F I N D

H O P E

(An Addison Shine Mystery—Book 7)

K a t e   B o l d

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); the HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eleven books (and counting); the KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); the DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting);  the LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the KELSEY HAWK SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising nine books (and counting); the NORA PRICE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the NINA VEIL FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising ten books (and counting); OF the BARREN PINES PSYCHOLIGICAL SUSPENSE series, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the ADDISON SHINE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising ten books (and counting).

THE KILLING GAME (an Alexa Chase Suspense Thriller—Book #1), LET ME GO (an Ashley Hope Suspense Thriller—Book #1), and NOT ME (a Camille Grace FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1) are available as free downloads on Amazon!

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025 by Kate Bold. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

PROLOGUE

The first thing Amelia Foster noticed was the pain—a savage, splintering agony that threatened to split her skull in half. The second was that she was lying face-down on what felt like hardwood flooring, though she had no memory of how she'd gotten there. Her thoughts came in disjointed fragments, each one piercing through the fog of confusion like shards of broken glass.

The last clear memory she had was of walking to her car after a late night at the office, keys clutched in her right hand, phone in her left. The parking garage had been eerily quiet, her footsteps echoing off concrete walls. She remembered checking her watch—10:42 PM—and thinking about the next morning's presentation on anxiety disorders.

Then... nothing. Just the phantom sensation of something heavy connecting with the back of her head. Blinding pain for a single moment, followed by this bewildering darkness.

Amelia forced her eyes open, immediately regretting the decision as waves of nausea rolled through her. The mere act of opening her eyes causes a massive wave of pain to tear through her head. The room swam into focus gradually, like an old television warming up, and what she saw made no sense. Her mind, desperately trying to orient itself, recognized familiar elements—but they were wrong, distorted. It was like looking at something familiar but had been scorched or melted.

She supposed this was supposed to be her home office, but there was so much wrong with it. The walls were a shade too dark, more slate than the warm gray she'd chosen. Her prized Boston fern, normally lush and sprawling in the corner, was replaced by a smaller, possibly plastic version. The window—there should have been a window—was simply gone, replaced by blank wall. Her diploma from Johns Hopkins, always hanging proudly above her desk, was nothing more than a blurry reproduction in a cheap frame, the text barely legible.

"This isn't real," she whispered, her voice rough and unfamiliar. The words seemed to bounce off the walls, coming back to her distorted. "This can't be real. Where…where am I?”

For a moment, she wondered if this was some sort of dream. This mockery of her office certainly gave off that sort of feeling.

Pushing herself to her hands and knees sent fresh bolts of pain through her skull. Her stomach lurched, and she fought back bile as the room tilted sickeningly. Blood pounded in her temples with each heartbeat, a rhythmic torture that made it impossible to think clearly. She touched the back of her head gingerly, fingers coming away sticky with half-dried blood. The metallic smell almost made her gag.

The reality of her situation began to sink in through the haze of pain: she'd been attacked, kidnapped, and brought to this weird version of her office. Panic clawed at her chest as her eyes darted around the room, cataloging more wrongness. Her ergonomic chair was replaced by a cheap office store knockoff. The built-in bookshelves were shallow, the books nothing more than spines glued to the wall. The carpet beneath her feet was wrong, too—it appeared to be nothing more than old scraps of discarded rugs.

Even the air felt wrong—stale, artificial, like a sealed room. It all suddenly made her feel like a little doll that had been stuffed into a demented dollhouse.

As a specialist in anxiety disorders, Amelia had spent countless hours helping patients through panic attacks. She knew the physiological responses, the racing thoughts, the sensation of walls closing in. But this was different. This wasn't just fear—this was horror, pure and primal, as she realized someone had studied her life closely enough to recreate her home office, however imperfectly.

The door. She had to try the door.

Amelia staggered to her feet, using the wall for support as her legs threatened to buckle. The few steps to the door felt like miles, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through her skull. When she finally reached it, her trembling fingers found no handle, no knob—just a smooth, sealed surface that merged seamlessly with the frame. It, too, was apparently fake.

"Help!" she tried to shout, but her voice came out weak, thready. "Someone help me!" Each word was like a razor blade through her head. The pain was immense, like some living creature living in her head.

The effort left her gasping, and suddenly she realized she couldn't catch her breath. The air felt thin, insufficient. She stumbled back toward what appeared to be her desk, reaching for support. But as she collapsed against it, the entire structure crumpled beneath her weight. Cardboard. It was all cardboard. It folded and bent beneath her weight as she fell to the floor.

Amelia fell hard, her knees striking the floor as the fake desk collapsed around her. The impact sent fresh explosions of pain through her head, and now the room was definitely spinning, the walls seeming to pulse inward with each labored breath. Her lungs burned, desperate for oxygen that somehow wasn't there.

Her professional mind tried to assert itself through the panic. Air hunger, she thought clinically. Hyperventilation syndrome. But even as she attempted to analyze her symptoms, she knew this was something else entirely. The room wasn't just triggering claustrophobia—it was becoming her tomb.

This was her worst nightmare made real. She'd spent years studying claustrophobia, helping patients overcome their fears of enclosed spaces, and now she was living it. The room felt smaller with each passing second, the ceiling lower, the walls closer. Her chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath, but no matter how deeply she gasped, she couldn't get enough air.

She tried to focus on her breathing techniques—the same ones she'd taught countless patients. In for four, hold for four, out for four. But her body wouldn't cooperate. Each breath became more shallow, more desperate than the last. The irony wasn't lost on her: dying of suffocation in a mockery of the space where she'd helped so many others overcome their fears.

Black spots danced at the edges of her vision as she slumped back to the floor. The pain in her head had become a distant concern compared to the desperate need for oxygen. Her fingers clawed weakly at her throat as her body fought against the inevitable, each breath shallower than the last.

As her consciousness began to fade, Amelia's last coherent thought was of the bitter irony—that she, an expert in fear and how to overcome it, would die trapped in a nightmare of her own expertise. Her final realization was that someone had not only studied her life but had weaponized her knowledge against her in the most horrific way possible.

When the darkness finally came, it was almost a relief.

CHAPTER ONE

Morning light spilled through the bedroom window, casting a warm glow across the rumpled sheets. Outside, Seattle's perpetual cloud cover had temporarily lifted, letting golden sunbeams paint patterns on Addison’s hardwood floor. She lay in bed with her head on Javier’s chest, feeling the gradual slowing of his heartbeat beneath her cheek. Their breathing, still slightly labored from the spontaneous morning romp they’d just completed, fell into sync as the last waves of pleasure ebbed away.

"That's a hell of a way to start off a morning," Addison said, trailing her fingers along his collarbone.

Javier nodded in agreement, hugging her a little tighter.

A loud meow from the foot of the bed made them both jump, then laugh. Snape, her black cat, sat watching them with what could only be described as feline judgment in his golden eyes. He had positioned himself precisely where a shaft of sunlight hit the floor, his tail twitching with apparent disapproval.

"I think we've traumatized him," Javier chuckled, his chest rumbling beneath her ear. "Should we send him to therapy? Is there such a thing as a cat psychiatrist?"

In this day and age?" Probably. But he'll live." Addison propped herself up on one elbow, drinking in the sight of her partner—in more ways than one now. The morning light caught the creeping silver at his temples, the slight stubble along his jaw. "Though I'm pretty sure that's the first time he's heard me make those particular noises."

"First of many, I hope." Javier's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining naturally. His thumb traced lazy circles on her palm. "You know, for a medical examiner, you have surprisingly warm hands."

"Former medical examiner," she corrected, giving his hand a squeeze. "And that's just the residual heat from... activities. Though if you want me to get technical about the physiological effects of increased blood flow and vasodilation during sexual activity—"

"Please don't ruin the moment with science talk," he laughed, pulling her even closer. "Though I have to admit, your brain is sexy as hell."

"Is that your professional assessment, Agent Esposito?"

"Absolutely. I can cite several FBI field manuals on the subject of brilliant partners who can't help but show off their extensive medical knowledge at crime scenes."

Their laughter filled the room again, and Addison marveled at how easy this felt. Just a month into that they had both finally agreed to call “a relationship” and it was as if some invisible wall had finally crumbled between them. They'd resisted for so long, maintaining that professional distance, dancing around the obvious attraction. Years of partnership had built a foundation of trust and understanding that made this transition feel both terrifying and inevitable.

"What's going on in that big brain of yours?" Javier asked, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch lingered on her cheek, and she leaned into it instinctively.

"Just thinking about how we got here. Remember last Tuesday when you knocked over my coffee cup trying to kiss me?" She was referencing the one and only time they had even considered sneaking away while in the office to get intimate. Cooler heads had prevailed, and they’d managed to restrain themselves.

"In my defense, you had just finished explaining decomposition rates in varying soil pH levels,” he said with a smile. “How could I resist? You had that excited gleam in your eyes, the one you get when you're putting pieces together."

"Oh, so that's what does it for you? Decay analysis?"

"No, it's the way your eyes light up when you talk about decay analysis." His tone was teasing, but there was truth in it too. "The way you see patterns where everyone else just sees chaos. You're such a nerd."

"Your nerd," she said, then felt heat rise to her cheeks at how natural those words felt. The morning sun caught the planes of his face, highlighting the smile lines around his eyes, the small scar above his left eyebrow from a case gone wrong two years ago.

But beneath the warmth of the moment, guilt churned in her stomach. Every time Javier looked at her with that open, trusting expression, she thought about the email she was waiting for, about the secret investigation she was running on her own. Yes, she had told him all about her sister Jane's disappearance and how she’d started digging into her cold case file as of late. But he didn't know about the diary that had appeared on her doorstep two weeks ago, bound in faded blue leather and smelling faintly of cedar, as if it had been stored away for years.

He didn't know she'd spent countless nights poring over its pages, searching for hidden meaning in her sister's clumsy, childish handwriting. He didn't know she'd hired someone outside the bureau to analyze the box it came in, hoping for fingerprints…breaking protocol and potentially compromising any future official investigation.

The weight of these secrets pressed against her chest until she had to move. "Coffee," she announced, pushing herself up. "I need coffee."

She slipped on a worn FBI Academy t-shirt and gym shorts, aware of Javier's appreciative gaze following her movements. Snape trotted after her as she padded to the kitchen, his tail held high like an exclamation point. The hardwood floors were cool beneath her feet, grounding her in the present moment despite her wandering thoughts.

The familiar routine of measuring coffee grounds and filling the reservoir gave her hands something to do while her mind wandered. She'd read Jane's diary cover to cover at least a dozen times since receiving it, searching for any hint, any clue she might have missed. But the entries were frustratingly ordinary—typical nine-year-old girl stuff about boys, complaints about teachers at school, thoughts of movies and music. A few rather impressive drawings here and there. Nothing that screamed "I'm about to disappear without a trace."

There were small details that nagged at her, though: a repeated mention of an old imaginary friend. A series of numbers in the margins that could be dates, simple math, or nothing at all. Jane's flowing handwriting, the doodles in the margins, the way she dotted her i's with little hearts—it was all so painfully familiar.

The last entry, dated three days before Jane disappeared, ended mid-sentence: "Mom says I shouldn't worry about—"

Javier thought she was torturing herself by reading it repeatedly. Maybe he was right. The diary had become both comfort and torment, a tangible piece of her sister that offered no answers, only more questions. But how could she stop when it was the first new piece of her sister's puzzle she'd had in years? There had been no mention of Saul Osborne…the man she had vague and still-forming suspicions about potentially being involved in her disappearance—a man who had once taught Jane piano and now lived here, in Seattle, with an apparent fixation on a serial killer known as Fearmonger.

And whenever Fearmonger crossed her mind, she had to force herself to mentally push those thoughts away. It was a case she badly wanted to solve—five unexplained deaths in six months—but she’d expressly been told by Special Agent in Charge Diana Loomis to stay away from it. So, as she prepared the coffee, she pushed thoughts of Fearmonger away and directed her mind to the box Jane’s diary had come in.

Her phone sat on the counter, mockingly silent. She'd dropped the box off with her contact two days ago, hoping that maybe there would be prints, trace evidence, anything that might lead her to whoever had sent it. The waiting was excruciating, especially knowing that every minute she delayed telling Javier was another crack in the foundation of trust they'd built.

"You're doing that thing again," Javier's voice came from behind her. He'd pulled on his shorts from the night before, and the sight of him standing shirtless in her kitchen sent a pleasant shiver through her. He opened her refrigerator with the casual familiarity of someone who belonged there.

“What thing?” she asked, hiding the guilt.

"The thing where you stare at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe. Want some eggs?"

"Sure," she said, smiling despite her inner turmoil. There was something deeply satisfying about watching him move through her space so naturally, about knowing he knew where she kept her pans and which drawer held the spatulas. He'd slowly colonized her kitchen over the past week, bringing his own coffee mug, stocking her fridge with the hot sauce he liked—and then partaking in the argument as to whether or not opened hot sauce belonged in the fridge or the pantry.

Her phone chose that moment to ring, and her heart leaped into her throat. What if this was her contact? She couldn’t very well answer that particular call in front of Javier.

But the caller ID displayed SAIC Loomis. For a second, Addison wasn't sure if she felt relieved or disappointed.

"It's the boss," she told Javier, who was already setting aside the eggs he'd just taken out. They both knew what a call from Loomis this early usually meant.

"This is Agent Shine," she answered, switching the call over to speaker mode so Javier could listen in.

"Sorry for the early call,” Loomis said, “but I need you and Esposito at a crime scene as soon as possible. This one is…well, it’s unusual. We've got a victim in what appears to be a staged office inside an unfinished house. Dr. Amelia Foster, found dead this morning.”

Addison's forensic mind immediately began cataloging possibilities, the guilt and worry about Jane's diary temporarily pushed aside by professional curiosity. "Any signs of struggle or trauma?"

"None visible. And get this—Foster was a leading researcher in studies on anxiety. The whole scene feels staged, but we can't figure out how it was done. I'm sending you the address now."

"We'll be there as soon as possible," Addison said, ending the call. She looked at Javier, who was already heading back to the bedroom to get dressed. "Raincheck on those eggs?"

"I guess so. Not the coffee, though.”

"I figured as much.”

She followed him to get dressed, her mind already shifting from personal guilt to professional curiosity.

As Addison pulled on her work clothes, she pushed thoughts of Jane's diary and secret investigations to the back of her mind. She had a job to do—a dead doctor and an intriguing crime scene waited for her. But even as she holstered her weapon and checked her phone one last time, thinking of Jane’s diary and who might have sent it. More than that, though, she also felt a very vague stirring deep inside, suggesting that everything—Jane’s disappearance, the diary suddenly appearing, Saul Osborne, Fearmonger—was somehow connected by invisible threads, weaving together into a pattern she couldn't quite see.

At least not yet. And it was that strange feeling that escorted her out of the door with Javier right behind her.

CHAPTER TWO

Even as Addison steered her Prius down the street where the crime scene was located, her mind drifted to the cardboard box she'd secretly sent off for fingerprint analysis two days ago. The guilt about keeping it from Javier gnawed at her stomach like a hungry rat. It wasn't that she thought he'd judge her—their relationship had grown beyond that kind of superficial concern. No, this was different. And she knew full well that the guilt would remain until she told him; she just wasn’t ready yet.

He'd understand, she thought, sneaking a quick peek over to him in the passenger seat. He always understands. And he knows how much Jane’s case means to me. But something held her back—perhaps the raw embarrassment of being unable to let go after all these years. Or maybe it was the fear that he'd see her differently: not as the brilliant, logical medical examiner, but as the broken thirteen-year-old who'd lost her sister on her watch. Or the supposedly seasoned FBI Agent with a medical examiner background who simply couldn’t let the ghosts of her past go.

The rational part of her brain knew this was ridiculous. Javier had proven himself time and again, supporting her through countless difficult moments. Yet this felt different, more personal somehow. This was beyond leaving puzzling notes with references to Jane’s life. This was someone sending her an item that had once been held by Jane’s hands. An item that had once been in their home when Jane was still alive.

Maybe call Dad, she thought. Ask him. But that thought also crumbled rather easily. Gregory Shine had never been able to speak about Jane without growing defensive or badly in need of escaping into a drinking bender that would allow him to forget. And as far as Addison was concerned, she’d be fine figuring out this cold case without even speaking to him again.

“Wake up, Shine,” Javier said from beside her.

“Oh, I’m awake.”

“Maybe, but you’re zoned out.”

“Was I?” she asked, feigning ignorance. “I guess my brain is already at the site, trying to figure things out before we’ve even seen it.”

Javier nodded and let the matter drop because that did, after all, sound exactly like her.

The street the directions had led them to was a basic two-way, though it was smeared here and there with dust and dirt, some having nearly formed into mud due to the occasional spatter of rain that had fallen over the past few days. The reason for this was that the street was on the backside of a large subdivision and there were currently two homes being built along the back lots.

She parked behind a single patrol car parked directly in front of the location. She and Javier stepped out together in unison. The November morning was bright but bitter, the kind of cold that seemed to seep straight through her coat. Bare trees clawed at a steel-gray sky behind the construction site, their few remaining leaves trembling in the slight wind. A flock of crows took flight as they approached, their harsh calls echoing across the empty landscape.

The construction site sprawled across what must have been a beautiful piece of land in warmer seasons. The ground had been torn up to make way for the foundation and pipework. It all looked skeletal—wooden frames rising from concrete foundations like the ribcage of some prehistoric beast. Random piles of building materials dotted the landscape: stacks of lumber covered in frost-stiffened tarps, pallets of concrete blocks, coils of PVC pipe gleaming dully in the weak morning light.

They picked their way across the ground—muddy in some places yet nearly frozen in other. The front door had not been installed yet, so they only needed to step up onto the foundation and through the tall, uncovered opening. The remainder of the home-to-be stretched before them, a maze of concrete walls and protruding pipes. Copper water lines and PVC waste pipes stuck up at regular intervals, their open ends capped against the weather. The concrete itself was new enough that you could still see the marks left by the forms used to shape it.

But what caught Addison's attention was the incongruous sight ahead and to the right, beyond what she thought would eventually serve as the dining room. Through a strangely torn covering of what she thought had been sheetrock, there was a fully finished room…painted walls and all. It was surreal, like finding a perfectly preserved artifact in the middle of an archaeological dig.

As they made their way to it, she spotted the two uniformed officers just outside the door. One of them, an overweight man in his fifties, turned in surprise, alarm on his face. But Javier already had his badge and ID out, holding it out toward the officers.

“Agents Esposito and Shine,” he said.

“Ah, thanks for showing up,” the officer said. “I’m Officer Martin, and this,” he said, gesturing a taller, younger man, “is Officer Greenwald.”

Addison stepped into the room and did her best not to react. The room before them was surreal, like something out of a stage play where only one set piece had been completed. The walls were perfectly drywalled and painted a soft beige, the floor finished with gleaming hardwood that showed here and there through what appeared to be old rugs and carpet remnants. A fake plant sat in the corner, and a dead body was in the center of the floor—Dr. Amelia Foster, according to Loomis.

She lay face-up on the floor, her body partially sprawled across a collapsed scattering of cardboard. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with short, gray-streaked hair and dark hair that currently contained a good amount of dried blood. Even without looking, Addison knew this would mean she’d been struck on the back or the side of the head.

She sighed, momentarily looking away from the body and back to the strange way the room was decorated. "It's like a movie set," she said, crouching next to the body. "Everything's just a little too perfect, but not quite right."

"We thought the same thing," Officer Greenwald said. He pointed to a frame on the back wall. It was a cheap frame and contained. A sheet of white paper that read simply: DIPLOMA. AMELIA FOSTER.

“Strange,” Addison said. She looked back to the officers and said, “Can you walk me through what led you here?”

"The station got an anonymous tip around five this morning,” Martin said. “The caller wouldn't identify themselves, just said we'd find something interesting here."

"Almost certainly the killer,” Javier muttered. “He wanted the body found.”

Addison nodded as she hunkered down by the body. She pulled on latex gloves which she slipped out of her inner coat pocket and began her preliminary examination. She easily fell into the familiar rhythm that had earned her reputation at the medical examiner's office. As she began to speak out loud about what she saw, it was more to herself than to Javier or the police officers.

"Significant contusion to the left temporal region, consistent with blunt force trauma. Probably rendered unconscious and transported here." She gently lifted one of Foster's eyelids. "Petechial hemorrhaging in the conjunctiva."

"English, please," Javier said, though she knew he'd learned enough over their years together to follow most of her medical terminology.

"Tiny burst blood vessels in her eyes," Addison explained, continuing her examination. "Her fingernails show cyanosis—they're blue-tinged. Same with her lips." She pointed to the slight protrusion of Foster's tongue. "These are all classic signs of hypoxia.”

“You’re saying she suffocated?" Martin asked.

“Looks that way…though I don’t see signs that anything was placed over her head in any way. No signs of a struggle beyond the nasty whack to the head…which I still believe was done elsewhere in an effort to get her here.”

Her trained eye caught other details—the slight foam at the corners of Foster's mouth, the way her fingers were curled as if grasping at nothing. Moving methodically, Addison noted other details: no defensive wounds on the hands or arms, suggesting Foster had indeed been unconscious when brought here. The victim's clothing—a casual sweater and slacks—showed no signs of struggle. "Time of death approximately six to eight hours ago, based on temperature and lividity."

While Addison finished her examination, Javier waited patiently. Addison got to her feet and took one last look around the odd room. She shook her head, as if disagreeing with the very nature of the space. She nodded her thanks to the officers as she and Javier left the room to make their way through the rest of the construction site.

The concrete foundation stretched out in all directions, creating a footprint for what would have been a substantial home. Pipes jutted up at regular intervals—plumbing rough-ins waiting to be connected. Wooden frames escorted them along, creating the skeleton of future walls. The whole scene felt exposed, vulnerable to the elements—with the exception of the strange room where Amelia Foster’s body had been found.

They moved carefully through the framed-out rooms, their footsteps echoing on the concrete. Each space was marked out by lumber: here a future kitchen with its forest of pipes waiting for fixtures, there a living room with rough openings for windows yet to be installed. The brisk weather settled around all of it in a way that early made the sunlight useless.

“Addison…over here,” Javier said as they passed through a space Addison thought was going to soon serve as a laundry room.

In one corner, partially obscured by sawdust, they found two partial footprints. But even these had been deliberately obscured, smoothed over by something flat—presumably a nearby piece of lumber that had been discarded at the edge of the space.

"Smart," Javier said, picking up the two-by-four. "If they'd used their hands, we might have gotten prints. This way, nothing."

Addison stood with her hands on her hips, looking down to the brushed away prints. “We’re going to get nothing in this mess,” she said. “We could look over that weird room for prints, but that’s a day-long job.”

“Want to start on the family?” Javier asked.

“No…but it’s the next logical step. And maybe we need to find out who plans on living here…see if they know anything.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Before leaving the construction site, they made their way back to the peculiar room where Officer Martin had started snapping pictures. A car pulled up outside, unseen but easily heard through the open walls.

“That would be Forensics,” Greenwald said, looking at his watch.

“Officers, have you spoken to Mrs. Foster’s family yet?” Addison asked. 

He nodded, pulling out his notebook. "Dr. Foster's husband is at their home in Magnolia. We've got the address here. I know one unit has been out there this morning, but I don’t know what was shared or learned."

"Good." Addison handed him her business card, pulling it from her jacket as if conducting a magic trick. "When the ME arrives, please tell him I want comprehensive tox screens and air sample analysis. Something's not adding up here."

Greenwald took the card and pocketed it. “I’ll do that. Thanks, agents.”

Walking back to their vehicles, Javier touched her elbow as they stepped back out onto the dusty yard. "What are you thinking?"

Addison shook her head, frowning. "I don't know yet. Dr. Foster showed all the signs of suffocation, but I couldn't find any obvious mechanism. No ligature marks, no signs of strangulation or smothering." She paused, her mind instantly thinking of Fearmonger. Had Dr. Foster been scared to death like all of Fearmonger’s victims? At first appearance…maybe. But the odd room and the signs of hypoxia were outside of what they knew about Fearmonger’s MO.

As they drove away from the scene, Addison caught a final glimpse of the construction site in her rearview mirror. The single semi-finished room had stood out like a sore thumb—a perfect little box of death in the middle of nowhere. She couldn't help but think about other boxes, other secrets, and wondered if keeping things from Javier was becoming a dangerous habit.

But then again, wasn't that what she did best? Compartmentalize, analyze, solve the puzzle piece by piece. It was how she'd survived after Jane disappeared, how she'd built her career—first as a medical examiner and then as a respected federal agent.

And how she would solve this case. One box at a time, even if some of them had to stay closed for now.

CHAPTER THREE

Entering into the neighborhood of Magnolia was like a momentary breath of fresh air. It also helped, Addison supposed, that the morning had warmed a bit since they’d left the construction site. The neighborhood itself was a stark contrast to the harsh industrial emptiness they'd left behind at the construction site. Addison gazed through the window as she drove past the stately homes, each one seeming to compete with its neighbors through carefully curated landscaping and pristine architecture. Victorian-style homes stood shoulder-to-shoulder with modern architectural statements, all of them unified by an air of quiet affluence.

"Hard to believe we were just standing in that concrete shell twenty minutes ago," Javier said. "This feels like a different world."

He wasn't wrong. Where the construction site had been all sharp edges and cold surfaces, Magnolia was all warmth and gentle curves. Even the air felt different here, perfumed with cherry trees and well-tended flower beds that had started giving in to the colder temperatures of the season. The occasional jogger waved as they passed, as if violent death couldn't possibly touch this carefully maintained bubble.

They pulled up in front of the address Javier had pulled for Dave and Amelia Foster. It was a handsome Craftsman with deep green siding and crisp white trim. A wraparound porch hosted a collection of comfortable-looking wicker furniture and hanging baskets that Addison imagined had overflowed with creeping vines and flowers just a month or so ago. The front yard was bordered by carefully pruned hydrangea bushes, their blue blooms nodding gently in the breeze. It was the kind of home that spoke of Sunday brunches and holiday gatherings.

"Makes it worse somehow," Addison said softly as she parked in front of the house. "Seeing where she actually lived. Where she was supposed to be safe."

Javier nodded, understanding exactly what she meant. The pristine setting only amplified the horror of what had happened to Dr. Foster. They stepped out of the car and followed the herringbone pattern of the brick walkway to the porch.

Before they could knock, the door opened to reveal a woman in her early forties, her face bearing the telltale signs of recent crying. She wore a cardigan over her shoulders, hugging it close like armor. Her fingers worried at the sleeve edges. From the looks of the sleeves, this was a nervous habit she’d been at for hours.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

They showed their credentials, Addison taking the lead. "I'm Special Agent Addison Shine, and this is Special Agent Esposito. We're here about Dr. Amelia Foster. We’ve…we’ve just come from where she was discovered."

The woman's face crumpled slightly before she caught herself. She nodded and offered her hand to be shaken. "I'm Lizzy Foster, Amelia's sister-in-law. Dave—my brother…Amelia’s husband—called me as soon as the police told him." She swallowed hard. "Please, come in."

The interior of the home matched its exterior promise. Warm hardwood floors gleamed beneath their feet, and built-in bookshelves lined the walls of the entry hall. Family photos tracked the lives of the Fosters: wedding pictures showing Amelia radiant in white lace, vacation snapshots from places with crystal-blue waters and palm trees, casual moments caught in time. A particularly striking photo showed Amelia and Dave at what appeared to be a medical conference, both of them laughing at something off-camera. Addison's trained eye caught Dr. Foster's bright smile in each one, a smile she'd never wear again.

A collection of pictures lined the hallway – professional photos of family, candid shots, a few snapshots of nature. It gave the home more of a natural and approachable feel.

Lizzy led them into a den that could have been photographed for a home design magazine. Leather furniture surrounded a stone fireplace, and more family photos dotted the mantlepiece. A half-empty coffee cup sat on the side table, and the perfectly curated room's spell was broken by the man sitting motionless on the couch.

Dave Foster sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. His suit jacket was crumpled on the floor beside him, his tie loosened but still hanging around his neck like a noose. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, his face bearing the slack expression of someone walking through a nightmare. A box of tissues sat beside him, most of its contents scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.

"Dave?" Lizzy said gently. "The FBI agents are here. They need to speak with you about what happened."

He didn't respond at first, continuing to stare at the wall. Addison moved slowly into his line of sight, crouching down to meet his eye level. She noticed his hands trembling, fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

"Mr. Foster," she said softly, "I know this may seem impossible. But anything you can tell us might help find who did this to Amelia."

At the sound of his wife's name, Dave's face contorted. A sob escaped him, raw and painful, like something being torn from deep inside him. Lizzy rushed to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

"It's okay," Addison murmured. "Take your time." She’d always found speaking to the recently bereaved difficult. She understood how painful and difficult it must be but at the same time, the agent within her argued that no, he could not take his time because there was no time to waste.

Several minutes passed before Dave could speak, each word seeming to cost him tremendous effort. "I keep thinking she's going to walk through the door," he said, his voice rough. "That this is just some horrible mistake." His hands began to shake, and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. "We had plans for this weekend. We were going to look at new cars. She wanted something electric. She was always thinking about the future."

Addison noticed that Javier looked impatient, too, but was also being professional and polite, giving Dave time to collect himself. Lizzy kept her arm around him, her own eyes glistening.

"When was the last time you heard from her?" Addison asked gently.

Dave fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling as he pulled up his messages. "Last night. Around seven." His voice broke again. "She texted that she was working late. Had a presentation this morning." A harsh laugh escaped him. "This morning. God, was that really just hours ago? I should have picked her up. I always offered to pick her up when she worked late, but she always said no, said I was being overprotective..."

"Did anything seem unusual about her message?" Javier asked.

Dave shook his head, wiping roughly at his face. "No. No, she worked late all the time. She was so dedicated to her research." Fresh tears fell as he opened his mouth but no words come out right away. He finally managed to get a few more out. "She was so dedicated. Was. I can't... I can't believe I have to use past tense. How do you do that? How do you just start talking about someone you love in past tense?"

