracking toward the main laboratory. The dog's training as a detection animal gave him an instinctive understanding of which areas to avoid—even with his compromised sense of smell, he could detect the dangerous compound in the air.

They rounded a corner and saw the main laboratory ahead—a large chamber filled with scientific equipment and monitoring stations. Through a haze of thinning vapor, Jack spotted Claire and Kiko near the far wall. The doors that had trapped them were now partially open, the emergency override having disabled their locking mechanisms.

"Claire!" Jack called out, his voice echoing through the facility. "This way! Follow Ranger!"

In the Boiler Room, Violet allowed herself a moment of satisfaction as she monitored the facility's atmospheric sensors. The emergency purge was working, venting the contaminated air and replacing it with filtered oxygen from reserve tanks. The concentration of the hemlock compound was dropping rapidly.

But they weren't safe yet. Her access to Velasco's systems was still partial at best, and she could see warning indicators suggesting additional security protocols were preparing to activate.

She refocused her efforts, diving deeper into the facility's control architecture. Whatever happened next, she would ensure her team had every possible advantage she could provide.

The building was designed to trap and isolate.

She would make sure it failed.

51

Violet's fingers flew across her keyboards, sweat beading on her forehead as she pushed deeper into Velasco's security architecture. The man was brilliant—each layer of protection she bypassed revealed another, more complex system beneath. But brilliance had its blind spots. His focus on redundancy had created overlaps where systems intersected, vulnerabilities where separate protocols competed for priority.

"There you are," she murmured, identifying a critical node where the panic room's biometric security connected to the main facility grid.

She'd already compromised the environmental controls and overridden the containment doors. The secure room where Velasco had barricaded himself remained her final challenge—a self-contained fortress with independent power and security protocols.

The schematic on her center monitor showed the room's multiple protection layers: reinforced walls, independent oxygen supply, electromagnetic door seals, even a manual deadbolt system that could only be activated from inside.

But the electromagnetic locks required power, and every power system left digital fingerprints. Violet traced the connections, identifying the authentication sequence that verified Velasco's biometric data. If she could inject false credentials into that verification stream...

Her fingers paused over the keyboard. Direct attacks had failed. But what if she didn't try to break the system—what if she convinced it that she was Velasco?

She began coding a new approach, crafting a precise replica of Velasco's authentication patterns based on the data fragments she'd already captured. The biometric system was looking for specific markers—fingerprints, retinal patterns, voice recognition. She couldn't provide those physically, but digitally, everything was just code.

"Got it," she whispered as the final piece fell into place. She reached for her phone to call Claire.

Claire's lungs burned as she followed Jack and Fitz through the labyrinthine facility, Kiko close behind her. The ventilation purge had cleared enough of the aerosolized hemlock compound for them to breathe, but she could still feel its effects—a slight numbness in her extremities, a heaviness in her limbs that hadn't been there before.

Ranger led their group, his training evident in how he navigated around areas where the compound lingered in higher concentrations.

"Violet says Velasco is still in the secure room," Jack reported, checking his phone as they moved. "He hasn't injected himself yet—seems to be watching the facility systems, trying to counter her hacking attempts."

"He's realized his trap failed," Fitz observed, his breathing labored as they hurried down another corridor. "A narcissist of his magnitude won't accept defeat easily."

Claire's phone vibrated in her pocket. "Anderson," she answered.

"I've found a way into the panic room," Violet said without preamble. "But it's going to take precise timing. The system is designed to reject any access attempt that doesn't match Velasco's exact biometric patterns."

"How do we get around that?" Claire asked as they turned another corner, the corridor leading back toward where they'd first encountered Velasco's secure room.

"I've created a digital duplicate of his authentication sequence," Violet explained. "I can inject it into the verification stream, but only for about three seconds before the system detects the intrusion and locks down completely."

"Three seconds," Claire repeated. "That's our window to get the door open?"

"Yes. And I can only try once—after that, the system will permanently seal."

They reached the narrow hallway leading to Velasco's panic room, slowing their approach to avoid alerting him to their presence. Through the viewing panel, Claire could see him still at his workstation, fingers moving across keyboards as he monitored his facility's compromised systems.

"We're in position," Claire told Violet quietly. "What's the signal?"