They continued questioning him gently, learning about Amelia's normal routine, her current projects, any recent changes in behavior. Dave answered as best he could between waves of grief that would overwhelm him, reducing him to wordless sobs that shook his entire frame. Lizzy filled in when he couldn't speak, sharing details about Amelia's recent research breakthrough and her excitement about an upcoming conference presentation. And while they did indeed learn more about Dr. Amelia Foster’s life, there was nothing that indicated why someone would want her dead.

When it was clear that Dave was on the verge of becoming emotional spent and that there was nothing left to glean from the conversation, Addison decided it was time to move on.

"Would it be alright if we saw the rest of the house?" she asked when Dave seemed to have no more to give.

He nodded numbly. "Lizzy can show you. I just... I need to sit here a while longer."

“Of course. Thank you.”

Lizzy led them through the house, not saying much. She was essentially like a shadow following them around.

The first floor yielded nothing unusual. The kitchen was spotless, its granite countertops gleaming. A magazine lay open to a recipe for Thai curry – apparently Dr. Foster's dinner plans for the evening that would never come. The dining room held a table set for four, waiting for a dinner that would never happen. A small home gym occupied what might have once been a formal guest room, the equipment top-of-the-line but clearly well-used. Dr. Foster's yoga mat still lay unrolled in the corner, waiting for her morning routine.

But when they reached the second floor, Addison stopped in the doorway of the second room they came to. She could barely believe what she was seeing, her breath catching in her chest as she stared into Dr. Foster's home office. Her heart began to race as she took in the details: the position of the desk, the arrangement of the bookshelves, the precise placement of the window. Even the angle of the desk lamp was the same.

"Javier," she said quietly, "look familiar?"

He stepped up beside her, and she heard his sharp intake of breath. The room at the construction site had been an exact replica of this office, down to the smallest detail. The killer hadn't just chosen a random location to mimic—they had recreated Dr. Foster's private workspace with chilling precision, right down to the arrangement of her desk and the plant in the left corner of the room.

"He knew her," Addison said, her mind racing. "He knew what this room looked like. Planned it all out. This wasn't just premeditated – this was obsessive."

"Which means this wasn't random," Javier concluded. "She was specifically targeted. The killer must have been here, in this room, to get the details this precise."

“Yeah…seems that way.”

“Is everything okay?” Lizzy asked from a few feet down the hall.

“Yes. Just…discussing some things.” Addison did her best to smile. “I’d like to take a few pictures of this office, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, of course. Help yourself.”

Addison used her phone to snap several pictures of the office. She even took a picture of the desk, the parody of which had been crumpled up and partially beneath Lydia’s body. When she was done, they headed back downstairs in silence, processing the bizarre link they had stumbled onto. Addison could hardly wait to get back to the construction site and compare it all.

They thanked Lizzy and Dave for their time, offering sincere condolences before stepping back into the late afternoon sun. The perfect neighborhood with its cheerful flowers and pristine lawns seemed sinister now, its manicured beauty hiding unknown threats..

"Javier," Addison said as they walked to the car, "did you happen to notice the contractor's sign at the construction site?"

"Yeah, actually. Wren Brothers Construction." He was already pulling out his phone before she could ask, their minds in sync with the next necessary step. "I'll call them now. Maybe they’ll have some idea of who would have been around that property. And, more than that, maybe they’ll have some insights into how someone could have made that fake office so quickly.”

As he made the call, Addison looked back at the Foster home. Through the front window, she could see the hazy shape of Dave still sitting on the couch, his shoulders shaking with fresh sobs as Lizzy held him. She knew that they’d eventually hear all of the details—the fake office, how the space had been created as a crude parody of a part of Lydia’s life.

Given the elaborate nature of the killer’s work, she could only hope this would be the only one. But if this job had taught her anything, it was that this sort of obsessive detail usually knew no depth. And though they had no evidence to support such a thought, she worried that their killer was only just getting started.

CHAPTER FOUR

The skeletal framework of the unfinished house seemed to welcome them back with an evil grin of wood and pipes as Addison once again pulled up to the construction site. More vehicles had joined the cluster since their earlier visit—three police cruisers, the crime scene unit van, and an assortment of official vehicles that created an odd contrast against the backdrop of construction equipment and torn up earth. The entire structure had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, one strands of it stretched around the framing.

Addison watched the medical examiner's van pull away, followed by the coroner's vehicle.. Her chest tightened at the thought of Amelia Foster's body being transported to the morgue. The image of the woman's face, frozen in that final expression of terror, flashed unbidden through her mind. In a way, she preferred examining the scene without the victim present—it allowed her to focus on the how rather than the who. Still, she couldn't ignore the feeling that something about this case was different, more personal somehow.

"You okay?" Javier asked, reading her expression as he killed the engine of their car. His dark eyes held that mixture of concern and professional detachment she'd grown familiar with over their years together.

"Yeah," Addison replied, her eyes fixed on the house frame. "It's just... strange being back here after seeing her actual office. Like we're about to walk into some twisted funhouse mirror version of it. The killer didn't just take her life—they perverted her safe space, turned it into a weapon. Does that make sense, or am I being dramatic?"

“Not at all. The idea of stepping back into that room gives me the creeps, too.” He reached out, squeezed her hand, and said: “Come on. We’ll be fine.”

The gravel crunched under their feet as they approached the structure. The air smelled of fresh-cut wood and dust, overlaid with the metallic tang of exposed metal framework. For some reasons it all smelled stronger now—perhaps because it was later in the day and the foot traffic had stirred it all up. Officers Greenwald and Martin were still on the scene; they stood near the entrance, comparing notes on their department-issued tablets. Martin looked up as they approached, his weathered face creased with concern.

"How'd it go at the Foster residence?" he asked, tucking his tablet under his arm.

Javier exchanged a meaningful glance with Addison before responding. "It was…telling. Chilling. The room where she found here wasn’t random…the decorations, I mean. Someone recreated her home office—or tried to, anyway…right down to the plant in the corner."

"Some weird sort of parody," Addison added, suppressing a shudder. The knowledge made the killer's work seem even more personal, more deliberately cruel. "Like they were studying her, learning her habits, her comfort zones, only to use them against her. They clearly had to rush the job, but it’s evident that they’ve seen Dr. Foster’s home office. Once her husband is in a better state, we should circle back around to him…ask how many people have been in that room.”

A man in a hard hat stood outside what Addison now thought of as "the room." His arms crossed as he studied the doorway with clear discomfort. Sawdust coated his boots, and his reflective vest bore smudges of dried joint compound. He turned at their approach, extending a hand that showed the calluses of someone who knew his way around construction sites.

"Claude Wren," he introduced himself. "One of the owners of Wren, Martinez, and Associates Construction. Agent Esposito…we spoke on the phone.”

“Of course, Javier said. “Thanks for showing up on such short notice.” He then gestured to Addison and said, “This is my partner, Agent Shine. "Would you be comfortable stepping inside the room where the victim was found? We have some questions about its construction."

Wren's expression tightened, his professional demeanor cracking slightly. "Already took a peek earlier. Just... some weird shit, right? Pardon my French." He gestured for them to follow him inside, his boots silent on the concrete flooring.

The partially finished room felt smaller than Addison remembered, more confining. The similarities to Amelia's actual office made her skin crawl—the approximate dimensions, the rough placement of where furniture would go. But the rushed paint job couldn't hide the precision of the underlying construction, like a hastily applied mask over a methodically planned murder. These were all details she’d noticed the first time they’d been here, but they all seemed to jump out and scream at them this time around.

"Did your crew have anything to do with creating this room?" Addison asked directly, studying Wren's reaction. Her years of reading autopsy subjects had made her equally adept at reading the living.

"Absolutely not." Wren shook his head emphatically, his hard hat shifting slightly. "But whoever did it... they worked fast. You can tell because of the sloppy sheetrock and paint job. But they also knew what they were doing. This wasn't some random person who watched a few DIY videos."

"How can you tell?" Addison pressed, noting how his experienced eye kept returning to specific points in the construction.

Wren pointed to a rectangular hole cut into the corner of the makeshift ceiling twelve feet over their heads. "See that? My company didn't do that. And look at the screw holes along the edge—someone mounted a temporary vent there. And I can’t be certain, but the size of those drill holes makes me think they were using high-quality mounting brackets, too. This wasn't amateur hour. The cuts are clean, the mounting points are perfectly spaced. Whoever did this understands proper load distribution."

Javier frowned, making notes on his phone. "But there's no ventilation throughout the rest of the framing."

"Exactly," Wren agreed, moving to inspect the walls more closely. "The venting wasn’t us, like I said. This was added after the fact. And look at these seals." He directed their attention to where the sheetrock met the wooden boards along the wall. There were a few nails but also a strange sort of putty that Addison wasn’t familiar with. "This is why it looks so sloppy—they used an industrial-grade sealant foam, the kind we use in clean rooms or specialized medical facilities. Expensive stuff, hard to get without proper credentials. Then they covered it with joint compound to try to hide it, but they rushed the job."

"Why would someone go to all that trouble?" Javier asked, though Addison could tell from his tone that he was already forming theories.

Wren traced the foam line with his finger, his expression growing more troubled. "This stuff expands to fill every microscopic gap. Combined with the thickness of application here, I'd bet my license this room was meant to be completely airtight. See how they doubled up on it around the door frame? And look at these marks here—" He pointed to scratches in the paint, barely visible unless you knew what to look for. "They probably used rubber gaskets or weather stripping, removed after... after whatever happened here. The kind of setup you'd see in a negative pressure room, but temporary."

The implications hit Addison like a physical blow, her medical training connecting dots she wished she couldn't see. Amelia's apparent suffocation, the sealed room, the mysterious vent... pieces of a horrifying puzzle began clicking into place.

“And I assume that’s not normal for your everyday contraction jobs?” Addison said.

“No way. Not at all.”

"How long would something like this take to construct?" Javier asked, forcing herself to maintain professional detachment. "For someone with general knowledge of ventilation and construction?"

Wren considered the question, running his hand along the wall thoughtfully. "With the right equipment? A few hours for the basic structure. The sealing would be the time-consuming part—that foam needs time to cure properly. It'd be tough for one person, having to work with sheets of drywall this size, managing the foam application... difficult, but not impossible. They'd need a good understanding of pressure seals, ventilation systems. Hell, maybe even some engineering background."

"And the ventilation setup?"

"That's the part that really makes me nervous," Wren admitted, his professional demeanor slipping further. "Whoever is responsible for this understood pressure systems. See these marks here?" He indicated faint scuff patterns on the floor, barely visible in the harsh beam of his flashlight. "Something heavy was anchored here temporarily. Could've been a compressor, vacuum pump, who knows what else. But they knew exactly what they were doing with it. The placement, the anchoring points—it's all precisely calculated."

Addison took a moment to absorb it all. The room felt like a tomb now—a carefully engineered death chamber designed to look like a familiar sanctuary. She thought about Amelia's final moments, trapped in this mockery of her own office, and felt a fresh wave of determination to catch whoever had done this.

“Thank you, Mr. Wren,” Addison said as she made her way back out into the rest of the structure. Wren nodded but stood his ground, still having a look around the room.

Slowly, they made their way back outside. For Addison, it suddenly seemed much easier to breathe. The morning sun was slowly escalating into slight afternoon warmth. The construction site was still buzzing with several policemen, but there was an almost respectful silence about it all.

Before they reached their vehicle, Javier turned to Addison. "What's your take?"

Addison took a deep breath, organizing her thoughts. The crisp autumn air helped clear her head, but couldn't wash away the horror of what they'd discovered. "Someone dumped her in that room—a room they made airtight, and then somehow took the air out through their makeshift vent." The clinical part of her mind was already calculating pressure differentials, analyzing what it would take to induce the specific pattern of hypoxia she'd observed in Amelia's body. "They knew enough about her to recreate her space, enough about engineering to build this death trap, and…and made her last few moments a personalized nightmare. I know it’s not him, but it feels like…”

“Fearmonger. I was thinking the same thing. But if it is him, he’s switched things up drastically. And you and I both know serials don’t do that.”

She nodded. “I know. It’s not him. I’m just getting that same sort of vibe.”

Addison stared back at the house frame, its empty windows like dark eyes watching them leave. The setting sun cast long shadows through the wooden skeleton, creating bars of darkness that seemed to reach for them. "The methodical planning of it all,” she said, “is all the more reason to find this creep before another body turns up. Someone this methodical, this precise in their killing method... they're not going to stop at just one victim."

“Yeah…doubtful,” Javier said with a frown. “I say we go ahead and get into the digging of it all. A deep dive on Dr. Foster, for starters. Maybe give the sister-in-law a call. I doubt Mr. Foster is going to want to hear from us again so soon, but Lizzy might have some answers as to who else might have seen that home office.”

That plan of attack led them back to the car. And though Addison hated the idea of being bogged down in simple research on such an explosive case, she knew it was the best next step. She got back behind the wheel of her car and drove away from the construction site for the second time that morning…with even more questions than before.

CHAPTER FIVE

The alarm chirped through the darkness, slicing through his fitful dreams. His hand shot out instinctively, fumbling for the phone on the makeshift coffee table, nearly sending him tumbling from the threadbare couch. The ancient springs creaked beneath him as he caught himself, his palm stinging from the impact.

In the dim light of his phone screen, he examined the fresh cuts across his knuckles and the particularly nasty gash that ran along the back of his right hand. The wound was an angry red, and might even get infected if he didn’t properly care for it, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It was worth it – all of it was worth it to see his vision taking shape. Scraped and cuts from the construction he’d been taking part in…it was a small price to pay.

He sat up slowly, bones protesting after hours cramped on the narrow couch. The basement air hung heavy around him, thick with the taste of sawdust and metal. Miscellaneous construction materials surrounded him: towering stacks of sheetrock leaned against the far wall, their edges precise and waiting; neat pyramids of red bricks stood sentinel in the corners, each one carefully counted and arranged; copper pipes gleamed dully in the weak light, organized by diameter in horizontal racks that stretched the length of the wall. Ventilation equipment was tucked neatly into a corner, pumps and silver lining looking like an apocalyptic machine of some kind.

Rolls of industrial-grade insulation formed a maze-like pathway through the basement, their pink fiberglass faces wrapped carefully in thick plastic. Boxes of screws, nails, and other fasteners lined metal shelving units, each container meticulously labeled with size and purpose. A collection of power tools sat charging along one wall: drills, saws, and specialized equipment he'd acquired over months of careful planning.

But it was the ventilation equipment that drew his gaze. The elaborate network of ducts – his masterpiece – sprawled across the concrete floor like a metallic serpent. Custom-fabricated joints and precisely measured sections waited to be assembled, each piece a vital part of his grand design. He smiled at the elegant brutality of it, remembering how smoothly it had worked in Amelia Foster's tomb. The way the system had pulled the air from her room and, as such, her lungs…leaving her gasping in an invisible vacuum. Perfect. Clinical. Beautiful.

His legs were unsteady as he shuffled toward the mini-fridge tucked between a pallet of cement bags and a stack of insulation rolls. The fluorescent light stabbed at his eyes when he yanked the door open, making him squint as he grabbed an energy drink. The cold aluminum against his palm was grounding, reminding him that this wasn't just another fevered dream.

Drink in hand, he walked back over to his cellphone and opened up the police band radio app. It only took two minutes before he heard chatter that confirmed his hope they had found her, just as he knew they would. He allowed himself a moment of pride as he recalled the precise construction of her tomb, how he had replicated her office down to the smallest detail. The customized ventilation system had fit perfectly in the back of his old work van, along with all the other components he'd need to craft his remaining masterpieces.

His free hand traced along a nearby sheet of blueprints, sitting haphazardly on the small table by the couch. His fingers danced over the carefully measured lines. Three more rooms, three more tombs, each one specially designed for its future occupant. He had memorized their routines, their habits. Each design was a perfect reflection of its intended inhabitant, a custom-built nightmare brought to life through careful engineering and painstaking attention to detail.

The energy drink was gone in four long swallows, but exhaustion still clawed at the edges of his consciousness. Three days of work, of meticulous planning and construction, had left him running on fumes. But he couldn't rest, not really, not when there was still so much to do. The compulsion to continue drove him forward, even as his vision blurred and his hands trembled.

His eyes drifted to the far corner, where industrial fans and specialized pressure gauges waited alongside neat stacks of weather stripping and industrial sealant. Everything had its place, its purpose, its role in the grand design. The thought brought another smile to his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. Dark circles beneath them testified to his dedication, to the countless hours spent perfecting every detail.

He moved to his workbench near the back wall of the room, where detailed drawings and calculations covered every inch of available space. His handwriting had grown increasingly erratic, the numbers and measurements bleeding into each other like a mathematical fever dream. But he could read them, could see the beauty in their chaos, could feel the rightness of it all.

Soon, he told himself, soon they would all understand. His fingers traced the outline of another room, another perfectly crafted tomb. He could almost hear the whisper of moving air, the subtle hiss of oxygen being pulled away, the beautiful simplicity of his design. The anticipation made his breath catch in his throat, a familiar tightness that reminded him of his own struggles for air.

The cuts on his hands throbbed in time with his pulse, a steady reminder of the work still to come. But that was fine – more than fine. The pain kept him focused, kept him grounded, kept him moving forward. There would be time to rest later, after everything was finished, after they all understood what he had created.

For now, there were rooms to build, systems to perfect, and a glorious purpose to fulfill. He reached for another energy drink, ignoring the tremor in his hands and the way the shadows seemed to reach for him. The caffeine would keep him going, push back the exhaustion for a few more precious hours of work.

This was his calling, his masterpiece. Maybe even his destiny. And he would see it through, no matter the cost, no matter how many sleepless nights it took, no matter how many bones he had to break or lives he had to take. His fingers brushed against a fresh stack of blueprints, each one a promise of what was to come.

He was coming to understand that achieving something this monumental required sacrifice. And he was prepared to sacrifice everything.

CHAPTER SIX

Addison's office felt smaller than usual, the walls seemingly creeping inward as she and Javier worked in focused silence. Crime scene photos were spread across her desk like a macabre collage, Dr. Amelia Foster's lifeless form captured from various angles. The image of the sealed room nagged at Addison's mind, an impossible puzzle box that had claimed a life—and had been constructed by a madman.

"What kind of person would Dr. Foster typically work with?" Javier asked, breaking the silence. He was slouched in the chair across from her desk, his tie loosened after hours of investigation.

Addison chewed on her bottom lip gently as she thought it over. "Research subjects with claustrophobia, anxiety disorders, things like that…I guess. But also other researchers, graduate students, maintenance staff..." She trailed off, her mind racing through possibilities. “Why?”

"I’m just trying to figure out what sort of people she would have at her home office. I mean, you saw it; it wasn’t the sort of place she would have patients. It was just a place to sit at her desk and work from her laptop."

“Maybe she had Zoom meetings every now and then,” Addison suggested. “Since COVID, lots of doctors are seeing patients online.”

“True. But even then, the patient or colleague would only see a portion of a wall behind her,” Javier pointed out.

“Yeah, that’s right…”

Addison stood up and began pacing, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor. Her mind wandered to the various people Dr. Foster might have encountered in her work. "She worked with people suffering from severe anxiety and claustrophobia. Some of them might have blamed her if their treatment wasn't successful, but would they have the technical expertise to pull this off?"

“Doubtful,” Javier said. “I hate to paint in stereotypes here, but I find it hard to believe that anyone suffering from anxiety would have it in them to put something so technical and involved in such a quick timeframe.”

She stopped at her whiteboard, uncapping a marker. "Let's break this down logically. First scenario: a patient whose treatment failed catastrophically." She wrote as she spoke. "They'd have the emotional drive, maybe even the knowledge of her methods, but the technical execution seems beyond most patients' capabilities."

Javier nodded, watching her familiar process with a hint of affection. "Second scenario?"

"A colleague or competitor." She wrote it down. "Someone who understood both the psychological and technical aspects. Maybe someone who lost funding or recognition because of her work?" She tapped the marker against her chin, leaving a small blue mark she didn't notice.

"And I think that one makes the most sense," Javier said. “They'd understand the psychological impact of their method. This killer chose a method that would maximize their victim's fear. That suggests knowledge of both engineering and psychology."

They settled into their respective tasks as Addison moved away from the whiteboard. Javier sighed and pulled out his phone.

“I hate to do it so soon after our initial visit, but I’m calling the Foster residence. I’ll speak with Lizzy and ask if she knows who else would have ever seen Dr. Foster’s home office. I’ll see if Dave might be able to speak, too.”

Addison frowned but nodded. “And I’ll dive into the bureau database and look around online…see if I can find some interesting details about Dr. Foster that might help.”

They settled into their own grooves, Addison clicking and typing away while Javier's low murmurs broke the silence as he spoke with Amelia’s sister-in-law.

Addison found nothing in the database. Aside from a singular instance where she had been used as a resource to help understand the mindset of a criminal with severe anxiety four years ago, there was nothing at all in the bureau’s database. She then turned her attention to the internet and found the same old things…social media accounts and an About Our Staff page from her work. Digging a bit deeper, she then came to articles about Dr. Foster’s research, her publications, her collaborations. Then something caught her eye—a series of heated exchanges in an academic journal, followed by newspaper coverage of a professional scandal. And Dr. Amelia Foster was right in the middle of it.

She looked up to Javier, having ended his call with Lizzy nearly fifteen minutes ago. He was now looking at the crime scene photos, scrutinizing them.

"Javier," she called out. "I think I found something."

He moved to stand behind her chair, leaning in to look at her screen. "What've you got?"

"Dr. Marcus Klinger," Addison said, pulling up several newspaper articles and positioning them in different tabs. "He and Dr. Foster had a very public falling out three years ago.”

“Okay, and who is he?”

“Looks like they were running a joint research project on environmental triggers for anxiety disorders when several female subjects came forward with complaints about his behavior."

"What kind of behavior?" Javier's voice hardened.

"According to these articles, he made inappropriate advances during private sessions and then used intimidation tactics to keep them quiet. There’s also some speculation that he may have manipulated data to support his theories. Foster went after him hard…she seemed to be the vocal center…the leader of a small group. Klinger tried to sue for defamation, claimed Foster was jealous of his research breakthroughs."

Javier was now looking over her shoulder as she continued to scroll through the articles. “Looks like the

argument went beyond simply professional disagreements,” Addison said. “Dr. Foster discovered that Klinger had been deliberately manipulating the environmental conditions during anxiety treatment sessions to provoke stronger reactions from subjects. He claimed it was necessary for accurate results, but she saw it as unethical experimentation."

"There's a quote here from one of Dr. Foster's colleagues…she says 'Dr. Klinger's behavior wasn't just unprofessional—it was predatory. He seemed to enjoy causing distress in vulnerable subjects, particularly women. When Dr. Foster confronted him, he became hostile and threatening. There were days we had to escort female students to their cars because they were afraid of running into him.'"

"Any other statements?"

"Here's one from Dr. James Morrison, the department head at the time: 'Dr. Klinger's actions represented a fundamental betrayal of research ethics. His attempts to intimidate Dr. Foster and other colleagues who spoke up were particularly disturbing. He would send late-night emails filled with veiled threats, show up uninvited to research sessions, and once we found him in Dr. Foster's office after hours, claiming he was 'collecting his data.'"

Javier straightened up, running a hand through his hair. "What's his background?"

"That's the interesting part," Addison said, leaning forward. "Before getting into psychology, he worked as an environmental engineer for five years.”

“Any idea what an environmental engineer would do?” Javier asked, emphasizing the word engineer. Addison knew the inclusion of engineer had gotten him just as hopeful as she was that it would tie directly into the sort of person they were looking for…someone who could construct that room and set up the deadly ventilation.

“Looks like studies to help prevent air and water pollution. Things like that.”

“Huh,” Javier said. “Seems like someone in that field might know a thing or two about ventilation systems.”

"And there’s the alleged history of manipulating environmental conditions to cause anxiety in research subjects." Addison pushed back from her desk, her chair rolling slightly. "The dispute with Dr. Foster effectively ended his research career. From what I can see with all of this,” she said, absently waving at the screen as she continued to read, “he's been teaching basic environmental psychology courses at Seattle Pacific University ever since."

"Hell of a motive," Javier mused. "Professional humiliation, public scandal, career derailment—all because Dr. Foster exposed his misconduct."

Addison stood up, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. "The technical knowledge matches too perfectly to ignore. And the methodology..." She gestured at the crime scene photos. "Using environmental manipulation to cause fear and death? It fits with his documented interest in controlling subjects' emotional states through their surroundings."

She paused at her whiteboard, studying the scenarios they'd mapped out earlier. "It's like he took everything he learned about triggering anxiety responses and weaponized it. The sealed room wasn't just about killing Dr. Foster—it was about making her experience her worst fear in her final moments."

"Let's pay Dr. Klinger a visit, then," Javier said, already heading for the door. "See how he handles a few questions about his former colleague."

As they walked out of the office, Addison began to feel that they were finally on the right track. The sealed room, the precise manipulation of airflow, the victim's terrifying final moments—it all pointed to someone with intimate knowledge of both environmental systems and human psychology.

Someone like Marcus Klinger.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The campus sprawled across several city blocks, its brick buildings a stark contrast against Seattle's gleaming downtown skyline. Addison breathed in the crisp autumn air as she and Javier made their way along the tree-lined paths toward the psychology building. Red and gold leaves skittered across the ground, chased by a gentle breeze that carried the distant sounds of students rushing between classes.

"Reminds me of my med school days," Addison said, watching a group of students huddle over their laptops at an outdoor table. "Except with fewer cadavers."

Javier smiled, his shoulder brushing against hers as they walked. These quiet moments during cases had become precious to Addison, especially since their relationship had evolved beyond just partners. His presence was steady, grounding—a contrast to the chaos they usually dealt with. She found herself stealing glances at him more often lately, appreciating how his focused expression softened when he caught her looking. And in a situation like this, she found the schoolgirl-like urge to reach out and hold his hand.

"You must have been quite the student," he said, navigating them around a tour group. "All those late nights in the library, memorizing bone structures. It’s far too easy to imagine.”

"Actually, I preferred the morgue. It was quieter." She caught his eye and grinned. "Plus, my subjects were much more cooperative than my study partners."

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the quad as they walked. Students lounged on blankets despite the autumn chill, their laughter carrying across the manicured lawns. Addison remembered similar days from her own college years, though hers had been darker, overshadowed by Jane's absence. Sometimes she wondered if that's why she'd chosen pathology—searching for answers in death because she couldn't find them in life.

The psychology building sat just ahead of them, its weathered stone facade dotted with tall windows that reflected the cloudy sky. Inside, the hallways echoed with their footsteps against the linoleum floors. Bulletin boards overflowed with research study announcements and student resources, while the scent of coffee wafted from a small break room. Posters advertising various psychology studies lined the walls: "Understanding Anxiety," "Sleep Study Participants Needed," "Fear Response in Controlled Environments."

They found Dr. Marcus Klinger's office on the third floor, tucked away in a corner of the behavioral psychology department. Through the frosted glass window, they could see him speaking with a student. Addison studied the nameplate beside his door: "Marcus Klinger, Ph.D. - Associate Professor of Psychology."

When the student emerged several moments later, looking somewhat frazzled, Klinger appeared in the doorway. He was younger than Addison had expected, maybe early forties, with wire-rimmed glasses and prematurely graying hair at his temples. His button-down shirt was wrinkled at the elbows, suggesting long hours at his desk.

“Yes?” he said. “Can I help you?”

Javier very discreetly showed his bade. “Agents Esposito and Shine, FBI,” he said.

"FBI?" His eyebrows rose slightly as they showed their badges. "That’s…odd. What can I do for you?" His tone carried a hint of irritation, but nothing that suggested fear or guilt.

"We'd like to discuss your history with Dr. Amelia Foster," Javier said.

Something flickered across Klinger's face—recognition, certainly, but not panic. “Yes, that’s fine,” he said, gesturing them into his office. It was a cramped yet pleasant space dominated by towering bookshelves and filing cabinets. Academic journals and papers were stacked precariously on every surface. A large whiteboard covered one wall, filled with flowcharts and research notes in different colored markers. The desk faced a window overlooking the campus quad, where students milled about.

The office felt lived-in, with personal touches that spoke to years of academic life. Certificates and awards hung slightly askew on the walls, their frames collecting dust. A collection of psychology-themed cartoons decorated the bulletin board behind his desk, alongside photos of what appeared to be research teams from various years.

Klinger settled into his chair and grabbed for a coffee mug that proclaimed 'Trust me, I'm a doctor' in faded letters. "I assume this is about the allegations from a few years back." It was a statement, not a question. It made it sound as if Klinger was used to being asked about it.

"We'd like to hear your perspective on what happened," Addison said, noting how he immediately went on the defensive.

“Can I ask why?”

Addison didn't want to show all of her cards just yet. She wanted to see how in-depth he could go before he was aware that Foster had been killed. And, assuming he may very well be their killer, she wanted to see if he might also accidentally stumble his way into a confession.

“We can’t divulge everything just yet,” she said. “But a recent case has subtly pointed back to the allegations.”

Klinger leaned back, his chair creaking. She could tell that he was trying to decide if it was worth drudging everything back up if they weren’t going to give him any specifics. Eventually, he sighed and began.

"Dr. Foster made accusations about my research methods that were completely unfounded. She claimed I was manipulating data in my studies on anxiety disorders and claustrophobia." He adjusted his glasses. "It nearly destroyed my career."

"Could you be more specific about the allegations?" Addison pressed.

Klinger's jaw tightened. "She accused me of cherry-picking data to support my hypotheses. Said I was excluding test subjects who didn't fit my expected outcomes." He shook his head. "She even suggested I was falsifying participant responses in my claustrophobia studies."

"That's a serious accusation," Javier noted.

"It was devastating. Seventeen years of research, my reputation in the field, all called into question. And once my name was being dragged through the mud on that front, then came to the allegations that I was being inappropriate with female students. " Klinger's fingers drummed nervously on his desk. "Which, might I add, were total bullshit. The university launched a full investigation into both counts. Every piece of data, every research note was scrutinized. My graduate students were interviewed. Colleagues I'd worked with for years suddenly wouldn't make eye contact in the hallway."

"But the charges were dropped," Javier prompted.

"After a thorough investigation proved I'd done nothing wrong." Klinger's jaw tightened. "The university settled with me to avoid a lawsuit. The terms included a substantial payment and a formal retraction from Dr. Foster. She was forced to acknowledge that her accusations were based on misinterpreted data."