"I need a distraction," Violet replied. "Something to hold his attention while I execute the injection. The moment I give the word, you'll have exactly three seconds to open that door before it seals permanently."

Claire considered their options, her gaze falling on the intercommunication panel beside the viewing window. An idea formed—something that might just hold Velasco's attention long enough.

"Be ready," she told Violet. "I'll let you know when to start the sequence."

She approached the viewing panel, deliberately making enough noise to draw Velasco's attention. He turned, surprise registering on his face as he saw all four of them—Claire, Jack, Kiko, and Fitz—gathered outside his secure room. Even Ranger had positioned himself beside Jack, ears alert, gaze fixed on the man behind the barrier.

"Quite the audience," Velasco remarked, his voice carrying through the speakers. "Have you come to witness the experiment after all?"

"I've come to remind you of something," Claire replied, stepping closer to the intercom. She nodded slightly to her team, a silent signal to prepare themselves. "A poem you might be fond of."

Confusion flickered across Velasco's face, quickly replaced by wary interest. He approached the viewing panel, the syringe of hemlock derivative still clutched in one hand.

"You know Keating's work?" he asked, genuine surprise in his tone.

Claire held his gaze steadily, speaking clearly into the intercom as she nodded to Jack, who had his phone ready. "Violet. Now," she heard him say quietly.

Then she began to recite, her voice deliberate and measured:

"Beneath hemlock skies the wind forgets its name..."

She saw Velasco's eyes widen slightly, genuinely captivated by hearing the words that had guided his grotesque experiments.

"...and silence pools in the mouth of the earth..."

Jack and Fitz had positioned themselves on either side of the door, ready to move the instant it opened.

"...Socrates drinks & the world leans back..."

Kiko stood slightly behind them, handcuffs ready, her stance balanced and prepared.

"...waiting for the moment between..."

Velasco moved closer to the viewing panel, transfixed by Claire's recitation of the verses that had become his personal scripture.

"...thought & no thought..."

Jack's phone screen flashed a message from Violet. Ten seconds.

"...breath & the last of breath..."

Velasco's lips moved slightly, silently forming the words along with her, the syringe momentarily forgotten in his hand.

"...does the dark unfold like a hand, like a door⁠—"

Five seconds. The team tensed, readying themselves.

"...or does nothing come at all?"

Three seconds. Jack and Fitz moved into final position.

"...the body stiffens like a question half-asked..."

Two seconds. Claire stepped back from the door.

"...the night does not answer..."

One second. A faint electronic hum emanated from the control panel.

"...only the hemlocks sway..."

The electromagnetic locks disengaged with an audible click.

"...only the sky remains."

The door swung open.

Jack and Fitz surged forward, their movements synchronized despite Jack's injuries. Velasco barely had time to register what was happening before they were on him, Jack knocking the syringe from his hand while Fitz secured his other arm.

"Gabriel Velasco," Claire said as Kiko moved in with the handcuffs, "you're under arrest for the murders of Julia Marek, Mei-Lin Chang, and Hannah Kettering."

“And a whole helluva lot more,” Kiko added.

Velasco struggled briefly, then went limp in their grasp, his scientific detachment crumbling into raw emotion. "You don't understand," he said, his voice cracking. "I was mapping the threshold. I was proving consciousness transcends biological function."

"Tell it to the judge," Jack said, securing the handcuffs as Kiko retrieved the fallen syringe.

Fitz examined the monitoring equipment surrounding them, the complex array of instruments designed to document Velasco's planned self-execution. "Remarkable," he murmured. "Horrifying, but remarkable."

Claire stepped back, watching as her team secured Velasco and the evidence around them. The case that had consumed them for days, that had nearly cost Jack his life, that had claimed four innocent people, at least, had finally reached its conclusion.

Velasco's final experiment had failed. His hypothesis remained unproven. The threshold between life and death—that liminal space he had been so desperate to map—remained as mysterious as ever.

52

The steak house attached to their hotel wasn't much—wood paneling from the 1970s, red vinyl booths showing wear at the seams, and lighting dim enough to hide the fact that the place hadn't been renovated in decades. But after the events of the day, it felt like a sanctuary.