"How did that affect your standing in the department?" Addison asked, watching his face carefully.

"Some colleagues still treat me with suspicion. Research grants are harder to come by." He gestured to a stack of papers. "I've had to scale back my studies, focus more on teaching. But I’ve managed to rebuild my reputation.”

"Did you have any contact with Dr. Foster after the settlement?"

"None. Our professional circles didn't overlap much anymore. She moved on to private practice, I believe." He shuffled some papers on his desk. "Last I heard, she was doing well for herself, working with anxiety patients in a private clinic downtown."

"Dr. Klinger," Addison said carefully, "Amelia Foster was murdered yesterday. That’s why we’ve come to speak with you."

The color drained from Dr. Klinger’s face. He sat back heavily in his chair, genuine shock evident in his expression. "Murdered? How... I mean, what happened?"

"We're still investigating the circumstances," Javier said, also not wanting to reveal too much. "But we do need to know where you were between eight o’ clock last night and four o’ clock this morning.”

Klinger didn't hesitate as his eyes seemed to war between wanting to be angry and wanting to be shocked at the hidden accusation. "Last night, I was teaching my evening seminar on cognitive behavioral therapy. It ran late, until 8:35. Then I drove to my girlfriend's house in Ballard. We had dinner at Walrus & Carpenter, got back to her place around eleven." He reached for his phone. "I can show you my location data, my credit card statements—"

"That won't be necessary right now," Addison said, though she appreciated his willingness to provide evidence. She studied his body language, the way his hands trembled slightly as he set his phone back down. There was fear there, but it seemed more about being implicated than guilt. The fact that he’d been so willing to hand over his phone told her all she needed to know.

"Did Dr. Foster have any other conflicts at work?" Javier asked. "Anyone else who might have held a grudge while all of your allegations were being worked through?"

Klinger considered this. "The academic world isn't as genteel as people think. Amelia... she was brilliant, but she could be ruthless when she thought someone wasn't following proper protocols. She filed complaints against several colleagues over the years." He paused. "But even after things fell apart between us…I can’t imagine she’d anger someone enough for them to kill her.”

"Do any names come to mind?" Javier asked.

“Sorry…no. As you can imagine, I did not speak to her after things settled down.”

Addison and Javier shared a glance. Without a word exchanged between them, they seemed to communicate through this little exchange: There’s nothing for us here.

"I know how this looks, given our history,” Klinger said. But I would never..." He trailed off, removing his glasses to clean them nervously. "Amelia and I had our differences, but she didn't deserve this. She was difficult, yes, but she believed in scientific integrity. Maybe too much for her own good."

Javier plucked a business card from his pocket and placed it on Dr. Klinger’s desk. “Please contact me directly if you do happen to think of anything else. And it would be appreciated if you didn’t leave the city for a few days.”

“My schedule is packed for weeks,” Klinger said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thanks for your time,” Addison said as she and Javier exited his office.

Out in the hallway, making their way to the stairs, Javier looked over to Addison and said: "What do you think?"

Addison shook her head. "My gut says he's not our guy. The shock of the news seemed genuine, and that alibi will be easy to verify."

“Plus, he was ready to hand over is phone to prove his locations,” Javier said. “So…yeah, I agree.”

They walked back through the campus, now quieter as afternoon classes were in session. The autumn breeze had picked up, sending more leaves spinning through the air. Addison felt Javier's hand brush against hers, a small gesture of support that made her smile despite the weight of the case.

"You know what this means, right?" she said as they reached their car.

"What's that?"

"More research." She sighed dramatically. "It’s times like these that I wonder if I should have stayed in the morgues.”

Javier chuckled, opening her car door. "Well, speaking for just myself personally, I’m glad you didn’t.”

She grinned, but her mind was already racing ahead to their next lead. Yes, they had exhausted the one lead they had, which was a sign of progress, but she also felt like they were venturing deeper into the case with more questions than when they’d started.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The first thing Alex noticed was the light—harsh and artificial, yet somehow familiar in its soft blue-white glow. For a moment, he thought he was in his home office after falling asleep at his desk again. It wouldn't be the first time he'd dozed off while coding, lost in the futuristic ambiance he'd carefully crafted to feel like working aboard a spaceship. He'd spent countless hours perfecting that environment, researching color psychology and even installing smart bulbs that could shift through different shades of blue and white throughout the day to match his circadian rhythm.

But something was wrong. First of all, there was the drum-like pounding of pain in his head. The light hit his retinas at an unfamiliar angle, making him squint and turn away. As his vision adjusted, fragmented memories of the past hour crystallized like broken glass in his mind, each shard cutting deeper than the last.

The knock had come from the back door—not the front. That should have been his first warning sign, but he'd been too absorbed in debugging a particularly nasty piece of code to notice. He remembered glancing at his debugging console, cursor blinking accusingly at line 347 where a memory leak had been eating up his client’s resources for days. Just five more minutes, he'd thought, but the knocking had grown more insistent.

The man who'd come knocking at his back door had seemed so ordinary: jeans, flannel shirt, apologetic smile. "Sorry to bother you," he'd said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "My dog slipped his leash and I saw him run into your backyard. Mind if I take a look?" His voice had carried just the right note of embarrassment, his body language perfectly conveying the sheepish pet owner.

Alex remembered hesitating…sort of. The memory was jerky and fragmented, a bit hazy. He'd always been cautious by nature—you had to be, working in cybersecurity. And while this man had seemed innocent at first—just a poor man looking for his lost dog—the mask of it slipped away rather quickly.

Something about the man's earnest expression had disarmed him within seconds. That split-second of trust had cost him dearly. He couldn't dislodge the image of those eyes changing, warmth vanishing into cold calculation the moment Alex had stepped outside.

The memory of stepping into his backyard made him wince. The sudden movement behind him, the explosive pain as knuckles connected with his jaw, then something harder—metal?—crashing against his skull. The world had gone sideways, then black, his last conscious thought a desperate wish that he'd listened to his sister about that camera.

Now fully alert, Alex pushed himself up from the cold floor—concrete, not the bamboo flooring he'd installed himself last summer after watching countless DIY videos and practicing on spare pieces in his garage. His heart began to race as he took in his surroundings. Someone had created a twisted mirror image of his home office, but like something from a nightmare where everything was slightly wrong, unnervingly off-kilter.

The bookshelf stood exactly where his did, but its shelves gaped empty, a hollow skeleton of his carefully curated technical library. No dog-eared copies of "Clean Code" or "The Pragmatic Programmer," no treasured first editions of Asimov's Foundation series. His prized ultrawide monitor—the one he'd saved three months for—was replaced by a dusty laptop, its screen cracked like a spiderweb. The walls were painted the same color scheme he'd chosen—Cosmic Latte for the base with Starship Blue accents—but the blue was a shade too dark, more threatening than soothing. The colors were almost right but also very wrong, all at the same time.

"Hello?" he said.

His voice came out raspy, afraid. No answer except the soft hum of what sounded like a softly groaning air conditioning unit. Beyond that, there was nothing but silence. The deafening kind that seemed to overwhelm every thought.

Alex stumbled to the door and realized that his breathing was becoming labored. This was only made worse when he realized the handle wouldn't turn. He slammed his palms against the metal surface, the impact echoing in the confined space.

"Hey! Let me out!" The shouting made him cough, and the coughing awakened the beast in his lungs.

Shit, he thought. An asthma attack. Great timing…

He fumbled in his pockets for his rescue inhaler, finding nothing. Of course—he always kept it in his desk drawer at home. His real desk, not this prop in this terrible stage set of his life. The air felt different now, thinner somehow. Was it his imagination, or were his lips starting to tingle?

Twenty years of living with severe asthma had taught Alex to recognize the warning signs. The tightness in his chest was different this time—worse. Usually, an attack built gradually, giving him time to use his inhaler or get to the hospital. But this... this was like someone had suddenly replaced all the air in this eerie room with cotton. Of course, after a while, he had been cured of his asthma…or so he had thought. But this…this was something different. This was as if the very air in the room was being taken away.

He slid down against the door, trying to control his breathing the way his pulmonologist had taught him. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and steady. But his lungs weren't cooperating. Each breath came shorter than the last, his throat constricting as if invisible hands were squeezing it.

Black spots danced at the edges of his vision. The room's blue-white light seemed to pulse in rhythm with his failing heartbeat. He thought of his sister's wedding next month, where he was supposed to give a toast. Of the app he'd been developing that might finally let him quit his day job.

His chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath. The air conditioning noise seemed louder now, mocking. Or was that just the blood rushing in his ears? He didn’t know; all he knew for sure was that somehow, it was deafening, as if it was blotting out everything else in the world…including his ability to breathe properly.

Alex had experienced dozens of severe asthma attacks in his thirty-two years, but none like this. This was wrong. This was engineered. It felt like someone had thrown a boulder at his chest. His lungs tightened and the slight-wrong colors of his fake office grew dimmer and dimmer by the second.

As his consciousness began to fade, his eyes fixed on the broken laptop. The screen flickered once, throwing shadows across the room that looked like stars. Just like the ones he'd always dreamed of seeing up close, back when he thought he might become an astronaut instead of a programmer. The irony wasn't lost on him—dying in a room designed to look like a spaceship, suffocating just like he'd always imagined it would be like in the vacuum of space.

His last coherent thought was of his real office, with its perfect blue walls and humming computer, waiting for an owner who would never return to debug that last piece of code.

CHAPTER NINE

Javier's house was exactly what Addison would have expected had she allowed herself to imagine it during all those months of secretly pining after her partner. The living room held only the essentials—a well-worn leather couch that had probably cost a fortune when new, a sturdy coffee table bearing the scattered scars of cup rings and case files, and a wall-mounted TV that seemed more decorative than functional. The kitchen, visible through an open archway, was surprisingly well-equipped for a bachelor, though the pristine state of most appliances suggested they rarely saw use.

The walls were mostly bare except for a few framed photographs—one of a younger Javier in his undercover days, sporting longer hair and a goatee that made him almost unrecognizable. Another showed what she assumed to be his family, all dark eyes and wide smiles at what looked like a quinceañera. The hardwood floors gleamed in the overhead lights, but a few scattered throw rugs softened the space, making it feel less like a magazine spread and more like a home. A small collection of potted herbs lined the kitchen windowsill—basil, cilantro, and what looked like oregano—testament to his occasional culinary adventures that she'd only recently discovered.

The house itself was modest but well-maintained, a craftsman bungalow in one of Seattle's older neighborhoods. The kind of place that spoke of roots being put down, of someone ready to build a life rather than just pass through. It touched something deep in Addison's chest every time she thought about it.

Until they’d crossed the line into a romantic relationship, she’d never stepped foot inside. Now, it was becoming one of her favorite places—though this was only the third time she’d visited ever since they’d crossed that line. This was where they’d decided to do the night’s research and burn the midnight oil in an effort to find some answers to their case.

She sat at his kitchen table, surrounded by crime scene photos and printouts. The lawsuit documents from Dr. Foster's attempted filing against Dr. Klinger were spread across both the table and kitchen counter, creating a paper trail that seemed to lead nowhere. She'd been here several times now, but each visit still felt like crossing some invisible threshold. The Javier she'd known for years had always been intensely private about his personal space. Now, watching him lean against his counter, brow furrowed as he studied a document, she felt a warm flutter in her chest at how natural it all seemed.

A basket of fresh fruit sat on the counter—another change she'd noticed lately. "For your midnight snacks," he'd said when she'd first commented on it, and the thoughtfulness of that simple gesture had nearly brought tears to her eyes. It was the little things that kept catching her off guard, the way he'd learned her habits and adapted to them without her even noticing.

"I just got off the phone with Lizzy again," Javier said, setting down the paper he'd been examining. "Dead end there. She couldn't think of anyone who'd been in Amelia's home office when I spoke to her earlier. This recent call was so she could update me on what Dave had to see after he’d finally come around. He says if anyone from work or any social life Amelia had had ever visited their home—much less her home office—he couldn’t think of who it might be."

Addison nodded, trying to ignore the headache building behind her eyes. The wall clock read 10:20 PM. She pushed back from the table and headed for the coffee maker, which sat like a beacon of hope on Javier's granite countertop. The familiar routine of measuring beans and water gave her hands something to do while her mind churned through the case details.

"Really?" Javier's voice held a note of amused disbelief. "Coffee? Now?"

"Says the man who keeps premium coffee beans in his freezer," Addison retorted, measuring out the grounds. "Don't judge my coping mechanisms. Besides, you're the enabler here. Who keeps their coffee maker in perfect condition just waiting for their caffeine-addicted partner to come over?"

“Well, it never really saw much action until you came around. Also…I keep those beans for you, actually." His admission made her pause, coffee scoop hovering mid-air. "Started doing it after you complained about my grocery store brand. You said, and I quote, 'This tastes like something scraped off a car engine.'

She felt her face warm. "When did you start doing that?"

He moved behind her, close enough that she could feel his body heat. "I do want you to feel at home here, you know. I just prefer your apartment because…of Snape.”

“The cat? Really?”

“Sure.”

She knew this wasn’t the truth, but she didn’t press the issue. She was fine with him preferring her place.

“Hey, do you remember that time you spent twenty minutes explaining to me why different types of coffee beans have different cellular structures?" he asked.

"That was relevant to the case!" she protested, though they both knew it hadn't been. "The victim was a barista."

"The victim worked at a gas station convenience store," he corrected, gently turning her to face him. "But you were so excited about coffee science that I didn't have the heart to stop you."

Addison turned to face him, coffee set to brew, leaning back against the counter. "And here I thought I was being subtle with all my late-night 'breakthroughs' that absolutely had to be discussed in person."

"Subtle?" He laughed, the sound rich and warm. "You called me at midnight one time to tell me you'd figured out why our victim's shoelaces were tied differently. They weren't even tied differently—you admitted later you'd looked at the photo upside down."

"Oh God." She covered her face with her hands. "I'd convinced myself you'd forgotten about that. I spent the whole next day cringing internally."

He gently pulled her hands away from her face, holding them in his. "It was adorable. I could tell you were embarrassed and…if I’m being honest…”

“What?”

“That’s when I thought you might be into me.”

“Oh. Oh God. Javi, it was long before that…”

He smiled and gave her a quick kiss on the mouth. The coffee maker gurgled behind them, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of dark roast. Addison intertwined her fingers with his, marveling at how perfectly they fit together. "I can't believe how long I spent crushing on you. If you hadn't kissed me when you did..."

"You would have eventually worn me down," he finished, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I was already halfway there. Actually, more than halfway. I just kept thinking about all the ways it could go wrong."

"And now?"

"Now I think about all the ways it could go right." His smile softened. "Already has, actually. Though I still can't believe it took me so long.”

"Well, nothing says romance like analyzing blood spatter patterns together," she teased, but her heart wasn't quite in it. The guilt hit her then, sharp and sudden. The box with Jane's diary, the prints she was having checked without telling him. The secret felt heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs like a physical thing. She turned back to the coffee maker, buying time as she poured herself a cup and doctored it with cream and sugar.

Her hands shook slightly as she stirred, watching the cream create spiral patterns in the dark liquid. This man had trusted her with his heart, his home, his carefully guarded private life. And here she was, keeping secrets that could affect them both professionally and personally.

"Javier, there's something I need to tell you." She took a deep breath, curling her hands around the warm mug. "About Jane's case—"

His phone rang, the sharp trill cutting through the quiet kitchen. Addison recognized the ringtone—Loomis's special "drop everything" ring that he’d programmed in long ago. Javier answered immediately, his posture shifting from relaxed to alert in an instant.

"This is Esposito." He listened for a moment, his expression growing grave. "Where? ... Yes, we're together now. We'll head right over." He ended the call, already reaching for his jacket.

“What is it?” Addison said, but she thought she already knew.

"We've got another one. Another body. Same MO as Foster."

Addison set down her untouched coffee, the confession about the box and fingerprints dying on her lips as adrenaline kicked in. The guilt would have to wait. She followed Javier to the door, her mind already shifting into analytical mode, though a small part of her couldn't help noticing how he paused to grab her coat and hold it out for her. It was such a simple gesture, but it spoke volumes about how far they'd come from those early days of careful professional distance.

As they hurried down his front steps into the cool night air, she caught herself thinking that this—the late-night calls, the shared purpose, the way they moved in sync without needing to speak—was what falling in love was supposed to feel like. Even with a killer on the loose and secrets between them, she'd never felt more certain about anything in her life.

She just hoped that when she finally told him about the prints, about how truly desperate her search for Jane had become, he would understand why she'd kept it from him. But for now, there was another victim waiting, another puzzle to solve, and the night was still relatively young.

CHAPTER TEN

A slight drizzle of rain was falling when they stepped outside and it seemed to escort them through the night. The rhythm of windshield wipers cutting through the drizzled seemed to match Addison's racing pulse as Javier guided his Crown Vic through Seattle's industrial district. Her fingers drummed against her thigh, mind already cycling through the possibilities. She knew this was a nervous tic of hers—the drumming of her fingers on anything nearby…usually her legs. And when she did it, it was not simply tap-tap-tapping. No, it was always the drumbeat to a random song, the first song to pop into her head when she started her tapping. Tonight, it was the drumbeat to Nirvana's "Scentless Apprentice." Maybe it was a bit cliched and predictable for someone who lived in Seattle, but why fight it?

"You're doing that thing again," Javier said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

"What thing?"

"That thing where you're already performing the autopsy in your head before we even get there." A ghost of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Your fingers are tapping out organ weights."

“My fingers are actually tapping out Nirvana, smarty pants.” She sighed and shook her head playfully.

"Sometimes I hate that you know me this well," she muttered, but couldn't help smiling. The levity helped ease the knot in her stomach, if only for a moment.

Several moments later, an old, abandoned industrial park materialized out of the misty darkness. Addison's breath caught as Javier's headlights swept across the façade. She was pretty sure it was an old packaging plant. The building squatted against the night sky, its corrugated metal walls streaked with rust stains that looked like dried blood in the dim light. A faded sign, barely legible beneath decades of grime, read "Pacific Northwest Packaging Solutions." The facility must have been impressive once, spreading across nearly an acre of land, but time had not been kind. She supposed it had to have been at least twenty years since this place had been active.

Many of the windows were broken, their jagged edges catching the glare of their headlights as they approached. Nature had begun reclaiming the property; woody vines crawled up the walls like grasping fingers, and weeds thrust through cracks in the concrete apron surrounding the building. The loading dock's metal roll-up doors were mottled with rust, one hanging partially off its track like a crooked tooth. Graffiti covered the lower portions of the walls – mostly faded tags and crude drawings, but one piece caught Addison's eye: a grotesque face with hollow eyes that seemed to follow their car as they approached.

Two patrol cars were already on scene, parked as close to the front doors as possible. Javier pulled up beside them, killing the engine.

"Ready?" he asked.

Addison nodded, though her stomach churned. Every time they encountered one of these scenes, she couldn't help but think of Jane. Was this what happened to you? Did someone lock you away in a sealed room somewhere?

She said nothing, of course. She simply got out, and they approached the front doors together. The metal door shrieked on its hinges as they entered, the sound echoing through the cavernous space like a creature in pain. Their footsteps crunched on debris – broken glass, crumbling concrete, ancient leaves that had blown in through broken windows. The air was thick with the musty smell of decay and abandonment, underlaid with something metallic that tickled the back of Addison's throat.

They both switched on flashlights they’d taken from the car. In the twin beams, the warehouse floor stretched out before them, a vast expanse of cracked concrete disappearing into shadows. Moonlight filtered through the broken skylights overhead, creating islands of dim illumination in the darkness. The ceiling soared thirty feet above them, its steel support beams barely visible in the gloom. Pigeons had made their homes in the rafters; Addison could hear their soft cooing echoing through the space.

Ahead of them, another pair of flashlight beams knifed through the darkness. Glaring ghostly in one of them, she saw a familiar face—Officer Martin, one of the policemen they’d worked with at the construction scene where Amelia Foster had been found. Greenwald stood beside him; apparently, they’d been assigned to stick with this case, setting it up to be handed off to the FBI.

"Agents." Officer Martin's voice carried across the open floor. He and Greenwald stood near the back of the space, their flashlight beams cutting through the gloom. "Got another weird one for you."

As she and Javier picked their way across the floor, Addison cataloged as many details as possible. Piles of building materials were scattered throughout – rotting pallets stacked like forgotten monuments, rusted metal shelving arranged in maze-like configurations, coils of electrical wire green with corrosion.. She noticed fresh scuff marks on the floor, partially obscured by dust but visible to her trained eye – someone had been moving things recently.

The back corner of the building confirmed her suspicion. A room had been constructed there, its walls too new, too clean compared to the decaying warehouse around it.

Just like in Amelia Foster's scene. The drywall gleamed eerily in the beam of her flashlight, its pristine surface an obscene contrast to the decay surrounding it. It almost looked otherworldly, like an alien artifact left behind by an intergalactic tourist.

"We cleared the rest of the building," Greenwald reported. "No sign of forced entry anywhere. The door to this room was unlocked when we got here."

"Anonymous tip again?" Javier asked.

Martin nodded. "Different burner phone than last time. Called it in about an hour ago and got a dead line."

"He wants us to find them quickly," Addison murmured. "He's not trying to hide the bodies – he's showcasing them. He wants us to see them.”

“Makes sense,” Javier said. Then, gesturing toward the room that had no business being there. “He’s not exactly being subtle about the way he’s carrying it out.”

Addison pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, the snap of latex echoing in the vast space. Javier did the same, and they entered the room together. Their flashlight beams revealed a scene that was even more surreal than Amelia Foster’s scene.

The room was thrown together the same way Amelia’s makeshift office had been. This one was decorated differently, though. A large desk sat against the back wall, complete with a laptop that seemed to be powered down. The walls were an off-white that seemed to absorb and reflect their flashlight beams in unsettling ways. Even the furniture was positioned identically – a single chair in the center, a small table in the left corner. A bookcase was placed on the right wall, empty of books. The victim, Alex Chenowith, lay on the concrete floor. It was eerily similar to how they’d found Amelia.

One significant difference that Addison noticed right away were the LED lights. They were embedded in the walls at regular intervals, just as dead as the laptop.

The room felt hermetically sealed, almost pressurized. Addison's ears popped slightly as she stepped inside. The air felt different here – cleaner, more processed. She noticed small variations in the wall texture that suggested hidden panels or mechanisms. Everything about the space spoke of meticulous planning and execution.

"This is weird," Addison said, moving closer to one of the lights. "This building has no power. Why even bother with these lights?"

She pressed her palm against the wall near one of the bulbs. Warmth radiated through the drywall. "These were on recently. Very recently."

"Generator?" Javier suggested, his flashlight beam tracking upward.

Addison followed his gaze to the ceiling. Her throat tightened. There it was – the same rectangular cutout, complete with large screw holes around its perimeter. But this time, she noticed something new – tiny scratches in the metal frame that suggested it had been opened and closed multiple times. The killer was perfecting his technique, or he'd had trouble with this particular setup when he'd hooked up his ventilation.

She turned her attention to Alex Chenowith, approaching his body with the practiced eye of a medical examiner. He was dressed casually – jeans, sneakers, a faded tech company t-shirt that read "Java: Because everyone needs their daily dose of exceptions." In any other context, the shirt would have made her smile. Now, it just emphasized the victim's humanity, making his death even more tragic.

Addison clicked on her penlight, examining his face and exposed skin with professional detachment. The periorbital area showed petechial hemorrhaging – tiny burst blood vessels around the eyes. His lips and nail beds had a distinct bluish tinge. She gently tilted his head, noting the absence of ligature marks or signs of struggle.

Again…just like Amelia Foster.

"Cyanosis consistent with hypoxia," she announced, looking up to Javier. "Just like Amelia. No signs of restraint." She checked the back of his head, finding the same slight sort of bump and welling she’d found on Amelia. “Another blow to the back of the head, it seems.”

Javier whispered a curse and ran a hand through his air. “This is downright creepy,” he said. “It might not be Fearmonger, but this guy is giving him a run for his money.”

"Greenwald said that the anonymous tip came from a different burner number," Addison said. "He wants us to find the bodies right away, but he’s being careful. Use once, destroy, move on."

Still slowly looking around the fake room, Javier placed his hands on his hips. "We need to find out where Alex lived. Where he worked. Anywhere he spent significant time. We can’t ignore the pattern. I bet you anything there was a room like this somewhere in the victim’s life.”

Addison nodded, already pulling out her phone. She dialed the Bureau's Records and Research division as they exited the room. The line started ringing and she gave Martin and Greenwald a little wave of appreciation as they hurried for the exit.

The line was answered on the second ring. A tired-sounding woman asked for her name and her request. "This is Special Agent Shine. I need everything you have on an Alex Chenowith of Seattle as soon as humanly possible. Employment records, criminal history, residence history, known associates – everything."

Outside, the drizzle had picked up, but Addison barely noticed the rain soaking into her hair. Her mind was already several steps ahead, trying to tie things together.

"He's accelerating," she said as they climbed back into Javier's car. "Two victims with the same highly specific MO, both found because he wanted them found. He's building to something."

"Question is, what’s he building to?" Javier started the engine.

Addison stared through the rain-streaked windshield at the warehouse. The grotesque graffiti face she'd noticed earlier appeared to grin at her, its hollow eyes knowing. "I don't know," she admitted. "But whatever it is, he’s clearly several steps ahead.”

As they pulled away from the scene, she couldn't stop herself from wondering how many more of these rooms were hidden around the city. It was clear that he’d built them in advance; there was no way he’d created Alex’s room so quickly after moving on from Amelia. 

Javier pulled out of the parking lot just as Addison’s phone rang—it was Records and Research calling her back. Quick and efficient, as always. She wasted no time answering the call. With her heart thundering in her chest, she asked, “What’ve you got?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The rain drummed against the hood of Javier’s car as they pulled up to Alex Chenowith's residence. The dashboard clock read 11:52 PM but the cloudy skies and the rain made it feel later. As they parked, the modest Craftsman-style house sat back from the street, partially hidden behind a row of dripping rhododendrons. A security light cast weak yellow illumination across the worn cedar shingles and peeling trim, giving the structure an almost melancholy appearance in the late-night gloom. It was a lonely-looking house, and she was pretty sure it would carry that same look under sunny skies as well.

"Records and Research said he wasn't married," Addison said as Javier killed the engine. "Lived alone."

As they stepped out, more of the exterior came into view. A collection of worn garden gnomes stood sentinel along the front walkway, their usually cheerful faces rendered sinister in the dim light. Dead leaves from previous storms had collected in the home's rain gutters, causing water to cascade down in steady sheets. The whole property had the air of gentle neglect – not quite run-down, but showing signs of an owner who either lacked the time or inclination for regular maintenance.

They approached the front door, their footsteps muffled by the wet grass. Following protocol, Javier knocked firmly three times. The sound echoed through what was clearly an empty house. After waiting the requisite time, Addison knelt before the lock, retrieving her picks from an inside pocket of her jacket.

"You know," Javier said, keeping watch, "one of these days you're going to have to tell me where a medical examiner learned to pick locks."

"YouTube," Addison replied without looking up, her hands moving with practiced precision. "You'd be amazed what you can learn on YouTube." The lock was good quality but poorly maintained, like everything else about the house. She could feel the pins sticking slightly as she worked them.

“I tried learning to play guitar on YouTube,” Javier quipped. “It didn’t quite work out.”

“That’s a shame,” she said with a smile. “I’m a sucker for a guy who can play the guitar.”

The lock clicked, and they entered without hesitation. Javier found the light switch, illuminating a living room that practically screamed 'bachelor pad.' A massive flat-screen TV dominated one wall, surrounded by an impressive collection of movie posters – everything from classic noir to modern sci-fi. Addison's eyes lingered on a vintage Blade Runner poster, complete with Harrison Ford's brooding face overlooking a neon-lit cityscape. Below it, a collection of action figures stood in careful formation on a dusty shelf.

"Hey, look at this," Javier said, chuckling. “Looks like this guy's definitely your type, Addison."

"No way. Those Star Wars figures are from the new movies. Yuck." The room did feel oddly familiar – stacks of sci-fi and horror paperbacks were scattered across various surfaces, many sporting the same authors she had on her own shelves at home. A half-finished game of solitaire lay abandoned on the coffee table, the cards slightly warped as if they'd been handled by nervous fingers.

The kitchen told its own story: takeout containers in the recycling, a single set of dishes in the dish rack, a collection of soda cans lined up precisely along the counter. A magnetic whiteboard on the refrigerator held a handful of delivery menus and a single photograph – Alex Chenoweth with what appeared to be co-workers at some kind of office party. Everyone in the photo wore identical blue t-shirts with a company logo Addison had seen on his body back at the packaging plant. Alex stood slightly apart from the group, smiling but somehow separate.

They found his home office easily enough; it was situated in a small room adjacent to the bedroom. The moment they stepped inside, both agents froze. The layout was identical to the fake room where they'd found Alex's body – down to the smallest detail. The LED light strips running along the ceiling's edge were higher quality than those at the packaging plant. When Addison flicked the light switch, they have off a soft, blue glow.. A sleek desktop monitor sat where they'd found the laptop in the fake room, its black screen reflecting their stunned expressions.

"Records and Research said Chenoweth worked in software development," Addison said, moving to examine the monitor. She pressed the power button, but the screen remained dark. "Whatever he was working on, he shut it down properly before..." She let the sentence trail off, remembering the position they'd found his body in, slumped over a different desk in a different room that looked exactly like this one.

They began a methodical search of the office, again donning latex gloves. The bookshelf held technical manuals and coding references, along with more science fiction. A corkboard displayed various Post-it notes with cryptic coding reminders and deadlines. A small 3D printer sat in one corner, surrounded by various plastic figurines – what looked like custom-designed gaming pieces. The air in the room felt thick with the peculiar emptiness that follows sudden death, as if the space itself was mourning its owner.

Javier worked his through the desk drawers while Addison examined the contents of a nearby miniature filing cabinet. The room felt almost too ordinary, too normal, making it all the more disturbing when compared to where they'd found Alex's body. She noticed a small action figure of Jean-Luc Picard from Star Trek sitting atop the monitor, its tiny arm raised in a perpetual command.

"Got something," Javier said, holding up a manila folder labeled "Tax Stuff / Write-Offs/ Other." Inside, among various receipts and forms for equipment and what appeared to be an online workshop were several bills from a pulmonologist's office. They were all held together with a paper clip.

“What is it?” Addison asked.

"Well, you've got the medical background. A pulmonologist deals in asthma, right?"

Addison took the folder, her latex-gloved fingers carefully sorting through the documents. "Among other things, yes. They're specialists in respiratory medicine." She paused, her expression darkening. "God, imagine having asthma and having the air sucked out of a room. The terror he must have felt..." Her mind flashed back to the body on the floor—the blue lips, the dead and terrified eyes.

She continued examining the documents, catching details that might have seemed insignificant to others. "Javier, look at this." She held up a consent form. "Alex was part of a medical study about anxiety and breathing disorders." Her voice took on an urgent edge as she read further. "The principal investigator was Dr. Amelia Foster."

They looked at each other as the heaviness of the link settled in around them, the significance hitting them simultaneously. Dr. Foster – their first victim. The connection they'd been searching for suddenly materializing in a manila folder labeled "Tax Stuff."

"We need to get back to the field office," Javier said, already heading for the door. "Find everything we can about this study."

"Wait," Addison called, still rifling through the folder. "There might be more here." She pulled out additional forms, scanning them quickly. "These aren't just medical receipts. There are consent forms, preliminary questionnaires... Alex was more than just a participant. He was providing technical consultation for the study's data collection system."

"Which means he had direct contact with Foster," Javier said, returning to look over her shoulder. “Even outside of the study parameters.”

"And possibly with other participants," Addison added. She carefully replaced the documents in the folder. "We need to find out who else was involved in this study. If there's a connection between Foster and Chenowith..."

"There might be other potential victims," Javier finished.

They did one final sweep of the house, looking for anything else that might connect to the case. In the bedroom, Addison found an inhaler on the nightstand, along with a portable nebulizer machine. More evidence of Alex's respiratory issues – and perhaps a crucial link to understanding why he had been targeted.

As they left the house, the rain had intensified, drumming against the roof like impatient fingers. Addison took one last look at the house; the little gnomes looked to be harbingers of doom in the rain and nighttime shadows.

Their breakthrough had come at nearly midnight, but neither agent suggested waiting until morning. They had a lead now – a concrete connection between their victims. And they had learned over time that in their line of work, every minute counted. The killer had already demonstrated a frightening efficiency in claiming victims. They couldn't afford to waste time.

The SUV's headlights cut through the rain as they headed back to the field office, both agents lost in thought about what they'd found. The connection between Foster and Chenowith through the breathing study seemed too specific to be coincidental. The question now was whether this connection would lead them to their killer – or to another victim.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Addison had always been of the opinion that the field office held a different sort of vibe at night. She often imagined it was the same feeling as a teenager stepping into their high school on a Saturday—the space and smell was familiar, but there was something oddly different about it.

Addison had always thought so, but tonight the emptiness seemed to mock them. The usual bustle of agents and analysts was replaced by the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional distant sound of the cleaning crew. She’d been staring at her computer for about half an hour, searching for any public information about Dr. Foster's breathing study. Javier was doing the same across from her, both occupying her office because, as Javier was always quick to point out, hers was much cleaner than his.

"Nothing," she muttered, pushing back from her desk. "Everything's locked behind confidentiality agreements and medical privacy laws." She rubbed her temples, trying to ward off the headache she could feel building behind her eyes. The coffee from the break room had gone cold hours ago, but she took another sip anyway, grimacing at the bitter taste.

Javier looked up from his own laptop, his face illuminated by the blue glow of his monitor. "Same here. These studies are locked down tight." He stretched, his chair creaking in protest. "Did you know they make participants sign about twelve different forms just to participate in a basic medical study? It's like Fort Knox, but with paperwork."

Addison supposed that the killer had to have gotten his victim information from somewhere—or maybe he was even a part of the study. The connection between Dr. Foster and Alex Chenoweth couldn't be coincidental. And if they were all linked, there had to be a core to it.

"The clinic," she said suddenly, sitting up straighter. "The study was conducted at the Respiratory Research Center at Seattle Memorial. Surely we can get the results from them.”

“Addison, I’s 1:27 in the morning. No one is going to have access to that sort of information at this hour.”

She smiled as she used her laptop to navigate to the clinic’s website. She scrolled to the bottom, locating the emergency contact number. “Oh dear, sweet Javi. I think you underestimate how annoying I can be.”

She called the emergency line, and the phone rang four times before a tired voice answered. "Seattle Memorial RRC emergency line."

"This is Special Agent Addison Shine with the FBI." She kept her voice steady, professional, though her free hand was clenched into a fist as she recited her badge number "I need all available information on an anxiety and breathing disorders study from last year, led by Dr. Amelia Foster."

There was a long pause on the other end. "Agent Shine, it's nearly one-thirty in the morning. I don't even have access to those records, and the database administrators are all home." The woman's voice carried a note of exasperation that made Addison's jaw clench. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

"Listen," she said, her voice taking on an edge that made Javier look up from his desk. "Two people are dead. One of them is Dr. Foster herself. The information in those files could help us prevent another murder. I need you to call whoever you have to call. Wake them up if necessary. But this information can’t wait until everyone else is awake."

"I understand the urgency, but—"

"Do you?" Addison cut in, her frustration building. The image of Alex Chenowith's body, lifeless in that sealed room, flashed through her mind. The mockery to the lives of the victims in the crude renditions of their home offices. "Because right now, someone out there is selecting victims based on information that could be in those files. Every minute we waste is another minute they have to plan their next move. Would you want that on your conscience? Knowing you could have helped prevent another death, but you didn't want to make a few phone calls?"

She could hear the woman's sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. When she spoke again, her voice was tight. "That's not fair."

"Neither is finding bodies in the way we have over the past twenty-four hours," Addison shot back. "Neither is having to tell families their loved ones aren't coming home. I'm not asking you to break protocol – I'm asking you to help us save lives."

The woman on the other end sighed, and Addison could hear the clicking of computer keys. "Let me see what I can do. But I can't promise anything."

"Call me back at this number. And hurry." Addison ended the call and slumped back in her chair, the adrenaline of the confrontation leaving her feeling drained.

Javier rolled his chair over to her desk. "Hey," he said softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. His touch was gentle, but she could feel the strength in his fingers as he worked at the knot of tension that had formed there. "You're wound tighter than a spring. You okay?"

Briefly, as quick as a shooting star across the sky, she thought of the box that had contained Jane’s diary. She’d almost told him. And though she still felt the urge, now was not the time.

"I hate this part," she admitted, closing her eyes for a moment. "The waiting. Knowing there are answers just out of reach while someone else is out there planning their next move." She leaned back slightly into his touch. "In the morgue, everything makes sense eventually. Bodies tell their stories if you know how to listen. But this? This is like trying to read a book with half the pages torn out."

"That's why we work as a team," he reminded her, his voice carrying that warmth that always seemed to center her. "Your science, my street smarts…"

“Smart?” she asked with a tired grin.

He kissed her on the cheek, and slowly, they went back to work on their laptops…even though they both knew they were basically at a stand-still.

It was a grand total of twelve minutes before her phone rang again. She knew this because she’d checked the time half a dozen times. She grabbed it before the first ring had finished.

“This is Agent Shine.”

"Agent Shine? This is Sarah from the RRC again." The woman's voice was markedly different now, more alert. "I only had to make two calls. Dr. Foster's research assistant had remote access to the files, and she's sending everything over right now. Can I get your email?"

Addison quickly gave her FBI email address, thanking the woman profusely. Within minutes, three documents appeared in her inbox. She forwarded them to Javier, and they both began scanning through the information, the soft glow of their monitors casting long shadows across the empty office.

The first document detailed the study's methodology: a twelve-week investigation into the relationship between anxiety disorders and respiratory function. Participants underwent controlled breathing exercises while their anxiety levels were monitored. The research protocols were meticulously detailed, down to the exact specifications of the monitoring equipment used.

The second contained Dr. Foster's preliminary findings, suggesting a strong correlation between panic attacks and altered breathing patterns, even when the subjects weren't actively experiencing anxiety. Addison found herself momentarily distracted by the elegance of the study design – it was exactly the kind of thorough, methodical research she would have loved to be part of in her medical examiner days. There was a great deal of information, all doled out neatly in columns and rows.

But it was the third document that made Addison's pulse quicken. A complete list of researchers and participants, including their medical histories and contact information. Fourteen participants in total, each one carefully screened for specific criteria: pre-existing respiratory conditions, history of anxiety or panic disorders, current medications. The level of detail was impressive – everything from current prescriptions to childhood incidents of breathlessness was documented. It was exactly what they needed.

"Javier," she called out, even though he was right beside her. "Alex Chenoweth is on this list. Number eight." She scrolled through the entry, her fingers trembling slightly with the excitement of the discovery. "Diagnosed with adult-onset asthma five years ago, prescribed albuterol inhaler. History of mild claustrophobia." She paused, scanning the rest of his entry. "Look at this – he reported his first panic attack during an elevator malfunction. Trapped for three hours."

“Well, at the risk of sounding morbid,” Javier said, “we know we don’t need to look into him at the moment. Let’s see what we can find out about these other participants.”

They began running background checks on every name on the list, the quiet office filling with the sound of rapid typing and occasional mouse clicks. Addison was so focused on her screen that she nearly jumped when Javier spoke ten minutes later.

"Got something," he said, turning his monitor toward her. "David Hawthorne, participant number eleven. Looks like he owns a small construction company…Hawthorne Construction LLC, specializing in commercial HVAC installations and maintenance."

Addison leaned in, scanning the information. "HVAC experience would definitely explain the technical knowledge needed to create those sealed environments." She considered it for a moment, tilting her head skeptically at the screen. "Still…something feels off. The killer's methodology is too... personal. Too intimately connected to breathing difficulties. This feels more like someone who's experienced it firsthand."

"Still," Javier said, "it's the best lead we've had all night. We should pay him a visit first thing in the morning."

Addison nodded, but her eyes were drawn back to the list of participants. Something about their medical histories was tugging at her subconscious, like a loose thread she couldn't quite grasp. She began copying the data into a new document, reorganizing it by medication types and symptoms rather than participant numbers.

"What are you seeing?" Javier asked, recognizing her focused expression.

"I'm not sure yet," she admitted. "But there's a pattern here. Something in the way these participants were selected." She glanced at her watch – 2:15 AM. The morning was close, but it felt so far away.

"Get some rest," Javier suggested, his hand returning to her shoulder. "We'll need to be sharp when we talk to Hawthorne."

Addison saved her work but didn't close the files. "You go ahead. I just want to review these medications one more time." She could feel Javier's concerned gaze, but he knew better than to argue. As he gathered his things to leave, Addison pulled up her own medical reference database. There was something here, something important, and she wasn't going to sleep until she figured out what it was.

The office fell silent except for the soft tapping of her keyboard and the distant hum of the ventilation system. Given the nature of the case, the usually benign sound seemed deadly and it seemed to make her own chest tighten as she dove deeper into the data.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The morning sun hung low in the eastern sky, casting long shadows across the neat rows of identical houses. Addison watched them roll by as Javier pulled up to the curb outside the Hawthorne residence. It was a modest two-story home with vinyl siding and crisp white trim. An American flag hung limp from a pole mounted beside the front door, its colors muted in the soft dawn light.

Addison checked her watch – 6:17 AM. "Let's hope they're morning people." She did feel that it was a. bit early for a visit. If it were just any other interrogation, they may have waited until eight or so. But this link and this lead…it was too huge to put off.

They made their way up the concrete path, past a flower bed that looked as if it had given up for the year and was waiting on next spring. The porch boards creaked beneath their feet as Javier pressed the doorbell. After a few moments, Addison saw a flicker of movement through the decorative glass panels flanking the door.

The door opened to reveal a woman in her early forties, mascara wand frozen mid-stroke, wearing dress slacks and a blouse that still had the creases from dry cleaning. Her dirty-blonde hair was partially styled, one side perfectly straight while the other remained slightly frizzy. The look she gave them could have curdled milk. She’d clearly been disrupted from her morning routine. It occurred to Addison that it was Saturday, though. She wondered where this woman was heading out to so early on a Saturday with her makeup and hair done.

"Can I help you?" Her tone suggested she'd rather do anything but.

Addison and Javier displayed their badges. "FBI. I'm Special Agent Shine, this is Special Agent Esposito. We're looking for David Hawthorne."

The woman's expression shifted from annoyed to concerned. "I'm Crystal Hawthorne, David's wife. What's this about? Is he…is he okay? Is he in some sort of trouble?”

Addison kept her voice casual. "Not at all,” Addison said, having absolutely no intention of telling her the truth. Not yet, anyway. “We just need to ask him a few questions about a clinical study he participated in last year. The one with Dr. Foster?"

The tension in Crystal's shoulders eased slightly. "Oh, the breathing study? The FBI is looking into that?”

Javier caught on, too. He nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am. Some questions about a few of the other participants. Very casual stuff.”

Crystal sighed and said, “You just missed him. He left about ten minutes ago – had to get to the site early for a gravel delivery." She glanced at her phone. "Those trucks always show up at the crack of dawn, even on the weekend."

"Which site would that be?" Javier asked.

"The townhouse development off Morrison Road. About twenty minutes from here, I guess." Crystal paused, mascara wand hovering. "Is everything okay?"

"As I said, we're just following up with all the study participants, trying to get some information on a few of them that popped up in a case we’re working on," Javier assured her. "Thank you for your help."

Back in the car, the rising sun burned away the last traces of the previous night's rain. Puddles shimmered on the asphalt like broken mirrors, growing smaller by the minute in the strengthening light. Addison and Javier had both only managed to get a bit of fragmented sleep the night before (a grand total of two and a half hours for Addison) so Addison was glad to see that it was going to be a nicer, brighter day.

Addison had a general idea of where the construction site would be and plugged it into her GPS. It didn’t take long for her to see that it was leading toward what had once been an expanse of farmland. A row of partially completed townhouses stood against the morning sky, their exposed wooden frames and hanging sheets of Tyvek rustling in the breeze. Stacks of lumber and pallets of bricks dotted the muddy ground, and the air carried the sharp scent of fresh-cut wood mingled with wet earth. Unsightly, sure…but the sight of growth and progress. Also, though, it was a harsh reminder of the crime scene where their killer had built Amelia’s Foster’s tomb.

When they reached the site, there were already a handful of pickup trucks parked near a makeshift office – a double-wide trailer elevated on concrete blocks. As Addison and Javier pulled up, a massive dump truck rumbled past, its bed filled with gravel. Javier parked as far away from all the action as he could, and they made their way across the torn and dusty ground.

They found David Hawthorne near the center of the site, conferring with two other men over a set of blueprints spread across the hood of a truck. He was tall and lean, with the weathered complexion of someone who spent most of their time outdoors. A yellow hard hat sat squarely on his head, and a tape measure was clipped to his belt. Addison assumed this was Hawthorne because he seemed to be the center of attention in the moment.

They waited for the driver of the dump truck to finish speaking with him before they approached.

"Mr. Hawthorne?" Addison called out as they approached, badges already visible.

“Yes?” he said. But when his eyes took in the badges, he looked confused…but in an almost entertained way. He looked like a man who suspected he was part of a prank.

“We’re agents Shine and Esposito with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

Hawthorne straightened, handing the blueprints he’d been holding in his hands to one of his colleagues. The man then walked away with the blueprints in hand. Hawthorne still looked baffled and uncertain, but he said, "Sure, what's this about?"

"We're looking into the clinical study you participated in last year," Javier explained. "The one conducted by Dr. Foster?"

"Oh, yeah." Hawthorne nodded, scratching his chin. "The breathing study. What about it?"

"Could you tell us a bit about your experience?" Addison asked, studying his face. "What sort of tests did they run?"

"Pretty standard stuff, I guess." He shrugged. "They put us in these sealed rooms, measured our breathing, heart rate. Tried to figure out how different people handle confined spaces."

“Did you go because you have asthma?”

“Among other things. Some sleep issues, too.” He paused. "Look, I've got a crew waiting on instructions—"

"Dr. Foster was found dead yesterday," Addison cut in, watching his reaction carefully. “We’d appreciate it if you could take some time to answer just a few more questions.”

The change was immediate and dramatic. The color drained from Hawthorne's face, and his hands, which had been loosely resting on his hips, dropped to his sides. His eyes darted between the agents, then to the partially constructed buildings behind them.

"Dead?" His voice cracked. "How?"

"We can’t get into the specifics of that right now," Javier said. "Did anything unusual happen during the study? Anything that made you uncomfortable?"

Hawthorne took a step backward, his boot splashing in a puddle. "No, nothing. Look, I really need to get back to work. The gravel—"

"Mr. Hawthorne," Addison pressed, "someone killed Dr. Foster in a very bizarre way. In a way that seems to link up to this clinical study. We’re just trying to find out more about the study and if there was anything strange that took place. Anything that you—”

She didn't get to finish. Hawthorne turned and bolted, sprinting toward the nearest townhouse structure. He moved so suddenly and so quickly that his hard hat flew off.

"FBI! Stop!" Javier shouted, already in pursuit.

Addison followed, her boots slipping in the mud. Inside the building, the morning light filtered through the exposed studs, creating a maze of shadows and light. She could hear Hawthorne's footsteps thundering up an unfinished staircase ahead of them and to the right. She felt adrenaline rocket through her as her brain and muscles understood that they were on a chase—chasing down a man who had run at the very idea of answering questions about Dr. Foster.

"He's heading for the second floor!" Javier called out, taking the stairs two at a time.

Javier had the lead, and Addison followed. Along the way, she did her best to dampen the situation before it could get too dangerous. "Mr. Hawthorne, there's no need for this! We really just want to talk!"

Unless, of course, she thought, he’s the killer. Maybe that’s why he’s running.

It then occurred to her how odd it was that he had chosen to escape inside of a building and up a flight of unfinished stairs. It made her think he knew something they didn’t…that he may have a weapon waiting. She drew her weapon, instantly on guard as they came to the second floor.

The upper level was a warren of partially framed rooms. Loose sheets of plywood creaked underfoot as they navigated the space. Electrical wires dangled from the ceiling like black vines, and the wind whistled through gaps in the walls.

Hawthorne crashed through a doorway ahead of them, knocking over a stack of drywall sheets. They toppled like massive dominoes, forcing Addison and Javier to split up, each taking a different route around the obstacle. They did so with just a single glance and a hand signal, all of it coming automatically.

As Addison veered left, she caught glimpses of him through the wooden studs as he weaved through the unfinished rooms. He was heading toward a section where temporary walkways connected this building to the next unit. The boards looked precarious, dampened by the previous night's rain. She suddenly understood that he was attempting to get to the other side…the other side where he may have a vehicle waiting at the bottom. Had he just taken a longer, more maze-like route to ensure he could get away from them?

Javier emerged from a side room ahead of Hawthorne, cutting off his escape route. He'd had to wedge between two boards within the frame of the wall, barely making it. His gun was drawn, and he was blocking Hawthorne's progress.

"That's far enough!" Javier yelled.

Hawthorne skidded to a stop, his chest heaving. He looked wildly around, like a trapped animal. Sweat plastered his gray t-shirt to his chest despite the cool morning air.

"Just stay back," he gasped, pressing himself against an unfinished wall. "I can't... I can't..."

His breathing became more labored, coming in short, desperate gasps. He backed up and struck the framed wall. He let out a grunt and slid down the wall, his face contorting in panic. He clutched at his chest, and his eyes darted around wildly.

“I can’t…can’t…”

Addison approached slowly, her initial suspicion of a feigned panic attack fading as she observed his symptoms. His lips were taking on a bluish tinge, and his fingers massaged at his chest. The rise and fall of his chest made it clear that he was indeed able to breathe, but there was a strained rasp to it.

"He's having a panic attack," she announced, kneeling beside him.

Hawthorne shook his head. “Maybe. But…asthma…I….”

"Javier, call an ambulance."

While Javier made the call, Addison stayed with Hawthorne, speaking in calm, measured tones. "David, I need you to focus on my voice. We're going to breathe together, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth."

His eyes locked onto hers, wild with fear. She could hear the whistle of constricted airways as he struggled to draw breath. Whatever he knew about Dr. Foster's death had triggered something deep and primal – a fear that went beyond mere guilt or complicity.

"Help is coming," she assured him, noting how his fingers trembled as they gripped his knees. "Just keep breathing with me."

Addison maintained eye contact with Hawthorne, continuing to coach his breathing while her mind seemed to kick into overdrive. His reaction suggested he knew something about Foster's death, but this panic attack was real – and possibly revealing. Their killer's methodology seemed to center around manipulating victims' breathing fears. Was Hawthorne's extreme reaction a sign of guilt, or was it proof that he fit the killer's victim profile?

She watched Hawthorne's desperate struggle for breath and wondered: was she looking at a killer, or another potential victim?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room cast an unflattering pallor over everything they touched. Addison stared into the depths of her paper coffee cup, watching the dark liquid ripple with each slight movement of her hand. The coffee was exactly what she'd expected from a hospital vending machine – bitter, watery, and somehow both burnt and under-extracted at the same time. She'd had enough hospital coffee over the years to know that this particular cup ranked somewhere between "barely drinkable" and "potential biological hazard."

Her training as a medical examiner had acquainted her with every corner of this hospital, but the emergency department waiting room held its own special kind of purgatory. The vinyl chairs squeaked with every movement, and the TV mounted in the corner droned on about weather forecasts that no one was watching. A medic had intercepted them upon arrival, explaining that David Hawthorne was suffering from a severe asthma attack when they brought him in, his blood pressure "through the roof" as the medic had put it. Nothing life-threatening, they were assured, but they'd need to wait until he was stable enough for questioning.

Time seemed to stretch like taffy in places like this. Addison checked her watch for the third time in what felt like an hour but had only been fifteen minutes. The waiting room was relatively empty for a weekday afternoon – just an elderly man with a newspaper and a mother trying to keep two restless children entertained with a tablet.

"I don't know about you," Javier said from the chair beside her, shifting his weight for what felt like the hundredth time, "but I could go the rest of my life without visiting another construction site and die a happy man."

Addison managed a light chuckle, but her mind was already drifting back to Fearmonger. The pattern was there, hovering just at the edges of her consciousness – the way these victims had been killed, their own fears and weaknesses turned against them. It was too similar to Fearmonger's signature, his victims appearing to have been literally frightened to death.

She closed her eyes, remembering the case files she'd reviewed countless times. The victims' faces flashed through her mind – men and women who had seemingly died of fright, their expressions frozen in terror. Fearmonger's victims showed no obvious cause of death, aside from sheer fright. A few autopsies had suggested heart attacks, but there had been nothing conclusive. But where these recent deaths showed signs of hypoxia, Fearmonger's victims appeared to have simply... stopped. Their hearts had ceased beating, their brains had shut down, as if their bodies had simply decided that continuing to function was no longer an option.

The similarities nagged at her like a loose tooth she couldn't stop probing with her tongue. Was it possible? Could Fearmonger have evolved his methodology? Or was this someone trying to emulate his work? If someone was copying or even building upon Fearmonger's methods, it could mean his operation was expanding, growing beyond a single killer into something more insidious.

Or maybe she was seeing connections where none existed. Maybe her mind was trying to force pieces together that didn't belong in the same puzzle. She'd done it before, letting her obsession with Fearmonger color her perception of other cases. But still...the way these victims died, their personal fears being weaponized against them – it felt too precise, too calculated to be coincidental.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled her from her thoughts. A doctor in rumpled scrubs was walking toward them, his face bearing the weary expression of someone well into hour fourteen of a twelve-hour shift. His ID badge identified him as Dr. Hollis, and dark circles under his eyes suggested this wasn't his first extended shift this week.

"Agents?" he asked, glancing between them. "Mr. Hawthorne is stable now. You can speak with him, but please try to keep things..." he paused, searching for the right word, "tame."

“Thanks,” Javier said. Addison gave her thanks with a nod as she took another gulp of her coffee.

They followed him down a corridor that smelled of disinfectant and anxiety, their footsteps echoing off the linoleum floors. The halls were quieter here than in the ER, though the occasional beeping of medical equipment and murmur of voices behind closed doors created a steady background hum. Hawthorne's room was at the end of the hall, the monitoring equipment creating a steady electronic rhythm that seemed to amplify the tension in the air.

David Hawthorne looked smaller somehow, propped up in the hospital bed. His face was pale, and his breathing still had a slight wheeze to it, though nothing like the desperate gasping they'd witnessed at the construction site. The standard-issue hospital gown made him look vulnerable, a far cry from the man who'd fled from them earlier. But all in all, he looked much better. And he started speaking right away as soon as they were both standing in the room.

"I'm sorry," he said before either of them could speak, his voice rough. "I'm sorry I ran. I shouldn't have done that. I know it was stupid, and I…I shouldn't have done it."

"No, you shouldn't have," Javier agreed, his tone firm but not unkind. "Running from federal agents tends to make you look incredibly guilty, Mr. Hawthorne. The kind of guilty that makes us wonder what exactly you're trying to hide."

Addison glanced at the vitals monitor, watching his heart rate tick upward. He was still afraid, but there was something different about it now – not the blind panic they'd seen earlier, but the nervous energy of someone working up to a confession.

“Why did you run?” Addison asked.

"I..." he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. His eyes darted between them, then to the door, as if calculating his chances of another escape attempt. But the fight seemed to drain out of him all at once, his shoulders slumping. "Look, I know how it looks. But I swear I didn't kill anyone. I ran because..." He closed his eyes, took a shaky breath. "I've been selling some meds. Some of which were taken from that study."

The words came out in a rush, like ripping off a bandage. Addison kept her face neutral, even as her mind began working through the implications. Prescription drug dealing would certainly explain his panic at the sight of federal agents and the subsequent asthma attack brought on by stress. But it didn't necessarily connect him to the murders.

"Tell us more about that," she prompted gently, noting how his shoulders relaxed slightly at her tone.

"It started small," he said, staring at his hands. "Some of the medications they were testing – they're expensive, you know? And I knew people who needed them but couldn't afford them. So I'd skip a dose here and there, pass it along. But then..." He shrugged, the gesture almost helpless. "Then people started offering money, and it just... it got away from me. There were these pills for anxiety…something new and experimental. It gives a hell of a buzz that last half a damn day.”

"We'll need specifics," Javier said. "Names, dates, amounts."

Hawthorne nodded miserably. "I'll tell you everything. Just... please understand, I never hurt anyone. I was trying to help at first. It just... it went wrong. I got greedy."

“Well, you can give the specifics in a report later on,” Addison said. “For right now, we need to know where you were last night and the night before.”

His alibis came readily – too readily, almost, but with enough specific detail to be verifiable. The night of the first murder, he'd been at his sister's house in Tacoma, helping her pack for a move. She was headed to a little town called Three Creeks in California. The second night, he'd been working overtime at a different construction site, something he could prove with both the site's security logs and multiple witnesses.

Addison exchanged a glance with Javier. The alibis would need to be checked, of course. And though there would still be some thin windows of time, these alibis felt solid. Another dead end.

"Mr. Hawthorne," she said, "you understand that we'll need to take you in for questioning about the prescription medications?"

He nodded, looking resigned. "I know.”

“And someone will be checking those alibis while you’re being held,” Javier said.

Hawthorne looked to his hands, embarrassed and afraid. “They said I’m good to go,” he said. “Do I…I mean, where do I go from here?”

“We’ll have someone with the local PD pick you up,” Javier said. “The medication issue is not a federal matter. But if those alibis don’t check you, you’ll be seeing us again.”

“They will.”

Addison turned and headed for the door. They left him there in the hospital room, the steady beep of the heart monitor following them out into the hallway. Javier stepped away, phone already in hand—likely to call for a unit to collect Hawthorne, Addison assumed.

She leaned against the hallway wall, feeling the familiar weight of frustration settling onto her shoulders. Back to the participant list. Back to digging through backgrounds and checking connections. Back to research and waiting and hoping they could figure out the pattern before another body showed up in another sealed room.

It felt like defeat, even though she knew it wasn't. Every eliminated suspect brought them closer to the truth, every dead end narrowed their search. But with each passing hour, she couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something obvious, something that was right in front of them.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, Fearmonger's shadow loomed larger, a dark presence that seemed to whisper that all of this – the sealed rooms, the targeted weaknesses, the pristine crime scenes – was building to something bigger. Something worse. The thought of her sister's disappearance surfaced unbidden, another mystery that remained unsolved, another thread in the tapestry of fear and uncertainty that seemed to follow her.

It all collided together like one big wave, and she knew that if she wasn't careful, it would crash down on her, knocking her down and pulling her out to sea.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The steady rhythm of a screwdriver against metal filled the otherwise silent space. Each turn brought the screw deeper into the plywood, securing another bracket for the ventilation system. The work was methodical, precise. There was no room for error. No space for mistakes. Every component had been meticulously sourced from different suppliers, creating a paper trail so dispersed it might as well not exist.

A thin film of dust danced in the beam of the work light, the particles swirling like microscopic dancers in the stale air. The space smelled of mildew and abandonment, a perfect canvas for what was to come. From this vantage point, perched atop the makeshift ceiling, the room below felt like a diorama—a perfectly constructed stage for the next performance.

The screwdriver slipped, and a sharp breath caught in resistant lungs. The familiar tightness crept in, that constrictive sensation that had been a lifelong companion. Deep breath in through the nose, slow exhale through pursed lips. Again. Again. The technique was as natural as walking now, but it hadn't always been. The memory rose unbidden, like dark water flooding a basement.

The school playground of his childhood materialized in memory, sharp and vivid as if it were yesterday instead of decades past. The red rubber ball bouncing away during a game of kick ball. He’d selected outfield because there was typically less movement there. But the ball had bounced right past and then he sprinted to catch it, and then the sudden vice grip slipped around the chest. Eight years old, gasping like a landed fish, fumbling for an inhaler that had fallen from small, desperate fingers. The autumn air had been crisp that day, filled with the scent of burning leaves—a smell that would forever trigger a phantom tightness in straining lungs.