Claire watched as her team occupied a corner booth, exhaustion evident in their postures despite the sense of accomplishment that hung in the air. Jack sat with his injured leg stretched out to one side, his face still pale from the pain he refused to acknowledge. Kiko next to him, her usual animation subdued, occasionally glancing at Jack as though to reassure herself he was still there. Fitz occupied the opposite side, Ranger lying at his feet beneath the table, the dog's presence a minor miracle of Fitz's persuasive abilities with the restaurant manager.

"To the tactical genius of our absent team member," Fitz said, raising his beer toward Claire's phone, propped against a water glass at the center of the table. Violet's face filled the screen, her purple hair pulled back, the Boiler Room's institutional lighting casting shadows beneath her eyes.

"I just provided tech support," Violet demurred, though Claire caught the smile she tried to suppress. "You all did the dangerous part."

"Technical wizardry counts as heroism in my book," Claire said, raising her own glass.

The waitress arrived with their food—steaks for everyone, including a special plate for Ranger that Fitz had negotiated as part of his diplomatic victory in getting the dog admitted. Claire watched as Fitz discreetly transferred the meat to the floor for Ranger, whose tail thumped against the worn carpet in appreciation.

"He's earned it," Claire said when Fitz caught her watching. "Probably saved our lives tracking through that compound."

"Indeed," Fitz agreed. "His olfactory capabilities proved rather crucial in navigating the contaminated areas. Remarkable resilience in the face of neurological damage."

The conversation lulled as they ate, hunger temporarily overriding the need for words. Claire felt the day's events settling into her muscles like lead, a bone-deep weariness that food and rest might not fully address. They'd won, but the victory felt hollow against the lives already lost.

"I spoke to the twins," she said after a while, breaking the silence. "They're watching Benny. Told them I'd be home tomorrow."

Jack nodded. "How'd they take it?"

"They're used to it by now," Claire replied, a hint of something—regret, perhaps—coloring her tone. "Jacqueline just asked if I was okay. I said yes."

"Were you lying?" Fitz asked, his directness somehow comforting in its predictability.

Claire considered the question. "Not entirely. We got him. He'll face justice." She set down her fork. "But we were too late for three people who deserved to live."

"Four," Kiko corrected quietly. "Counting Sutter."

A heavy silence fell over the table. Leonard Sutter—the academic whose research had inspired Velasco, who had been framed as the killer, then executed to maintain the illusion. Another life ended in service to Velasco's twisted vision.

"I keep thinking about Carver," Fitz said, his scholarly tone undercut by a rare vulnerability. "Fifteen years in that psychiatric facility. The first 'successful' experiment, according to Velasco. What did he experience in that moment between life and death that left him so fundamentally altered?"

"We'll never know," Claire said. "And maybe that's for the best."

"Velasco believed consciousness could persist beyond biological function," Fitz continued, almost to himself. "That he could map that transition, document it scientifically. The philosophical implications are staggering."

"Doesn't excuse murder," Jack said flatly.

"Of course not," Fitz agreed. "Yet one must acknowledge the profound intellectual paradox. A man of extraordinary intelligence employing that brilliance toward ends so fundamentally at odds with human decency."

Claire thought of Velasco's face as they'd led him away—not defeated or angry, but contemplative, as though even in custody he continued to analyze, to observe, to study. The detachment in his eyes had chilled her more than rage would have.

"Evil isn't the absence of intelligence," she said. "Sometimes it's the misdirection of it."

Ranger stirred beneath the table, resting his chin on Claire's foot. She reached down to scratch behind his ears, grateful for the uncomplicated goodness of the dog's presence.

"There's something I need to tell you all," Jack said suddenly, his tone drawing everyone's attention. "About the information leaks."

Claire met his eyes across the table, understanding what was coming. "Go ahead."

Jack straightened, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his injuries. "Three weeks ago, EJ Ley approached me directly. Ordered me to report to her on S.W.O.R.D. operations outside normal channels. I complied, believing it was legitimate Bureau oversight. Chain of command."

Fitz's eyebrows rose. "And these reports found their way to our TikTok celebrity?"

"Yes," Jack confirmed. "Every detail I shared with Ley appeared in Redding's videos shortly after. I never spoke to him directly. Never leaked anything myself."

"Why would an Assistant Director leak case details to social media?" Kiko asked, her expression caught between confusion and indignation. "What could she possibly gain?"