"Look at him! He's doing the fish face again!"

Tommy Dougherty’s voice, high and cruel, cut through the memory. The circle of children had formed quickly, their laughter echoing across the asphalt as small hands clawed at a constricting throat. The world had grown fuzzy around the edges, darkness creeping in like spilled ink. The rough texture of the playground asphalt had scraped against knees, tiny pieces of gravel embedding themselves in pale skin.

"Fish face! Fish face! Can't even breathe right!"

The chant had started with Tommy, but soon they were all doing it. Even Bea Douglas, who usually shared her cookies at lunch. The betrayal had hurt worse than the burning in oxygen-starved lungs. They had formed a tight circle, pointing and laughing, blocking any escape route to the school building. Some had even mimicked the gasping, clutching their throats in exaggerated pantomime.

Mrs. Abernathy had finally noticed, her sensible shoes clacking against the pavement as she rushed over. But by then, the damage was done. It wasn't just about the asthma attack anymore. It was about the laughter, the pointing, the cruel entertainment they'd found in someone else's struggle to breathe. The memory of lying in the nurse's office afterward, listening to her call home, still brought a flush of shame and anger.

The memory dissolved as a deep, controlled breath filled resistant airways. The screwdriver returned to its work, more determined now. The ventilation system was coming together beautifully. Each component had been carefully selected, modified with precision. The inline fan, salvaged from an industrial HVAC unit, had been retrofitted with a custom control system. It could extract air from the sealed room below with remarkable efficiency.

The main trunk line connected to the modified pump—the heart of the system. From there, smaller branches spread out like arteries, each one carefully sealed and tested. The whole system was a masterpiece of environmental engineering, designed to create the perfect conditions. Each joint had been sealed with aerospace-grade compound, ensuring not even a molecule of air could escape once the system was activated. That has been the hardest part to get right, but there was no end to the wonders of things that could be purchased on the internet.

The pump itself was a work of art, rebuilt from scratch to serve its new purpose. Original parts had been replaced with custom-fabricated components, each one machined to exact specifications. The automatic pressure regulation system had taken weeks to perfect, ensuring the room would return to normal atmospheric conditions after... after the work was done. The digital control panel glowed softly in the dim light, its display showing readings for pressure, oxygen content, and flow rate.

Best of all, it could all be installed in less than fifteen minutes and taken down just as quickly. In and out, business done…and on to the next.

A smile tugged at dry lips while screwing in the final vent cover. Dr. Samantha Reeves would appreciate the technical elegance of it all if she had time to notice. Her research into pulmonary function and respiratory distress made her the perfect audience. More than that, her participation in the breathing study alongside Dr. Foster made her essential to the grand design. Her latest paper on anxiety-induced respiratory patterns had been particularly fascinating.

She would be more difficult to acquire than the others. He knew this. Her schedule was erratic, her habits less predictable. But that just made the challenge more interesting. The best performances required worthy participants. Her office was on the third floor of the medical center, with security cameras covering most approaches—most, but not all.

Another wave of tightness rippled through resistant lungs, but this time it was almost welcome. These episodes were reminders, fuel for the purpose that drove each careful preparation. Every bracketed screw, every sealed joint, every calibrated sensor—they all served the greater work. Each component was a note in a greater symphony of retribution.

The modified pump hummed to life, its sound barely a whisper. His hand pressed against the nearest duct, feeling the subtle vibration of moving air. Everything was working exactly as designed. The system would create a perfect vacuum when activated, extracting the oxygen from the sealed room below with terrible efficiency. Then, once its work was done, it would restore normal pressure and atmospheric composition, leaving behind a puzzle for the authorities.

The thought of her brought another smile. A final check of the pressure gauges confirmed everything was in order. The system was ready, the stage set. Dr. Reeves deserved this. In his darkened heart, a part of him wondered if she might even appreciate it in her final moments.

"Besides," the words came out in a whisper, accompanied by a soft pat against the ventilation duct, "I haven't done all this hard work for nothing."

The work light clicked off, plunging the space into darkness. In the black void, the only sound was the whisper of controlled breathing—in through the nose, out through pursed lips. A rhythm learned in childhood, perfected through years of necessity, now serving a greater purpose. The same technique that had once been a source of mockery had become a tool of mastery.

Soon enough, Dr. Reeves would learn firsthand what it truly meant to fight for breath. There would be no jeering children making fun of her and no academic papers to save her. There would just strangled breath after strangled breath, growing thinner and thinner as the last one worked its way out of her lungs.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Addison was drumming her fingers again. This time, it was on top of a stack of papers to the tune of "Nearly Lost You" by the Screaming Trees. The stack of papers was comprised of the printouts from the clinical study, as well as written descriptions of each of the crime scenes. She'd been over the clinical study participant list a dozen times, and with each reading, her certainty grew. This wasn't just a random selection of names—it was literally the killer’s checklist.

"You're looking at it wrong, you know," she said, looking over to Javier as he sipped absently from a mug of coffee.

He looked up from his computer screen, dark circles under his eyes testament to the hours he'd been putting in. "Good morning to you too, sunshine."

"The participant list." She spread the papers across his desk, covering the files he'd been reviewing. "You're treating it like a suspect pool, but look at the victims so far. Dr. Foster was on this list—the actual head of the project. Alex Chenowith was on this list as a participant.”

"Which is exactly why—"

"Which is exactly why the remaining names are targets, not suspects." She leaned over his desk, her voice dropping. "Think about it. The killer is methodically working through people that seem to be connected to respiratory issues or phobias. What better way to find them than a clinical study specifically focused on breathing disorders?"

Javier leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Addison, you're making assumptions. You yourself just said the key words out loud: seems to be. What about motive? Why would someone specifically target these people?"

"Because they're like him," she said, tapping the list. "They understand the terror of not being able to breathe. He's recreating his own trauma."

"Or," Javier countered, standing up to face her, "someone from the study learned about everyone's specific fears and is using that knowledge. We need to run background checks on every participant, look for red flags, criminal history—"

"While more people die?" Addison shook her head. "We don't have time for that. There are thirteen more names on this list, Javier. Thirteen more potential victims."

The tension between them crackled like static electricity. Addison could see the muscle working in Javier's jaw—the tell that meant he was wrestling with something. Finally, he said, "You know how thin this theory is, right? We can't just throw resources at protecting thirteen people based on a hunch."

"Watch me," Addison muttered, already turning toward Loomis's office. She wasn’t necessarily mad at him. In fact, she liked to be challenged in such a way. But in this case, she strongly felt that they had no time to bicker.

The walk to Special Agent in Charge Loomis’s office felt longer than usual, each step weighted with the urgency of her request and the knowledge of how it would sound. She knocked on the frame of the open door, and Loomis looked up from her computer. As always, she looked wide awake and well put-together. Her hair was down today, falling over her shoulders slightly in a way that made her look at least five years younger than her actual age of fifty-two.

"Agent Shine," she said, gesturing to one of the chairs across from her desk. "Come in. What’s going on?"

Addison settled into the chair, taking in the familiar surroundings. Loomis's office was a study in minimalist efficiency—no family photos, no personal touches beyond a single potted plant that looked like it had seen better days. The woman herself matched her environment: clean lines, sharp edges, not a hair out of place despite the early hour.

"I need to request police protection for thirteen people," Addison said, deciding to rip off the bandage quickly. She laid out her theory about the participant list, walking Loomis through the connections between the victims and the study.

Loomis listened without interruption, her expression unchanging. She already knew about the list and that Addison and Javier were working their way through it. When Addison finished, she remained silent for a long moment, studying her with penetrating eyes that had frighten Addison once upon a time.

"You understand what you're asking?" Loomis finally said. "Thirteen people. Round-the-clock protection. Based on circumstantial evidence and pattern recognition. No hard evidence or proof."

"I know it's a lot to ask—"

"It's more than a lot, Addison." Loomis stood, moving to the window behind her desk. "Local PD is already stretched thin. They're dealing with a spike in gang activity in the south end, and they're still cleaning up after those riots last month." She turned back to face Addison. "But I know you wouldn't be here if you weren't certain."

"I'm certain enough to stake my reputation on it," Addison said quietly. But was she really? As soon as the comment was out of her mouth, she wished she could take it back.

Loomis's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Your reputation for being right, or your reputation for following hunches?"

"Both."

Loomis grinned briefly and reached for her phone. "I'll make some calls. But Addison?" She paused, her hand on the receiver. "Make sure this pans out. I can only cash in so many favors before the well runs dry."

"Thank you," Addison said, rising to leave. She was almost to the door when Loomis spoke again.

"How are you holding up?"

The question caught her off guard. "I'm fine."

"Are you?" Loomis's gaze was steady. "Because I remember what it's like to work cases like this. The ones that get under your skin. The ones that make you see patterns in your sleep. And I also know…well, we haven’t really spoken since I removed you from assisting with Fearmonger."

“It’s fine. He seems to have gone quiet, huh?”

“Yes. And I also want you to know that I do have a small team looking into Saul Osborne. But the man seems to be a ghost.”

The name sent a shiver down Addison’s spine. Saul Osborne…the man who once taught Jane piano lessons…the man who currently had a residence in Seattle and apparently did not live there. The man who seemed to be fixated on Fearmonger to a point of near obsession. She could still see the newspaper articles in Osborne’s apartment from when she had illegally entered it. It was one of the many reasons Loomis had seen fit to scold her for delving into Jane’s cold case…and why she’d been removed from all things Fearmonger related.

Addison felt something in her chest tighten. She wasn’t happy about any of the things Loomis had just mentioned, but she had no time to get bogged down in it right now. So she simply swallowed it all down and said, “I know you’re doing all you can.”

Loomis nodded. "Keep me updated. And Addison? Take care of yourself. That's not a suggestion."

Walking back through the hallway, Addison's mind was already working hard to shove aside thoughts of all of those loose threads—Saul Osborne, Fearmonger…Jane. As she tried to redirect her mind, she just happened to glance up and something caught her eye. The air vent in the ceiling shifted slightly as the building's HVAC system cycled on. She stopped dead in her tracks, staring up at the metal grating.

The ventilation system. The pump. The pieces were there, but something was missing. A thought began to bloom in her mind, and she slowly pulled out her phone. She scrolled to Claud Wren's number without really even thinking about and called him up.

 He answered on the third ring. “Wren Construction, this is Claude.”

"Claude, it’s Agent Addison Shine again. I hate to bother you, but I have a quick question about the ventilation setup we discussed.”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

“How difficult would it be to create something portable? Something you could set up and take down quickly?"

"Technically speaking? Not that difficult, if you know what you're doing," Wren replied. "The real challenge would be in the materials. You'd need something lightweight but durable. Flexible enough to transport but rigid enough to maintain pressure."

"What kind of materials are we talking about?"

"Well," Wren said, his voice taking on an animated tone as he dove into the technical details, "you'd want specialized ducting. Something like a modified version of what they use in clean rooms or aerospace applications. The standard stuff you get at hardware stores wouldn't cut it—too rigid, too heavy, and it wouldn't seal properly for what you're describing."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Think of it like this: you'd need a composite material, probably a polymer blend with reinforced fabric backing. It needs to be able to handle rapid pressure changes without degrading or losing structural integrity. And it would have to be durable enough to be moved around a lot. The joints would be critical—you'd need custom fittings that could be quickly assembled and disassembled while maintaining an airtight seal."

Addison's pulse quickened. "And where would someone get something like that?"

"That's the thing—it's not exactly off-the-shelf material. You'd need a specialized supplier, someone who deals with industrial or medical-grade equipment." He paused. "Actually, now that I think about it, there's really only one supplier in the area that would carry something like that: St. John Construction Supply. They do a lot of work with clean room installations."

“Are they local?”

“Yes, ma’am. Right here in Seattle.”

After getting the number from Wren and ending the call, Addison hurried back to her office. Javier was already there, still going through background checks on his computer. He looked up to her, and she could see the absolute boredom in his eyes.

"I think I've got something," she said. She then instantly delved into the conversation she’d just had with Claude Wren. Javier's expression shifted from skeptical to interested as she spoke, particularly when she mentioned how some of the supplies to make the sort of pump the killer appeared to be using was only available in one place locally.

"It’s certainly worth checking out," he agreed. He instantly turned back to his laptop and typed in a search for St. John Construction Supply. “Got the number right here,” he said, reaching for his phone. He placed the call, set it to speaker and slid it over toward Addison.

The phone rang twice before a gruff voice answered. "St. John Construction Supply, this is Mike."

"Good morning,” Addison said. “This is Special Agent Addison Shine with the FBI. I'm calling about some specialized ducting materials—specifically the kind used for pressure-sensitive environments?"

“Oh, okay,” he said, his tone indicating that a call from the FBI was the last thing he’d been expecting this morning. “What exactly are you looking for?”

She again recounted what she and Wren had discussed, breaking down the materials bit by bit. She was very specific when she came to the details on the ducts and the seals. “And I was told,” she said as she came to the end, “that you are the only place in the city where I’d find that sort of thing.”

“Sure am,” he said. “So do you need some materials?”

“No, I need a list of anyone who has purchased that sort of thing in the past few months.”

A chuckle came through the speaker. "Oh, that’ll be simple, Agent. I know exactly what you're talking about. There are only two orders that have come in recently. One was for the engineering program at the community college. The other one was from a new customer just a few days ago.”

"Is it a fairly common order for the community college?"

“Yeah, about three times a year.”

“Mike…it’s very important that we get whatever information you have on the new customer. Do you have that on hand?"

"Sure thing. Hold on, let me check it in the system. Um…" He hesitated, and they could hear clicks and clacks of a keyboard in the background. “Got it. Guy's name is Eric Larsson. Environmental engineer, if I remember right. Seemed to know exactly what he was looking for."

“Do you have an address?”

"Sure do." He read it off to them, and Addison thanked him for his time and help.

With the call over, Addison looked to Javier and said, “Well, what do you think?”

Javier shrugged and said, “I think Eric Larsson isn't on the participant list. But I also think that if this supplier is the only place in town the killer could get some of these supplies, he needs to be checked out."

Addison nodded, but something about the ease at which they’d gotten this information didn’t sit right with her. Something felt off…almost too easy. As they gathered their things to leave, she found herself looking up at the air vent in her own ceiling, wondering if they were finally on the right track, or if they were about to waste precious time while the real killer checked another name off his list.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The address they’d been given for Eric Larsson led them to an industrial complex located on the eastern rim of the city. In the late morning sun, it looked like a fortress of glass and steel. Addison pulled the car to a stop at the security gate, taking in the stark modernist architecture. Three stories of tinted windows reflected the cloud cover, making the building seem to merge with the sky itself. The effect was oddly unsettling.

"Well, that's not ominous at all," Javier muttered, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.

"Looks like something out of a sci-fi movie where the evil corporation is definitely not doing evil corporation things,” Addison said.

Javier’s lips quirked. "You've been watching too many movies."

But there truly was something unnervingly pristine about the place. The landscaping was immaculate – geometric patterns of crushed white stone surrounded by precisely trimmed hedges. No company logo adorned the building's facade, just a discrete numerical address in brushed steel. It was just about as nondescript as a place could be.

"I don't like it," she said, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. "Everything's too... perfect."

The security booth leading to the grounds was empty, but cameras swiveled to track their movement. As they stepped out of the car, Addison noted several details that seemed out of place for a standard office complex. The perimeter fence was higher than necessary, topped with what looked like motion sensors. The few visible windows had a peculiar double-paned look that her forensics background recognized as pressure-sealed.

“Any idea what this place is?” Addison asked.

"No. This is one of these places that hides in plain sight. I've been an agent in this city for almost ten years, and I have no idea what it is. The term industrial complex is a bit vague, don’t you think?”

"What do you suppose they're working on in there?" Addison asked, staring at the row of buildings and the pristine shine of sun from all the glass.

"No clue. So let’s go find out.”

As they neared the building and found a place in the fairly empty parking lot, the medical examiner in her couldn't help but catalogue the defensive features – air filtration systems on the roof, reinforced door frames and, perhaps oddest of all, what appeared to be a decontamination chamber along the side of the building by what appeared at the loading dock.

"This place is built like a CDC facility," she commented without much exaggeration.

Javier parked, and they stepped out. As soon as they were standing in the quiet of the parking lot, Addison got a strange feeling. A hunch, almost. Something did not feel right here. She had no idea if this address had led them to the killer, but she felt that something unorthodox was waiting for them.

They walked toward the tall glass doors that served as the front entrance. They'd barely made it halfway to the entrance when one of the doors slid open. Three men emerged, two dressed in drab work clothes while the other was in khakis, a button-up shirt, and a tie. They moved with the practiced efficiency of security personnel, trying not to look like security personnel. The one in front – tall, athletic build, early forties – raised his hand in a stopping gesture.

"Hold on a second," he said, his voice professionally pleasant. "How can I help you?"

Addison and Javier both produced their badges. "FBI,” Javier said. “Agents Esposito and Shine. We need to speak with Eric Larsson."

The man's expression didn't change, but Addison caught the subtle tensing of his jaw. He was not at all impressed or bothered by their credentials. "I'm afraid Mr. Larsson is in a meeting. And this is private property, after all. If you'd like to schedule an appointment—"

"This isn't a social call," Javier cut in. "We're conducting a federal investigation."

"Then I'm sure you understand the importance of proper procedures." The man's smile remained fixed. "We handle sensitive government contracts here. No one enters without proper clearance and screening. Not even federal agencies."

Government contracts, Addison thought. That explains the nondescript nature of the place. Still, she wasn’t going to be deterred. She stepped forward, letting her voice sharpen. "And I'm sure you understand that impeding a federal investigation is a felony. We can do this the easy way, or I can come back with a warrant and a forensics team that will go through every inch of this facility."

“Is that really necessary?” one of the men in work clothes asked. However, despite the defiance, she saw a flicker of worry in his eyes. She knew that if they were indeed running government contracts here, the last thing they needed was interference that would get them off schedule.

The tension crackled between them. Behind the spokesman, his colleagues had subtly shifted to blocking positions. Addison's mind raced through possible scenarios. If Larsson was their killer, this could be his base of operations. The building's environmental controls, the security, the secrecy – it all fit. And having this little security detail to block people from getting to him was very convenient.

But as these thoughts raced through her head, the door opened once again. Another man stepped out, and before she could get a good look at him, he said: "That won't be necessary."

The voice came from behind the security team. They parted to reveal Eric Larsson, looking exactly like the on-file DMV photo Addison had found during the drive over – mid-thirties, wire-rimmed glasses, the kind of forgettable face that could blend into any crowd. He adjusted his glasses with an apologetic smile.

"My apologies for the confusion,” he said. But his tone made it clear it was not a sincere apology. “Peter here takes his job very seriously." He gestured to the spokesman. "But I'm happy to answer any questions you have."

Addison studied him carefully. His body language seemed relaxed, his tone genuine. Either he was an excellent actor or he dealt with this situation quite often. He has the air of a man who would somehow manage to play it cool and calm even when he was inconvenienced or outraged.

"We need to discuss some recent purchases you've made," she said. "Equipment that could be used to modify air pressure and composition in sealed environments."

Something flickered in Larsson's eyes – not guilt, Addison thought, but recognition. He glanced at the security team, then back to the agents. He looked almost impressed.

"What do you need to know?" He sighed and then added, “But keep in mind, I, I can't tell you everything – most of what we do here is classified. But I can show you enough to put your minds at ease. Peter, please get them temporary badges. Level 2 access only."

The spokesman – Peter – looked like he wanted to object, but nodded curtly and disappeared inside. Larsson turned back to them.

"What I'm about to show you is covered under multiple NDAs. You'll need to be discrete."

Addison nearly spoke up to tell him that a private tour of whatever they were working on wasn’t necessary. But she also knew that the more information they had, the easier it would be to clear Larsson of suspicion.

He waved them inside to follow him. They stepped inside into a large lobby that looked as if less than ten people had walked through it in the past month. It somehow looked both clean and abandoned at the same time. Peter met them within seconds with temporary security badges. Larsson waved them on again, and they followed him down a small hallway and through a basic door that Larsson opened with a security card of his own.

At this point, Peter and the other security detail went on their own way while Larsson led them deeper into the building. Addison’s paranoia kicked in and she looked to Javier. She was a bit relieved to see that he was uneasy, too; his hand rested directly beside his holstered Glock.

When they came to the end of a hallway that had the same peculiar feel as the lobby, they stood in what looked like an observation room. Below them, through reinforced windows, Addison could see what appeared to be a very large clean room setup. Workers in protective suits moved through airlocks, manipulating equipment she didn't recognize.

"We're developing next-generation clean room technology," Larsson explained. "It’s mostly for things like hospitals and medical laboratory environments. The equipment you're asking about is, I assume, some of the newer duct work we’re working on. We got dinged from customs when the material was delivered. But I’ll tell you the same thing we told them: it's all for maintaining precise atmospheric conditions during semiconductor manufacturing. The slightest contamination can ruin months of work. Even a single loose hair or speck of dirt."

Addison watched a technician check readings on a complex monitoring system. The setup was similar to what their killer would need, but the scale was all wrong. This was industrial-grade equipment, designed for large spaces. The murders had been committed in much smaller, more controlled environments. This was the professional, expensive model; she suspected the killer had built his from scratch…which was equally impressive.

"The contract is with the Department of Defense," Larsson continued. "That's why all the secrecy. We're pushing the boundaries of what's possible with chip manufacturing…a lot of which has medical implications—cancer screenings, blood pressure alerts, things like that. The Chinese would love to know what we're doing here."

Addison was not only impressed, but she also felt like an idiot. She’d not only been proven wrong about her hunch, but she’d also had a big slice of humble pie served directly to her table, with whipped cream and sprinkles.

Javier crossed his arms. "And you can verify all this?"

"My security clearance and project documentation are all in order. Your office can confirm through proper channels." Larsson's tone was patient. "I understand why the equipment purchases raised red flags, but I assure you, everything here is legitimate." He frowned and added: “And it makes me wonder if I need to have a word with my supplier. St. John, right?”

“Yes,” Addison said. “But, to his credit, he was cooperating with a federal investigation. And if everything here is classified, there’s no way he would have known not to say anything.”

Addison moved closer to the window, studying the clean room below. Her scientific mind processed the setup, comparing it to the crime scenes. The principles were similar, but this was like comparing a scalpel to a logging saw – same basic concept, completely different application.

"The atmospheric control systems," she said. "They're designed for positive pressure, aren't they? To keep contaminants out?"

Larsson nodded, looking impressed. "Exactly. We maintain slightly higher pressure inside the clean rooms. Any leaks flow outward, not inward. It's standard procedure."

Another piece that didn't fit their killer's profile. The murder scenes had involved negative pressure – air being removed from sealed spaces. This facility was designed to do the opposite.

"One more question," Addison said. "The purchase records showed multiple orders for smaller units. Portable systems."

"Test chambers," Larsson explained. "We use them for quality control, testing smaller components before they go into full production. I can show you those too, if you'd like."

But Addison had seen enough. The test chambers were all visible through the observation window – sealed to their monitoring stations by thick cables and tubes. None were portable in the way their killer would need.

"That won't be necessary," she said. "Thank you for your cooperation."

“Of course,” he said as he started leading them away from the windows. “I wonder, though…can I ask what sort of case has you looking into these sort things?”

She and Javier shared a glance; they could tell him some details of the case, but not everything. “Just someone who is using a very miniaturized version of what you’re working on here to torture and kill people.”

“I…I don’t understand. Clean room technology?”

“No…just the whole ‘taking the air out of a room thing’,” Javier said.

“Jesus. That sounds awful.”

They remained quiet as they made their way back through the building. Larsson saw them to the door and shook their hands as they made their exit. “I hope you find what you’re looking for,” he said.

Addison nodded, frustration gnawing at her. “Thanks.”

When they got back into the car, she almost expected Javier to gloat. Back before they’d gotten romantically involved, she thought he might. But he said nothing, just looked over to her and took her hand as a sign of comfort. Yes…this had been a swing and a miss. And he knew better than anyone how much she hated that. 

“Okay, so Larsson wasn’t our guy,” he said. “But I think the technology's similar…”

“Sort of,” she agreed. “But it's like comparing a kitchen knife to a surgical theater. Our killer needs something more precise, more portable."

"Back to square one, then?"

"Not quite." Addison slid behind the wheel, her mind already racing ahead. "We know more about what we're looking for now. The killer's equipment has to be smaller, specialized for negative pressure situations. I’m not quite sure how that helps us, but it’s something at least.”

As they pulled away from the industrial complex, Addison glanced in the rearview mirror. The building still looked ominous against the sky, but now it seemed more like camouflage than threat.

"You know what bothers me?" she said suddenly.

"Besides everything about this case?"

"Larsson's setup – it's perfect. Too perfect. If I were planning these murders, that's exactly the kind of cover I'd want. A legitimate reason to be buying suspicious equipment."

Javier turned to look at her. "You think we're missing something?"

"I think..." Addison frowned, trying to put her finger on what was nagging at her. "I think we need to look closer at everyone involved in this industry. Not just the buyers, but the sellers. The people who know how to modify this kind of equipment."

"You think our killer has inside knowledge?"

"Has to. The level of precision in these murders... it's not something you could figure out from reading manuals." She pulled onto the highway, her mind already sorting through possibilities. "We need to cross-reference anyone with expertise in environmental engineering and HVAC systems against our victim’s profile."

"That's still a pretty big pool of suspects."

"Then we'll need to narrow it down." Addison's voice hardened with determination. "Someone out there knows exactly how to turn clean room technology into a weapon. We just need to figure out who has both the knowledge and the motivation."

As they drove back into the heart of the city, Addison brought to mind the image of Larsson's pristine facility, with its perfect pressure systems and immaculate controls. Their killer's setup would be different – smaller, cruder, but no less lethal. And somewhere in the difference between the two, she felt certain, lay the key to finding him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The lunch rush at Co-Z Coffee created the perfect cocoon of white noise that Addison sometimes needed in the midst of a daunting case. The clinking of silverware against ceramic plates, the constant hum of overlapping conversations, and the rhythmic squeak of the kitchen door's hinges formed a curtain of sorts that helped drown out the demons of self-doubt lurking in her mind. She sat in their usual booth—the one with the cracked vinyl seat that nobody else wanted—her laptop perched precariously between her coffee cup (the second of the visit) and a half-eaten turkey club.

The familiar scent of grilled onions and coffee wrapped around her like a security blanket. It was the same smell that had permeated this place for the ten years she'd been coming here, ever since her first case as a medical examiner. Back then, she'd stumbled in at 3 AM, trying to shake off the images of her first autopsy. Now, years later, she still found herself seeking refuge here when cases threatened to overwhelm her. The coffee was rather basic but comforting, and the smell was like stepping foot into the house of a grandmother you hadn't seen in ages.

It was, she supposed, her attempt to hide away from the world while knowing she needed to be a very active part of it.

The diner had become her sanctuary during difficult cases. Here, surrounded by the mundane routines of everyday life—truckers arguing over baseball scores, office workers complaining about their bosses, elderly couples sharing pieces of pie—she could pretend she wasn't hunting someone who turned people's worst fears into murder weapons. Until recently, it had been her own little private escape. But she’d invited Javier into it two weeks ago and had enjoyed how natural he felt in her private space.

To her right, a young mother was trying to convince her toddler to eat his vegetables. Behind her, two college students were debating the merits of different coding languages.

To some, it might all be distracting but she found that it helped her to focus. Currently, she was working her way through dozens of company websites, contractor listings, and professional directories for anyone in the area working on clean room solutions and technologies. The same names kept appearing, but none of them sparked any recognition or connected to their case in meaningful ways.

Javier looked up from his own work—a sprawling web of notes connecting the clinical study participants. He sighed and said, “I've gone through eleven of the thirteen names. So far, no obvious connections to construction or clean room tech. A few of them know each other socially, but nothing stands out. I guess it would make sense that one or two of them might reconnect—especially on social media—after taking part in a study like this together."

He spread his notes across the table, careful to avoid the coffee rings staining the laminated surface. Names and dates crisscrossed the pages in his characteristic careful handwriting, so different from Addison's rushed scrawl. She'd always envied his patience with paperwork, the methodical way he built his cases like intricate spider webs.

A waitress—Darlene, who'd been serving them—topped off their coffee cups, the fresh aroma momentarily masking the growing sense of frustration that had been building in Addison's chest. She closed her laptop and wrapped her hands around the warm mug, letting the heat seep into her fingers.

"This guy is twisted, Javi," she said quietly. "The level of detail in those murder rooms—they're not just killing chambers, they're... artistic interpretations of the victims' spaces. It’s almost offensive in a way, you know?"

He nodded and rubbed at his eyes. "It's like he's building stage sets for their deaths. But they're more than that. They're perversions of safe spaces. He takes the rooms where his victims feel most secure and turns them into..."

"Death boxes," Addison finished. “And it’s not just killing them. It’s about violating their sense of safety. Making them die in twisted versions of their own homes. Places where they are supposed to feel safe." She paused as one of the most frustrating questions of all surfaced in her mind. "Javier, how did he know those details about the rooms?”

“It’s a big question,” he said. “Other than having stepped foot into those rooms…I just don’t see how he’d know.”

"The killer doesn't just observe these spaces," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "He studies them. Memorizes them. It's almost like..."

"Like he's obsessed with them," Javier finished. "Or with the people who occupy them."

"You think that's the key?"

"It has to be. These aren't random choices. He's intimately familiar with these rooms." She pushed her coffee aside, pulling her laptop back open. "If he's one of the study participants, like we suspect, he would have had to gain access to their homes somehow. Or…I don’t know. Maybe he has pictures of their rooms? But that seems even odder."

"You mentioned social media a few minutes ago,” Addison said, straightening in his seat. “Maybe he made friends with them. Based on what we know, the study ran for a few days. Plenty of time to build relationships, get invited over for dinner or drinks. Especially when you factor in Facebook, Instagram, things like that…”

"And once inside..." Javier's expression darkened.

"Once inside, he could study their spaces. Learn their routines. Figure out where they felt safest." The implications made her stomach turn. "He doesn't just want to kill them. He wants to corrupt their sense of security. Show them that nowhere is truly safe."

Around them, the diner's lunch rush was starting to thin out. The cacophony that had been so comforting earlier now felt like it was masking something sinister. How many people in this very room had invited danger into their homes without knowing it? How many had shared meals with someone who was studying their habits, their spaces, their fears?

The bell above the door chimed as new customers entered, and Addison found herself studying them involuntarily. A middle-aged man in a business suit. A young woman with paint-stained jeans. An elderly couple supporting each other as they made their way to a booth. Any of them could be harboring dark obsessions. Any of them could be memorizing details about the spaces around them, planning their next staged murder scene.

Her phone buzzed against the table, breaking her away from her people-watching. She didn’t recognize the number on the caller display, though it was local.

“This is Agent Shine,” she answered.

“Agent Shine, it’s Officer Martin.” She brought the police officer’s face to her mind right away; she’d seen him twice recently and both times, there had been a dead body involved. It did not make her think warmly of the intent behind this particular call.

Martin's voice was grim as he went on. "We've got another one. Same MO—sealed room, no obvious cause of death. I'll text you the address."

For a second, she found it difficult to speak. She finally managed a quick and hushes “Thanks. We’ll be there,” before ending the call.

She stared at her phone, feeling the weight of failure pressing down on her chest. Another victim. Another person she couldn't save. Another safe space turned into a tomb while they chased dead ends and incomplete theories.

"We need to go," she said, her voice hollow. "There's been another murder."

Javier’s eyes grew wide even as he started to stand. “Another one?”

She nodded and gulped down the remainder of her coffee. She gathered her things with trembling hands, nearly knocking over her empty coffee cup. Darlene appeared with their check, obviously having noticed that they were in a hurry to leave.

Around them, the diner continued its lunchtime ballet—servers balancing plates, customers laughing, life going on as normal. But the cocoon that had felt so comforting minutes ago now felt suffocating.

As they made their way to the exit, Addison couldn't shake the image of the killer, methodically recreating rooms from memory, turning sanctuaries into tombs. She thought about the level of obsession it would take to remember every detail, every personal touch that made a space uniquely belonging to their victims. The killer wasn't just taking lives—he was collecting memories, reconstructing them in twisted tributes to his victims' fears.

He wanted them to feel violated in their last moments. And the fact that he was calling the murders I right away to make sure the bodies were found promptly was doing the same to her. She felt like she was being teased, being taunted…that there was no way they’d ever catch him.

And as she and Javier made their way back outside into the early afternoon sun, Addison wondered if that might very well be the case.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The skate park seemed to materialize in front of them like a graveyard of broken dreams. The sight of it sent a little chill through Addison as Javier guided the car past a rusted chain-link fence. An old "No Trespassing" sign dangled by a single screw. Three police cruisers were already on scene, their red and blue lights creating an eerie strobe effect along the concrete beyond the fence.

"Looks like someone finally found a use for this place," Javier muttered, stepping out of the car. His shoes crunched on broken concrete and scattered gravel. A flock of startled pigeons took flight from their perch on a nearby half-pipe, their wings beating a frantic rhythm against the heavy air.

Addison surveyed the abandoned park, her trained eye cataloging details with mechanical precision. What had once been a teenage paradise now resembled an apocalyptic playground. The main bowl—a deep concrete crater—was half-filled with brackish rainwater, its surface occasionally rippling as something moved beneath. Dead leaves and debris formed a thick soup around the edges, creating a moat of decay. While she’d never been into skateboarding, a lot of her friends had enjoyed it. It had, in a way, been an offshoot of the culture she’d been obsessed with as a teenager, so there was an odd familiarity to it.

Weeds pushed through cracks in the pavement like desperate fingers reaching for air, some nearly knee-high, their stalks tough and woody with age. A series of wooden ramps had collapsed into splinters and rot, their metal support bars exposed like broken bones. The largest ramp still stood, barely, listing to one side like a dying animal. Its surface was warped and peeling, creating treacherous waves in what had once been smooth-riding terrain. Band names and crude slogans had been spray-painted everywhere. Layers upon layers of tags and murals, each generation painting over the last, creating a chaotic timeline of urban art that stretched back to when this place was still sacred ground for adrenaline junkies and outcasts. Now even the spray paint was fading, bleached by sun and rain into ghost-like shadows of expression.

“Agents? Over here!”

Addison’s focus was torn away by the sound of a vaguely familiar voice. She turned to her right and saw Office Greenwald. His voice carried across the empty park, echoing off the concrete surfaces. He was standing by what appeared to be the only solid structure remaining on the property: a squat, concrete building with boarded-up windows. A fresh strip of yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze as another officer secured the perimeter, the plastic catching the afternoon light like a bizarre decoration.

The crime scene unit was already on the scene, coming carefully in and out of the little shack. Two photographers circled the building's exterior, their cameras clicking rapidly as they documented every angle. A young officer stood guard by a patrol car, speaking with someone on the phone. Another officer was keeping away what appeared to be a curious homeless man.

Addison and Javier walked over to Greenwald. The entrance to the former skate shop was narrow, forcing them to enter single file. Inside, the musty air carried the metallic undertone that Addison's brain instantly categorized as death. She fought against the urge to immediately approach the body. That was old Addison—ME Addison. FBI Agent Addison needed to see the whole picture first. Still, her fingers twitched involuntarily, muscle memory from countless autopsies trying to take over.

“You guys tired of this shit yet?” Greenwald asked.

“Getting there,” Javier muttered in response.

Addison looked around, studying it all. The killer had transformed the abandoned shop into another of his meticulous stage sets. What had once been a rental counter was now arranged as an office, complete with a desk that looked like it had been salvaged from the shop's original furniture. The wood was water-damaged but solid, positioned near the back of the space. A laptop—smashed and in worse shape the one from the previous crime scene—sat centered on its surface, its screen a spider web of cracks that caught and reflected the crime scene lights.

Carpet fragments had been carefully arranged on the floor in a pattern that suggested wall-to-wall coverage, though they only covered about sixty percent of the concrete. The edges were cut with surgical precision, creating an illusion of intentional design rather than the patchwork it really was. The fragments matched the ones they’d seen at Amelia Foster’s crime scene—not just similar, but identical. Addison made a mental note to have the lab confirm if they came from the same source.

"Like some twisted dollhouse," Javier said, moving carefully around the perimeter of the room. His footsteps echoed in the space, despite the carpet fragments that should have muffled them.

A standing lamp occupied one corner, its shade dusty but intact. The cord snaked across the floor but was plugged into nothing. Apparently, the killer had decided to cut some corners this time, opting not to include a portable generator.

“No generator this time,” she pointed out. “Seems like he was in a bit of a hurry this time.”

But it was the picture on the wall that drew Addison's attention: an aerial photograph of a dense forest, taped at precise right angles to the crumbling drywall. The image was pristine, almost luminous against the decay surrounding it. The forest canopy in the photo was so thick it looked like green velvet, broken only by what might have been logging roads or natural clearings.

Officer Martin approached from the other side of the space. He and Greenwald shared a grim look as Addison approached the body. The victim lay supine, arms at her sides, positioned with the same artificial precision as everything else in the room. The victim was female and dressed professionally, but in comfort—black slacks, a blue button-down shirt.

"Has anyone touched the body?" Addison asked, her medical examiner voice slipping out before she could stop it. She could already see the pattern of lividity forming, telling its own story about time of death and position.

“Nope,” Greenwald said. "Waiting on full documentation before we move her. But preliminary observation suggests—"

"Hypoxia," Addison finished. She forced herself to step back, physically and mentally. "Sorry, force of habit. What do we know about her?”

Officer Greenwald cleared his throat, flipping open a small notepad he’d been carrying in his hand. "Victim is Dr. Samantha Reeves, fifty-two. Married, three adult children. We've got units with the husband now. Initial canvas suggests she was last seen this morning, leaving for work.”

Addison circled the room slowly, noting how the killer had sealed off the windows and any potential gaps with the same methodical attention to detail they'd seen at the other scenes. The ventilation setup was there too—nearly invisible unless you knew what to look for. Only this time, the small holes had been drilled through the walls at precise intervals. She supposed the roof might have been far too dry-rotted to be of any use. She looked up and saw the same tight sealant that had been used at the other sites lining the walls, particularly the corners where the ceiling met the walls.

"Samantha Reeves,” Javier said as he looked down to the body. “She's not on the participant list. "But her name sounds familiar."

Addison was only half-listening, her attention drawn back to the body despite her best efforts. She studied Dr. Reeves's head, looking for signs of blunt force trauma but finding none. The hypoxic indicators were textbook—she could have used this as a teaching case back in her ME days. Even the way the victim's fingers were slightly curved, as if grasping for air that wouldn't come, told a story she had seen too many times before.

"What list?" Greenwald asked.

Javier explained about the clinical study on anxiety and breathing issues from the previous year, and their list of thirteen potential victims or suspects. Officer Martin, who had momentarily conferred with someone on his radio, joined their conversation, his boots leaving dusty prints on the carpet fragments.

"One of our officers at the Reeves residence just called in with an update," Martin said, clicking his radio back into its holder. "Turns out Dr. Reeves was some kind of big shot in the medical world. Groundbreaking work in pulmonology, according to the husband. Had a whole wall of awards in her home office."

The pieces clicked into place in Addison's mind, the connection hitting her like a physical blow. "Christ, that's why it sounds familiar. She wasn't on the list because she was running the study—with Amelia Foster."

A heavy silence fell over the room as the implication sank in. Their killer wasn't just targeting study participants; he was working his way through the research team itself. The methodical staging of the scene took on new meaning—this wasn't just about creating a death chamber, it was about sending a message to those who understood the science behind it. Of course, this may not hold much logic because Alex Chenowith had not been part of the research team.

Then what makes him so special? she wondered.

Maybe, she speculated, the killer saw himself as more than just a murderer. He was conducting his own twisted study, and Dr. Reeves had just become his latest data point.

"We need to locate everyone involved in that study," Addison said, her voice tight with urgency. "Not just the participants—every researcher, every assistant, every tech who might have had access to the data. This isn't random anymore. I mean…it almost looks as if he’s targeting the team specifically, right?"

"Yeah, that could be the case. I'll make some calls," Javier said, already pulling out his phone. He stepped outside, leaving Addison alone with the scene and its growing implications.

Addison found her eyes drawn back to Dr. Reeves. The woman had dedicated her life to understanding and treating breathing disorders, only to die gasping for air in an abandoned skate shop. The irony would have been impressive if it wasn't so horrific. Even in death, she maintained a dignity that seemed at odds with their surroundings—her silver hair neatly styled, her wedding ring catching the light as crime scene photographers documented her final pose.

Outside, a piece of loose plywood clattered in the afternoon wind, the sound like distant applause. Addison couldn't shake the feeling that their killer was out there somewhere, watching his handiwork unfold, planning his next move…or maybe even celebrating from already making it. The thought sent a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the morning air. There was simply no way of knowing how many steps ahead he was.

The laser focus of the medical examiner in her wanted to dive deep into the forensics, to uncover every secret Dr. Reeves's body had to tell. But the FBI agent knew they needed more than just cause of death this time. They needed to understand the why—the psychology behind these elaborately staged scenes, these carefully chosen victims. The killer wasn't just taking lives; he was creating a narrative, and they needed to understand it before he struck again.

"Officer Martin," she said, watching as the Martin and Greenwald stood by patiently. "I'd like to be kept in the loop on the autopsy findings. Especially anything related to the airway or lungs. Please let the ME know when they get here."

“Will do,” Greenwald said. “They’re on their way right now.”

Addison looked back up to the sealant in the corners, imagining their killer working quickly yet with a trained hand. The wind kicked up outside again, this time catching the crime scene tape, making it snap like a whip in the evening air. The sound echoed off the concrete, a sharp reminder that while they processed this scene, documented this death, their killer was still out there. And it was time for them to move.

“Ready to roll?” she asked Javier. He was still on the phone, but on hold.

"We need to find out where Dr. Reeves worked and speak to her co-workers. Family members may not be much help so soon after receiving the news of her death."

He nodded, still holding the phone to his ear as they exited the skate shack and headed back outside. The crime scene tape continued to flap in the breeze, making those whipping sounds—which now sounded like the gun of a starting race. And Addison felt herself wanting to move faster, to get ahead of this killer before he was able to take another life.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The hallways of Seattle Respiratory Care carried the weight of collective grief. Addison noticed it the moment they stepped through the sliding glass doors—that peculiar heaviness in the air that came with shared mourning, as palpable as the antiseptic smell that permeated medical facilities. The usual bustle of a medical office had been replaced by a suffocating stillness, broken only by the occasional muffled sob from behind closed doors or the quiet murmur of consolation.

A box of tissues sat on the corner of the reception desk, and it was clear that it had been used a lot recently. She could tell without being told that the news of Dr. Reeves had already made it to her co-workers. The scene reminded Addison of the aftermath of disasters she'd witnessed—that same stunned quiet, that same sense of disbelief that someone who had been there yesterday was now permanently gone.

The receptionist at the front desk was doing her best to seem professional and put-together when Addison and Javier approached. She even did her best to put on a rehearsed smile when they came to the desk.

“Can I help you?” she asked in a soft voice.

"FBI," Javier said softly, showing his credentials. “Agents Esposito and Shine.” His voice, usually commanding, had gentled to match the somber atmosphere. "We need to speak with someone about Dr. Reeves. Whoever might be the most helpful in regard to her work and her personal life.”

The woman nodded, sniffling. Her hands trembled as she reached for the phone. "Courtney—her research assistant—she'd be the one to talk to. Down the hall, third door on the right. She's... she's taking it pretty hard. We all are, but Courtney..." She trailed off, fresh tears welling up.

“Thank you,” Addison said, wondering if her hunch had been wrong. Maybe speaking to co-workers would be just as hard as speaking to a recently informed family.

As they walked down the corridor, Addison noted how the usual clinical sterility of the medical office had been transformed. Get-well cards that had once seemed hopeful now appeared to mock the tragedy. Patient education posters about breathing exercises and the warning signs for asthma attacks felt like cruel irony, given how Dr. Reeves had died.

They found Courtney Gibson exactly where indicated, hunched over her desk in an office barely big enough for the furniture it contained. The space was crowded with research papers and medical journals, sticky notes covering nearly every surface with little notes. Courtney's eyes were red-rimmed, her auburn hair escaping from what had probably started the day as a neat bun. She looked up as they entered, quickly wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her lab coat.

“Hello, there,” she said. “Who are you?”

"I'm Special Agent Shine," Addison said, "and this is Special Agent Esposito. We'd like to ask you some questions about Dr. Reeves' work. We’re hoping it might help us find who is responsible for her death."

Courtney gestured to the two chairs crammed into the space. A half-eaten protein bar and three empty coffee cups suggested she'd been here since hearing the news, unable or unwilling to leave the last place she'd seen her mentor alive. "Of course. Anything to help find who..." She trailed off, fresh tears welling up. "I'm sorry. It's just—she was brilliant, you know? The work we were doing here... it was going to change lives."

"Tell us about it, please," Addison encouraged, settling into one of the chairs while Javier took the other. The metal creaked under his weight, the sound oddly loud in the quiet office.

Despite her grief, Courtney's eyes lit up with the particular enthusiasm Addison recognized from fellow scientists discussing their work. "Because of her research, we were on the verge of something revolutionary. Dr. Reeves had developed a new approach to treating severe asthma cases—the sort of severe cases that don't respond well to traditional treatments." She reached for a folder on her desk, pulling out a series of charts and graphs. Her hands steadied as she fell into the familiar rhythm of explaining their research.

"See, traditionally, severe asthmatics are treated with a combination of long-acting beta agonists and inhaled corticosteroids. But Dr. Reeves discovered that by modifying the delivery system and combining it with a novel approach to bronchial thermoplasty..." Courtney spread the papers across her desk, creating a timeline of their breakthrough.

Addison leaned forward, her medical examiner's mind engaged. She also found it a testament to Dr. Reeves and her work that Courtney seemed proud to be sharing this information, even so soon after the loss.

"Bronchial thermoplasty?” Addison asked. “That's the procedure where they use heat to reduce the smooth muscle in the airways, right?"

"Exactly!" Courtney's enthusiasm momentarily overcame her grief. "But Dr. Reeves found a way to make it more precise, more targeted. We were seeing a seventy-eight percent reduction in severe attacks in our study participants. People who could barely walk up a flight of stairs were running 5Ks."

She pulled out more papers, spreading them across her desk like playing cards. "The implications go beyond asthma, too. We were starting to see applications for COPD, cystic fibrosis. Dr. Reeves believed we could adapt the technique for any condition involving airway restriction. She called it the 'breath of life' project."

The phrase sent a chill down Addison's spine, considering how their killer had turned breath into a weapon. It all seemed to fit a little too perfectly.

"How many patients were in the study?" Javier asked.

"Thirty-seven total." Courtney pulled up a spreadsheet on her computer. "Twenty-eight showed significant improvement, five showed moderate improvement, and four..." Her voice faltered, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Four showed no improvement at all. Dr. Reeves took those cases particularly hard. She wanted to help everyone."

“And this was a recent study?” Addison asked.

“Yes, we just wrapped it two months ago. Some of these numbers aren’t even quite finalized yet.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Jesus…I feel like we’re drowning in studies on this case,” she muttered.

Courtney gave a knowing frown, followed by a shrug. “Well, in a field like ours, there tends to be a lot of studies. I’m pretty sure last year alone, Dr. Reeves was approached by at least fifty different doctors and universities to ask for an assist for some study or another.”

“So you think there might be more we’re missing?” Javier asked.

“I can pretty much guarantee it,” Courtney said. “Though, whether or not they’d be of use to your case is anyone’s guess.”

Something clicked in Addison's mind, but she kept her face neutral. "I wonder…could we see Dr. Reeves' office?" she asked.

Courtney nodded and when she got to her feet, her face went quite rigid. The excitement over the work was gone, replaced with the reality of where they were headed…and who would never be there again. She led them down another corridor to a corner office. The space was immaculate—books arranged by topic and color on built-in shelves, degrees and awards precisely arranged on the walls, a state-of-the-art desktop computer on a gleaming desk. A family photo showed Dr. Reeves with her husband and children at what looked like a recent college graduation ceremony.

But it was the room's dimensions that made Addison's skin crawl. The proportions were nearly identical to the death chamber at the skate park. The desk even positioned similarly, though these looked out on clouds and neighboring buildings instead of graffitied walls. It was the same as the others—a crude representation of the victims’ office.

She could see Javier was momentarily frozen it too. His hand had unconsciously moved closer to his weapon, and his eyes scanned the corners of the room as if expecting to find hidden mechanisms. He looked genuinely freaked out.

The room even had the same underlying smell of fresh paint, though here it was mixed with the lingering scent of Dr. Reeves' perfume—something floral and expensive. A half-drunk cup of coffee sat on the desk, lipstick staining the rim. The detail hit Addison hard—someone had made that cup of coffee, taken a few sips, set it down expecting to return. The ordinary suddenness of death never ceased to unsettle her, no matter how many crime scenes she processed.

Courtney stood in the doorway, hugging herself. "She was here just yesterday morning. She was so excited about the latest data... we were going to submit to the New England Journal of Medicine next month." Her voice broke again, and she pressed her hand to her mouth.

"Thank you, Ms. Gibson," Addison said gently. "You've been very helpful. We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

Courtney took this as her cue to leave; she made her exit, leaving the agents in Dr. Reeves’s office.

“This is getting out of hand,” Javier said. “I’m legitimately freaked out.”

Addison nodded, once again looking the room over. “Any arguments that this was the office the little shack at the skatepark was modelled after?”

“None from me.”

Any arguments that he’s going after researchers and not the participants of the study?”

“Just one. What about Chenowith?" Javier countered. "He was a subject, not a doctor or a researcher. That breaks the pattern."

"Exactly," Addison said as they finally turned their backs on the office and made their way back down the corridor. "He's our outlier. And outliers often tell us more than the pattern does." She glanced over to Javier as they approached the lobby again. "We need to look more closely at his connection to the study. He might be the key to understanding why these specific victims were chosen."

They made their way back through the somber hallways, past offices where people spoke in hushed tones or sat staring blankly at computer screens. The tissue box at reception was noticeably emptier than when they'd arrived. It wasn't until they reached the parking lot that Addison shared her theory—an idea that had been knitting itself together for a while now. "I’m willing to bet that our killer is someone from the study—one of the four who didn't respond to treatment. Someone who felt the doctors had failed them."

"And what about Chenowith?”

“No clue yet,” she said. “Maybe that’s what we need to find out next.”

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Michael Denton shifted in his seat, adjusting the rearview mirror for the fourth time in as many minutes as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the empty parking spaces behind Seattle Cardiology Specialists. It was 5:02 PM, and he was starting to get antsy. He interlocked his fingers to keep himself from fidgeting as he watched the rear employee entrance, its metal door reflecting the golden light like a beacon.

From his vantage point, he could see the entire back of the building—a view he'd memorized over weeks of observation. The red brick façade was broken only by the steel emergency exit and a few narrow windows. The business park around him had settled into that peculiar pre-evening quiet, when most of the medical offices had cleared out roughly twenty minutes ago. A few scattered cars remained: the cleaning crew's aging Toyota, Dr. Morrison's BMW (the cardiologist was always the last to leave), and of course, Dr. Lisa Kent's silver Volvo, parked in its usual spot near the building's corner.

She would emerge soon. Lisa Kent, punctual to a fault, always left between 5:15 and 5:25. He'd watched her long enough to know her patterns, just as he'd studied Amelia Foster, Samantha Reeves, and Alex Chenowith. The thought of Alex made his chest tighten. He reached for the inhaler in his jacket pocket, bringing it to his lips with practiced efficiency.

The familiar taste of albuterol did little to ease the constriction in his airways. These attacks had become more frequent, more severe since the study. Their study. The one that was supposed to change everything. The one he’d put so much hope in…

Michael closed his eyes, remembering the day he'd first walked into their clinic, desperate for anything that might help. The fancy PowerPoint presentation, their confident smiles as they outlined their "groundbreaking" approach to treating severe asthma through a combination of breathing exercises and anxiety management. Dr. Kent had stood at the front of the room, her voice steady and assured as she'd clicked through slides showing their offices.

"These are our safe spaces," she'd said, gesturing to images of their carefully designed offices. Neat and tidy. Pretentious, in a way. "For us, these are places of calm and clarity. Like a day at the beach."

He'd actually believed her then. Believed them all.

The memory of Alex Chenowith's laugh echoed in his mind. They'd bonded during those four days of treatment, sharing jokes between breathing exercises and comparing their lifelong struggles with asthma. Alex had been different from the others in the study—genuine, understanding. They'd even grabbed coffee a few times after their sessions, commiserating over the ridiculous breathing visualization exercises.

"Imagine your lungs are balloons," Michael whispered mockingly, mimicking Dr. Kent's soothing tone. His fingers clenched around the steering wheel. Four precious vacation days wasted. Three hundred and fifty dollars gone—money he could barely afford then, working as a junior environmental engineer. All for nothing.

He remembered the way Alex had leaned across the coffee shop table two days into the study, his eyes bright with hope as they discussed the treatments. "Maybe this is it," Alex had said. "Maybe this time something will actually work." Michael had nodded, wanting to believe. They'd exchanged numbers, promised to keep in touch about their progress. For a few weeks, they had—daily texts about their breathing exercises, jokes about Dr. Kent's visualization techniques.

Then everything had changed.

Another wave of tightness gripped his chest. The inhaler came up again, a mechanical motion he'd performed countless times. Two puffs. Wait. Breathe. He focused on the back door, letting the anger around him. The same anger that had exploded when he'd received that email six weeks after the study ended.

Dr. Foster's message had been brief, clinical. A group email to all participants, highlighting the "remarkable success" of one participant in particular. Alex Chenowith. His friend Alex, whose breathing had apparently improved by eighty percent. Alex, who'd stopped returning his calls shortly after. Alex, who'd become their poster child while Michael's condition deteriorated.

That was the last they'd bothered to communicate with him. No follow-up, no concern about his worsening symptoms. Just silence, as if the rest of them—the failures—had never existed.

The memory of their final coffee meeting burned in his mind. Alex, breathless with excitement, showing him the preliminary results. "They want to feature me in their next paper," he'd said. "They're calling it a breakthrough." Michael had forced a smile, hiding the way his own chest burned, the way each breath felt more labored than the last. He'd never told Alex about the emergency room visits that had started two weeks into the study. About the nights spent sitting up in bed, struggling for air, wondering if this would be the time his lungs finally gave out.

Movement at the door caught his eye. 5:19 PM. Right on schedule.

Dr. Lisa Kent emerged, phone pressed to her ear, briefcase swinging from her other hand. She looked exactly as she had during the study—elegant blazer, perfectly styled hair, that air of academic superiority. His chest contracted sharply at the sight of her, airways spasming in protest. The inhaler came up again, but this time the medicine felt weak, inadequate.

Breathe, he commanded himself. Just breathe. The irony of using their techniques now almost made him laugh, but laughing would only make it worse. He forced himself to focus on Dr. Kent's movements across the parking lot, using the familiar pattern to steady himself.

Twenty-three steps from door to car. Always the same path, like she was walking an invisible line. She'd pause at her car, juggling phone and briefcase while fishing for her keys. Three weeks of observation had taught him her every habit, just as he'd learned Dr. Foster's morning coffee routine and Dr. Reeves' tendency to work through lunch.

His mind drifted to the study sessions, the way Dr. Kent had moved through the room with that same measured pace, checking on each participant. He remembered her hand on his shoulder during one particularly bad attack, her voice calm and controlled. "Focus on your safe space," she'd said. "Picture yourself somewhere peaceful." He'd wanted to scream then, to tell her that there was no peace when every breath was a battle, but he'd nodded instead, played along with their charade. Not the beach, not a coy cabin, and certainly not their fucking offices.

The spasm in his chest began to ease as he watched her unlock her car. Soon this would be over. Her office was ready, prepared with the same meticulous attention to detail he'd applied to the others. The environmental controls were in place, the seals perfect. He'd even used knowledge from his engineering work to ensure the pressure would normalize afterward, leaving no trace of what had occurred.

It was fitting, really. They'd talked about their offices being safe spaces, places of clarity. He'd simply helped their victims find that clarity in their final moments. Showed them what real breathing difficulties felt like. Dr. Foster had gone first, her claustrophobia research making her the perfect initial subject. Then Alex, his "success story" ending in that sealed room. Dr. Reeves had followed, her expertise in pulmonology failing to save her.

And now, Dr. Kent. The last one. Another of the architects of their sham study.

She was in her car now, the engine purring to life. Michael's breathing had steadied, his airways opening as the anticipation built. The hard part was almost over. Just one more, and then maybe, finally, he could breathe easily again.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Addison's eyes were starting to go a bit blurry from scrolling through social media accounts for hours, determined to understand why Alex Chenowith stood out from the rest of the study participants. The fluorescent lights of the FBI office buzzed overhead, a sound that usually faded into white noise but now seemed to drill into her skull. Her third cup of evening coffee sat cold and forgotten beside her keyboard, a ring of dark liquid staining the paper underneath.

"There has to be something here," she muttered, rubbing her temples. Next to her, Javier was making yet another phone call, his voice a steady backdrop to her investigation. She watched him pace, one hand thrust deep in his pocket, shoulders tense as he waited on hold.

She pulled up Alex's Facebook profile again, this time clicking through his friends list methodically. The pattern she'd noticed earlier continued to emerge – he was connected to an unusually high number of people from the study. Dr. Foster, Dr. Reeves, and at least six other participants had accepted his friend requests in the months following the research project. Her eyes narrowed as she noticed the timing – all the connections had been made within a two-week period.

She also continued to catch fragments of Javier’s end of his conversation. "That's what I was hoping to hear," Javier said into his phone, his tone brightening. "Yes, we'd appreciate both the presentation and those results. Thank you."

Addison barely registered his words, too focused on a string of comments she'd discovered on Alex Chenowith’s timeline. Three different study participants had left congratulatory messages, but they were frustratingly vague. "Way to go!" "Fantastic news!" "So happy for you!" The timestamps showed they were all from about two months after the study ended.

She switched to Twitter, scrolling through months of Alex's posts. Most were retweets about tech industry news or local Seattle events, nothing that screamed "killer" or even "person of interest." But something about his online presence felt curated, almost too normal. She'd seen enough social media accounts during investigations to know when someone was crafting a specific image.

She opened another tab and pulled up Alex's LinkedIn profile, scanning for any career changes or achievements around that time. Nothing stood out. His Instagram was equally unhelpful – mostly photos of his dog (a white husky with striking blue eyes) and Seattle's perpetually gray skies. Even his comments on others' posts were bland, safe, the digital equivalent of small talk.

"What were they congratulating you for?" Addison whispered to her screen, as if Alex's smiling profile picture might answer her question. In the photo, he stood against the backdrop of Mount Rainier in a North Face jacket and trendy glasses.

Frustrated, she pushed back from her desk and stood up, her chair rolling away with more force than she'd intended. The movement caught Javier's attention as he finished his call.

"You okay, partner?"

"No," she admitted, pacing between their desks. Her hands moved as she talked, a habit that emerged when her thoughts were racing faster than her words could keep up. "Alex Chenowith is connected to more study participants than anyone else in the group. He's clearly important somehow, but I can't figure out why. There are these congratulatory messages, but no context. It's like looking at a puzzle where half the pieces are missing."

She stopped at the window, staring out at the afternoon night sky. "And why him? Everyone else targeted so far has been medical professionals. Alex is a software developer. He doesn't fit the pattern."

Javier's computer chimed with an incoming email. "Maybe we'll find something in the documents I’m about to get. The research center is sending over a presentation from the first day of the study, plus the unpublished results."

Addison nodded, but her mind was still churning through the social media connections. The caffeine seemed to be the only thing that was really driving her to keep hunting. She needed a fresh cup if she was going to make sense of any of this. "I'm going to grab some more coffee. Want anything?"

“No thanks,” he said. She saw that he was glued to his laptop now, clicking open a new email—hopefully the documents he was waiting on.

She was halfway to the door when Javier's sharp intake of breath stopped her. "Holy shit. Look at this."