"Control of the narrative," Claire suggested. "Public pressure on our investigation. Justification for reassigning cases or restructuring units."

"Or protection of her own interests," Violet interjected from the phone screen. "I think I've found the connection."

All eyes turned to the screen as Violet continued, "While you were dealing with booking Velasco, I kept digging into the North Cascadia financial records. There's a direct link between NCDS and Velasco's research funding."

"We already established that," Claire pointed out. "The shell companies, the underground lab construction."

"Yes, but what I found goes deeper," Violet explained. "I uncovered internal FBI documents related to NCDS. One references classified research funds authorized by a senior FBI official. The name is redacted, but the dates align perfectly with when Sutter received his initial funding."

"And you think that official was Ley?" Kiko asked.

"I know it was," Violet replied. "I found an old Bureau memo regarding a special clearance request for classified research into 'alternative consciousness states.' The final approval was signed by then-Deputy Assistant Director E.J. Ley."

Silence fell over the table as the implications settled among them.

"Let me see if I understand correctly," Fitz said, setting down his fork. "EJ Ley approved classified funding for research that eventually led to Velasco's experiments. Years later, she assigns us to investigate financial crimes connected to the same research network, while simultaneously undermining our investigation into the related murders?"

"She didn't know the cases were connected," Claire realized. "She thought she was assigning us a tedious financial case to keep us busy, away from the Hemlock Killer investigation. She had no idea we'd find a link back to her."

"But once we started making connections between North Cascadia and Velasco's research..." Jack began.

"She panicked," Claire finished. "Started leaking information to manufacture public pressure, tried to pull us off the cases."

"The question remains," Fitz said, "whether she knew the nature of the research she was funding. Did she authorize support for consciousness exploration that she believed legitimate, or did she knowingly fund experiments that crossed ethical lines?"

"Either way," Claire said, "she's compromised. And we have evidence now."

The weight of this revelation settled over the table. EJ Ley—not merely a bureaucratic obstacle but potentially complicit in the events that had led to multiple deaths. The case they'd closed had opened a new one, reaching into the highest levels of the Bureau itself.

"What now?" Kiko asked quietly.

Claire took a long sip of her beer, considering. "Now we finish our dinner. Get some rest. Tomorrow, we take what we've found to Hightower, let him decide how to proceed up the chain."

"And if Hightower is involved as well?" Fitz asked, the question hanging in the air between them.

"Then we go higher," Claire said firmly. "As high as we need to."

The conversation shifted to lighter topics as they finished their meals—Ranger's heroics, Violet's hacking exploits, even Jack's dramatic escape from the hospital that had doctors still calling his phone with increasingly stern voicemails. But beneath the surface, Claire felt the currents shifting. The Velasco case would soon be closed, but its implications would ripple outward, potentially reshaping their team and the Bureau itself.

Outside the restaurant windows, darkness had fallen completely, the small town's limited streetlights creating pools of illumination in the night. Like their case—pockets of clarity surrounded by lingering shadows. Some questions answered, others newly formed.

Claire watched her team, these brilliant misfits who had followed her into darkness and emerged changed but intact. Whatever came next, they would face it together. The thought provided more comfort than she'd expected.

Above them all, beyond the restaurant's roof and the town's modest buildings, she knew the night sky stretched endlessly, indifferent to human concerns.

Only the hemlocks sway. Only the sky remains.

53

One week later, Claire sat across from Gerald Hightower in his office, feeling the afternoon sunlight warm against her back as it streamed through the wide windows. She was acutely aware of her posture—straight-backed but not rigid, professional yet approachable.

The view of Seattle's skyline behind Hightower had always struck her as deliberate—a reminder that those who occupied this floor stood above the daily grind of fieldwork, surveying the world from a controlled distance.

Hightower's hands moved slowly as he closed the folder containing their evidence against EJ Ley. "Administrative leave, pending a full internal investigation," he confirmed, meeting Claire's gaze directly. "The Director is personally overseeing the inquiry."

Claire nodded, feeling a complex mix of relief and lingering unease settle in her chest. The Bureau machinery was functioning as intended, addressing corruption within its ranks, yet something about the clinical procedural response felt insufficient against the weight of four lives lost. She could still see Julia Marek’s face, peaceful in death, arranged like artwork beneath the hemlock trees.