Something in his tone made her stomach tighten. She'd heard that tone before, usually moments before a case broke wide open—or when something was legitimately bothering him. She hurried back to his desk, leaning over his shoulder to see his screen. He’d opened up the presentation from the first day; it was opened to a slide showing a pristine office space, the kind often featured in architectural magazines. The next slide showed another office, this one more lived-in, with medical texts lining the walls and a large desk dominated by multiple computer monitors.

Addison's breath caught in her throat. The coffee forgotten, she gripped the back of Javier's chair. "That first picture – that's Dr. Foster's home office." The room where they'd found her body, where she'd spent her last moments gasping for air that wouldn't come. She could still smell the lingering scent of death that had permeated the space, see the look of terror frozen on Foster's face.

Javier clicked to the next slide. A third office appeared, one they didn't recognize. But it was the implication that made Addison's hands grip the chair until her knuckles whitened. Her mind raced through the crime scenes, remembering how the killer had managed to seal the rooms so perfectly, how he'd known exactly where to make his modifications.

"The killer didn't need to stake out their offices," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "He already had pictures. Right here in the presentation. He knew exactly what these spaces looked like before he ever set foot in them. But why are they even in there?"

Javier pointed to the notes to the side. “They’re talking about safe, comfortable spaces…tidiness, neatness, that sort of thing.”

The realization hit her like a physical blow. The study hadn't just been a way to identify victims – it had been reconnaissance. Every detail, every photograph, every piece of information collected had been weaponized.

They frantically scanned through the rest of the slides, looking for any other familiar locations. The presentation was mostly charts and graphs, medical terminology that Addison's trained eye quickly assessed as legitimate research data. Her medical examiner's brain cataloged terms about lung capacity, oxygen saturation, and respiratory response times – all information that could be twisted to serve the killer's purposes.

Then they reached the final slide.

"Contact Information for Study Support," the header read. Three names were listed: Dr. Amelia Foster, Dr. Samantha Reeves, and Dr. Lisa Kent.

"Kent," Addison breathed. The name seemed to hang in the air between them. "She's next." They weren't just looking at a list of names – they were looking at a killer's roadmap.

Javier was already reaching for his phone, dialing the office number listed on the slide. Addison could hear the ring through the speaker, then a woman's professional voice answering.

"Dr. Kent's office."

"This is Special Agent Esposito, with the FBI. I need to speak with Dr. Kent immediately." His voice carried the urgent authority that came from years of field work.

"I'm sorry, but Dr. Kent left about ten minutes ago."

Addison leaned closer to the phone, her heart racing. "Do you know if she went straight home?"

"I'm not sure of her plans," the receptionist said, uncertainty creeping into her voice. "She mentioned something about picking up dinner, but I don't know where."

Javier ended the call, exchanging a look that needed no words. Kent's home address would be simple to retrieve with just a single entry in the bureau database.

"I'll drive," Javier said, already grabbing his jacket. His keys jingled as he pulled them from his pocket, the sound jolting Addison into motion.

As they rushed toward the elevator, Addison's mentally sifted through everything they'd learned. The killer had used the study itself as reconnaissance, gathering information about potential victims while hiding in plain sight. The pictures in that presentation had given him intimate knowledge of their spaces, allowing him to plan his attacks with surgical precision.

But something still nagged at her about Alex Chenowith. Why was he the outlier? What had those congratulatory messages been about? Maybe the killer was angry at him for whatever all of the kind and encouraging words had been about. She had a feeling the answer was important, but right now, they had more urgent concerns.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding that seemed inappropriately cheerful. As they descended, Addison's fingers drummed against her thigh, a nervous habit she'd never quite broken. Each second felt like an eternity, knowing that somewhere in Seattle, Dr. Lisa Kent was going about her evening, unaware that she might be walking into a trap. If they were right about the killer’s pattern, she may literally just have mere moments before the killer ensnared her.

"We should call for backup," Addison said as they hurried through the parking garage. Their footsteps echoed off the concrete walls, a rapid staccato that matched her heartbeat.

Javier nodded, already pulling out his phone as they hurried through the doors and out into the small parking garage. "I'll have units meet us there. But we're not waiting if we get there first."

"Agreed." The thought of another victim dying while they waited for protocol to be followed was unthinkable. They'd seen too many bodies, too many faces frozen in terror, too many sealed rooms that had become tombs.

They reached the car they’d been using throughout the day, and Addison barely had time to close her door before Javier was peeling out of the parking space. The tires squealed slightly on the concrete, the sound making her wince as it reverberated through the parking structure. As they emerged into Seattle's evening traffic, she pulled up Kent's address on her phone, ready to navigate.

The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that seemed obscenely beautiful given the circumstances. Rush hour traffic clogged the streets, each red light an agony of waiting. Somewhere in this city, a killer was preparing another sealed room, another death by invisible means. But this time, they knew his next move. This time, they had a chance to stop him.

Addison just hoped they weren't already too late.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Addison pressed her phone harder against her ear as Javier took another corner at speeds that made her grab the door handle. The sedan's tires squealed in protest, but her partner's hands remained steady on the wheel, his jaw set in concentration as they wove through traffic. Red brake lights blurred past them as other cars scrambled to get out of their way, the emergency lights throwing wild shadows across the rain-slicked streets of Seattle.

"Yes, I understand," she said into the phone, speaking to a woman at the Records and Research Department. She was trying to keep her voice level despite the g-forces pulling at her. Her free hand gripped the handle above the passenger window as Javier threaded the needle between two slower vehicles. "And there's nothing else in Dr. Kent's background? No restraining orders or anything?”

“No, Agent Shine. A clean record from what I see.”

"Alright, thank you."

She ended the call just as Javier swerved around a delivery truck, causing her to brace herself against the dashboard. The red emergency light in their windshield reflected off nearby buildings in strobing patterns, creating an almost hypnotic rhythm that matched her racing pulse.

“What did you find out?” Javier asked, never taking his eyes off the road.

"Forty-nine years old, divorced two years ago, one kid in college," she reported, her fingers already flying over her tablet to access the files the study center had sent to Javier. The screen's glow illuminated the tension in her face. "Clean record, not even a parking ticket. She volunteers at a local animal shelter on weekends and teaches a night class at the community college."

"Perfect victim," Javier muttered, hitting the horn as a car failed to yield. The sound echoed off the buildings around them like a warning cry. "Or maybe just lucky until now. Either way, we can’t just let her become another statistic." His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he took another corner at speeds that would have made a NASCAR driver nervous.

The tablet's screen cast a blue glow across Addison's face as she dove into the study results, her mind racing ahead of her eyes. Something about Alex Chenowith's case had been nagging at her since they'd first reviewed it, like a splinter just beneath the skin of her consciousness. She pulled up his social media presence again, sure that there was an answer screaming in her face that she was somehow not seeing. She quickly through posts and comments, trying to ignore the way the car's movement made the text swim before her eyes.

"Here," she said suddenly, sitting up straighter. The movement caused her seatbelt to lock momentarily. "Look at these comments on Chenowith's posts from the last few months. Everyone's congratulating him." She scrolled through more responses, each one adding weight to her theory. "But why? I think…the answer is right here, in these study documents. The results…they show that he was the only one showing dramatic improvement in the study. A lifetime of severe exercise-induced asthma pretty much knocked out, and without any experimental drugs. These documents say he was able to cut down from four medications to just one.”

Javier took another sharp turn, the momentum pushing Addison against the door. A passing streetlight illuminated the fierce concentration on his face. "The only one? Out of all of those participants?"

"The only verifiable success story out of our fourteen participants," she confirmed, her voice tight with realization. She could feel the pieces starting to click together, like the final turns of a combination lock. "Everyone else showed minimal improvement or none at all. If our killer was another participant—"

"He'd have felt cheated," Javier finished, narrowly missing a cyclist who had frozen at the sight of their approaching lights. "Watching this one guy get better while he kept suffering. That's the kind of thing that can push someone over the edge." He glanced at her, his dark eyes reflecting the dashboard lights. "But how'd he know the layout of Chenowith's home office? That level of detail means—"

"They had to be friends," Addison said, already switching gears and diving back into Chenowith's social media accounts. Her fingers moved frantically across the screen, scanning through the posts she’d already seen and bookmarked. The streetlights flashed across her face in regular intervals as Javier pushed the car faster, the engine's whine a constant undertone to the sound of her rapid breathing.

Then she saw it. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she felt the same kind of chest-tightening anxiety their killer inflicted on his victims.

The photo showed Alex Chenowith at what looked like a sports bar, his arm thrown around another man's shoulders. Both were grinning, holding up beer bottles in a mock toast. The neon signs behind them cast a sickly green glow across their faces, but the caption below was what made Addison's stomach clench: "Breathing (and drinking) freely with my 'study partner' Michael!"

The memory of the participant list flashed through her mind with crystal clarity. “Michael,” she said. "There was only one Michael in the study…"

At the same time, Javier slammed on the brakes, throwing them both forward against their restraints.

They had arrived at Dr. Kent's house.

The scene before them sent immediate warning signals through Addison's mind, triggering every instinct she'd developed over years of working crime scenes. Dr. Kent's silver Volvo sat in the driveway, driver's door slightly ajar, interior lights casting a dim glow into the growing darkness. Javier pulled in behind the Volvo and parked.

They were out of their car in seconds, weapons drawn, moving with the practiced coordination that came from months of partnership. The neighborhood was quieter than Addison had expected, the houses set far apart with mature trees blocking views between them. Perfect isolation. Perfect hunting ground. The kind of place where screams could be easily muffled by distance and darkness.

They approached the car first, moving in practiced synchronization. The keys still hung from the ignition, but the engine was off. No signs of struggle, no blood, no scattered belongings. It was as if Dr. Kent had simply vanished between her car and her front door, plucked from existence by some malevolent force.

The house loomed before them, a two-story Colonial with dark windows staring down like empty eyes. It was dark and silent, waiting for its owners to arrive. Addison thought of the other crime scenes, of rooms sealed tight as tombs, of victims frozen in their final moments of terror. Her grip tightened on her weapon.

"Dr. Kent?" Javier called out, his voice seeming too loud in the quiet neighborhood. "FBI!"

Silence answered, broken only by the distant sound of traffic and the gentle rustle of leaves in the evening breeze.

They exchanged a look, years of partnership allowing them to communicate volumes in that brief glance. They hurried to the front door and found it locked, suggesting that Dr. Kent hadn't made it inside, but they couldn't take that chance. Not with a life on the line. Not with their killer's pattern of elaborate traps and sealed rooms.

Javier positioned himself, and with one powerful kick, the door flew open with a crack of splintering wood that echoed through the quiet street like a gunshot. They moved inside, weapons raised, calling out their presence as protocol demanded, their voices seeming to bounce off the walls of the empty house.

“FBI!”

But their voices were greeted with only silence and an inactive house.

The foyer opened into a living room on the left, dining room on the right. A few family photos hung on the walls, an end table held a small vase of flowers and a few books, there was mail scattered across a console table. Normal life, interrupted.

They cleared the first-floor room by room, finding nothing but the lingering evidence of routine domestic life. A newspaper folded on the kitchen counter opened to the crossword puzzle with several words filled in. A laptop closed on the dining room table, its power light blinking slowly like a patient heart monitor. The dishwasher’s digital display reading Clean.

The stairs creaked under their careful ascent, each sound seeming to echo in the empty house. Addison's heart pounded in her ears as they checked each room upstairs, her training warring with her growing sense of dread. Master bedroom, untouched, the bed still neatly made. The bathroom was clean and smelled faintly of perfume and a lavender-scented lotion. Guest room, vacant, with fresh towels folded on the bed.

No sign of struggle anywhere. No sign of Dr. Kent. The absence of evidence was becoming evidence itself.

Back downstairs, Addison's mind raced through the implications, her medical training combining with her investigative instincts. "The door was locked," she said, holstering her weapon with hands that wanted to shake. "She never made it inside. He must have taken her straight from the car."

Javier was already on his phone, calling in an APB on Dr. Kent. Addison could hear the dispatcher's voice, tinny and professional, as she walked back to the front door, studying the scene again with fresh eyes.

Car in driveway. Keys in ignition. Door open. Door locked. A sequence of details that told a story of interruption, of plans suddenly derailed, of a life yanked off its expected course.

She remembered the photo from Chenowith's social media, the casual friendship displayed there. The kind of friendship that would lead to home visits, shared confidences, knowledge of personal spaces. The kind of friendship that could be twisted into something darker by jealousy and desperation.

When Javier finished his call, she turned to him, her voice tight with urgency. "I know who we need to look for," she said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Michael Denton. He was in that photo with Chenowith at the bar. If they were close enough to go drinking together—"

"They were close enough to visit each other's homes," Javier finished, already dialing again. His voice took on the clipped tones of urgent command. "This is Special Agent Esposito. I need everything you can get me on a Michael Denton, priority one. And I mean everything."

Addison looked back at Dr. Kent's car, still idling innocently in the driveway like a snapshot of interrupted normalcy. Somewhere out there, their killer had her. A killer who understood how to manipulate air systems, who knew how to create the perfect death trap, who had watched his friend succeed where he had failed. A killer who had turned his own struggle to breathe into a weapon against others.

Time was running out.

She could feel it in the cooling night air, in the quiet of the empty house, in the steady thrum of her pulse. They were close now, so close to identifying their killer. But would they be close enough to save Dr. Kent? Or would she become another body for Addison to examine, another victim whose last moments she would have to reconstruct from clinical evidence?

The memory of previous victims flashed through her mind – Dr. Foster, Chenowith, Dr. Reeves. Each found in sealed rooms, victims of a killer who understood all too well the terror of fighting for breath. How many minutes had passed since Dr. Kent had been taken? How long did they have before she became another name on that list? And would they be better served to wait here or to hunt down their killer—a man she now suspected might be Michael Denton.

Javier's voice cut through her thoughts, sharp with purpose. "Got an address," he said, already moving toward their car with long, urgent strides. "Denton lives in Ballard, about fifteen minutes from here. Maintenance supervisor at a commercial HVAC company."

Addison was moving before he finished speaking, her mind already racing ahead to what they might find. Would Denton be there? Would Dr. Kent? Or would they find another perfectly sealed room, another victim beyond their help? The HVAC connection only made these worries thicker, more cloying – it explained so much about how he'd managed his elaborate death traps.

As they pulled away from Dr. Kent's house, emergency lights once again painting the approaching dusk in red, Addison feared they would be too late. The killer had evolved with each murder, perfecting his technique, refining his method. What would he have planned for Dr. Kent? Her only hope was that his arrogance would trip him up. It wasn’t good enough to just kill his victims as he found them. No…he had to kidnap them and then carry them to whatever cruel little display he had created, a mockery of their own lives.

She pulled out her phone again, determined to learn everything she could about Michael Denton in the precious minutes they had. They had a name now, a face, a target. But in her experience, that often made killers more dangerous, not less. Especially ones with something to prove.

The car accelerated into the evening, carrying them toward what she hoped would be their confrontation with the killer who had put a scary amount of time and energy into creating his little death rooms. But first, they had to get there in time.

Time. It always came down to time.

And right now, Addison feared they were running out of it.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Addison once again found herself clinging to the dashboard as Javier gunned the sedan's engine down a stretch of fairly busy tow-lane road. The engine roared as Javier took another corner at what Addison considered an inadvisable speed. Their red emergency light warned other drivers to clear a path, and Javier would also lay down on the horn on occasion. While Addison braced one hand against the dashboard, her other hand held her phone out between them on speaker mode. Her knuckles were white against the black plastic of her phone case—the one adorned with her Harry Potter house crest (Slytherin) that Javier always teased her about.

"Criminal record for Michael Denton shows two incidents," the Records clerk's voice crackled through the speaker, competing with the humming of the engine. "First one's from 2019—a bar fight that landed him thirty days probation. Second's older, a restraining order filed by an ex-girlfriend in 2015."

"Any details on the restraining order?" Addison asked, watching another car swerve out of their way as Javier blew through an intersection. The setting sun cast long shadows across the road, making each vehicle they passed appear momentarily giant before shrinking away behind them.

"His ex claimed he'd been following her, showing up at her workplace. Nothing physical, but she said he'd leave notes describing her daily routine—what she wore, where she went. Even wrote down what she ordered at coffee shops, times she went to the gym. Court granted a three-year order."

Addison caught Javier's eye. A stalker with a history of monitoring victims' patterns—it fit their profile perfectly. It was the exact sort of behavior she’d expect from someone who was dark and detailed enough to recreate his victims’ offices.

"What about employment history?" she pressed, fighting to keep her voice steady as Javier took another turn that made her stomach lurch.

"Bit of a job-hopper. Mostly construction and industrial work. Two years at Peterson Construction, eighteen months at Allied Air Systems, short stints with various HVAC contractors. Looks like his last listed job was with an HVAC company here in Seattle. Recent W2s show he's been doing freelance work. Latest address is 4427 Maple Grove Road. I'm sending you his complete file now."

"Got it," Javier said, cranking the wheel hard as they came to a light that had just turned yellow. The tires squealed as they changed direction, the sound echoing off the buildings around them.

Addison found herself studying his profile—the determined set of his jaw, the intensity in his dark eyes as he focused on the road. There was something magnetic about him in these moments of controlled urgency, when all his street-smart instincts came to the surface. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his temple, and she had to resist the urge to reach out and brush back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. She forced herself to look away. They had a killer to catch.

Maple Grove Road cut through one of Seattle's older working-class neighborhoods, where chain-link fences separated small yards and children's toys lay abandoned on patchy lawns. The houses were small, mostly post-war builds with concrete front steps and aluminum awnings. And Denton’s house blended in perfectly with all of it. The lawn was thick and a bit overgrown. The weathered siding looked to have been recently painted a pale green that seemed almost antiseptic in its cleanliness. Wind chimes tinkled from a small front porch, their sound incongruously peaceful in the growing tension of the moment.

Javier brought the car to a shuddering stop, killing the engine. “Let’s go get this bastard,” Javier said, checking his weapon. Addison nodded, drawing her own gun.

They hurried up the porch and to the front door. Neither of them was surprised to find it locked. There was no discussion of what to do next; neither of them even took the time to head back to the car to retrieve the lock-pick set. For the second time in half an hour, Javier drew back and kicked a door in. The frame splintered and was pried slightly loose as the door went blasting in.

He then strafed inside as if it were a dance, and Addison followed behind, her Glock aimed in the opposite direction.

"Clear," Javier called from beside her, moving deeper inside with practiced efficiency. Addison followed, her heart pounding with the familiar surge of adrenaline that came with entering an unknown situation.

The house’s interior was spotless but sparse, almost monastic in its minimalism. No pictures hung on the walls, no personal touches softened the space. The living room held only a leather recliner facing a wall-mounted TV, its screen dark and reflective. A single coaster sat on the side table, perfectly centered. The kitchen gleamed with cleaned surfaces, chrome and tile reflecting the last rays of sunlight streaming through venetian blinds. The cabinets were nearly empty when Addison checked them, containing only the bare essentials—a box of protein bars, a canister of coffee, a few cans of soup. A single bowl and spoon sat in the dish drain, positioned with geometric precision.

"This isn't a home," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's a waystation. A front."

They cleared the ground floor room by room, finding the same obsessive order everywhere they looked. Everything was organized with military precision. Tools hung on pegboards in perfect alignment within a closet, their shadows forming precise patterns on the wall. Cleaning supplies were arranged by size and type, labels facing forward. Even the shoes by the door were positioned at exact right angles to the wall, their laces tucked in identically.

The basement door, located at the very end of the hallway, opened into darkness. The air was noticeably cooler as it wafted up from below. Javier found the switch, illuminating bare concrete steps leading down. The musty smell of underground spaces hit them first, followed by something chemical—a mixture of cleaning products, metal, and what Addison's trained nose identified as industrial lubricants.

Unlike the sterile order above, the basement was a warren of activity, a mad scientist's lair dedicated to dealing death. Fluorescent shop lights hung on chains, casting harsh shadows across workbenches crowded with tools and equipment. Rolls of industrial plastic sheeting leaned against one wall like silent sentinels. Stacks of lumber and sheets of plywood filled one corner, while another held coils of wire and electrical components arranged in labeled bins.

"Look at this," Addison said, moving to a drafting table covered in technical drawings. The surface was illuminated by an articulated lamp that cast stark shadows across the papers. Her heart hammered in her chest when she realized what she had stumbled upon. "These are the chamber designs."

The blueprints were meticulously drawn, though not quite to professional standards. The lines weren't quite uniform, the lettering slightly uneven—the work of someone who'd learned technical drawing through experience rather than training. But the detail was impressive, even frightening in its thoroughness. Every measurement was precisely noted, every component carefully labeled with both its purpose and its source. Notes in cramped handwriting filled the margins, documenting test results and modifications.

"He's documented everything," she continued, leafing through the pages with gloved hands. "Air flow calculations, seal specifications, timing sequences for the pressure changes." She pointed to a series of equations that filled an entire page, jotted down over the light sketch of a room. "Look how he factored in the victims' lung capacity and respiratory rates. He wasn't just building death chambers—he was customizing them for each victim's specific physiology. He studied them, learned their breathing patterns, their limitations."

Javier was examining a worn couch pushed against the far wall, its springs creaking under his weight as he investigated. A pillow and rumpled blanket suggested recent use, and a small side table held an inhaler and a dog-eared copy of a book that looked like it had been through a war. It was titled "Advanced HVAC Systems Design."

"He's been living down here," Javier said, picking up a prescription bottle. "Probably ever since we started closing in. These are recent—heavy-duty asthma medications."

Addison moved to a corkboard that covered nearly an entire wall, its surface barely visible beneath layers of paper. Articles about asthma research were pinned alongside technical papers on respiratory mechanics and environmental control systems. He’d meticulously done his research—into asthma conditions, into his victims, into the research of the doctors he had killed.

"Here," Javier called. He'd found a stack of newer blueprints on a separate workbench, still crisp and clean despite the basement's humidity. It only took Addison a few seconds to understand that the first one she studied was a rendering of what they had seen at Alex Chenowith’s crime scene…an the second was a rendering of the scene at the skatepark. At the edges of the page, she could even see the name of the street it was located on, along with twin parallel lines to suggest the street’s dimensions.

“This one,” Javier said, tapping the third of the four blueprints. “This is a new one. We haven’t seen this layout before.”

Addison studied it quickly and saw that he was right. The measurements were different, as was the location where he’d marked off where the ventilation equipment would need to be installed.

"This has to be for Dr. Kent," Addison said, studying the drawing under the harsh fluorescent light. The design was more sophisticated than the others, incorporating refinements learned from the previous murders. She could see how he'd improved the sealing mechanism, modified the pressure control systems. The chamber would be virtually undetectable once assembled, its components disguised as ordinary building materials.

Something caught her eye—a detail at the edge of the blueprint that seemed out of place. Two parallel lines ran along the left margin, separate from the main drawing—just like the blueprint for the scene at the skatepark where Dr. Reeves had been killed. It was a street. More specifically, it was labelled: King Street – load/unload.

"King Street," she said, tapping the notation with a gloved finger. "That's got to be where he's building it."

"It's not much to go on," Javier said, already heading for the stairs, his footsteps echoing on the concrete. "King Street goes on for at least two miles. But right now, it's all we've got."

Addison took a last look around the basement workshop as she followed him up. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting their cold glow over the killer's lair. Each carefully arranged tool, each precise calculation, each methodically documented test—it all spoke to a mind consumed by control. Someone who'd learned to master his own breathing difficulties by controlling the breath of others. The basement was both laboratory and confession all at once, revealing the twisted logic that drove their killer.

They hurried out of the house and emerged into the dying light of dusk, the blueprint clutched in Addison's hand. In his preciseness and obsessive nature, the killer had mistakenly told them exactly where to find him. And even though it did give them something of an advantage, Addison felt like they might be walking directly into a trap.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across King Street as Addison and Javier cruised past rows of dilapidated houses. What had once been a proud neighborhood of craftsman homes no more than a decade or so ago now resembled a museum of urban decay. Paint peeled from weathered siding in long, curling strips. Untended yards had transformed into small jungles, with knee-high grass pushing through cracked sidewalks. Some of the yards held For Sale of Rent signs, while others seemed to have not even bothered with such dreams.

"Hard to believe this used to be prime real estate," Javier muttered, his eyes scanning the condemned properties. Yellow notices were stapled to nearly every door, their warnings faded by sun and rain. "Sad how quickly these small neighborhoods go to ruin, huh?”

Addison's fingers drummed against her thigh, a nervous habit she'd picked up during med school. "Perfect hunting ground for someone who needs privacy." Her medical examiner's mind couldn't help but catalog the hazards: collapsing roofs, exposed asbestos, black mold creeping up walls like invasive ivy. Nature was slowly reclaiming what humans had abandoned. “And a damn near perfect place to make one of those demented fake offices.”

She thought about the victims they'd found so far, each one discovered in rooms that had become sophisticated death traps. The memory of their blue-tinged faces and vacant eyes made her jaw clench. How many times had she stood over their bodies, piecing together the puzzle of their final moments? Now, they were finally closing in on the man responsible, and her stomach churned with equal parts anticipation and dread.

A sagging porch caught her eye, its railings warped into abstract sculptures. Through broken windows, tattered curtains danced in the breeze like restless ghosts. Each house seemed to hold its own tragic story, but they weren't here for those tales. They were hunting a killer who turned rooms into weapons, who understood the terrible poetry of death by air itself.

"We could be here all day," Javier said, frustration edging his voice. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel until his knuckles went white. "These places all look—" He stopped mid-sentence, his body tensing.

Addison followed his gaze, and her breath caught in her throat. Half a block ahead, a dingy white van was backed up to a basement entrance. It was just barely visible from the street, but it was there—a white hood and silver bumper partially obscured by a wild, overgrown shrubbery. The vehicle was a relic from at least two decades ago, its paint mottled with rust spots like some kind of mechanical disease. The rear doors hung open but they could just barely see the door at all.

They did their best to remain calm, but the tension of the moment still caused Javier to bump up his speed as they came to the property. He killed the engine one house away and parked. Together, they got out into the darkening dusk and approached the house in silence. With a solemn nod to one another, they drew their guns and stepped onto the faded, cracked sidewalk that led around to the back of the house—where the old van waited.

The house it was parked behind stood slightly apart from its neighbors, its isolation making it even more ominous. Victorian-era gingerbread trim, now rotting, hung from the eaves like decaying lace. The basement entrance was a gaping maw of crumbling concrete steps leading into darkness. Dead vines clung to the foundation like skeletal fingers.

As they approached, they stayed close to the overgrown hedges that lined the street. They approached the van cautiously, each taking one side. It was clear that no one was inside. One of the windows was partially down, just enough to reveal that the interior smelled of old metal and something chemical that made Addison's nose twitch—some kind of industrial sealant, she guessed.

They then came to the back and saw quite a mess. Tools were scattered across the floor—wrenches, pipe cutters, and a rolled bundle of what looked like weather stripping. A pair of work gloves lay discarded, still holding the shape of hands. It all sat on top of an old plastic tarp. But there was no sign of Denton or Dr. Kent. There was no sign of anyone.

To Addison's right, a set of shallow stairs led down to a basement. The stairs were slick with moss, forcing them to move carefully as they made their way down. Each step felt like an eternity, the concrete feeling ancient and fragile under their feet. At the bottom, a heavy door hung partially open, its hinges groaning softly in the breeze. Addison's flashlight beam cut through the gloom, revealing a basement that seemed frozen in time.

Old shelving units lined the walls, their contents a museum of abandonment: dusty Mason jars, moldering cardboard boxes, tools left to rust. Several dead bugs and even a pair of dead, decomposed rats littered the floor. The air was thick with the musty smell of decay and something else—something metallic and new that didn't belong. In the center of the room stood something that looked like it had been transplanted from a scientific laboratory. Roughly twelve feet square, its walls were a patchwork of salvaged materials: thick plexiglass, metal panels, and what appeared to be pieces of old freezer doors. Sealed joints ran along every edge, testament to Denton's engineering expertise.

"Kent’s chamber," Addison breathed. There were no windows, just a door that blended almost seamlessly with the wall. The whole thing hummed with latent menace, like a predator waiting to strike. Water stains and other signs of age and neglect marked the concrete floor around it.

But despite the oddly constructed room, there was no sign of Denton or Kent.

Javier touched her arm, his fingers warm against her skin. "I'll check upstairs," he whispered. "He might have heard us coming and ran off." He moved toward the interior stairs, his footsteps careful on the rotting wood. Each creak seemed to echo in the basement's stillness.

Addison approached the chamber, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. If Dr. Kent was inside, every second counted. The door mechanism wasn't immediately obvious—Denton had disguised it well. She ran her fingers along the edges, searching for a catch or handle, thinking about the other chambers they'd found. Each one had been different, but all shared the same deadly efficiency. She fumbled around for it in the poor light of the basement; the only light at all were the purple shades of dusk coming through the grimy window ahead of her. She wanted to reach into her inner coat pocket for her little Maglite, but figured that would serve as a beacon—a way to Denton to know exactly where she was. She heard Javier make his way up the rickety wooden stairs to the main floor as he fingers finally found the latch. It was little more than an indention in the false wall. She dug her pointer finger in, got leverage and—

The attack came without warning.

A whisper of movement was her only alert before something whistled through the air behind her. She started to turn, catching a glimpse of a man’s wild eyes as she brought up her arm in an automatic defensive gesture. She saw that the weapon coming for her was a hammer…but she noticed this far too late. The hammer struck her wrist (had she not thrown her arm up to block it, she would have been pounded in the head), sending waves of pain up her arm. Her gun clattered to the floor, the sound impossibly loud in the confined space.

It was Denton. He was bigger than she'd expected, his engineer's build made powerful by desperation. He slammed into her before she could recover, her right arm trying to decide if it was going to go numb or continue working. His attack drove her backward. She caught a glimpse of graying hair in front of her, smelled sweat and fear, felt the raw strength in his hands as he shoved her. His breath came in wheezes—the asthma they'd profiled him for evident in every gasp.

The hidden door gave way behind her with a jarring thud to her back. Addison stumbled into the chamber, her boots sliding on the smooth floor. As she caught her balance, the door sealed with a pneumatic hiss that made her blood run cold. The sound reminded her of hospital isolation rooms, of places designed to control the very air itself. And as the sound seemed to fill her world, she realized what had just happened.