"Your team's work on this case was exemplary," Hightower continued. "Despite... complications."

"Thank you, sir."

An awkward silence expanded between them. Claire felt her heart rate increase slightly as she prepared to cross a professional boundary she'd always respected. The request she was about to make wasn't just about Jack and Kiko—though that's how she would frame it.

"Sir, there's another matter I'd like to discuss," she began, carefully selecting each word. "It pertains to team dynamics within S.W.O.R.D."

Hightower's eyebrows rose slightly. "Go on."

"With Agent Russo and Agent Greene," Claire said, maintaining steady eye contact, "their relationship has developed beyond professional parameters."

"Ah." Hightower leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight. "The fraternization policy."

"Yes, sir. Under normal circumstances, one of them would transfer to another unit. However, given S.W.O.R.D.'s specialized nature and their crucial roles within the team..."

"You're requesting an exception," Hightower finished for her.

Claire nodded, feeling a tightness in her throat that surprised her with its intensity. The thought of losing either Jack or Kiko felt like dismembering her carefully constructed team—her family, in many ways. "Both are exceptional agents whose skills complement our unit's needs. Losing either would significantly impact our operational effectiveness."

Hightower considered this, his fingers drumming a light rhythm on the folder before him. Claire watched his face, reading the subtle signs of his internal deliberation.

"The policy exists for good reasons, Anderson. Personal entanglements complicate decision-making in high-risk scenarios."

"I understand that, sir. But I believe their professionalism would prevent such complications."

A knowing look crossed Hightower's face, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. "Is this strictly about Russo and Greene? Or is there another reason for your interest in... flexibility regarding these policies?"

Claire felt heat rush to her face but maintained her composure, consciously keeping her breathing even. Hightower had always been more perceptive than he let on. "My priority is maintaining team cohesion, sir."

Hightower studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "I'll approve the exception, with quarterly reviews to ensure no operational impact." He signed the form she'd placed before him with deliberate strokes of his pen, then added, "The Bureau's policies aren't absolutes, Claire. They're guidelines for maintaining an effective organization. Sometimes exceptions serve that purpose better than rigid adherence."

As Claire stood to leave, feeling lighter than she had in weeks, Hightower added, "This exception applies to all S.W.O.R.D. personnel, of course. For the sake of consistency."

The implication wasn't lost on her. Claire felt a flutter of something she hadn't experienced in years—possibility. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't make me regret it," he replied, but a rare smile softened the warning. “And Claire...”

She turned, and he winked at her.

“I’m glad you might be giving him a shot.”

Jack winced as another jolt of pain shot through his ribs when he released the bowling ball. He watched it veer dramatically into the gutter—his third consecutive miss. The healing burns on his calf throbbed from standing too long, but he'd refused to let his injuries keep him homebound another day.

"You're supposed to aim for the pins, not the gutter," Kiko teased, her eyes bright with amusement.

"I'm employing a strategic approach," Jack replied, straightening his posture despite the discomfort. "Lulling you into a false sense of security before revealing my true skills."

He made his way back to the plastic seats, carefully lowering himself to avoid aggravating his stitches. The bowling alley's cacophony of crashing pins, arcade games, and weekend revelry reminded him of how little time he spent in civilian spaces like this. Even on his days off, he typically gravitated toward solitary activities—hiking remote trails, target practice at empty ranges, or maintaining his equipment at home.

Yet here he was, subjected to public humiliation at a sport he hadn't played since high school, and somehow enjoying every minute of it.

"That excuse might work better if you weren't losing by forty points," Kiko said, picking up her ball.

Jack watched her approach the lane, admiring the fluid precision of her movements. Unlike his military-trained rigidity, Kiko possessed a dancer's awareness of her body in space—each motion controlled yet seemingly effortless. It was what made her so effective undercover, this chameleon-like physical adaptability.

Another strike. Of course.

"Show-off," he called, unable to keep the admiration from his voice.

Their phones buzzed simultaneously. Jack reached for his, movements still cautious as he navigated around his injuries. The message from Claire lit up his screen: Exception approved. You both stay on the team.

The simple text loosened something in his chest that had been tight for weeks. He passed his phone to Kiko, watching her face as she read it.

"She did it," Kiko said softly, eyes widening. "Claire actually got Hightower to make an exception for us."

Jack nodded, absorbing the implications. For years, his identity had been inextricably linked to his service—first military, then FBI. When he and Kiko had realized their relationship was becoming serious, he'd privately accepted that he might need to transfer units, or even divisions. The thought had left him more unsettled than he cared to admit. S.W.O.R.D. wasn't just an assignment; it had become the place where his skills finally seemed to fit, where his background made sense.

"Apparently so," he replied, feeling the weight lift from his shoulders.

Kiko passed his phone back, her fingers lingering against his. Her touch sent warmth through him that had nothing to do with his healing injuries. "You know what this means, right?"

"That I have to continue losing to you at bowling on a regular basis?" He deliberately kept his tone light, though the emotion beneath it was anything but.

"That you're stuck with me," she corrected, a smile blooming across her face. "At work and everywhere else."

Jack pulled her closer, no longer scanning the alley to see who might be watching, who might report back to the Bureau. For a man who'd spent his entire adult life compartmentalizing—keeping his emotions separate from his duties, his personal life distinct from his professional one—this blending of worlds felt both foreign and unexpectedly right.

"I can live with that," he said.

He'd spent years building walls, barriers between his military past and FBI present, between the man who followed orders and the man who sometimes questioned them. Kiko had somehow slipped past those defenses, and he liked it.

"Your turn," she said, nodding toward the lane.

Jack picked up his ball again, the weight pulling at his healing ribs. "Watch and learn. My strategic deception ends now."

He approached the lane with mock determination, aware of how ridiculous he must look—a bandaged, limping FBI agent with deadly serious concentration focused on... bowling. The ball rolled directly into the gutter, as if magnetically attracted to failure.

Kiko's laughter filled the space around them, and Jack found himself chuckling despite the embarrassment. There was something liberating about being terrible at something inconsequential in front of someone who'd seen him at his professional best.

Perhaps that was the gift Claire had given them—not just their careers, but the freedom to be fully themselves, together, without having to choose between the two halves of their lives.

54

Claire pulled her knees to her chest on the back deck chair, savoring the evening coolness against her skin. The sounds of her children's voices carried through the yard as they argued good-naturedly over the rules of the card game they'd invented. She sipped her wine slowly, letting the familiar comfort of home seep into her bones after days of chronic tension.

The sliding glass door behind her was partially open, carrying the scent of the lasagna she'd actually cooked herself—a minor miracle given her usual reliance on takeout and pre-prepared meals. She couldn't remember the last time she'd used the oven for anything more complicated than frozen pizza.

These moments felt precious to her—ordinary family time that stood in stark contrast to the darkness she navigated professionally. Her children's voices, the deck chairs she'd finally assembled after they'd sat in boxes for months, the simple pleasure of a homemade meal. Small victories that somehow balanced the larger battles.

Her phone sat on the table beside her, the unsent text message still displayed on the screen. She'd composed and deleted it a dozen times already, her finger hovering over the send button each time before retreating. The fact that something so simple could make her heart race felt almost laughable after facing down a serial killer just days ago.

Fitz's unexpected confession during the Interstate Reaper case the previous year kept replaying in her mind. His admission of feelings for her had seemed so incongruous with their professional relationship that she'd filed it away as an aberration, a momentary vulnerability from a man whose emotional landscape remained largely mysterious to her. She could still remember the precise intonation of his voice when he'd said it, the way his usual verbose phrasing had simplified into direct honesty.

In the aftermath of the Velasco case, something had shifted inside her. Perhaps it was the reminder of life's fragility, the way Hannah and the other victims had their futures stolen in an instant. Or perhaps it was the realization that connection—even complicated, unexpected connection—was too rare to dismiss without consideration.

Fitz had been knocked down by life as much as she had, and he’d always gotten back up. And his brief flirtation with fatherhood had changed him, matured him somehow. Despite the fact that Fitz was the exact opposite of what she thought of as her type, she’d decided to give it a shot.

She picked up the phone again, reading the message she'd crafted:

Dinner next week? Just us. Not work-related.

Simple. Direct. Leaving room for interpretation while making her intentions clear enough.