Denton had shoved her inside…and she was going to be nothing more than another victim.

"No!" She spun around, but there was no handle on this side of the room. Of course, there wasn't. Denton had constructed these death traps perfectly.

A soft moan drew her attention. In the corner lay a woman, blood matting her gray-streaked hair. Dr. Kent. She was conscious but clearly dazed, probably concussed from whatever Denton had used to subdue her. Her glasses lay broken beside her, and a bruise was darkening along her jawline. She was alive…and she needed medical attention. But right now, getting out of here was of the utmost importance.

Addison's training kicked in, compartmentalizing her fear. She needed to assess the situation, find a weakness within the room. The walls were a patchwork of boards, plywood and what appeared to be reinforced sheetrock. As shoddy as it seemed, it was also professionally sealed—no gaps, no obvious structural flaws. She kicked at one section, then another. The chamber barely shuddered.

That's when she heard it: the distinctive whir of a pump spinning up. Somewhere, hidden away from plain sight, Denton had hidden his pump…and he’d just switched it on. She looked around wildly for where the ventilation was located, finding it high in the right corner. Somehow, it seemed as if he had fed it around the back of the room, between the fake wall and the actual cinderblock wall of the basement…which was why she and Javier had not seen it upon entering.

As she noticed this, she felt a subtle change in pressure that made her ears pop. The sound of an HVAC system preparing to do its work. She recognized it from countless crime scenes, but now the sound carried a personal menace that made her skin crawl. This was not the hum of a comforting air conditioning kicking on. This was Denton’s death pump that was designed to suck the air out of this room.

Her wrist throbbed where the hammer had struck, but she forced herself to focus. Somewhere above, Javier was searching the house. If she could just hold out, keep breathing, find a way to alert him...

She thought of all the bodies she'd examined, all the victims who'd died exactly like this. Her medical knowledge was suddenly a curse, letting her anticipate exactly what was coming.

But the air was already starting to feel different. Thinner. And Addison knew better than anyone what was coming next. She'd seen Denton's other victims, studied their deaths. Now she was about to experience firsthand how he killed—not with violence, but with precision. With engineering.

With the simple, terrible act of stealing air from a sealed room.

Dr. Kent stirred again, trying to sit up. Blood trickled down her temple, catching the dim light. Addison moved to help her, her medical training warring with her need to find an escape. But as the pump's whir grew louder, she knew they had precious little time for either.

The chamber that had been Denton's masterpiece was about to become their tomb. She could already feel her breathing becoming more labored, her medical mind cataloging the stages of hypoxia that awaited them.

And somewhere in the house above, unaware of the deadly countdown that had begun, Javier continued his search. She could only hope he, too, heard the smooth grumblings of the machine that was, even now, robbing her and Dr. Kent of air.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

The wall mocked Addison, a simple puzzle with no immediate solution. Her right wrist throbbed where Denton had struck it with the hammer, each pulse of pain a reminder that she’d lost her gun in the very brief scuffle. The Glock lay somewhere on the other side of the wall, and the pain in her arm was throbbing. But she did her absolute best to push those worries away. Right now, she had to focus on getting the hell out of here.

All of the others were hit over the head and subdued…they were weak and powerless when they were placed into these death chambers, she thought. But I’m not. I should be able to get out, dammit.

She flexed her fingers experimentally, wincing at the sharp protest that shot up her arm. The movement sent waves of nausea through her stomach, but she pushed it down. There wasn't time for pain. Not with the air being slowly, methodically stripped away from her and Dr. Kent.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. Focus. She needed to focus.

Think, she commanded herself. The vents were creating negative pressure, literally sucking the oxygen from the room. But if she could compromise the seal... Her medical training kicked in, presenting her with the physics of it all. Break the vacuum, and the system would fail. Simple in theory, considerably more difficult in execution. Especially when the vent was higher up than she could reach.

“Oh to hell with it,” she said, suddenly landing on the simplest solution.

Addison stepped back, studying the wall with the same analytical eye she usually reserved for autopsy findings. Standard construction, nothing fancy. Sheetrock over wooden studs—and based on the construction they’d seen on the other sites, not new, sturdy studs. Probably some plywood hiding in there, too.

As she drew in all of her strength, she noticed that it was harder to breathe. The air was thinner, her lungs working harder to pull in the air…air that was being robbed of her by the second.

She pulled back her right fist, trying to ignore the screaming protest from her wrist. Her medically oriented mind threw up neon signs with terms like "scaphoid fracture" and "distal radius displacement." She told that part of her brain to shut up.

The strike needed to be precise – between the studs where the sheetrock was weakest. She used the palm of her left hand to find such a location—which was actually right in front of her. She wasn't hesitant any longer. She threw the punch with everything she had, keeping perfect posture and stance all the way through. She let out a grunt of effort that transformed into a cry of pain as her fist connected.

The wall gave way with a satisfying crunch, and her fist passed through. But the victory was overshadowed by the distinct pop she felt in her wrist and her hand. White-hot agony lanced up her arm, and for a moment, the edges of her vision went dark. She stumbled back, cradling her injured hand against her chest, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. The pain was exponentially worse now – definitely a break, possibly multiple breaks. The rational part of her brain started cataloging the possibilities: scaphoid, lunate, trapezium. She forced the thoughts away. She could diagnose herself later.

But through the pain came triumph – she could feel the difference in the air pressure immediately. The hole, though small, had broken the chamber's perfect seal. It wouldn't be enough to save Dr. Kent on its own, but it bought them precious minutes. Already, she could hear changes in the sound of the ventilation system as it struggled to maintain the negative pressure.

Addison backed up several paces, keeping her injured arm tight against her body. She uttered a string of curses under her breath, fueled by anger and determination. She took a deep breath, planted her feet firmly on the old concrete, and charged. She lowered her shoulder at the last second connected with the wall with bone-jarring force at the exact same spot she’d punched. The impact sent shockwaves through her body, but the sheetrock splintered satisfyingly, raining down in chunks and powder. The hole was bigger now, but still not big enough. She stumbled back, dizzy from the impact, her vision swimming with black spots. Her shoulder ached, but compared to the pain in her right hand and wrist, it was essentially nothing. The dust in the air wasn't helping – her throat felt raw, and each breath brought with it the chalky taste of pulverized drywall.

She lined up for another run, ignoring the way the room seemed to tilt around her. This time, when she hit, the wall gave way completely—and a bit easier than she’d been expecting. She burst through in an explosion of dust and debris, momentum carrying her forward into the basement beyond. As she stumbled through, something caught her right shoulder – a jagged edge of exposed 2x4. Pain bloomed fresh and hot, and she felt warm wetness beginning to seep into her shirt sleeve. The wound wasn't deep – her analytical mind noted the angle was wrong for serious muscle damage – but it hurt like hell.

She had barely regained her footing when movement flashed in her peripheral vision. Denton was there, hammer already swinging in a vicious arc toward her face. He’d been waiting and had timed his attack perfectly. The waning light through the window glinted off the metal head, and in that split second, Addison's training kicked in. She recognized the trajectory – a blow like that would shatter her orbital bone, possibly drive bone fragments into her brain. Fatal, if it connected.

She jerked backward, feeling the whoosh of air as the weapon missed her by millimeters. She stopped with such force that her feet skidded on the concrete floor, slick with sheetrock dust, and her legs went out from under her.

She hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs. The concrete was cold against her back, the dust immediately coating her clothes and skin. Denton was on her before she could recover, his weight pinning her down as he raised the hammer again. One hand went to her throat while the other raised the hammer. His eyes were wild, pupils dilated – classic signs of an adrenaline surge. Fight or flight response in full effect. Except Denton had clearly chosen to fight.

Addison rolled desperately to the side as the tool slammed into the concrete where her head had been a split second before, sending chips of cement flying. The impact was so close she felt bits of concrete pepper her face; the sound of it clanged in her head like a bell. Fighting through the pain in her wrist, Addison managed to get her left hand up, catching his arm as he drew back for another strike. The position was awkward, her leverage all wrong, but it was enough to deflect the blow and throw him off balance.

She drove her right fist toward his face, forgetting for a crucial moment how damaged it was. Her knuckles connected with his jaw, but instead of the satisfying impact she'd intended, white-hot agony exploded through her hand and up her arm. She screamed through clenched teeth, spots dancing in her vision. The pain was astronomical, radiating from her wrist all the way up to her shoulder. Her medical mind helpfully supplied that she'd probably just converted a simple fracture into a compound one.

"FBI! FREEZE!"

Javier's voice boomed through the basement, accompanied by the sound of feet thundering down the stairs.

Addison caught a glimpse of her partner, his Glock trained steadily on Denton, who showed no sign of complying. Instead, he wrenched his arm free from Addison's weakening grip, raising the hammer one final time. The overhead lights caught the metal again, and Addison saw her own reflection distorted in its surface.

The gunshot was deafening in the confined space. The sound bounced off the concrete walls, amplifying until it seemed to fill the entire basement. Denton's leg buckled as the bullet tore through his knee. He toppled sideways with a howl of pain. Addison rolled with him, using his momentum against him. Despite the protestations of her injured hand, she managed to get him face-down on the concrete, her knee pressed into his back as Javier rushed over with his handcuffs already out and ready.

The cuffs clicked into place with a final-sounding snap, and only then did Addison notice the wheeze in Denton's breathing. It was a sound she'd become intimately familiar with during this case – the distinctive whistle of bronchial constriction. Her medical training kicked in again, recognizing the specific pitch that indicated severe bronchospasm. Denton was having an asthma attack, and from the sound of it, a very bad one.

"We need an ambulance," she called out to Javier, who was already on his radio calling for backup and medical support. His voice seemed to echo in the basement, mixing with the sounds of Denton's labored breathing and the continued hum of the ventilation system. She had to remind herself, though, that it wasn’t just the asthma attack he’d need help with, but the gunshot to his knee as well.

With Denton secured, Addison forced herself to her feet, swaying slightly as various injuries made themselves known with renewed vigor. The adrenaline was starting to fade, and with it came the full force of the pain. Her hand was definitely broken – probably in multiple places now. Her shoulder was still bleeding where the board had caught her, and every muscle in her body screamed in protest of the abuse she'd put it through.

But there was still work to be done. She turned toward the Addison-shaped hole in the wall, getting her first real look at the death chamber beyond. The room was a masterwork of engineering precision, she had to give him that. Every joint was perfectly sealed like the others. In terms of furniture, there was another desk, this one made of what looked like cardboard and plywood. A cheap lamp was perched on the edge, along with another laptop. Somehow, she’d missed all of this when she’d been trapped inside and desperately looking for a way out. The ventilation system was hooked into the wall near the front, nearly at ceiling height. And from where she stood, she could tell that her hunch had been right: the ventilation ducts and likely the pump itself, was tucked away in the space between the rear wall of the fake room and the wall of the basement.

She stepped through the hole, her attention now on Dr. Kent. She seemed to be conscious, but barely. She had moved a bit in all of the fuss and was now slumped against the far wall, her breathing labored but steady. She looked pale and spent, very much out of it.

"Dr. Kent?" Addison called out, picking her way carefully through the debris she’d created. "Can you hear me?"

The woman's head turned slowly toward the sound, and her eyes struggled to focus. The movement was sluggish, perhaps the result of whatever had caused the bruise on the side of her face. Addison didn’t think the room had been robbed of enough oxygen for it to be a symptom of hypoxia.

“Yeah. I can hear you,” she said groggily.

"I’m Special Agent Addison Shine, with the FBI. We're going to get you out of here." Addison reached her side, doing her best to ignore the throb in her wrist as she helped the doctor to her feet. "Just lean on me. Watch your step – there's quite a bit of debris."

Together, they made their way through the hole in the wall, Dr. Kent becoming steadier with each breath and movement closer to freedom. Ahead of them, Denton's wheezing had grown worse, and Addison could hear the wail of approaching sirens. The sound echoed through the basement, mixing with the crunch of debris under their feet and the continued hum of the now-useless ventilation system.

As she helped Dr. Kent settle onto the basement steps, Addison caught Javier's eye. He gave her a slight nod from where he knelt by Denton. The man was still struggling to breathe, clawing at his chest, while Javier did his best to keep the man calm.

Addison allowed herself to sink down onto the steps as well, cradling her injured wrist against her chest. The full inventory of her injuries was starting to make itself known: the broken hand, probably a broken wrist to go with it, the lacerated shoulder, bruises forming on what felt like every inch of her body. Tomorrow was going to be hell.

But they'd won. Denton was in custody, Dr. Kent was alive, and this particular nightmare was over. As the sound of paramedic boots thundered down the concrete stairs outside, Addison closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath. She wasn’t sure a clean, unrestricted breath had ever felt so good.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

The blue and red lights from the police cruisers painted the suburban street in alternating hues, casting strange shadows across the dead and overgrown lawns. Addison sat on the front steps of the house Michael Denton had chosen for his final death trap, trying not to fidget as the medic examined her rapidly swelling hand.

"Can you make a fist for me?" the medic asked. Her name tag read Torres.

Addison attempted to curl her fingers and immediately regretted it. The pain shot up her arm like an electric current. "That would be a no," she said through gritted teeth.

Torres's frown deepened as she gently probed Addison's wrist. "And you said this happened when you punched through a wall?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time." Addison tried for levity, but Torres just shook her head.

"The drywall's definitely winning this round, Agent Shine." Torres carefully rotated Addison's wrist, eliciting another wince. "From what I can tell, you've got at least one broken metacarpal, possibly two, and I'm pretty sure there's a fracture in your wrist as well. You're going to need x-rays."

Addison sighed. She'd known as much from the moment she'd felt the impact, but having it confirmed made her feel oddly embarrassed. She was supposed to be a trained FBI agent, not someone who went around punching walls. Then again, given what had been at stake, she’d do it again without hesitation.

Behind her, she could hear Javier wrapping up his debrief call with Loomis. "Yes, that’s right,” he was saying. “We've got Denton in custody... No, Dr. Kent is shaken but otherwise okay... Yes, I'll make sure she gets checked out properly." There was a pause. "Copy that. I'll have the full report on your desk tomorrow."

An odd, metallic clattering sound drew Addison's attention to the side of the house, where the basement stairs were situated. Two EMTs were wheeling out a gurney carrying Michael Denton. His face was still flushed, and even from several feet away, she could hear his labored breathing. Poetic justice, she thought, that his own asthma had kicked in during the struggle. She noticed his white van was already gone, probably moved by one of the first responding officers to make room for the emergency vehicles.

Javier's came over and sat down beside her, is presence warm and solid at her side. "How's our wall-punching champion doing?"

Torres looked up from her examination. "As I was just telling Agent Shine, she's definitely broken her hand, likely fractured her wrist, and needs immediate x-rays. She should also be checked for a possible concussion, given the nature of the altercation."

More movement by the basement door caught their attention. Officer Greenwald was helping Dr. Lisa Kent up the stairs, one hand steadying her elbow. Despite the nasty bruising spreading across her left cheekbone and jaw, Dr. Kent looked remarkably composed. As soon as she cleared the last step, she looked around the chaotic yard and when she saw Addison, she hurried over at once. Greenwald kept stride with her, one arm always supporting the woman’s wobbly frame.

"Agent Shine," Dr. Kent's voice wavered slightly. "I don't even know how to begin to thank you."

"Please, call me Addison. And it's all part of the job." Addison tried to wave it off with her good hand, but Dr. Kent wasn't having it.

"Part of the job or not, you saved my life." Dr. Kent settled onto the step next to her, wringing her hands in her lap. "When he approached me in my driveway... I never saw it coming. One minute I was getting my briefcase from the car, the next..." She touched her bruised face gingerly. "He just walked right up and punched me. No warning, no demands, nothing. I barely had time to register what was happening before everything went black."

"That tracks with his MO," Javier said from Addison's other side. "Quick, efficient, minimal interaction with the victims. He didn't want to risk anyone hearing or seeing anything."

Dr. Kent shuddered. "When I came to in that room... that horrible room... I just knew I was going to die. It was…it was so odd that he’d placed me in a space that was like a child’s rendering of my office at work. I just…” She shuddered and shook her head. “Anyway, I was barely aware that you had also come into the room and then I have a vague memory of you crashing through the wall…”

"I'm just glad we got there in time," Addison said softly.

“Do you have any idea why he did this…or who he is?” Dr. Kent asked.

“His name is Michael Denton,” Javier said. “He took part in a study you helped conduct a while back. But…we can get you all of the details later. Right now, maybe let Torres here have a look at you.”

Dr. Kent nodded and looked to Torres. With a smile and nod to Addison and Javier, she then joined the medic and they made their way slowly over to the ambulance. Torres looked over her shoulder, giving Addison a playfully stern look. “Get yourself to the hospital and get that hand checked out.”

"You heard the lady," Javier said. He stood and held out his good hand to help Addison up.

Addison reached out and let him pull her to her feet. The movement sent fresh waves of pain up her arm, and she couldn't quite suppress a grimace.

"Hey," Javier said softly, pulling her close with one arm while being careful not to jostle her injured hand. "You did good today. Really good." He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, and Addison allowed herself to lean into him for just a moment, drawing comfort from his solid presence.

"If I do a good job at the doctor's office, do I get a lollipop?" she asked, trying to mask how shaken she still felt.

"Better. If you're a really good patient, we'll stop for ice cream on the way home." His tone was light, but his eyes were serious as they scanned her face. "Though first we should probably get the drywall out of your hair."

Addison reached up with her good hand and felt several chunks of plaster tangled in her ponytail. "Okay, that's just undignified."

She turned to look back at the basement door, remembering the heart-stopping moment when she'd realized she was trapped in that parody of a room with Dr. Kent. How close had she come to dying right alongside Kent? Minutes? Just a few seconds?

“I want to get a look at that pump…his whole set-up,” she said.

"We can examine the pump tomorrow," Javier said. "The evidence team will document everything, and you'll have plenty of time to study exactly how it worked. But right now, we need to get that hand properly looked at."

Addison nodded, letting him guide her toward their car. Each step sent jolts of pain radiating from her hand up through her wrist and arm. The adrenaline was completely gone now, leaving her exhausted and increasingly aware of every ache and bruise from the ordeal.

As they walked away from the house, she could still hear the whirring of the pump in her mind, a mechanical heartbeat counting down the minutes of Dr. Kent's life…and her own. She was quite certain the sound would follow her into her dreams tonight.

"You're thinking too loud," Javier said as he opened the passenger door for her.

"Just wondering what flavor of ice cream I might deserve for punching through a wall to save someone."

"I'm thinking at least double chocolate," he replied, helping her settle into the seat without bumping her hand. "Maybe with extra sprinkles for style points on that wall breach."

Addison managed a small smile as he closed her door and walked around to the driver's side. Behind them, the lights of the emergency vehicles continued their silent dance across the suburban landscape, turning this quiet street into a surreal landscape.

Javier slid behind the wheel and said, "Hospital first, then ice cream, then home where you're going to take your pain meds and actually rest."

"Yes, sir," Addison said, then added more softly, "Thank you."

He leaned over and kissed her quickly and gently on the lips.

As they pulled away from the curb, Addison watched the house recede in the side mirror. Another case solved, another killer caught, another victim saved. But as the whirring of the pump continued to echo in her memory, she felt a sting of guilt for not stopping Denton sooner and saving three lives that had ended far too quickly.

She flexed her fingers slightly, feeling the pain lance through her hand. Tonight would bring x-rays, waiting, and a good deal of discomfort. And later, there would be paperwork and evidence analysis, but for now, she let herself sink into the passenger seat, grateful for the solid presence of her partner beside her and the promise of ice cream to come.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

The fantasy novel slipped from Addison's grasp for the third time, thumping against her chest before sliding onto Snape, who opened one yellow eye to glare at her reproachfully. She muttered an apology to the cat, trying to position the book against her knees again. The cast on her right hand felt like it weighed twenty pounds, making even the simple act of holding a paperback a challenge. Two broken metacarpals and a fractured radius—that was the final say in terms of her injuries. And if one of the breaks had been just two centimeters to the right, she would have likely needed surgical pins.

In other words, she’d gotten off lucky. The hand aside, she knew it could have been so much worse.

Hell, it could have been fatal.

The dragon on the cover of her book seemed to mock her attempts at relaxation. She'd been trying to lose herself in stories of magic and adventure for two days now, but her mind kept drifting back to the case. Back to Michael Denton's confession, which Javier had texted her piece by piece, probably against protocol. Her partner knew her too well—knew that forced inactivity would drive her crazy faster than any injury could.

She caught herself checking her phone again, wondering if Javier would text soon. The thought made her cringe. When had she become this person? This woman who checked her phone every few minutes, waiting for her boyfriend to contact her? She'd spent years building her reputation as the focused, brilliant medical examiner who could solve any case. Now, here she was, actually missing someone's presence after just two days apart.

They all failed us, Denton had said. Every doctor, every specialist. Too busy fawning over their miracle patient to help the rest of us. The bitterness in his voice had been palpable even through Javier's typed summary. While they were celebrating Chenowith's recovery, the rest of us were still suffocating. Still dying. They just couldn't see it.

Addison shifted on the couch, careful not to disturb Snape. The pain meds were wearing off, sending dull throbs up her arm in time with her heartbeat. She should take another dose, but the bottle was in the kitchen, and she'd finally found a comfortable position. Besides, the pain helped keep her mind sharp, kept her from drifting into the fuzzy comfort the medication provided.

Her tablet lay on the coffee table, its screen dark but somehow still accusatory. She'd spent more time reading case files than fantasy novels these past two days. The guilt of not being at work gnawed at her, even though she knew logically that she needed time to heal. But cases didn't pause for broken bones, and killers didn't wait for medical leave to end.

Especially Fearmonger.

The thought of him sent a familiar flush of emotion through her: anger, shame, guilt…fear. How many hours had she spent poring over his case files? How many nights had sleep stayed away while she recalled those pristine crime scenes behind her closed eyes? Faces that were frozen in terror. No signs of struggle. No marks. No evidence. Just death, presented like a perfectly wrapped, terrifying gift.

Denton's methodology had been ingenious in its simplicity—turning sealed rooms into death traps by manipulating air pressure and composition. The pictures Javier had sent showed the complexity of his setup: modified HVAC systems, custom-built pressure regulators, carefully calculated air exchange rates. All designed to create the perfect environment for his victims' final moments.

The similarity to Fearmonger's work was impossible to ignore. Both killers had mastered the art of invisible death. Both understood the human body well enough to stop it without leaving an obvious trace. The parallel had been haunting her thoughts, making sleep elusive even with the prescription painkillers. She kept thinking about the medical precision involved, the deep understanding of human physiology required. The kind of knowledge that came from years of study. Or perhaps years of observation.

The Fearmonger case files were still open on her tablet, though she technically shouldn't have access to them anymore. Loomis had removed her from the task force a little over three months ago, citing concerns about being stretched too thin. It had, of course, also come with what had seemed like promising and dark developments in Jane’s cold case.

Fresh eyes. As if anyone could look at those cases with truly fresh eyes anymore. As if anyone could see those crime scene photos—those perfectly peaceful-looking victims who had simply ceased to exist—and not be changed by them. She'd drafted and deleted six emails to Loomis in the past two days alone, each one trying to articulate why she needed to be back on the case. Each attempt sounding more desperate than the last.

I know you removed me for my own good, she'd written in the last one, but I feel like I can be a crucial asset to this case. It’s time to end his reign of terror and I feel like I know these case files and is methodology better than anyone.

She'd deleted that one too, just like all the others. How could she explain the connection she felt to these cases? It wasn't just professional curiosity anymore. It was something deeper, more visceral. Every victim felt like a personal failure, another life she couldn't save. Another family left with questions that might never be answered.

It was currently raining outside, drumming against her windows in an irregular rhythm that matched the throbbing in her hand. Seattle in autumn—a perfect backdrop for brooding over unsolved cases. Snape stretched on the couch, nearing sleep, one paw reaching out to touch her leg, as if sensing her unease.

The pictures from the Denton crime scenes were still vivid in her mind. Each fake room, sealed tight as a drum.. Each scene meticulously engineered, each death calculated down to the last molecule of oxygen.

And now she was supposed to just rest. Read fantasy novels. Let her bones knit themselves back together while other agents worked cases that should have been hers.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh, and for a moment, her heart leaped, hoping it was Javier. She hated herself for that instinctive reaction. When had she started depending on someone else's presence to feel complete? But when she saw the caller ID, all thoughts of Javier vanished.

Max. Her contact from the forensics lab across town, the one she'd hired off-books to analyze the box that had contained Jane's diary. She'd almost forgotten about that, with everything else going on. She answered right away, skipping formalities and pleasantries.

"Tell me you found something," she said instead of hello, her voice rougher than intended.

There was a pause on the other end. Too long of a pause. "Listen, Addison..." Marcus started, then trailed off.

"Just tell me." She sat up straighter, disturbing Snape, who jumped down with an indignant meow. He marched off elsewhere to find a place to nap.

"I found clear prints,” Max said. “And I ran them twice. Standard procedure for anything involving..." He hesitated again. "For anything involving law enforcement personnel. As you know."

"Max." Her cast thumped against her knee as she leaned forward. "What did you find?"

"Two distinct sets of prints. Yours, which we expected. And..." Another pause. "The others are a perfect match for Gregory Shine."

The world went cold, and for a moment, her own apartment felt like one of Denton's death chambers. She was trapped…and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

"You’re certain?"

"Yeah. They're definitely his. I’m…I’m sorry, Agent Shine.”

But Addison wasn't really listening anymore. Her world had narrowed to a single point, a single impossible fact. Jane’s diary had been delivered by the last person she’d ever expected.

Gregory Shine.

Her father.

NOW AVAILABLE!

FIND NO ONE

(An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 8)

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Victims are found bloodless, and the only clues rest within their vacant veins. FBI Agent Addison Shine's expertise in blood pathology becomes the linchpin in a macabre dance with a killer whose obsession with purity could spell her doom—unless her forensic skills can unveil what drives him to murder.

FIND NO ONE (An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller–Book #8) is the eighth book in a new series by #1 bestselling mystery and suspense author Kate Bold, whose bestseller NOT NOW (a free download) has received over 600 five star ratings and reviews. The series begins with FIND ME (Book #1).

The ADDISON SHINE mystery series delivers a gripping cat-and-mouse narrative, brimming with chilling surprises and edge-of-your-seat tension. It breathes new life into the genre by presenting an ingenious yet troubled female protagonist who captures your heart and compels you to read well past bedtime. Fans of Lisa Gardner, Melinda Leigh, and Kendra Elliot are sure to fall in love.

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FIND NO ONE

(An Addison Shine FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 8)

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); the HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eleven books (and counting); the KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); the DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting);  the LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the KELSEY HAWK SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising nine books (and counting); the NORA PRICE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the NINA VEIL FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising ten books (and counting); OF the BARREN PINES PSYCHOLIGICAL SUSPENSE series, comprising seven books (and counting); and of the ADDISON SHINE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising ten books (and counting).

THE KILLING GAME (an Alexa Chase Suspense Thriller—Book #1), LET ME GO (an Ashley Hope Suspense Thriller—Book #1), and NOT ME (a Camille Grace FBI Suspense Thriller—Book #1) are available as free downloads on Amazon!

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

BOOKS BY KATE BOLD

ADDISON SHINE SUSPENSE THRILLER

FIND ME (Book #1)

FIND HER (Book #2)

FIND HELP (Book #3)

FIND HOME (Book #4)

FIND HIM (Book #5)

FIND YOU (Book #6)

FIND HOPE (Book #7)

FIND NO ONE (Book #8)

FIND OUT (Book #9)

FIND DEATH (Book #10)

BARREN PINES

THE UNSEEN NEIGHBOR (Book #1)

THE UNSEEN WIFE (Book #2)

THE UNSEEN KILLER (Book #3)

THE UNSEEN WOMAN (Book #4)

THE UNSEEN PAST (Book #5)

NINA VEIL SUSPENSE THRILLER

AWAY FROM HERE (Book #1)

AWAY FROM HIM (Book #2)

AWAY FROM HOPE (Book #3)

AWAY FROM HOME (Book #4)

AWAY FROM HUMANITY (Book #5)

KELSEY HAWK MYSTERY

DEAD INSIDE (Book #1)

DEAD RECKONING (Book #2)

DEAD TO ME (Book #3)

DEAD SILENCE (Book #4)

DEAD TO DAWN (Book #5)

DEAD END (Book #6)

DEAD OF NIGHT (Book #7)

DEAD CALM (Book #8)

DEAD AND GONE (Book #9)

ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)

THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)

THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)

THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)

THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)

THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)

ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER

LET ME GO (Book #1)

LET ME OUT (Book #2)

LET ME LIVE (Book #3)

LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)

LET ME FORGET (Book #5)

LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)

CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT ME (Book #1)

NOT NOW (Book #2)

NOT WELL (Book #3)

NOT HER (Book #4)

NOT NORMAL (Book #5)

NOT AGAIN (Book #6)

NOT SAFE (Book #7)

NOT TODAY (Book #8)

HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)

NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)

NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)

NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)

NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)

NOWHERE PURE (Book #8)

NOWHERE SOUND (Book #9)

NOWHERE SANE (Book #10)

NOWHERE TRUE (Book #11)

KAYLIE BROOKS PYSCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

LAST BREATH (Book #1)

LAST CHANCE (Book #2)

LAST WISH (Book #3)

LAST SHOT (Book #4)

LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)

EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IN HIS BLOOD (Book #1)

IN HIS SIGHTS (Book #2)

IN HIS REACH (Book #3)

IN HIS MIND (Book #4)

IN HIS WAY (Book #5)

IN HIS THOUGHTS (Book #6)

IN HIS DREAMS (Book #7)

DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

OUT OF REACH (Book #1)

OUT OF TOUCH (Book #2)

OUT OF TIME (Book #3)

OUT OF BOUNDS (Book #4)

OUT OF LUCK (Book #5)

LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMETHING KNOCKING (Book #1)

SOMETHING CALLING (Book #2)

SOMETHING WRONG (Book 3)

SOMETHING DARK (Book #4)

SOMETHING TO HIDE (Book #5)