Inside, Benny's triumphant shout announced a victory in the card game, followed by Jacqueline's protests and Caroline's laughter. Claire smiled at the familiar rhythm of their interactions, feeling a surge of love for these three humans who anchored her to a world beyond violence and darkness.

She pressed send before she could second-guess herself again, then set the phone face-down on the table, her heart pounding in her chest.

Whatever came next—whether awkwardness or possibility—she'd face it directly. After hunting killers for twenty years, dinner with a brilliant, eccentric British psychologist hardly qualified as the scariest thing she'd ever done.

Though perhaps it was close.

Fitz settled deep into his worn leather armchair, feeling each individual spring beneath the threadbare upholstery. Violet sprawled across his sofa, surrounded by empty takeout containers, her attention fixed on the television where Iron Man and Pepper Potts exchanged wedding vows. Her devotion to the Marvel cinematic universe remained a mystery to him—grown adults in garish costumes exchanging quips while defying basic physics—yet he found her enthusiasm oddly endearing.

"Ah, matrimony," Fitz mused as the on-screen couple sealed their union with a kiss. "Reminds me of Hemingway's memorable line: 'Only one marriage I regret. I remember after I got that marriage license I went across from the license bureau to a bar for a drink. The bartender said, 'What will you have, sir?' And I said, 'A glass of hemlock.'"

Violet tossed a cushion at him without taking her eyes off the screen. "Can you not ruin the most romantic scene in the entire franchise with your depressing literary references?"

"Merely providing historical context," Fitz replied, catching the cushion. "Though I suspect Hemingway would find these spandex-clad superheroes even more cause for hemlock consumption."

"This is why you're single," Violet muttered, reaching for her phone to swipe through another batch of potential dating matches. "Normal people don't quote suicidal authors during romantic moments."

Fitz observed her methodical rejection of profile after profile with scholarly interest. "Your selection criteria appear remarkably stringent. Have you considered that perfection might be an unattainable standard in human relationships?"

"Says the man who corrected his last date's pronunciation of 'Nietzsche' before the appetizers arrived," Violet countered.

"A regrettable pedagogical impulse," Fitz admitted. "Though in my defense, if one intends to quote existentialist philosophy over dinner, one might try to pronounce the philosopher's name correctly."

His phone vibrated on the side table. Fitz picked it up, momentarily disoriented to see Claire's name on the screen. The message was brief, direct, and entirely unexpected:

Dinner next week? Just us. Not work-related.

Fitz felt his heart rate accelerate—a physiological response he could name but not control. The analytical part of his brain immediately began parsing possible interpretations, while something deeper and less rational simply registered surprise. And pleasure.

"Good news?" Violet asked, glancing away from her superhero saga long enough to catch his expression.

"Claire has invited me to dinner," he replied, fingers hovering uncertainly over the keyboard. "Of the non-work-related variety."

Violet's eyebrows shot up. "Like a date?"

"The semantic ambiguity leaves room for interpretation, but yes, I believe that's the implication." Fitz composed his reply with uncharacteristic care:

I would be delighted. Name the time and place, and I shall appear bearing intellectual conversation and an appetite for whatever culinary adventure you propose.

He hesitated, then added:

Thank you, Claire.

"That's it? No quotations? No obscure historical references?" Violet teased, setting aside her phone.

"I thought it prudent to respond in kind. Clarity over verbosity."

"Well, look at you growing as a person." Violet turned back to her film, then added, "Just don't bring up Hemingway or hemlock on the actual date."

Fitz smiled slightly, tucking the phone away. "I doubt Claire would require hemlock after just one dinner with me. Perhaps by the third date, however..."

"Self-deprecating humor," Violet noted with approval. "That's progress from last year's 'women find my intellect intimidating' theory."

Fitz chuckled despite himself. For a man who could analyze other people's psychological patterns with remarkable precision, his own remained stubbornly opaque to him. But perhaps that was the point—some experiences required direct participation rather than academic observation.

On screen, the newlywed superheroes faced yet another world-ending crisis, their personal moment of joy immediately followed by conflict and danger. Rather like real life, Fitz supposed—though hopefully with fewer aliens and more comfortable footwear.

He settled back to watch the remainder of the film, oddly content with the prospect of navigating his own personal uncertainty without the comfort of academic distance.

After all, some experiments required the scientist himself to serve as both observer and subject.

—The End⁠—